THE PILGRIM AND EREMITE, In form of a Dialogue,  
By Master Alexander Craig,  
Imprinted in ABERDENE, By EDWARD RABAN, for David Melvill. 1631.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, WYSE, AND Virtuously disposed Gentleman, WILLIAM FORBES of TOLQUHON.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE,  
HAving collected the dispersed, and long neglected Papers, of this subsequent Poesy, the Posthumes of a worthy Pen, for preserving them from perishing, for the Perfections of the Departed, maker of immortal memory; who was one of the Faithful, affectionate, (and reaffected) Favourers of the honourable House of BAMFE, whereunto Yourself, and Yours, by a faithful Affection, and affectionate Affinity, are unseparably tied. And also, Sir, for the singular and ever bound duty, whereunto by many Obliedgements; and unspeakable Respects, I ever acknowledge myself to be unterminably tied, to love, serve, and honour, You and Yours, and to do all that my possibility can perform, to the eternity of Your Name, House, and Honour. Herefore, Sir, I have taken the boldness, after the Author's expiring, to publish, and present, his Papers to Your Honour's Hands, to pass under the Patrociny and Protection of Your honourable Name. Receive, therefore, Sir, this fatherless Orphan, under the Shield and Shadow of Your powerful protection, & courteous acceptation: and as he presenteth to Your view a wand'ring Pilgrim, and a retired Eremite, both Despisers of the fleeting Pleasures, and flitting Richeses of this wretched World, whereupon most wretchedly so many do dote: So, Sir, let the same call us to mind, what we are here, and what we should aim to be hereafter; that as we are Pilgrims on earth, we may be Citizens in Heaven; this being our way, but Above, our native Country; here our travel, there our rest; here our race, there our prize; here our fight, there our triumph; here our seedtime, there our harvest; and as wand'ring Pilgrimis here our Inns only, from whence we must remove, but there our home, and mansion place, wherein we must remain. In this estate then, Sir, let worldly things be but our Viaticum, which we should use, as if we used them not: and let us neither be cloyed with their love, nor clogged with their cares; but seek those things that are above, & to temper the edge of our eager distractions, about many things with Martha, let us with Marie consider that one thing which is necessary; and requite, in some measure, that love which CHRIST JESUS hath carried and kithed towards us; not as this poor Eremite was with disdain of her whom he affected, but with mutual tender affection, and a Christian care to keep His Commandments; whereby we shall gain to ourselves, more than the greatest Conquerors, or busiest Worldlings, could ever acquire; even a glorious Kingdom, and a Crown incorruptible. To the advancement whereof, Sir, both of you and yours, after many and happy days here, as my earnest Petition to GOD shall be; so in all other things I have vowed to remain  
Your Honours, in all serviceable and obsequious duty, ROBERT SKENE.   

THE PILGRIM AND EREMITE,  
In form of a Dialogue.  


WHen pale Lady LUNA, with her lent light,  
Through the dawning of the Day was driven to depa●●  
And the clear crystal Sky vanished the Night,  
And the red morning rose from the right airt;  
Long ere the fond Child, with Whip in his hand,  
From his slight sleep awoke, to lighten the Land;   

'twixt the Night and the Day,  
In my sleep as I lay,  
Amidst my Dream this fray  
And fairly I found:   

Apparelled as a pilgrim, with Staff in mine hand,  
Forth the day as I went, undriven 'bout a guide,  
Me thought in a laigh Lay, a clear Stream, a Strand,  
A broad Bush of Birke trees, by a Brook side:  
And hoping some Eremite made there repair,  
As fast as my feet might, forward I fare.   

Through a Wood as I sought,  
To a Bush was I brought,  
Which Nature herself wrought,  
Withouten airts lare.   

Through the Wood as I went, half will of wain,  
A Cell to my sharp slght can shortly appear:  
A quiet and a cold Cave, a Cabin of stone,  
I drew me darne to the door, some din to hear.  
And as I lent to my Lugier, this well I heard,  
How long shall I lonthed live? I love 'bout reward.   

And when I knew by the din,  
Some wight was therein,  
To wax bold I begin,  
And no peril spared.   

As I went through the floor of that cold Cave,  
I well espied in the bark where the noise sounded,  
An hoarse hoary Eremite, grieved and grave,  
Whose boiling Breast naught but black ba●le abounded,  
Whose colour, countenance, and pale deadly hue,  
His whole hidden Harms there and griefs forth show:   

Whose tumbling tears 
* or, without  'bout cease,  
Like floods flowed over his face;  
With many long loud alas,  
And sad sighs anew.   

Yet stoutly he start by, and stared in my face,  
And craved how I there came? or who was my guide?  
By Fortune, quoth I, thus fell the case,  
Through the wild way as I went I wandered aside,  
And by a private plain path I came to this Wood,  
Wherein I wist well some Eremite was hid.   

But since I am here brought,  
If that I offended aught,  
By the Blood that me bought,  
I'll obey as ye bid.   

