four Hymns, MADE BY EDM. SPENSER.  
ANCHORA SPEI   printer's or publisher's device 
LONDON, Printed for William Ponsonby. 1596.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND MOST Virtuous Ladies, the Lady Margaret Countess of Cumberland, and the Lady Marie Countess of Warwick.  
Having in the greener times of my youth, composed these former two Hymns in the praise of Love and beauty, and finding that the same too much pleased those of like age & disposition, which being too vehemently carried with that kind of affection, do rather suck out poison to their strong passion, than honey to their honest delight, I was moved by the one of you two most excellent Ladies, to call in the same. But being unable so to do, by reason that many copies thereof were formerly scattered abroad, I resolved at least to amend, and by way of retractation to reform them, making in stead of those two Hymns of earthly or natural love and beauty, two others of heavenly and celestial. The which I do dedicated jointly unto you two honourable sisters, as to the most excellent and rare ornaments of all true love and beauty, both in the one and the other kind, humbly beseeching you to vouchsafe the patronage of them, and to accept this my humble service, in am of the great graces and honourable favours which ye daily show unto me, until such time as I may by better means yield you some more notable testimony of my thankful mind and dutiful devotion. And even so I pray for your happiness. Greenwich this first of September. 1596.  
Your honours most bounden ever in all humble service. Ed. Sp.   

AN HYMN IN HONOUR OF LOVE.  

Love, that long since hast to thy mighty power,  
Perforce subdued my poor captived heart,  
And raging now therein with restless stowre,  
Dost tyrannize in every weaker part;  
Feign would I seek to ease my bitter smart,  
By any service I might do to thee,  
Or aught that else might to thee pleasing be.   

And now t'assuage the force of this new flame,  
And make thee more propitious in my need,  
I mean to sing the praises of thy name,  
And thy victorious conquests to areed;  
By which thou madest many hearts to bleed  
Of mighty Victors, with wide wounds imbrued,  
And by thy cruel darts to thee subdued.   

Only I fear my wits enfeebled late,  
Through the sharp sorrows, which thou hast me bred,  
Should faint, and words should fail me, to relate  
The wondrous triumphs of thy great godhead.  
But if thou wouldst vouchsafe to overspread  
Me with the shadow of thy gentle wing,  
I should enabled be thy acts to sing.   

Come then, o come, thou mighty God of love,  
Out of thy silver bowers and secret bliss,  
Where thou dost sit in Venus' lap above,  
Bathing thy wings in her ambrosial kiss,  
That sweeter far than any Nectar is;  
Come softly, and my feeble breast inspire  
With gentle fury, kindled of thy fire.   

And ye sweet Muses, which have often proved  
The piercing points of his avengefull darts;  
And ye fair Nymphs, which oftentimes have loved  
The cruel worker of your kindly smarts,  
Prepare yourselves, and open wide your hearts,  
For to receive the triumph of your glory,  
That made you merry oft, when ye were sorry.   

And ye fair blossoms of youths wanton breed,  
Which in the conquests of your beauty boast,  
Wherewith your lovers feeble eyes you feed,  
But starve their hearts, that needeth nurture most,  
Prepare yourselves, to march amongst his host,  
And all the way this sacred hymn do sing,  
Made in the honour of your Sovereign king.   

GReat god of might, that reignest in the mind,  
And all the body to thy hest dost frame,  
Victor of gods, subduer of mankind,  
That dost the Lions and fell Tigers tame,  
Making their cruel rage thy scornful game,  
And in their roaring taking great delight;  
Who can express the glory of thy might?   

Or who alive can perfectly declare,  
The wondrous cradle of thine infancy?  
When thy great mother Venus first thee bare,  
Begot of Plenty and of Penury,  
Though elder than thine own nativity;  
And yet a child, renewing still thy years;  
And yet the eldest of the heavenly Pears.   

For ere this worlds still moving mighty mass,  
Out of great Chaos ugly prison crept,  
In which his goodly face long hidden was  
From heavens view, and in deep darkness kept,  
Love, that had now long time securely slept  
In Venus' lap, unarmed then and naked,  
'Gan rear his head, by Clotho being waked.   

And taking to him wings of his own heat,  
Kindled at first from heavens life-giving fire,  
He 'gan to move out of his idle seat,  
Weakly at first, but after with desire  
Lifted aloft, he 'gan to mount up hire,  
And like fresh Eagle, make his hardy flight  
Through all that great wide waist, yet wanting light.   

Yet wanting light to guide his wandering way,  
His own fair mother, for all creatures sake,  
Did lend him light from her own goodly ray:  
Then through the world his way he 'gan to take,  
The world that was not till he did it make;  
Whose sundry parts he from themselves did sever,  
The which before had lain confused ever.   

The earth, the air, the water, and the fire,  
Then 'gan to range themselves in huge array,  
And with contrary forces to conspire  
Each against other, by all means they may,  
Threatening their own confusion and decay:  
Air hated earth, and water hatefyre,  
Till Love relented their rebellious ire.   

He then them took, and tempering goodly well  
Their contrary dislikes with loved means,  
Did place them all in order, and compel  
To keep themselves within their sundry rains,  
Together linked with Adamantine chains;  
Yet so, as that in every living wight  
They mix themselves, & show their kindly might.   

So ever since they firmly have remained,  
And duly well observed his behest;  
Through which now all these things that are contained  
Within this goodly cope, both most and least  
Their being have, and daily are increased,  
Through secret sparks of his infused fire,  
Which in the barren cold he doth inspire.   

Thereby they all do live, and moved are  
To multiply the likeness of their kind,  
Whilst they seek only, without further care,  
To quench the flame, which they in burning find:  
But man, that breathes a more immortal mind,  
Not for lust's sake, but for eternity,  
Seeks to enlarge his lasting progeny.   

For having yet in his deducted sprite,  
Some sparks remaining of that heavenly fire,  
He is enlumind with that goodly light,  
Unto like goodly semblant to aspire:  
Therefore in choice of love, he doth desire  
That seems on earth most heavenly, to embrace,  
That same is Beauty, borne of heavenly race.   

For sure of all, that in this mortal frame  
Contained is, nought more divine doth seem,  
Or that resembleth more th'immortal flame  
Of heavenly light, than Beauties glorious beam.  
What wonder then, if with such rage extreme  
Frail men, whose eyes seek heavenly things to see,  
At sight thereof so much enravisht be?   

Which well perceiving that imperious boy,  
Doth therewith tip his sharp empoisned darts;  
Which glancing through the eyes with countenance coy,  
Rest not, till they have pierced the trembling hearts,  
And kindled flame in all their inner parts,  
Which sucks the blood, and drinketh up the life  
Of careful wretches with consuming grief.   

Thenceforth they plain, & make full piteous moan  
Unto the author of their baleful bane;  
The days they waste, the nights they grieve and groan,  
Their lives they loath, and heavens light disdain;  
No light but that, whose lamp doth yet remain  
Fresh burning in the image of their eye,  
They deign to see, and seeing it still die.   

The whilst thou tyrant Love dost laugh & scorn  
At their complaints, making their pain thy play;  
Whilst they lie languishing like thralls forlorn,  
The whiles thou dost triumph in their decay,  
And otherwiles, their dying to delay,  
Thou dost emmarble the proud heart of her,  
Whose love before their life they do prefer.   

So hast thou often done (ay me the more)  
To me thy vassal, whose yet bleeding heart,  
With thousand wounds thou mangled hast so sore  
That whole remains scarce any little part,  
Yet to augment the anguish of my smart,  
Thou hast enfrosen her disdainful breast,  
That no one drop of pity there doth rest.   

Why then do I this honour unto thee,  
Thus to ennoble thy victorious name,  
Since thou dost show no favour unto me,  
Ne once move ruth in that rebellious Dame,  
Somewhat to slack the rigour of my flame?  
Certes small glory dost thou win hereby,  
To let her live thus free, and me to die.   

But if thou be indeed, as men thee call,  
The world's great Parent, the most kind preserver  
Of living wights, the sovereign Lord of all,  
How falls it then, that with thy furious fervour,  
Thou dost afflict as well the not deserver,  
As him that doth thy lovely hests despize,  
And on thy subjects most dost tyrannize?   

Yet herein eke thy glory seemeth more,  
By so hard handling those which best thee serve,  
That ere thou dost them unto grace restore,  
Thou mayest well try if they will ever swerver,  
And mayest them make it better to deserve,  
And having got it, may it more esteem,  
For things hard gotten, men more dearly deem.   

So hard those heavenly beauties be enfyred,  
As things divine, least passions do impress,  
The more of steadfast minds to be admired,  
The more they stayed be on steadfastness:  
But base-born minds such lamps regard the less,  
Which at first blowing take not hasty fire,  
Such fancies feel no love, but lose desire.   

For love is Lord of truth and loyalty,  
Lifting himself out of the lowly dust,  
On golden plumes up to the purest sky,  
Above the reach of loathly sinful lust,  
Whose base affect through cowardly distrust  
Of his weak wings, dare not to heaven fly,  
But like a moldwarp in the earth doth ly.   

His dunghill thoughts, which do themselves enure  
To dirty dross, no higher dare aspire,  
Ne can his feeble earthly eyes endure  
The flaming light of that celestial fire,  
Which kindleth love in generous desire,  
And makes him mount above the native might  
Of heavy earth, up to the heavens height.   