A pilgrim, quoth he, you seem by your weed,  
And a strayed stranger, if I right weine:  
But since you are here come, so GOD mote me speed,  
Thou art welcome to such as you have here seen:  
But yet of my treatment I trow ye shall tire,  
For neither have I Meat, Drink, good Bed, nor Fire.   

On raw Roots is my Food,  
I drink of the fresh Flood;  
On Fog and green Grass good,  
All night lies my lyre.   

Then held I the Eremite with fair words anew,  
And for his frank offering great thanks I him gave:  
And when I well tried that his tale was all true,  
The cause of his coming there shortly I crave,  
The cause of my coming here, pilgrim, quoth he,  
And with that the salt tears fell in his eye:   

Alas it's for the love of one,  
For whose sake thus I am slain:  
A Martyr here I remain  
By fatal decree,   

In faith, friend, quoth I then, I saw by thy song,  
When at the cold Cave door darned I stood:  
Some Saint of the She sex had wrought thee all this wrong;  
And thou hadst long lived in love, and yet vnloved:  
And of the long letter this last line I heard,  
How long shall I loathed live? I love 
* For bout, understand without  'bout Reward.  
Whereby I well knew,  
That thy Dame was untrue;  
Thy pale and wan how  
Forth show thou wasst snated.   

Alas! quod the Eremite, I lived once to love;  
But now drowned in Despare, I see my death diest:  
Though both Will and Wit would, I may not remove,  
I lie in the links of Love fettered so fast:  
And all my Care-séeming-Swéets, are so mixed with Sowrs,  
That each moment almost appeareth ten hours.   

Thus live I here alone,  
In this cold Cave of stone,  
As next neighbour unto none,  
But Trees, Fowls, and Flowers.   

And thus in my dark Den I mind to remain,  
As bound Bead-man to Her that works all my woe;  
Till Death with his Dart come put me from pain:  
Else Atropus cutting quite the Thread in two,  
And on the green growing Bark of each blooming Tree.  
This Diton endorsed shall well written be:   

In sorrow and sight slain,  
For Her here I remain,  
Who likes of another one,  
Much more than of me.   

Fond Eremite, quoth I then, thy love would appear  
Too high to been placed above thy degree:  
And thy fond foolish hope, frozen with fear,  
And Fortune, thy Old Friend, thy New Enemy.  
For she whom thou best lovest, as thyself says,  
As reasonless, and ruethlasse, respects thee nowayes.   

Thy syle is her sight;  
Thy duill, her delight;  
And thy pain to despite,  
She pleasantly plays.   

Whereby it well seems, thy labour is lost,  
And unto thy grave thou it go, ere thou get her.  
Mad man! why mak'st thou thine enemy thy hospe?  
Die not a fool, man; for God's sake forget her.  
For, put case, in hope to obtain thy desires,  
Thou die here for want of Bed, Food, and Fires:   

Then who shall be seen,  
To louk thy dead Eine?  
And entomb thee, I weine,  
As custom requires?   

Leave, then, thy hermitage, and this cold Cave,  
And live no more in love, since thou art not loved:  
But follow me, and take part as I have:  
Company and counsel may do thee some good.  
For Don-Diëgo had died in Desert,  
Wert not Rodorico did him there convert.   

Thus, it may fall so,  
That I thy Rodorico,  
May find ease to thy woe,  
And heal thy hurt Heart.   

Speak, Pilgrim, quoth he, of things that may be,  
Or that hath appearance, to take some effect:  
For, such is my faintness, I want force to flee,  
Love, Fortune, Death, have given such a check.  
Betwixt Wit and Will there is great debate;  
The one with the other stryving for the state.   

Flee Love, quoth my Wit.  
Stay, says my Will yet.  
So I bide; so I flit.  
So I love: so I hate.   

But where thou wouldst seem to salve all my sore,  
And by thy straight statutes to stay all my sturt,  
Meddle with that matter, good Pilgrim, no more,  
Since all mine health hangeth on her that me hurt.  
The Coal● that me burns to the bone, will I blow,  
Though Liver, Lungs, and Lights, fly up in a low,   

Since she doth decree it,  
That I die, so be it;  
I long till I see it.  
Let Death bend his Bow.   

vain wretch, quoth I then, cast off thy vowed Weed●,  
And wander no more in this wild Wilderness:  
It may be thy Mistress, that dear Dame, be dead,  
For whose sweet sake daily that diest in distress:  
Perchance before that thou her again see,  
By vote of the Wan-weird●, that buried she b●●.   

Or put case, thy Dame dear,  
Hath chosen a new Fere,  
Thou wouldst despare to see her.  
That so lightlies thee.   

Or contrariwise, good Eremite, suppone  
Thy Mistress this moment hath good mind of thee;  
And for thy long absence maketh great moan,  
And from her heart wisheth her leile love to see:  
Saying in herself, Would God I wist where  
My poor pined Patient doth make his repair.   

Witted I well, so I thrive,  
That he were yet alive,  
I should be no wights wife  
For ten years, and maire.   

Conceit with thyself, good Eremite, I pray,  
If thy Dame be dead, thou wéep'st but in vain.  
Thou art a stark Stock, here still for to stay,  
And mourn for the loss that mends not thy moan.  
For if she some other respect more than thee,  
What grace canst thou get, in duill here to die:   

Or wouldst thou thy truth,  
Should reap reward of ruth?  
Why slipst thou so with sleuth,  
The thing that may be?   

Good Pilgrim, said he then, of these two I see,  
As you seem to conclude, the one must be true:  
She loathes, or she loves: a mids may not be,  
As to my pains I may prove by signs anew.  
For my beloved Love, my dear dainty Dame,  
Despiseth those Elements which spell my poor Name.   

UUoe is me, if I mint,  
To forge Floods from the Flint,  
My true travel shall be tint,  
Such Friendship to frame.   

But you would say, that Death, drierie Death!  
Perhaps, hath abrogate my dear Dames days:  
To look for a long life then must I be loath,  
Whom each froward frown else of Fortune affrays.  
And since alike for her love I have ta'en such pain,  
I care not a cuit for her sake to be slain.   

I shall not seem for to shrink,  
Of Death, for hay death, to drink;  
Whose sweet Eyes, with a wink,  
May revive me again.   

Let this then applease thee, good Pilgrim, I pray,  
That no presence, absence, no distance of place;  
No fond toys, no new frays; no time, no delay;  
No bad chance, no new change, nor contrary case;  
No, not the fierce flames that Fortune can spit,  
Shall make my firm fixed saith or fancy to flit.   

Yea, let her fleet, let her flow;  
Let her do what she dow,  
To gar my grief aye grow,  
I shall be true yet.   

Good Eremite, for truth told I oft times have heard,  
The leilest in love, cometh aye the worst speed:  
And he that deserves well to reap best reward,  
For firm saith and friendship, shall find nought but feide.  
Take tent to the tales told of true Troyall Knight,  
And he that hanged himself, if I read right.   

Yea, though thy suit thou obtain,  
With one word tint again:  
Short pleasure, long pain,  
With duile day and night.   

But since thou delightest to live still in love,  
Advyse thee on this well, Be never too true.  
Though thou swear and say thy mind shall not move,  
For Orphus, take Protus, to change aye thy hue.  
Was not great jove turned in a Shower, in a Fire,  
In a Swan, in a Bull, t'obtain his desire?   

For he that loves lighliest,  
Be sure he shall speed best:  
And he that loves without rest,  
Shall surely get ill hire.   

Wherefore, in love if that thou wouldst come speed,  
Thou must flee faith, be facile, false, untrue.  
Ere thou prevail right, so far as I reide,  
There must be a sympathy 'twixt her and you.  
For I demand, How can right Concord be,  
While you are true, and she both false and slay?   

She likes well another sho,  
Then choose new, and change too:  
And if you well do,  
Be as false as she.   

Alas! quod the Eremite, too late I spy the right,  
And wronged with woe, still wrongly I frame.  
I know that in love, my Lady proves but light:  
And if that I were wise, I would do the same.  
But faith and her remembrance martyrs me maire,  
Than did her presence perfect me, when I was there.   

For whiles grieved, I greet;  
Whiles I mourn, till we meet:  
And some times my poor spirit  
Dies, drowned in despare:   

And whiles in a rage I reckon with my cell,  
And to and fro dispute, to dash my desire:  
Half dead in Desert, here why should I dwell,  
And pine with pain, wanting Bed, Food, and Fire?  
Why do I lose youth's prime, without all gain?  
Or why mourn I for her that keeps Disdain?   

And when that I conclude,  
To burn Habit and Hood,  
Yet do I not dde it,  
My Vow is so vain.   

Cursed be that fond Vow, that ever it was made:  
Cursed be the first cause of my hidden pain:  
And cursed be false Fortune, that holds me at feid:  
And cursed be the blind Boy, that breeds all my bane:  
Cursed be the first hour, the time, and the place,  
That fettered my fond Heart in her fair Face.   

Cursed be my wicked will:  
Nuyte spoiling me of Skill,  
And took me captive, till,  
That Groom void of grace.   

Unsayde be that bad word, That Groom void of grace,  
What but her good graces can grieve me so much?  
For I may will say, if Pity had place,  
Of all that on mould moves, there is none such,  
Oh! had the times passed in Prayer been spent,  
That ruth to my ruethlesse Love had been sent.   

And Cupid, I call on 〈…〉:  
Thou hearest, and canst not see:  
Have pity on poor me,  
And grant mine intent.   

Dame Nature, saith the wise Clerk Empedocles,  
Bestows, good heremites, her gifts here and there,  
As she well pleaseth, the best is but Claise:  
Each man must be content, he gets no maire.  
For faith doth not affect thy Mistress fair,  
But Beauty, which doth bring thee to despair.   

Of pity since no part  
Is hid in her hard heart,  
Yet let not the black dart  
Of duile thee devour.   

And deaf not the good Gods, with thy vain Suit:  
What they have once done, they will not undo.  
love's like a trim Tree, which beareth no Fruit,  
But green leaves, and blossoms, and flowrisheth too:  
Oft gladning the Gardener, in hope of good gain;  
Yet reaps he in Harvest no Fruit for his pain.   