Such is the power of that sweet passion,  
That it all sordid baseness doth expel,  
And the refined mind doth newly fashion  
Unto a fairer form, which now doth dwell  
In his high thought, that would itself excel;  
Which he beholding still with constant sight,  
Admires the mirror of so heavenly light.   

Whose image printing in his deepest wit,  
He thereon feeds his hungry fantasy,  
Still full, yet never satisfied with it,  
Like Tantal, that in store doth steruedly:  
So doth he pine in most satiety,  
For nought may quench his infinite desire,  
Once kindled through that first conceived fire.   

Thereon his mind affixed wholly is,  
Ne thinks on aught, but how it to attain;  
His care, his joy, his hope is all on this,  
That seems in it all blisses to contain,  
In sight whereof, all other bliss seems vain.  
Thrice happy man, might he the same possess;  
He feigns himself, and doth his fortune bless.   

And though he do not win his wish to end,  
Yet thus far happy he himself doth ween,  
That heavens such happy grace did to him lend,  
As thing on earth so heavenly, to have seen,  
His hearts enshrined saint, his heavens queen,  
Fairer than fairest, in his feigning eye,  
Whose sole aspect he counts felicity.   

Then forth he casts in his unquiet thought,  
What he may do, her favour to obtain;  
What brave exploit, what peril hardly wrought,  
What puissant conquest, what adventurous pain,  
May please her best, and grace unto him gain:  
He dreads no danger, nor misfortune fears,  
His faith, his fortune, in his breast he bears.   

Thou art his god, thou art his mighty guide,  
Thou being blind, lettest him not see his fears,  
But carriest him to that which he hath eyed,  
Through seas, through flames, through thousand swords and spears:  
Ne ought so strong that may his force withstand,  
With which thou armest his resistless hand.   

Witness Leander, in the Euxine waves,  
And stout AEneas in the Trojan fire,  
Achilles pressing through the Phrygian glaives,  
And Orpheus daring to provoke the ire  
Of damned fiends, to get his love retire:  
For both through heaven & hell thou makest way,  
To win them worship which to thee obey.   

And if by all these perils and these pains,  
He may but purchase liking in her eye,  
What heavens of joy, then to himself he feigns,  
eftsoons he wipes quite out of memory,  
What ever ill before he did abye,  
Had it been death, yet would he die again,  
To live thus happy as her grace to gain.   

Yet when he hath found favour to his will,  
He nathemore can so contented rest,  
But forceth further on, and striveth still  
T'approach more near, till in her inmost breast,  
He may embosomd be, and loved best;  
And yet not best, but to be loved alone,  
For love can not endure a Paragon.   

The fear whereof, o how doth it torment  
His troubled mind with more than hellish pain!  
And to his feigning fausie represent  
Sights never seen, and thousand shadows vain,  
To break his sleep, and waste his idle brain;  
Thou that hast never loved canst not believe,  
Lest part of th'evils which poor lovers grieve.   

The gnawing envy, the hartfretting fear,  
The vain surmises, the distrustful shows,  
The false reports that flying tales do bear,  
The doubts, the dangers, the delays, the woes,  
The feigned friends, the unassured foes,  
With thousands more than any tongue can tell,  
Do make a lovers life a wretch's hell.   

Yet is there one more cursed than they all,  
That canker worm, that monster jealousy,  
Which eats the heart, and feeds upon the gall,  
Turning all loves delight to misery,  
Through fear of losing his felicity.  
Ah Gods, that ever ye that monster placed  
In gentle love, that all his joys defaced.   

By these, o Love, thou dost thy entrance make,  
Unto thy heaven, and dost the more endear,  
Thy pleasures unto those which them partake,  
As after storms when clouds begin to clear,  
The Sun more bright & glorious doth appear;  
So thou thy folk, through pains of Purgatory,  
Dost bear unto thy bliss, and heavens glory.   

There thou them placest in a Paradise  
Of all delight, and joyous happy rest,  
Where they do feed on Nectar heavenly wise,  
With Hercules and Hebe, and the rest  
Of Venus' darlings, through her bounty blest,  
And lie like Gods in ivory beds arrayed,  
With rose and lilies over them displayed.   

There with thy daughter Pleasure they do play  
Their hurtless sports, without rebuke or blame,  
And in her snowy bosom boldly lay  
Their quiet heads, devoid of guilty shame,  
After full joyance of their gentle game,  
Then her they crown their Goddess and their Queen,  
And deck with flowers thy altars well beseen.   

Ay me, dear Lord, that ever I might hope,  
For all the pains and woes that I endure,  
To come at length unto the wished scope  
Of my desire, or might myself assure,  
That happy port for ever to recure.  
Then would I think these pains no pains at all,  
And all my woes to be but penance small.   

Then would I sing of thine immortal praise  
An heavenly Hymn, such as the Angels sing,  
And thy triumphant name than would I raise  
'Bove all the gods, thee only honouring,  
My guide, my God, my victor, and my king;  
Till then, dread Lord, vouchsafe to take of me  
This simple song, thus framed in praise of thee.   
FINIS.   

AN HYMN. IN HONOUR OF BEAUTY.  

AH whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?  
What wontlesse fury dost thou now inspire  
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?  
Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire,  
Thou in me kindlest much more great desire,  
And up aloft above my strength dost raise  
The wondrous matter of my fire to praise.   

That as I erst in praise of thine own name,  
So now in honour of thy Mother dear,  
An honourable Hymn I eke should frame,  
And with the brightness of her beauty clear,  
The ravished hearts of gazefull men might rear,  
To admiration of that heavenly light,  
From whence proceeds such foul enchanting might.   

Thereto do thou great Goddess, queen of Beauty,  
Mother of love, and of all world's delight,  
Without whose sovereign grace and kindly duty,  
Nothing on earth seems fair to fleshly sight,  
Do thou vouchsafe with thy love-kindling light,  
Tilluminate my dim and dulled eyen,  
And beautify this sacred hymn of thine.   

That both to thee, to whom I mean it most,  
And eke to her, whose fair immortal beam,  
Hath darted fire into my feeble ghost,  
That now it wasted is with woes extreme,  
It may so please that she at length will stream  
Some dew of grace, into my withered heart,  
After long sorrow and consuming smart.   

WHat time this world's great workmaster did cast  
To make all things, such as we now behold  
It seems that he before his eyes had placed  
A goodly Pattern to whose perfect mould,  
He fashioned them as comely as he could,  
That now so fair and seemly they appear,  
As nought may be amended any where.   

That wondrous Pattern wheresoe'er it be,  
Whether in earth laid up in secret store,  
Or else in heaven, that no man may it see  
With sinful eyes, for fear it to deflore,  
Is perfect Beauty which all men adore,  
Whose face and feature doth so much excel  
All mortal sense, that none the same may tell.   

Thereof as every earthly thing partakes,  
Or more or less by influence divine,  
So it more fair accordingly it makes,  
And the gross matter of this earthly mine,  
Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refine,  
Doing away the dross which dims the light  
Of that fair beam, which therein is empight.   

For through infusion of celestial power,  
The duller earth it quickeneth with delight,  
And lifeful spirits privily doth power  
Through all the parts, that to the looker's sight  
They seem to please. That is thy sovereign might,  
O Cyprian Queen, which flowing from the beam  
Of thy bright star, thou into them dost stream.   

That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace  
To all things fair, that kindleth lively fire,  
Light of thy lamp, which shining in the face,  
Thence to the soul darts amorous desire,  
And robs the hearts of those which it admire,  
Therewith thou pointest thy Son's poisoned arrow,  
That wounds the life, & wastes the inmost marrow.   

How vainly then do idle wits invent,  
That beauty is nought else, but mixture made  
Of colours fair, and goodly temp'rament  
Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade  
And pass away, like to a summers shade,  
Or that it is but comely composition  
Of parts well measured, with meet disposition.   

Hath white and red in it such wondrous power,  
That it can pierce through th'eyes unto the heart,  
And therein stir such rage and restless stowre,  
As nought but death can stint his dolours smart?  
Or can proportion of the outward part,  
Move such affection in the inward mind,  
That it can rob both sense and reason blind?   

Why do not then the blossoms of the field,  
Which are arrayed with much more orient hue,  
And to the sense most dainty odours yield,  
Work like impression in the lookers view?  
Or why do not fair pictures like power show,  
In which oftimes, we Nature see of Art  
Excelled, in perfect limming every part.   

But ah, believe me, there is more than so  
That works such wonders in the minds of men.  
I that have often proved, too well it know;  
And who so list the like assays to ken,  
Shall find by trial, and confess it then,  
That Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem,  
An outward show of things, that only seem.   

For that same goodly hue of white and red,  
With which the cheeks are sprinkled, shall decay,  
And those sweet rosy leaves so fairly spread  
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away  
To that they were, even to corrupted clay.  
That golden wire, those sparkling stars so bright  
Shall turn to dust, and lose their goodly light.   

But that fair lamp, from whose celestial ray  
That light proceeds, which kindleth lovers fire,  
Shall never be extinguished nor decay,  
But when the vital spirits do expire,  
Unto her native planet shall retire,  
For it is heavenly borne and can not die,  
Being a parcel of the purest sky.   

For when the soul, the which derived was  
At first, out of that great immortal sprite,  
By whom all live to love, whilom did pass  
Down from the top of purest heavens hight,  
To be embodied here, it than took light  
And lively spirits from that fairest star,  
Which lights the world forth from his fiery car.   