Right so her fair face,  
With gifts of sweet grace,  
Tint travel, alas,  
Bont fruit makes thee fain.   

Then suit, serve, pray, praise, or do what you can:  
Lo, here I foretell thee, thy labour is lost.  
For by the great griefs thou thol'st now and than,  
To haste thine own death, thou runnest the Post.  
Though surges of sorrow full swift thee assails,  
Thy lawtie in love, 'bout luck, nought avails.   

Though thou beat the Bush well,  
Yet thy foe, without fail,  
Hints the Prey by the tail,  
And proudly prevails,   

So by your sweet self I press now to speak,  
Whom by the god of Love I pray, and beseike,   

Forget the same of your force,  
On your Man have remorse;  
Lest Death him and you divorce,  
For he is sore sick.   

Or if a poor man's Plaint may pierce through your Ears?  
If Love any Lordship in your Breast may brook;  
Have pity on his Passions, and salt tragic Tears;  
Who Liberty, and Life both, hath lost with a Look.  
His Help must be had from Hands that him hurt:  
For stern must he stay still, till you stay his stutt.   

Then, choose one of these twa,  
Your sworn Slave for to slay,  
Or revert all his wae,  
Whom your Beauty hurt.   

And then, with a fell Frown, which had a full force  
To overrule the whole World, with Eterne Might.  
Whereby it well seemed she had no remorse  
Upon the poor Patient, pined in such plight.  
Faith, Pilgrim, quoth she's, thou ravest in a rage,  
That seekest by my shame his sick sore to suage.   

For, in a word to conclude,  
I can do him no good;  
He is reaved, by the Rood,  
Of all his won Wage.   

Though sometime the day drew, I dare not deny,  
That he in mine Heart had the most supreme place:  
And so, till the fond Fates his wealth did envye,  
I still, with courtesy, considered his case.  
And trust me, Pilgrim, his Passions, and Pain,  
Meant as near mine Heart, as ever did mine own.   

Though his case now seem strange,  
I will not myself cleange:  
His bad chance, and my change,  
Hath bred all his pain.   

And as for my Love, who lies without release,  
Associate for my sake, with many sad Song;  
So am I paid in mine hand, with as careful case,  
For he whom I best love, hath wrought me great wrong.  
And like as for his love, he reaps but disdain,  
The Love whom I like best, loathes me again.   

And as he lives all alone,  
With many great grievous groan,  
So to myself I bemoan,  
My hid piercing pain.   

I flee to be followed, and following, am fled:  
I love, and am loathed, and loath to be loved.  
here's a strange stratagem, that my veil bred:  
I frieze in the hot Flame, and fry in the Flood.  
I lack whom I best love, and choked am with store:  
Yea, have so much, that my mind can crave no more.   

Thus go thy ways, whence thou came,  
And show thy sick Friend, his Dame  
Remains yet the self same,  
That she was before.   

I will work thee no wrong, that no ways hast wite▪  
But through the Fields on thy Feet friendly dost fate,  
To seek to thy sick man some Salve for his site,  
And to cure by thy Craft his cursed kindled Care:  
Thou shalt walk on thy way, and stay on the Street,  
And carry him shortly his answer in Writ.   

And when she the Door bard,  
I stood still yet unskard;  
And through a hole I heard  
This talk of the Sweet.    

Poliphila, before She writ her Answer, disputeth with her own Desires, as followeth:  

HOw hard it is, none knows, so well as I▪  
Unto a doleful, and divided Mind,  
To make a well-joind Answer, and Reply,  
When all the chief and noblest parts are pinned.  
Then, Shall I be to Cruelty inclined?  
Or pity him that prays, and pleads for Peace▪  
If this or that I stick in contrary case?   

I love the Love that lightlies me again;  
And lightly him that loves me as his life:  
Yea, for my love with slavery is slain.  
His lyfe's the Thread, my cruelties the Knife.  
How shall I rid this strange and fatal strife?  
Yet best it were, to look, before I lope:  
And not to quite Assurance true, for Hope.   

O my divided Soul! what shall I do?  
Whereon shall now my Resolution rest?  
Which is the best Advise to yield unto?  
Of two Extremes, how shall I choose the best?  
Come, Pithiane Prince: I pray, and I protest:  
Assist me now, and make no more delay;  
But guide me well, in this my wilsome way.   

Then, Eremite, that dost in Desert dwell,  
And buyst my love, with dear and great expense;  
With Toil, and Torments, tedious for to tell;  
Be blithe, and let thy wont Harms go hence:  
Thou must not die, while I may make defence.  
Put then a point and period to thy pain:  
Thy long-sought Love and Lady shall be thine.   

Yet will I write disdainfully to thee:  
Thy loving Lines must have a cold Reply.  
I will not seem too credulous to be,  
With hasty Faith, to trust, before I try.  
But I avow, I shall not sleep, nor lie  
In any Bed, till I behold thy Face,  
And boldly him whom I should brook, embrace.   

Go, lovelesse Lines, unto my Lover true.  
Stay yet, lest ye procure his farther pain.  
God grant nothing but Good hereof ensue.  
Yet stay, for why? Ye will be quite mista'en.  
Go yet: but yet ye shall not go alane:  
Myself will follow, with convenient haste.  
God grant my Uoyage be not waird in waste.   
Thus endeth her Disputation.   


And so, in a short space, that sweet seemly Saint,  
Presents me▪ her Pilgrim, a baile-bearing Bill:  
And as in the wild way she weind I should want,  
My Bag, and my Bottle, she plenisht at will.  
A King from her Finger full fair did she take:  
And gave me, and prayed me, good News to bring back.   

And, having no more to say,  
But loath I should long stay,  
She weeping went away▪  
And not a word spoke.   

Then, when the black Night her sad Mantle show,  
Ill Successor, degenerate from the Day,  
With the third Foot in hand, I through the thrang threw.  
Though clad with the dark Clouds, I went on my way.  
And loath to detain the Lecture too long,  
I came to my sick Friend; and this was his Song▪   

But, when I knew his voice,  
I kept myself full close,  
To hear the Lays of his loss,  
The wild woods among.    

The Eremite his Complaint.  
SO many things before have perfect Poets penned, For to express their piercing pains, and cause their Cares be kende▪  

That nought is left, alas, for most unhappy me,  
In Skies above, on earth beneath, nor in the glassy Sea.  
No Metaphoricke Phrase, no high Invention brave:  
No Allegory sweet Conceit, no Theme sublime and grave:  
But all things else are said, which I can write or say:  
Thus in effect I wot not how my wracks for to bewray.   

And nothing doth aggrege my griping grief so much,  
As that my skill should be so small, my sorrows should be such.  
Yet all those Poets brave, which were, or yet shall be,  
Could I but utter, as I feel, might all give place to me.  
And thou whose mirth was least, whose comfort was dismayed▪  
Whose hope was vain, whose faith was scorn, whose truth was betrayed:  
Thou didst declare thy duile, in brave and dainty dye:  
Thou wast unhappy then, I grant, but now unhappy I.   

Thy Poems did present upon thy pleasant Page,  
More Sorrows than thou ever felt into thy cunning age.  
With costly Nurix rare, Sid●niane Wares divine,  
Thou litst thy Lines, which makes thy Moans miraculously to shine.  
My Pains, like Tagus' Sands, no numbers can bewray:  
Or like Aurora's tears, which she for Memnon sheeds each day.  
As Stars in frosty Sky can not be told which shines;  
So many heaps of harms my hart without compassion pin's,   

Yea, would I press to tell the torments that I feel,  
With travel tint then might I turn Irions fatal wheel.  
And to disgorge these griefs which make me sigh and sob,  
Were for to weave a new Penelopeian web.  
My Eyes like Fountains might in bloody Furnace fry,  
Or like the Lydian Tubs, whose doom is never to be dry.  
My hot and smoothred sighs, no levill course can take:  
But restless round about my heart esphearicke motion make.   

My Thoughts are now of Bliss like ruin Ilium bare:  
My shape, a reconfused mass, which flowrisht once so fair.  
My Ship, which sometimes sailed in drain of hope aright.  
On Rocks full cold is rend, in black and stormy night.  
And I, forsaken Soul, a lyfelesse lump of Lead,  
'twixt wind and wave am cast, whereas no strength can stand in stead.  
My Uentring was my Wrack; my high Desire, my Fall:  
Which made the Naufrage of my Hurt, my Hope, my Hap, and all.   

Alas, alas, that I impossiblie did press,  
Above my Fortunes for to fly, so far to my disgrace.  
Disgraced with Loss, with Shame, with Wrack, and endless Wrong:  
These are the doleful Ditties now, and subjects of my Song.  
Yet dare I not, alas, though I have cause, complain:  
Which makes me sigh, and sob, and thus for love am slain.  
But since it is my weird, to fall, to wail, to weep;  
Then by my loss let others learn a lower course to keep.   
Thus endeth the Eremite his Complaint.   


And when I saw that his Song received a full end,  
I showed myself shortly, and kindly did kith.  
And when that sore sick man his true Bearer kende,  
And saw the Face of his Friend, God knows he was blithe.  
Then showed I the black Bill, subscryved with his Name,  
Well written with the hand of his own dear Dame.   

And then, with a glad cheer,  
When Hope had ceased Fear,  
He read, that I might hear,  
The Will of the same.    

Her Answer, to the Eremite.  

THy loving Lines I rashly did receive,  
Wherein thy Truth, thy State, thy Wrack, I see:  
But at mine hands no succour shalt thou have:  
Though Friend to me, I shall be Foe to thee.  
And since thy death doth on my doom depend,  
Live loathed, or die disgraced, and so I end.   
Thus she shortly concludes.   


And when he read these bad and noisome News,  
Which did refresh his Woes, his Hurtes, and Harms:  
Whiles red, whiles pale, he changed many hues,  
And fell down, in dead-thraw, betwixt my weak Arms.  
And when with my salt Tears I bathed his pale Face,  
His Spirits, and his Breath, came to their own place.   