Which power retaining still or more or less,  
When she in fleshly seed is est enraced,  
Through every part she doth the same impress,  
According as the heavens have her graced,  
And frames her house, in which she will be placed,  
Fit for herself, adorning it with spoil  
Of th'heavenly riches, which she robderewhyle.   

Thereof it comes, that these fair souls, which have  
The most resemblance of that heavenly light,  
Frame to themselves most beautiful and brave  
Their fleshly bower, most fit for their delight,  
And the gross matter by a sovereign might  
Tempers so trim, that it may well be seen,  
A palace fit for such a virgin Queen.   

So every spirit, as it is most pure,  
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,  
So it the fairer body doth procure  
To habit in, and it more fairly dight  
With cheerful grace and amiable sight.  
For of the soul the body form doth take:  
For soul is form, and doth the body make.   

Therefore where ever that thou dost behold  
A comely corpse, with beauty fair endued,  
Know this for certain, that the same doth hold  
A beauteous soul, with fair conditions thewed,  
Fit to receive the seed of virtue strewed.  
For all that fair is, is by nature good;  
That is a sign to know the gentle blood.   

Yet oft it falls, that many a gentle mind  
Dwells in deformed tabernacle drowned,  
Either by chance, against the course of kind,  
Or through unaptness in the substance found,  
Which it assumed of some stubborn ground,  
That will not yield unto her form's direction,  
But is performed with some foul imperfection.   

And oft it falls (ay me the more to rue)  
That goodly beauty, albe heavenly borne,  
Is foul abused, and that celestial hue,  
Which doth the world with her delight adorn,  
Made but the bait of sin, and sinners scorn;  
Whilst every one doth seek and sew to have it,  
But every one doth seek, but to deprave it.   

Yet nathemore is that fair beauties blame,  
But theirs that do abuse it unto ill:  
Nothing so good, but that through guilty shame  
May be corrupt, and wrested unto will.  
Nevertheless the soul is fair and beauteous still,  
How ever fleshes fault it filthy make:  
For things immortal no corruption take.   

But ye fair Dames, the world's dear ornaments,  
And lively images of heavens light,  
Let not your beams with such disparagements  
Be dimmed, and your bright glory darkened quite,  
But mindful still of your first country's sight,  
Do still preserve your first informed grace,  
Whose shadow yet shines in your beauteous face.   

Loath that foul blot, that hellish firebrand,  
Disloyal lust, fair beauties foulest blame,  
That base affections, which your ears would bland,  
Commend to you by loves abused name;  
But is indeed the bondslave of defame,  
Which will the garland of your glory mar,  
And quench the light of your bright shining star.   

But gentle Love, that loyal is and true,  
Will more illumine your resplendent ray,  
And add more brightness to your goodly hue,  
From light of his pure fire, which by like way  
Kindled of yours, your likeness doth display,  
Like as two mirrors by opposed reflection,  
Do both express the faces first impression.   

Therefore to make your beauty more appear,  
It you behoves to love, and forth to lay  
That heavenly riches, which in you ye bear,  
That men the more admire their fountain may,  
For else what booteth that celestial ray,  
If it in darkness be enshrined ever,  
That it of loving eyes be viewed never?   

But in your choice of Loves, this well advise,  
That likest to yourselves ye them select,  
The which your forms first source may sympathise,  
And with like beauties parts be inly decked:  
For if you loosely love without respect,  
It is no love, but a discordant war,  
Whose unlike parts amongst themselves do jar.   

For Love is a celestial harmony,  
Of likely hearts composed of stars consent,  
Which join together in sweet sympathy,  
To work each others joy and true content,  
Which they have harboured since their first descent  
Out of their heavenly bowers, where they did see  
And know each other here beloved to be.   

Then wrong it were that any other twain  
Should in loves gentle band combined be,  
But those whom heaven did at first ordain,  
And made out of one mould the more t'agree:  
For all that like the beauty which they see,  
Straight do not love: for love is not so light,  
As straight to burn at first beholder's sight.   

But they which love indeed, look otherwise,  
With pure regard and spotless true intent,  
Drawing out of the object of their eyes,  
A more refined form, which they present  
Unto their mind, void of all blemishment;  
Which it reducing to her first perfection,  
Beholdeth free from flesh's frail infection.   

And then conforming it unto the light,  
Which in itself it hath remaining still  
Of that first Sun, yet sparkling in his sight,  
Thereof he fashions in his higher skill,  
An heavenly beauty to his fancies will,  
And it embracing in his mind entire,  
The mirror of his own thought doth admire.   

Which seeing now so inly fair to be,  
As outward it appeareth to the eye,  
And with his spirits proportion to agree,  
He thereon fixeth all his fantasy,  
And fully setteth his felicity,  
Counting it fairer, than it is indeed,  
And yet indeed her fairness doth exceed.   

For lovers eyes more sharply sighted be  
Then other men's, and in dear loves delight  
See more than any other eyes can see,  
Through mutual receipt of beams bright,  
Which carry privy message to the sprite,  
And to their eyes that inmost fair display,  
As plain as light discovers dawning day.   

Therein they see through amorous eye-glaunces,  
Armies of loves still flying too and fro,  
Which dart at them their little fiery lances,  
Whom having wounded, back again they go,  
Carrying compassion to their lovely foe;  
Who seeing her fair eyes so sharp effect,  
Cures all their sorrows with one sweet aspect.   

In which how many wonders do they reed  
To their conceit, that others never see,  
Now of her smiles, with which their souls they feed,  
Like Gods with Nectar in their banquets free,  
Now of her looks, which like to Cordials be;  
But when her words ambassade forth she sends,  
Lord how sweet music that unto them lends.   

Sometimes upon her forehead they behold  
A thousand Graces masking in delight,  
Sometimes within her eyelids they unfold  
Ten thousand sweet belgards, which to their sight  
Do seem like twinkling stars in frosty night:  
But on her lips like rosy buds in May,  
So many millions of chaste pleasures play.   

All those, o Cytherea, and thousands more  
Thy handmaids be, which do on thee attend  
To deck thy beauty with their dainties store,  
That may it more to mortal eyes commend,  
And make it more admired of foe and friend;  
That in men's hearts thou mayst thy throne install,  
And spread thy lovely kingdom over all.   

Then jotryumph, o great beauties Queen,  
Advance the banner of thy conquest high,  
That all this world, the which thy vassals been,  
May draw to thee, and with due fealty,  
Adore the power of thy great Majesty,  
Singing this Hymn in honour of thy name,  
Compyld by me, which thy poor liegeman am.   

In am whereof grant, o great Sovereign,  
That she whose conquering beauty doth captive  
My trembling heart in her eternal chain,  
One drop of grace at length will to me give,  
That I her bounden thrall by her may live,  
And this same life, which first fro me she reaved,  
May owe to her, of whom I it received.   

And you fair Venus' darling, my dear dread,  
Fresh flower of grace, great Goddess of my life,  
When your fair eyes these fearful lines shall read,  
Deign to let fall one drop of due relief,  
That may recure my hearts long pining grief,  
And show what wondrous power your beauty hath,  
That can restore a damned wight from death.   
FINIS.   

AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY LOVE.  

Love, lift me up upon thy golden wings,  
From this base world unto thy heavens height,  
Where I may see those admirable things,  
Which there thou workest by thy sovereign might,  
far above feeble reach of earthly sight,  
That I thereof an heavenly Hymn may sing  
Unto the god of Love, high heavens king.   

Many lewd lays (ah woe is me the more)  
In praise of that mad fit, which fools call love,  
I have in th'heat of youth made heretofore,  
That in light wits did lose affection move.  
But all those follies now I do reprove,  
And turned have the tenor of my string,  
The heavenly praises of true love to sing.   

And ye that wont with greedy vain desire  
To read my fault, and wondering at my flame,  
To warm yourselves at my wide sparkling fire,  
Sith now that heat is quenched, quench my blame,  
And in her ashes shroud my dying shame:  
For who my passed follies now pursewes,  
Begins his own, and my old fault renews.   

BEfore this world's great frame, in which all things  
Are now contained, found any being place,  
Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings  
About that mighty bound, which doth embrace  
The rolling Spheres, & parts their hours by space,  
That high eternal power, which now doth move  
In all these things, moved in itself by love.   

It loved itself, because itself was fair;  
(For fair is loved;) and of itself begot  
Like to itself his eldest son and heir,  
Eternal, pure, and void of sinful blot,  
The firstling of his joy, in whom no jot  
Of loves dislike, or pride was to be found,  
Whom he therefore with equal honour crowned.   

With him he reigned, before all time prescribed,  
In endless glory and immortal might,  
Together with that third from them derived,  
Most wise, most holy, most almighty sprite,  
Whose kingdoms throne no thought of earthly wight  
Can comprehend, much less my trembling verse  
With equal words can hope it to rehearse.   

Yet o most blessed Spirit, pure lamp of light,  
Eternal spring of grace and wisdom true,  
Vouchsafe to shed into my barren sprite,  
Some little drop of thy celestial dew,  
That may my rhymes with sweet infuse imbrue,  
And give me words equal unto my thought,  
To tell the marvels by thy mercy wrought.   

Yet being pregnant still with powerful grace,  
And full of fruitful love, that loves to get  
Things like himself, and to enlarge his race,  
His second brood though not in power so great,  
Yet full of beauty, next he did beget  
An infinite increase of Angels bright,  
All glistering glorious in their Maker's light.   