He cried then, O Death, stay  
Thy date, for this half day;  
That I in writ may bewray  
My high great Disgrace.    

The Eremite his Testament.  

BUt now, and not till now, my Swan-lyke Song I sing;  
And with each word my dying Eyes the bloody Tears forth bring.  
Not that I loathe, alas, or shrink for to be slain:  
For, what can be so sweet as death, which puts an end to pain?  
My death shall be the Cause, thy Honour and Renown  
Shall lose the conquered Diadem of Fame's immortal Crown.  
Yet since it is thy Doom, that in disgrace I die,  
Or loathed live, the choice is hard whereas no mids may be.  
And yet of Evils twane, the best must aye be ta'en:  
So that I rather choose to die, than live in endless pain.  
Long have I looked for joy, whence floods of sorrow spring:  
The end whereof, alas, must be my latest Will to sing.  
My Tones, are careful Cries; my Words are Plaints, alas:  
Sad Sorrow must the Singer be, since Pity hath no place.  
My Pains are like a Point, amidst a Circle set:  
Still in such nearness to myself, that no relief can get.  
How can I hope for help, since Heavens do me despise?  
And all the gods above are deadened, with my Complaints and Cries.  
Earth's burden am I thus, whose sighs infect the Air,  
With poisoned breath, proceeding from an heart consumed with Care.  
For lo, the faithless Fates unto this state me calls:  
By which the stately Stars themselves misfortune tholes.  
What resteth then but Death? since Death must be the last,  
To put a period to my pain, for pleasures hope is past.  
Yet A attest the gods, since first our love began▪  
I have been the lielest aye, and most affected man.  
I loaded thee, alas, thy Soliphermis sworn:  
O Poliphila false! my lawtie is forlorn.  
My love, woe's me, therefore, still thy disdain hath been:  
The most Extremes that ever were, or shall again be seen.  
Thou first betrayed mine Heart, than falsified thy Faith:  
And where thou promised Life, by Love, thou hast decreed my Death.  
When that thy Cruelties I call before, and to  
The Eyes of my Remembrance, I doubt what I shall do.  
Whiles do I wish to live, not to envye thy love:  
But that I might behold my wrack, revenged from Above.  
Or that such wrongs as mine, if such, or worse, might be,  
Might make me smile at thy Mishaps, as thou hast done at me.  
Or then that sometime thou, like that Minoniane Dame,  
Mightst love, and loathed be, and suffer such like shame.  
Or that the fatal Spark, whereon thy Loins might lout,  
And mounting much, might make thee plead, for Peace thy time about.  
Yet, whiles again I think, might I my wish obtain,  
I could not but be kind to thee, for kindness that hath been.  
Thus what I would, I wish: but wot not what I would.  
'twixt Heat and Cold I frieze, I fry, and fearful am, and bold.  
Yea, though I be dismayed, such is my flaming Fire,  
That Neptune's Kingdom could not quench the Coals of my Desire.  
Yet whiles I read the Schrole of Torments which I those,  
Where no Mischance is mixed to fill a grieved Martyrs Roll.  
And when I look the Lives, wherein thy Hellish Doom,  
By thy Chyrographie sent, That Death should me consume,  
Thus I resolve at ones, for to obey thy will,  
Although my Life the Ransom be, thy Fury to fulfil.  
Since Contraries, we see, are by Contraries cured:  
Then, welcome, Death, to cut the Thread, which hath so long endured.  
For why? my Prayers are but Curses late and air:  
And I beseech the gods by night, to see the Day no maire.  
My wishes are, that Hills and Rocks should on me fall,  
To end my endless breath, my life, my love, and all.  
Yet all those wishes are but types, that I must die,  
Which revelations all at once, shall now accomplished be.  
Then lovelesse dame, adieu, whom I have held so dear:  
And welcome, Death, to cut the Thread, which holds my life in weire.  
And, Pilgryme, thou who took'st thy way in many airts,  
For me prepare a burial Bed, for Bones, when Breath departs.  
Yet recommend mine Heart, unto my sometime-Sweet;  
Who shall, when I am dead and gone, for Grace and Guerdon greet.  
And let that place be named, Strophonius Cave of care:  
Where nought but woeful wand'ring ●ight●, undone w●●… duill, repair.  
And let this Caberne cold, wherein I dwelled, to die,  
For Misers, and unhappy men, a matchless Manston be.  
Let him whose erring steps should guide him here to plain,  
Take pains to recollect my rolls, & scattered Skrolls again.  
That these my Wail now, and Sorrow's Children may  
Extolled in after coming times, endure, and lief for aye.  
And that the wand'ring eyes, which read my sorrowing songs.  
When I am dead, may say, that she causeless hath wrought such wrongs.  
The Mountains high, whose points do pierce the azure Aire;  
Whose echoes loud my Commerades make comfort to my Care:  
Still mote your heights arise, with stately tops and stay,  
To match the Alps, that ye may be as famous, fair as they,  
Ye Ualleyes lovely low, with sweet and level lines,  
Where Nature's workmanship and pride in Flora's Mantle shines:  
Green mot ye grow for ay, and that ne spaits of rain,  
No Snowy showers, no parching Sun, your stately broydering stain.  
And thou, O blessed Brook, which didst accept my Tears;  
And harbered them within thy heart, so many loathsome years▪  
Unto the Ocean great, most swiftly mote ye slide,  
To pay thy debts, 'bout stop or stay of contrary stream or tide.  
Ye whistling winds, likewise, which swiftly did receive,  
My Cogiate Sighs, and bury them within your Bosom brave.  
Do thus much once for me; Take one Sighs to my Dame:  
And whispering sweetly, show that Saint, thus have I sent the same.  
And if she do refuse, which out of doubt I dread,  
The news of No, shall be a Sput, to haste me to my dead.  
Ye brave and statslie Trees, which circumcituate here,  
Still bloom, and blossom, with the change of yearly changing cheer.  
Though I did rive your kinds, & broke your tender Barks,  
By painting Polyphilaes' name to your immortal marks:  
Agrieve not with your wounds, for I dare well avow,  
That I more cruelly have rend my tender Heart, than you.  
But last, and by the laive, thou Holline, grave and green,  
Wherein my Mistress name, and mine, most lively may be seen,  
I consecreate to thee my Corpse, when I am gone,  
That by my loss I may enlarge thy thorny leaves eachone.  
And when I shall consume, and rot about thy root,  
Then shall thy Boughs and Branches bloom, and bear a fairer Fruit:  
And as thou tak'st increase, so shall Her Name, and mine,  
Unto thy praise, my loss, her shame, in seemly sort aye shine.  
Ye savage Citizens, which in this Forest be,  
That did exchange your Cruelties, in Courtesies to me:  
Well not ye be, poor Beasts, and that no shots of Lead,  
No life-bereaving Bow, nor Bolt, procure nor haste your dead.  
And thou sweet piping Pan, ye Fawns, and Satyrs rare,  
Which were amidst my matchless moans, Companions of my care:  
Ye Nymphs of Hills & Dales, of Woods; of Uailes, of Floods;  
I bid you all, alas, Goodnight, and so my Muse concludes.  
For now the Harbinger of Death, must life and love bereave.  
My Heart is faint, and lo, my Soul begins to take her leave.  
And so at point of Death, whose wished approach I feel,  
To end my life, I write this last Ill-faring word, Farewell.   
So endeth the Testament of Stophonius.   