To them the heavens illimitable height,  
Not this round heaven, which we from hence behold,  
Adorned with thousand lamps of burning light,  
And with ten thousand gems of shining gold,  
He gave as their inheritance to hold,  
That they might serve him in eternal bliss,  
And be partakers of those joys of his.   

There they in their trinall triplicities  
About him wait, and on his will depend,  
Either with nimble wings to cut the skies,  
When he them on his messages doth send,  
Or on his own dread presence to attend,  
Where they behold the glory of his light,  
And carol Hymns of love both day and night.   

Both day and night is unto them all one,  
For he his beams doth still to them extend,  
That darkness there appeareth never none,  
Ne hath their day, ne hath their bliss an end,  
But there their termelesse time in pleasure spend,  
Ne ever should their happiness decay,  
Had not they dared their Lord to disobey.   

But pride impatient of long resting peace,  
Did puff them up with greedy bold ambition,  
That they 'gan cast their state how to increase,  
Above the fortune of their first condition,  
And sit in Gods own seat without commission:  
The brightest Angel, even the Child of light  
Drew millions more against their God to fight.   

Th'Almighty seeing their so bold assay,  
Kindled the flame of his consuming ire,  
And with his only breath them blue away  
From heavens height, to which they did aspire,  
To deepest hell, and lake of damned fire;  
Where they in darkness and dread horror dwell,  
Hating the happy light from which they fell.   

So that next offspring of the Maker's love,  
Next to himself in glorious degree,  
Degendering to hate fell from above  
Through pride; (for pride and love may ill agree)  
And now of sin to all ensample be:  
How then can sinful flesh itself assure,  
Sith purest Angels fell to be impure?   

But that eternal fount of love and grace,  
Still flowing forth his goodness unto all,  
Now seeing left a waste and empty place  
In his wide Palace, through those Angel's fall,  
Cast to supply the same, and to install  
A new unknown Colony therein,  
Whose root from earth's base groundwork should begin.   

Therefore of clay, base, vile, and next to nought,  
Yet formed by wondrous skill, and by his might:  
According to an heavenly pattern wrought,  
Which he had fashioned in his wise foresight,  
He man did make, and breathed a living sprite  
Into his face most beautiful and fair,  
Endued with wifedomes' riches, heavenly, rare.   

Such he him made, that he resemble might  
Himself, as mortal thing immortal could;  
Him to be Lord of every living wight,  
He made by love out of his own like mould,  
In whom he might his mighty self behold:  
For love doth love the thing beloved to see,  
That like itself in lovely shape may be.   

But man forgetful of his maker's grace,  
No less than Angels, whom he did ensue,  
Fell from the hope of promised heavenly place,  
Into the mouth of death to sinner's dew,  
And all his offspring into thraldom threw:  
Where they for ever should in bonds remain,  
Of never dead, yet ever dying pain.   

Till that great Lord of Love, which him at first  
Made of mere love, and after liked well,  
Seeing him lie like creature long accursed,  
In that deep horror of despeyred hell,  
Him wretch in dole would let no longer dwell,  
But cast out of that bondage to redeem,  
And pay the price, all were his debt extreme.   

Out of the bosom of eternal bliss,  
In which he reigned with his glorious sire,  
He down descended, like a most demisse  
And abject thrall, in flesh's frail attire,  
That he for him might pay sins deadly hire,  
And him restore unto that happy state,  
In which he stood before his hapless fate.   

In flesh at first the guilt committed was,  
Therefore in flesh it must be satisfied:  
Nor spirit, nor Angel, though they man surpas,  
Can make amends to God for man's misguide,  
But only man himself, who self did slide.  
So taking flesh of sacred virgin's womb,  
For man's dear sake he did a man become.   

And that most blessed body, which was borne  
Without all blemish or reproachful blame,  
He freely gave to be both rent and torn  
Of cruel hands, who with despiteful shame  
reviling him, that them most vile became,  
At length him nailed on a gallow tree,  
And slew the just, by most unjust decree.   

O huge and most unspeakable impression  
Of loves deep wound, that pierced the piteous heart  
Of that dear Lord with so entire affection,  
And sharply launching every inner part,  
Dolours of death into his soul did dart;  
Doing him die, that never it deserved,  
To free his foes, that from his hest had swerved.   

What heart can feel least touch of so sore launch,  
Or thought can think the depth of so dear wound?  
Whose bleeding source their streams yet never staunch,  
But still do flow, & freshly still redound,  
To heal the sores of sinful souls unsound,  
And cleanse the guilt of that infected crime,  
Which was enrooted in all fleshly slime.   

O blessed well of love, o flower of grace,  
O glorious Morning star, o lamp of light,  
Most lively image of thy father's face,  
Eternal King of glory, Lord of might,  
Meek lamb of God before all world's behight,  
How can we thee requite for all this good?  
Or what can prise that thy most precious blood?   

Yet nought thou ask'st in am of all this love,  
But love of us for guerdon of thy pain.  
Ay me; what can us less than that behone?  
Had he required life of us again,  
Had it been wrong to ask his own with gain?  
He gave us life, he it restored lost;  
Then life were least, that us so little cost.   

But he our life hath left unto us free,  
Free that was thrall, and blessed that was band;  
Ne ought demands, but that we loving be,  
As he himself hath loved us afore hand,  
And bound thereto with an eternal band,  
Him first to love, that us so dearly bought,  
And next, our brethren to his image wrought.   

Him first to love, great right and reason is,  
Who first to us our life and being gave;  
And after when we fared had amiss,  
Us wretches from the second death did save;  
And last the food of life, which now we have,  
Even himself in his dear sacrament,  
To feed our hungry souls unto us lent.   

Then next to love our brethren, that were made  
Of that self mould, and that self maker's hand,  
That we, and to the same again shall fade,  
Where they shall have like heritage of land,  
How ever here on higher steps we stand;  
Which also were with self same price redeemed  
That we, how ever of us light esteemed.   

And were they not, yet since that loving Lord  
Commanded us to love them for his sake,  
Even for his sake, and for his sacred word,  
Which in his last bequest he to us spoke,  
We should them love, & with their needs partake;  
Knowing that whatsoe'er to them we give,  
We give to him, by whom we all do live.   

Such mercy he by his most holy reed  
Unto us taught, and to approve it true,  
Ensampled it by his most righteous deed,  
Showing us mercy miserable crew,  
That we the like should to the wretches show,  
And love our brethren; thereby to approve,  
How much himself that loved us, we love.   

Then rouse thyself, o earth, out of thy soil,  
In which thou wallowest like to filthy swine,  
And dost thy mind in dirty pleasures moil,  
Unmindful of that dearest Lord of thine;  
Lift up to him thy heavy clouded eyen,  
That thou his sovereign bounty mayst behold.  
And read through love his mercies manifold.   

Begin from first, where he encradled was  
In simple cratch, wrapped in a wad of hay,  
Between the toylefull Ox and humble Ass,  
And in what rags, and in how base array,  
The glory of our heavenly riches lay,  
When him the silly Shepherds came to see,  
Whom greatest Princes sought on lowest knee.   

From thence read on the story of his life,  
His humble carriage, his unfaulty ways,  
His cankered foes, his fights, his toil, his strife,  
His pains, his poverty, his sharp assays,  
Through which he passed his miserable days,  
Offending none, and doing good to all,  
Yet being maliced both of great and small.   

And look at last how of most wretched wights,  
He taken was, betrayed, and false accused,  
How with most scornful taunts, & fell despites bruised;  
He was revyld, disgraced, and foul abused,  
How scourged, how crowned, how buffeted, how & side.  
And lastly how twixt robbers crucifyde,  
With bitter wounds through hands, through feet   

Then let thy flinty heart that feels no pain,  
Empierced be with pitiful remorse,  
And let thy bowels bleed in every vain,  
At sight of his most sacred heavenly corpse,  
So torn and mangled with malicious force,  
And let thy soul, whose sins his sorrows wrought,  
Melt into tears, and groan in grieved thought.   

With sense whereof whilst so thy softened spirit  
Is inly touched, and humbled with meek zeal,  
Through meditation of his endless merit,  
Lift up thy mind to th'author of thy weal,  
And to his sovereign mercy do appeal;  
Learn him to love, that loved thee so dear,  
And in thy breast his blessed image bear.   

With all thy heart, with all thy soul and mind,  
Thou must him love, and his behests embrace,  
All other loves, with which the world doth blind  
Weak fancies, and stir up affections base,  
Thou must renounce, and utterly displace,  
And give thyself unto him full and free,  
That full and freely gave himself to thee.   

Then shalt thou feel thy spirit so possessed,  
And ravished with devouring great desire  
Of his dear self, that shall thy feeble breast  
Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire  
With burning zeal, through every part entire,  
That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight,  
But in his sweet and amiable sight.   

Thenceforth all world's desire will in thee die,  
And all earths glory on which men do gaze,  
Seem dirt and dross in thy pure sighted eye,  
Compared to that celestial beauty's blaze,  
Whose glorious beams all fleshly sense doth daze  
With admiration of their passing light,  
Blinding the eyes and lumining the sprite.   

Then shall thy ravished soul inspired be  
With heavenvly thoughts, far above human skill,  
And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainly see  
Th'idea of his pure glory present still,  
Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill  
With sweet enragement of celestial love,  
Kindled through sight of those fair things above.   
FINIS.   

AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY BEAUTY.  

RApt with the rage of mine own ravished thought,  
Through contemplation of those goodly sights,  
And glorious images in heaven wrought,  
Whose wondrous beauty breathing sweet delights,  
Do kindle love in high conceited sprights:  
I feign to tell the things that I behold,  
But feel my wits to fail, and tongue to fold.   

Vouchsafe then, o thou most almighty sprite,  
From whom all gifts of wit and knowledge flow,  
To shed into my breast some sparkling light  
Of thine eternal Truth, that I may show  
Some little beams to mortal eyes below,  
Of that immortal beauty, there with thee,  
Which in my weak distraughted mind I see.   

That with the glory of so goodly sight,  
The hearts of men, which fond here admire  
Fair seeming shows, and feed on vain delight,  
Transported with celestial desire  
Of those fair forms, may lift themselves up hye●,  
And learn to love with zealous humble duty  
Th'eternal fountain of that heavenly beauty.   

Beginning then below, with th'easy view  
Of this base world, subiect to fleshly eye,  
From thence to mount aloft by order dew,  
To contemplation of th'immortal sky,  
Of the soar falcon so I learn to fly,  
That flags awhile her fluttering wings beneath,  
Till she herself for stronger flight can breathe.   

Then look who list, thy gazefull eyes to feed  
With sight of that is fair, look on the frame  
Of this wide universe, and therein read  
The endless kinds of creatures, which by name  
Thou canst not count, much less their nature's aim:  
All which are made with wondrous wise respect,  
And all with admirable beauty decked.   

First th'Earth, on adamantine pillars founded,  
Amid the Sea engirt with brazen bands;  
Then th'air still flitting, but yet firmly bounded  
On every side, with piles of flaming brands,  
Never consumed nor quenched with mortal hands;  
And last, that mighty shining crystal wall,  
Wherewith he hath encompassed this All.   

By view whereof, it plainly may appear,  
That still as every thing doth upward tend,  
And further is from earth, so still more clear  
And fair it grows, till to his perfect end  
Of purest beauty, it at last ascend:  
Air more than water, fire much more than air,  
And heaven than fire appears more pure & fair.   

Look thou no further, but affix thine eye,  
On that bright shynie round still moving Mass,  
The house of blessed Gods, which men call Sky,  
All sowd with glistering stars more thick than grass,  
Whereof each other doth in brightness pass;  
But those two most, which ruling night and day,  
As King and Queen, the heavens Empire sway.   

And tell me then, what hast thou ever seen,  
That to their beauty may compared be,  
Or can the sight that is most sharp and keen,  
Endure their Captains flaming head to see?  
How much less those, much higher in degree,  
And so much fairer, and much more than these,  
As these are fairer than the land and seas?   

For far above these heavens which here we see,  
Be others far exceeding these in light,  
Not bounded, not corrupt, as these same be,  
But infinite in largeness and in height,  
unmoving, uncorrupt, and spotless bright,  
That need no Sun t'illuminate their spheres,  
But their own native light far passing theirs.   

And as these heavens still by degrees arise,  
Until they come to their first Movers bound,  
That in his mighty compass doth comprise,  
And carry all the rest with him around,  
So those likewise do by degrees redound,  
And rise more fair, till they at last arrive  
To the most fair, whereto they all do strive.   

Fair is the heaven, where happy souls have place,  
In full enjoyment of felicity,  
Whence they do still behold, the glorious face  
Of the divine eternal Majesty;  
More fair is that, where those Idees on high  
Enraunged be, which Plato so admired,  
And pure Intelligences from God inspired.   

Yet fairer is that heaven, in which hich do rain  
The sovereign Powers and mighty Potentates,  
Which in their high protections do contain  
All mortal Princes, and imperial States;  
And fairer yet, whereas the royal Seats  
And heavenly Dominations are set,  
From whom all earthly governance is fet.   

Yet far more fair be those bright Cherubins,  
Which all with golden wings are overdight,  
And those eternal burning Seraphins,  
Which from their faces dart out fiery light;  
Yet fairer than they both, and much more bright  
Be th'Angels and Archangels, which attend  
On Gods own person, without rest or end.   

These thus in fair each other far excelling,  
As to the Highest they approach more near,  
Yet is that Highest far beyond all telling,  
Fairer than all the rest which there appear,  
Though all their beauties joined together were:  
How then can mortal tongue hope to express,  
The image of such endless perfectness?   

Cease then my tongue, and lend unto my mind  
Leave to bethink how great that beauty is,  
Whose utmost parts so beautiful I find,  
How much more those essential parts of his,  
His truth, his love, his wisdom, and his bliss,  
His grace, his doom, his mercy and his might,  
By which he lends us of himself a sight.   

Those unto all he daily doth display,  
And show himself in th'image of his grace,  
As in a looking glass, through which he may  
Be seen, of all his creatures vile and base,  
That are unable else to see his face,  
His glorious face which glistereth else so bright,  
That th'Angels selves can not endure his sight.   

But we frail wights, whose sight cannot sustain  
The Sun's bright beams, when he on us doth shine,  
But that their points rebutted back again  
Are dulled, how can we see with feeble eyen,  
The glory of that Majesty divine,  
In sight of whom both Sun and Moon are dark,  
Compared to his least resplendent spark?   

The means therefore which unto us is lent,  
Him to behold, is on his works to look,  
Which he hath made in beauty excellent,  
And in the same, as in a brazen book,  
To read enregistered in every nook  
His goodness, which his beauty doth declare,  
For all that's good, is beautiful and fair.   

Thenee gathering plumes of perfect speculation,  
To imp the wings of thy high flying mind,  
Mount up aloft through heavenly contemplation,  
From this dark world, whose damps the soul do blind,  
And like the native brood of eagle's kind,  
On that bright Sun of glory fix thine eyes,  
Cleared from gross mists of frail infirmities.   

Humbled with fear and awful reverence,  
Before the footstool of his Majesty,  
Throw thyself down with trembling innocence,  
Ne dare look up with corruptible eye,  
On the dread face of that great Deity,  
For fear, lest if he chance to look on thee,  
Thou turn to nought, and quite confounded be.   

But lowly fall before his mercy seat,  
Close covered with the lambs integrity,  
From the iustwrath of his avengefull threat,  
That sits upon the righteous throne on hy:  
His throne is built upon Eternity,  
More firm and durable than steel or brass,  
Or the hard diamond, which them both doth pass.   

His sceptre is the rod of Righteousness,  
With which he bruiseth all his foes to dust,  
And the great Dragon strongly doth repress,  
Under the rigour of his judgement just;  
His seat is Truth, to which the faithful trust;  
From whence proceed her beams so pure & bright,  
That all about him sheddeth glorious light.   

Light far exceeding that bright blazing spark,  
Which darted is from Titan's flaming head,  
That with his beams enlumineth the dark  
The dark & dampish air, whereby all things are red:  
Whose nature yet so much is marveled  
Of mortal wits, that it doth much amaze  
The greatest wizards, which thereon do gaze.   

But that immortal light which there doth shine,  
Is many thousand times more clear,  
More excellent, more glorious, more divine,  
Through which to God all mortal actions here,  
And even the thoughts of men, do plain appear:  
For from th'eternal Truth it doth proceed,  
Through heavenly virtue, which her beams do breed.   

With the great glory of that wondrous light,  
His throne is all encompassed around,  
And hid in his own brightness from the sight  
Of all that look thereon with eyes unsound:  
And underneath his feet are to be found,  
Thunder, and lightning, and tempestuous fire,  
The instruments of his avenging ire.   

There in his bosom Sapience doth sit,  
The sovereign darling of the Deity,  
Clad like a Queen in royal robes, most fit  
For so great power and peerless majesty.  
And all with gems and jewels gorgeously  
Adorned, that brighter than the stars appear,  
And make her native brightness seem more clear.   

And on her head a crown of purest gold  
Is set, in sign of highest sovereignty,  
And in her hand a sceptre she doth hold,  
With which she rules the house of God on hy,  
And menageth the ever-moving sky,  
And in the same these lower creatures all,  
subjecteth to her power imperial.   

Both heaven and earth obey unto her will,  
And all the creatures which they both contain:  
For of her fullness which the world doth fill,  
They all partake, and do in state remain,  
As their great Maker did at first ordain,  
Through observation of her high behest,  
By which they first were made, and still increased.   

The fairness of her face no tongue can tell,  
For she the daughters of all women's race,  
And Angels eke, in beauty doth excel,  
Sparkled on her from Gods own glorious face,  
And more increased by her own goodly grace,  
That it doth far exceed all human thought,  
Ne can on earth compared be to aught.   

Ne could that Painter (had he lived yet)  
Which pictured Venus with so curious quill,  
That all posterity admired it,  
Have purtrayd this, for all his mastering skill;  
Ne she herself, had she remained still,  
And were as fair, as fabling wits do feign,  
Can once come near this beauty sovereign.   

But had those wits the wonders of their days,  
Or that sweet Teian Poet which did spend  
His plenteous vain in setting forth her praise,  
Seen but a glims of this, which I pretend,  
How wondrously would he her face commend,  
Above that Idol of his feigning thought,  
That all the world should with his rhymes be fraught?   