Thus the poor Eremite in midst of his pain,  
Began to repeat his fair Mistress speech;  
Down betwixt mine Arms fell, in dead thraw again▪  
When no Leid for his life, me thought, could be Leach.  
His Cognate Corpse as Clay were, like the Lead:  
Yea, healthless and helpless, were Heart, Hand, and Head:   

I began to bewail,  
And eke for to rail,  
On her whose faith did fail.  
In such time of need.   

Yet in the midst of my moans, down lighted that Dame,  
Companied with none, but her Palfrey and Page:  
And when she saw her liele Love lie dead ere she came,  
Her fair Face and rich Robes, she rend in great rage.  
And ●●atlings she fell upon his faint Face,  
And great Seas of salt Tears she spent in short space.   

And seeing her Sweet slain,  
No remead did remain:  
She thus began to plain,  
Her bad careful case.    

Polyphila her Complaint, and Testament.  

O endless Night of noise, which hath no Morrow!  
O lowering Heavens, which harms still have threat!  
O'er mantling me with sable Clouds of Sorrow!  
UUhereas no Star doth shine early nor late.  
Although I ship from Craig, to seek my Mate,  
And from a glorious Garland to my Crown,  
I find by death my dainty Rose dung down.   

Ye swelling Seas, with weltering Uuaves that roll.  
To resolute the weatherbeaten Shore:  
They ebb, they flow, and changing, Courses tholl,  
And dare transcend their bounded banks no more.  
But I, alas, whom Duill doth still devour,  
I find no entermissions to my Moans,  
But ere and late lament my grievous Groans.   

How can my woeful Heart, and weeping Eyes,  
Behold the dearest of my life bereft?  
How can my mind admit the least surmyze,  
Of any Hope, that hath but Horror left?  
My Pilot now, by North, nor yet by East,  
Espies no Calms, but Mercie-wanting Storms;  
Pretending Death, in black and ugly Forms.   

I grovelinges on the Ocean of my pride,  
Did misregard each true and loving Suit.  
So mante sued for favour on each side,  
Which made my Seed to yield much barren Fruit.  
Though I bewail, as now, it brings no buite.  
Sighs, Tears, and Uowes, and all are waird in vain:  
Since nothing can redeem thy life again.   

Ay me, alas! Alas, and waile-away!  
Dear Heert, poor Heart; what rests for thy behoof?  
Since I procured thy death, by my delay,  
And did mistrust my true and constant Love:  
Now shall my death, thy present death approve.  
Though whilst thou lived, to love thee I was loath;  
Yet I am thine beyond the date of death.   