How then dare I, the novice of his Art,  
Presume to picture so divine a wight,  
Or hope t'express her least perfections part,  
Whose beauty fills the heavens with her light,  
And darks the earth with shadow of her sight?  
Ah gentle Muse thou art too weak and faint,  
The portrait of so heavenly hue to paint.   

Let Angels which her goodly face behold  
And see at will, her sovereign praises sing,  
And those most sacred mysteries unfold,  
Of that fair love of mighty heavens king.  
Enough is me t'admyre so heavenly thing,  
And being thus with her huge love possessed,  
In th'only wonder of herself to rest.   

But who so may, thrice happy man him hold,  
Of all on earth, whom God so much doth grace,  
And lets his own Beloved to behold:  
For in the view of her celestial face,  
All joy, all bliss, all happiness have place,  
Ne ought on earth can want unto the wight,  
Who of herself can win the wishful sight.   

For she out of her secret threasury,  
Plenty of riches forth on him will power,  
Even heavenly riches, which there hidden lie  
Within the closet of her chastest bower,  
Th'eternal portion of her precious dower,  
Which mighty God hath given to her free,  
And to all those which thereof worthy be.   

None thereof worthy be, but those whom she  
Vouchsafeth to her presence to receive,  
And letteth them her lovely face to see,  
Whereof such wondrous pleasures they conceive,  
And sweet contentment, that it doth bereave  
Their soul of sense, through infinite delight,  
And them transport from flesh into the sprite.   

In which they see such admirable things,  
As carries them into an ecstasy,  
And hear such heavenly notes, and carolings  
Of Gods high praise, that fills the brazen sky,  
And feel such joy and pleasure inwardly,  
That maketh them all worldly cares forget,  
And only think on that before them set.   

Ne from thenceforth doth any fleshly sense,  
Or idle thought of earthly things remain,  
But all that erst seemed sweet, seems now offence,  
And all that pleased erst, now seems to pain,  
Their joy, their comfort, their desire, their gain,  
Is fixed all on that which now they see,  
All other sights but feigned shadows be.   

And that fair lamp, which useth to inflame  
The hearts of men with self consuming fire,  
Thenceforth seems fowl, & full of sinful blame;  
And all that pomp, to which proud minds aspire  
By name of honour, and so much desire,  
Seems to them baseness, and all riches dross,  
And all mirth sadness, and all lucre loss.   

So full their eyes are of that glorious sight,  
And senses fraught with such satiety,  
That in nought else on earth they can delight,  
But in th'aspect of that felicity,  
Which they have written in their inward eye;  
On which they feed, and in their fastened mind  
All happy joy and full contentment find.   

Ah than my hungry soul, which long hast fed  
On idle fancies of thy foolish thought,  
And with false beauty's flattering bait misled,  
Hast after vain deceitful shadows sought,  
Which all are fled, and now have left thee nought,  
But late repentance through thy folly's brief;  
Ah cease to gaze no matter of thy grief.   

And look at last up to that sovereign light,  
From whose pure beams alperfect beauty springs,  
That kindleth love in every godly sprite,  
Even the love of God, which loathing brings  
Of this vile world, and these gay seeming things;  
With whose sweet pleasures being so possessed,  
Thy straying thoughts henceforth for ever rest.    

Daphnaida.  
AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF THE NOBLE AND VIRTUOUS DOUGLAS Howard, daughter and heir of Henry Lord Howard, Viscount Byndon, and wife of Arthur George's Esquire.  
Dedicated to the Right honourable the Lady Helena, marquess of Northampton.  
By Ed. Sp.  
ANCHORA SPEI   printer's or publisher's device 
AT LONDON Printed for William Ponsonby, 1596.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND Virtuous Lady Helena marquess of Northhampton.  
I Have the rather presumed humbly to offer unto your Honour the dedication of this little poem, for that the noble and virtuous Gentlewoman of whom it is written, was by match near allied, and in affection greatly devoted unto your Ladyship. The occasion why I wrote the same, was aswell the great good fame which I heard of her deceased, as the particular good will which I bear unto her husband Master Arthur Gorges, a lover of learning and virtue, whose house, as your Ladyship by marriage hath honoured, so do I find the name of them by many notable records, to be of great antiquity in this Realm; and such as have ever borne themselves with honourable reputation to the world, & unspotted loyalty to their Prince and Country: beside so lineally are they descended from the Howards, as that the Lady Anne Howard, eldest daughter to john Duke of Norfolk, was wife to Sir Edmund, mother to Sir Edward, and grandmother to Sir William and Sir Thomas George's Knights. And therefore I do assure myself, that no due honour done to the white Lion, but will be most grateful to your Ladyship, whose husband and children do so nearly participate with the blood of that noble family. So in all duty I recommend this Pamphlet, and the good acceptance thereof, to your honourable favour and protection. London this first of januarie. 1591.  
Your Honours humbly ever. Ed. Sp.   

DAPHNAIDA.  

WHat ever man he be, whose heavy mind  
With grief of mournful great mishap oppressed,  
Fit matter for his cares increase would find:  
Let read the rueful plaint herein expressed,  
Of one (I ween) the woefull'st man alive;  
Even sad halcyon, whose empierced breast,  
Sharp sorrow did in thousand pieces rive.   

But who so else in pleasure findeth sense,  
Or in this wretched life doth take delight,  
Let him be banished far away from hence:  
Ne let the sacred Sisters here be height,  
Though they of sorrow heavily can sing;  
For even their heavy song would breed delight:  
But here no tunes, save sobs and groans shall ring.   

In stead of them, and their sweet harmony,  
Let those three fatal Sisters, whose sad bands  
Do weave the direful threads of destiny,  
And in their wrath break off the vital bands,  
Approach hereto: and let the dreadful Queen  
Of darkness deep come from the Stygian strands,  
And grisly Ghosts to hear this doleful teen.   

In gloomy evening, when the weary Sun,  
After his days long labour drew to rest,  
And sweaty steeds now having over run  
The compassed sky, 'gan water in the west,  
I walked abroad to breathe the freshing air  
In open fields, whose flowering pride oppressed  
With early frosts, had lost their beauty fair.   

There came unto my mind a troublous thought,  
Which daily doth my weaker wit possess,  
Ne lets it rest, until it forth have brought  
Her long borne Infant, fruit of heaviness,  
Which she conceived hath through meditation  
Of this world's vainness, and life's wretchedness,  
That yet my soul it deeply doth empassion.   

So as I mused on the misery  
In which men live, and I of many most,  
Most miserable man; I did espy  
Where towards me a sorry wight did cost,  
Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray:  
And jaakob staff in hand devoutly crossed,  
Like to some Pilgrim, come from far away.   

His careless locks, uncombed and unshorn,  
Hung long adown, and beard all over grown,  
That well he seemed to be some wight forlorn;  
Down to the earth his heavy eyes were thrown  
As loathing light: and ever as he went,  
He sighed soft, and inly deep did groan,  
As if his heart in pieces would have rend.   

Approaching nigh, his face I viewed near,  
And by the semblant of his countenance,  
Me seemed I had his person seen else where,  
Most like halcyon seeming at a glance;  
halcyon he, the jolly Shepherd swain,  
That wont full merrily to pipe and dance,  
And fill with pleasance every wood and plain.   

Yet half in doubt, because of his disguise,  
I softly said, halcyon? There withal  
He looked a side as in disdainful wise,  
Yet stayed not: till I again did call.  
Then turning back, he said with hollow sound,  
Who is it, that doth name me, woeful thrall,  
The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?   

One, whom like woefulness impressed deep,  
Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to hear,  
And given like cause with thee to wail and weep:  
Grief finds some ease by him that like does bear,  
Then stay halcyon, gentle shepherd stay  
(Quoth I) till thou have to my trusty care  
Committed, what thee doth so ill apay.   

Cease foolish man (said he half wrothfully)  
To seek to hear that which cannot be told:  
For the huge anguish, which doth multiply  
My dying pains, no tongue can well unfold:  
Ne do I care, that any should bemoan  
My hard mishap or any weep that would,  
But seek alone to weep, and die alone.   

Then be it so (quoth I) that thou art bend  
To die alone, unpitied, unplained,  
Yet ere thou die, it were convenient  
To tell the cause, which thee thereto constrained:  
Lest that the world thee dead accuse of guilt,  
And say, when thou of none shalt be maintained,  
That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilled.   

Who life does loath, and longs to be unbound  
From the strong shackles of frail flesh (quoth he)  
Nought cares at all, what they that live on ground  
Deem the occasion of his death to be:  
Rather desires to be forgotten quite,  
Than question made of his calamity,  
For hearts deep sorrow hates both life and light.   

Yet since so much thou seemest to rue my grief,  
And carest for one that for himself cares nought,  
(Sign of thy love, though nought for my relief:  
For my relief exceedeth living thought)  
I will to thee this heavy case relate,  
Then hearken well till it to end be brought,  
For never didst thou hear more hapless fate.   

Whilom jusde (as thou right well dost know)  
My little flock on western downs to keep.  
Not far from whence Sabrina's stream doth flow,  
And flowery banks with silver liquor steep.  
Nought card I then for worldly change or chance,  
For all my joy was on my gentle sheep,  
And to my pipe to carol and to dance.   

It there befell, as I the fields did range  
Fearless and free, a fair young Lioness,  
White as the native Rose before the change,  
Which Venus blood did in her leaves impress.  
I spied playing on the grassy plain  
Her youthful sports and kindly wantonness,  
That did all other Beasts in beauty stain.   

Much was I moved at so goodly sight;  
Whose like before, mine eye had seldom seen,  
And 'gan to cast, how I her compass might,  
And bring to hand, that yet had never been:  
So well I wrought with mildness and with pain,  
That I her caught disporting on the green,  
And brought away fast bound with silver chain.   

And afterwards I handled her so fair,  
That though by kind she stout and salvage were,  
For being borne an ancient Lion's hair,  
And of the race, that all wild beasts do fear;  
Yet I her framed and wanso to my bent,  
That she became so meek and mild of cheer,  
As the least lamb in all my flock that went.   

For she in field, where ever I did wend,  
Would wend with me, and wait by me all day:  
And all the night that I in watch did spend,  
If cause required, or else in sleep, if nay,  
She would all night by me or watch or sleep;  
And evermore when I did sleep or play,  
She of my flock would take full wary keep.   

Safe then and safest were my sillie she epe,  
Ne feared the Wolf, ne feared the wildest beast:  
All were I drowned in carelessequiet deep:  
My loucly Lionosse without behest  
So careful was for them and for my good,  
Thta when I waked, neither most nor lest  
I found miscarried or in plain or wood.   

Oft did the Shepheatils, which my hap did hear,  
And oft their lasses which my lack envied,  
Daily resort to my from far and near,  
To see my Lioness, whose prailes wide  
Where spread abroad, and when her worthiness  
Much greater than the rude report they tried,  
They her did praise, and my good fortune bless.   

Long thus Lioyed in my happiness,  
And well did hope my joy would have no end:  
But oh fond man, that in world's fickleness  
Reposedst hope, or weenedst her thy friend,  
That glories most in mortal miseries,  
And daily doth her changeful counfels bend  
To make new matter fit for Tragedies.   

For whilst I was thus without dread or doubt,  
A cruel Satire with his murderous dart,  
Greedy of mischief, ranging all about,  
Gave her the fatal wound of deadly smart:  
And reft from me my sweet companion,  
And reft fro me my love, my life, my heart:  
My Lioness (an woe is me) is gone.   

Out of the world thus was she reft away,  
Out of the world, unworthy such a spoil;  
And borne to heaven, for he aven a fit pray:  
Much fit than the Lion, which with toil  
Alcides slew, and fixed in firmament;  
Her now I seek throughout this earthly soil,  
And seeking miss, and missing do lament.   

Therewith he 'gan afresh to wail and weep,  
That I for pity of his heavy plight,  
Can not abstain mine eyes with tears to steep:  
But when I saw the anguish of his sprite  
Some deal alaid, I him bespoke again.  
Certes halcyon, painful is thy plight,  
That it in me breeds almost equal pain.   

Yet doth not my dull wit well understand  
The riddle of thy loved Lioness;  
For rare it seems in reason to be skand,  
That man, who doth the whole world's rule possess  
Should to a beast his noble heart embase,  
And be the vassal of his vassalesse:  
Therefore more plain aread this doubtful case.   

Then sighing sore, Daphne thou knewest (quoth he)  
She now is dead; ne more endured to say:  
But fell to ground for great extremity,  
That I beholding it, with deep dismay  
Was much paid, and lightly him uprearing,  
Revoked life, that would have fled away,  
All were myself through grief in deadly drearing.   

Then 'gan I him to comfort all my best,  
And with mild counsel strove to mitigate  
The stormy passion of his troubled breast,  
But he thereby was more empassionate:  
As stubborn steed, that is with curb restrained,  
Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate,  
And breaking forth at last, thus dearnely plained.   

1 What man henceforth that breatheth vital air,  
Will honour heaven, or heavenly powers adore?  
Which so unjustly do their judgements share;  
'mongst earthly wights, as to afflict so sore  
The innocent, as those which do transgress,  
And do not spare the best or fairest, more  
Than worst or foulest, but do both oppress.   

If this be right, why did they then create  
The world so fair, sith fairness is neglected?  
Or why be they themselves immaculate,  
If purest things be not by them respected?  
She fair, she pure, most fair, most pure she was,  
Yet was by them as thing impure rejected:  
Yet she in pureness, heaven itself did pass.   

In pureness and in all celestial grace,  
That men admire in goodly womankind;  
She did excel and seemed of Angel's race,  
Living on earth like Angel new divined,  
Adorned with wisdom and with chastity:  
And all the dowries of a noble mind,  
Which did her beauty much more beautify.   

No age hath bred (since fair Astraea left  
The sinful world) more virtue in a wight,  
And when she parted hence, with her she reft  
Great hope; and robbed her race of bounty quite:  
Well may the shepherd lasses now lament,  
For double loss by her hath on them light;  
To lose both her and bounties omament.   

Ne let Elisa royal Shepherdess  
The praises of my parted love envy,  
For she hath praises in all plenteousness,  
Poured upon her, like showers of Castaly  
By her own Shepherd, Colin her own Shepherd,  
That her with heavenly hymns doth deify,  
Of rustic muse full hardly to be bettered.   

She is the Rose, the glory of the day,  
And mine the Primrose in the lowly shade,  
Mine, ah not mine; amiss I mine did say:  
Not mine but his, which mine a while her made:  
Mine to be his, with him to live for ay:  
O that so fair a flower so soon should fade,  
And through untimely tempest fall away.   

She fell away in her first age's spring,  
Whilst yet her leaf was green, & fresh her rind,  
And whilst her branch fair blossoms forth did bring,  
She fell away against all course of kind:  
For age to die is right, but youth is wrong;  
She fell away like fruit blown down with wind:  
Weep Shepherd weep to make my undersong.   

2 What heart so stony hard, but that would weep,  
And pour forth fountains of incessant tears?  
What Timon, but would let compassion creep  
Into his breast, and pierce his frozen ears?  
In stead of tears, whose brackish bitter well  
I wasted have, my heart blood dropping wears,  
To think to ground how that fair blossom fell.   

Yet fell she not, as one enforced to die,  
Ne died with dread and grudging discontent,  
But as one toiled with travel down doth lie,  
So lay she down, as if to fleepe she went,  
And closed her eyes with careless quiemesse;  
The whiles soft death away her spirit hent,  
And soul assoyld from sinful fleshliness.   

Yet ere that life her lodging did forsake,  
She all resolved and ready to remone,  
Calling to me (ay me) this wise bespoke;  
halcyon, ah my first and latest loan,  
Ah why does my halcyon weep and mourn,  
And grieve my ghost, that ill more him behove,  
As if to me had chanced some evil turn?   

I, since the messenger is come for me,  
That summons souls unto the bridal feast  
Of his great Lord, must needs departed from thee,  
And strait obey his soneraine behest:  
Why should halcyon then so sore lament,  
That I from misery shall be released,  
And freed from wretched long imprisonment?   

Our days are full of dolour and disease,  
Our life afflicted with incessant pain,  
That nought on earth may lessen or appease.  
Why then should I desire here to remain?  
Or why should he that loves me, sorry Bee  
For my deliverance, or at all complain  
My good to hear, and toward joys to see?   

I go, and long desired have to go,  
I go with gladness to my wished rest,  
Whereas no world's sad care, nor wasting woe  
May come their happy quiet to molest,  
But Saints and Angels in celestial thrones  
Eternally him praise, that hath them blest;  
There shall I be amongst those blessed ones.   

Yet ere I go, a pledge I leave with thee  
Of the late love, the which betwixt us past,  
My young Ambrosia, in am of me  
Love her: so shall our love for ever last.  
Thus dear adieu, whom I expect ere long:  
So having said, away she softly passed:  
Weep Shepherd weep, to make mine undersong.   

3 So oft as I record those piercing words,  
Which yet are deep engraven in my breast,  
And those last deadly accents, which like swords  
Did wound my heart and rend my bleeding chest,  
With those sweet sugared speeches do compare,  
The which my soul first conquered and possessed,  
The first beginners of my endless care;   

And when those pallid cheeks and ashy hue,  
In which sad death his portraiture had writ,  
And when those hollow eyes and deadly view,  
On which the cloud of ghastly night did sit,  
I match with that sweet smile and cheerful brow,  
Which all the world subdued unto it;  
How happy was I then, and wretched now?   

How happy was I, when I saw her lead  
The shepherds daughters dancing in arownd?  
How trimly would she trace and softly tread  
The tender grass with rosy garland crowned?  
And when she list advance her heavenly voice,  
Both Nymphs & Muses nigh she made astownd,  
And flocks and shepherds caused to rejoice.   

But now ye Shepherd lasses, who shall lead  
Your wandering troops, or sing your virelayes?  
Or who shall dight your bowers, sith she is dead  
That was the Lady of your holy days?  
Let now your bliss be turned into bale,  
And into plaints convert your joyous plays,  
And with the same fill every hill and dale.   

Let Bagpipe never more be heard to shrill,  
That may allure the senses to delight;  
Ne ever Shepherd sound his Oaten quill  
Unto the many, that provoke them might  
To idle pleasance: but let ghastliness  
And dreary horror dim the cheerful light,  
To make the image of true heaviness.   

Let birds be silent on the naked spray,  
And shady woods resound with dreadful yells:  
Let streaming floods their hasty courses stay,  
And parching drought dry up the crystal wells;  
Let th'earth be barren and bring forth no flowers,  
And th'air be filled with noise of doleful knells,  
And wandering spirits walk untimely hours.   