Then let me die, and bid Delight adieu;  
Since my delight is with thee dead and gone.  
The coming Age shall say, thy Thisv● true,  
Was constant still, and loved but thee alone.  
We both shall lie under one Marble stone.  
One Grave in end, shall end our fatal grief;  
Which yields me now, in point of death, relief.   

Since yesterday may not be brought again,  
And Wrongs may be repent, not recalled:  
I will no more in veigh on Death in vain.  
But make all women's courage to be bold:  
And in the Time's to come, it shall be told;  
Though thou till death didst serve and honour me,  
I after death have sought, and followed thee,   

And, Pilgrim's, now, I pray, and I protest,  
Before I end this last exequall Act,  
Let me be bold to make this small Request;  
That for thy umwhile Friend's some pains thou take:  
First, In this place, a private Grave gar make;  
And let us lie interred conjunctly there,  
Where nought but Fawns, and Satyrs make repair;   

Next, When thou com'st into my native Land,  
Wherein my Love, and lovelesse I was borne;  
If any of our Tragic death demand,  
With Pity speak, I pray, and not with Scorn.  
This Practics rars, which seldom was before,  
Which when my dear and loving Friends shall hear,  
My Tragic ends will cost them many a Tear.   
Thus endeth her Complaint.   


And so when that rare Pearl departed out of pain,  
Upon the cold dead Corpse of her leile Love,  
Unto my else hurt Heart did heap Harms again,  
And laid new weight on my braced Breast above.  
To see him and her gasp, still no wrisht my care.  
I wist not whom to help, him, or her there.   

While I stood in this doubt,  
The Eremite looked out,  
And gave a faint shout,  
'twixt hope, and despare.   

This is the World's most wondrous worthy Might,  
Most matchless of all, that may on mould move.  
Hallowed be the Heavens, that showed me this sight.  
And lent me this light, to look on my leile love.  
Now am I glad, and vngrieved, to Grave though I go:  
Thy travel and toil doth reward well my woe.   

For wilt thou believe me,  
My Maker mischieve me,  
If thou canst agrieve me,  
I still love thee so.   

I come, quoth the Clear then, to cure all thy care,  
Though the Faites had forsworn to fang thee my Feire.  
Be biythe then, my dear heart, and mourns thou no maire,  
For Peace, saith the Proverb, puts end to all weire.  
Go leave then thy Hermitage, and thy cold Cave,  
Where Wolf, Lion, wild Bear, thy blood still do crave,   

And with the good God's grace,  
Thou shalt in a short space,  
For all thy loss stnde release,  
And first Health receive.   

Then frankly the Frieke fury, with her help and mine,  
And to her Palfrey he passed, although with great pain:  
And took on that sweet Saint, that meek gem divine;  
That miracle which gods made, as next unto naine.  
Then blythlie the Bairue blended, and hide hasty Hame,  
Through shéene Shawes, & donke Dailes, with his dear Dame.   

And so with Adieu dry,  
Through the Wood could they hie,  
As we twinned, they and I,  
I work of my Dream.   
here endeth the fatality of the loyal Lover Soliphereus, and of his sweet Lady Polyphila.    

The Poëme.  

AS perfect Poets eye-tymes have ta'en pain,  
And searched the Secrets of each high engine,  
By base and lowly Subjects to exclaim,  
High Mysteries, both moral and divine:  
Even so into this worthless Work of mine,  
Which at Friends bidding boldly I set forth;  
Some things may seem obscure, though little worth.   

For as the Eremite leaves his dearest Dame,  
And takes delight in cold Desert to dwell:  
Syn● of his Lot, and of himself, thinks shame,  
And still despairs, and still doth loathe him sell:  
So wretched man, exchanging Heaven with Hell,  
Forgetting GOD, in Darkness doth remain,  
And still despairs, to get Reliefs again.   

And as the painful pilgrim, now and than,  
With Arguments, and pithy reasons strong,  
Would fain reduce the Eremite, if he can,  
And make him to behold his woeful wrong:  
And as the Woods, and savage Beasts among,  
So with him bides, and recomforts his Care:  
Sign holds him up, from dying in Despare.   

And as in end, he moves him for to write;  
Sign shows his Suits unto his Mistress Eyes:  
Wherein, ye see, she took no small delight,  
Because in him some sign of Truth she stes.  
She cures his Cares, and all his sick Disease:  
Yea, heals his hurt, and heartlie by the hand,  
She homeward leads him, to her native Land.   

So sinful man, first by the help of Faith,  
Despiseth Sin, reputes, and sore doth pray,  
That GOD in Mercy would avert His wrath,  
And make His bred displeasure to decay.  
And when the sick converted would away,  
From worldly ease, with haste he maketh speed:  
Then comes the LORD, to help His own at need.   

He cures our cares, He helps us to be hail:  
He makes our sorry Souls for to rejoice.  
If we in Him confided. He will not fail,  
To free us from the force of all our Foes.  
And at the last, with great disgrace of those,  
That loving LORD, shall take us by the Hand,  
And with Him leads us, to the HOME LAND.   
FINIS.   


Orpheus' Fiddle.