And Nature nurse of every living thing,  
Let rest herself from her long weariness,  
And cease henceforth things kindly forth to bring,  
But hideous monsters full of ugliness:  
For she it is, that hath me done this wrong,  
No nurse, but Stepdame, cruel, merciless,  
Weep Shepherd weep to make my undersong.   

4 My little flock, whom erst I loved so well,  
And wont to feed with finest grass that grew,  
Feed ye henceforth on bitter Astrofell,  
And stinking Smallage, and unsavoury Rew;  
And when your maws are with those weeds corrupted,  
Be ye the pray of Wolves: ne will I rue,  
That with your carcases wild beasts be glutted.   

Ne worse to you my silly sheep I pray,  
Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall  
Than to myself, for whose confused decay  
To careless heavens I do daily call:  
But heavens refuse to hear a wretches cry,  
And cruel death doth scorn to come at call,  
Or grant his boon that most desires to die.   

The good and righteous he away doth take,  
To plague th'unrighteous which alive remain:  
But the ungodly ones he doth forsake,  
By living long to multiply their pain:  
Else surely death should be no punishment,  
As the great judge at first did it ordain,  
But rather riddance from long languishment.   

Therefore my Daphne they have ta'en away;  
For worthy of a better place was she:  
But me unworthy willed here to stay,  
That with her lack I might tormented be.  
Sith than they so have ordered, I will pay  
Penance to her according their decree,  
And to her ghost do service day by day.   

For I will walk this wandering pilgrimage,  
Throuhout the world from one to other end,  
And in affliction waste my better age.  
My bread shall be the anguish of my mind,  
My drink the tears which fro mine eyes do rain,  
My bed the ground that hardest I may find:  
So will I wilfully increase my pain.   

And the my love that was, my Saint that is,  
When she beholds from her celestial throne,  
(In which she joyeth in eternal bliss)  
My bitter penance, will my case bemoan,  
And pity me that living thus do die:  
For heavenly spirits have compassion  
On mortal men, and rue their misery.   

So when I have with sorrow satisfied  
Th'importune fates, which vengeance on me seek,  
And th'heavens with long languor pacified,  
She for pure pity of my sufferance meek,  
Will send for me; for which I daily long,  
And will tell then my painful penance eke:  
Weep Shepherd, weep to make my undersong.   

5 Henceforth I hate what ever Nature made,  
And in her workmanship no pleasure find:  
For they be all but vain, and quickly fade,  
So soon as on them blows the Northern wind,  
They tarry not, but flit and fall away,  
Leaving behind them nought but grief of mind,  
And mocking such as think they long will stay.   

I hate the heaven, because it doth withhold  
Me from my love, and eke my love from me;  
I hate the earth, because it is the mould  
Of fleshly slime and frail mortality;  
I hate the fire, because to nought it flies,  
I hate the Air, because sighs of it be,  
I hate the Sea, because it tears supplies.   

I hate the day, because it dareth light  
To see all things, and not my love to see;  
I hate the darkness and the dreary night,  
Because they breed sad balefulnesse in me:  
I hate all times, because all times do fly  
So fast away, and may not stayed be,  
But as aspeedie post that passeth by.   

I hate to speak, my voice is spent with crying:  
I hate to hear, loud plaints have dulled mine ears:  
I hate to taste, for food withholds my dying:  
I hate to see, mine eyes are dimmed with tears:  
I hate to smell, no sweet on earth is left:  
I hate to feel, my flesh is numbed with fears:  
So all my senses from me are bereft.   

I hate all men, and shun all womankind;  
The one, because as I they wretched are,  
The other, for because I do not find  
My love with them, that wont to be their Star:  
And life I hate, because it will not last,  
And death I hate, because it life doth mar,  
And all I hate, that is to come or passed.   

So all the world, and all in it I hate,  
Because it changeth ever too and fro,  
And never standeth in one certain state,  
But still unsteadfast round about doth go,  
Like a Mill wheel, in midst of misery,  
Driven with streams of wretchedness and woe,  
That dying lives, and living still does die.   

So do I live, so do I daily die,  
And pine away in self-consuming pain,  
Sith she that did my vital powers supply,  
And feeble spirits in their force maintain  
Is fetched fro me, why seek I to prolong  
My weary days in dolour and disdain?  
Weep Shepheard weep to make my undersong.   

6 Why do I longer live in life's despite?  
And do not die then in despite of death:  
Why do I longer see this loathsome light,  
And do in darkness not abridge my breath,  
Sith all my sorrow should have end thereby,  
And cares find quiet; is it so uneath  
To leave this life, or dolorous to die?   

To live I find it deadly dolorous;  
For life draws care, and care continual woe:  
Therefore to die must needs be joyous,  
And wishful thing this sad life to forego.  
But I must stay; I may it not amend,  
My Daphne hence departing bade me so,  
She bade me stay, till she for me did send.   

Yet whilst I in this wretched vale do stay,  
My weary feet shall ever wandering be,  
That still I may be ready on my way,  
When as her messenger doth come for me:  
Ne will I rest my feet for feebleness,  
Ne will I rest my limbs for frailty,  
Ne will I rest mine eyes for heaviness.   

But as the mother of the Gods, that sought  
For fair Eurydice her daughter dear  
Throughout the world, with woeful heavy thought;  
So will I travel whilst I tarry here,  
Ne will I lodge, ne will I ever lin,  
Ne when as drooping Titan draweth near  
To lose his team, will I take up my Inn.   

Ne sleep (the harbinger of weary wights)  
Shall ever lodge upon mine eyelids more;  
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,  
Nor failing force to former strength restore,  
But I will wake and sorrow all the night  
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore,  
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.   

And ever as I see the star to fall,  
And under ground to go, to give them light  
Which dwell in darkness, I to mind will call,  
How my fair Star (that shined on me so bright)  
Fell suddenly, and faded under ground;  
Since whose departure, day is turned to night,  
And night without a Venus star is found.   

But soon as day doth show his dewy face,  
And calls forth men unto their toilsome trade,  
I will withdraw me to some darksome place,  
Or some dear came, or solitary shade,  
There will I sigh, and sorrow all day long,  
And the huge burden of my cares:  
Weep Shepherd, weep, to make my undersong.   

7 Henceforth mine eyes shall never more behold  
Fair thing on earth, ne feed on false delight  
Of aught that framed is of mortal mould,  
Sith that my fairest flower is faded quite:  
For all I see is vain and transitory,  
Ne will be held in any steadfast plight,  
But in a moment lose their grace and glory.   

And ye fond men, on fortune's wheel that ride,  
Or in aught under heaven repose assurance,  
Be it riches, beauty, or honour's pride:  
Be sure that they shall have no long endurance,  
But ere ye be aware will flit away;  
For nought of them is yours, but th'only usance  
Of a small time, which none ascertain may.   

And ye true Lovers, whom disastrous chance  
Hath far exiled from your Lady's grace,  
To mourn in sorrow and sad sufferance,  
When ye do hear me in that desert place,  
Lamenting loud my Daphne's Elegy,  
Help me to wail my miserable case,  
And when life parts, vouchsafe to close mine eye.   

And ye more happy Lovers, which enjoy  
The presence of your dearest loves delight,  
When ye do hear my sorrowful annoy,  
Yet pity me in your empassiond sprite,  
And think that such mishap, as chanced to me,  
May happen unto the most happiest wight;  
For all men's states alike unsteadfast be.   

And ye my fellow Shepherds, which do feed  
Your careless flocks on hills and open plains,  
With better fortune, than did me succeed,  
Remember yet my undeserved pains,  
And when ye hear, that I am dead or slain,  
Lament my lot, and tell your fellow swains;  
That sad halcyon died in life's disdain.   

And ye fair Damsels Shepherds dear delights,  
That with your loves do their rude hearts possess,  
When as my hearse shall happen to your sights,  
Vouchsafe to deck the same with Cyparesse;  
And ever sprinckleb rackish tears among,  
In pity of my undeserved distress,  
The which I wretch, endured have thus long.   

And ye poor Pilgrims, that with resslesse toil  
Weary yourselves in wandering desert ways,  
Till that you come, where ye your vows assoil,  
When passing by ye read these wosfull lays  
On my grave written, rue my Daphne's wrong,  
And mourn for me that languish out my days:  
Cease Shepherd, cease, and end thy undersong.   

Thus when he ended had his heavy plaint,  
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard found,  
His cheeks waxed pale, and sprights began to faint,  
As if again he would have fallen to ground;  
Which when I saw, I (stepping to him light)  
Amooved him out of his stony swoon,  
And 'gan him to recomfort as I might.   

But he no way recomforted would be,  
Nor suffer solace to approach him me,  
But casting up asdeinfull eye at me,  
That in his tramce I would not loath him lie,  
Did rend his hair, and beat his blubbered face,  
As one disposed wilfully to die,  
That I sore grieved to see his wretched ●ase.   

though when the pang was somewhat overpast,  
And the outrageous passion nigh appeased,  
I him desyrde, sith day was overcast,  
And dark night fast approached, to be pleased  
To turn aside unto my Cabinet,  
And stay with me, till he were better eased  
Of that strong stound, which him so sore beset.   

But by no means I could him win thereto,  
Ne longer him entreat with me to stay,  
But without taking leave he forth did go  
With staggering pace and dismal looks dismay,  
As if that death he in the face had seen,  
Or hellish hags had met upon the way:  
But what of him became I cannot ween.   
FINIS.