SONNET IV.*

'HE antique Babel, Empresse of the East,

And second Babell, Tyrant of the West,
Her ayry towers upraised much more high.
But, with the weight of their own surquedry,
They both are fallen, that all the earth did feare,
And buried now in their own ashes ly;
Yet shewing, by their heapes, how great they were.
But in their place doth now a third appeare,
Fayre Venice, flower of the last worlds delight;
And next to them in beauty draweth neare,
But farre exceedes in policie of right.

Yet not so fayre her buildinges to behold

As Lewkenors stile that hath her beautie told.

* Prefixed to "The Commonwealth and Government of Venice," &c.

DAPHNAIDA:

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE NOBLE AND

VERTUOUS DOUGLAS HOWARD, DAUGHTER AND

HEIRE OF HENRY LORD HOWARD, VISCOUNT BYNDON, AND WIFE OF ARTHUR GORGES, ESQUIER.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE LADIE

HELENA, MARQUESSE OF NORTHAMPTON.

BY ED. SP.

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND VERTUOUS LADY,

HELENA, MARQUESSE OF NORTH HAMPTON.

I

HAVE the rather presumed humbly to offer unto your Honour the dedication of this little Poëme, for that the noble and vertuous Gentlewoman of whom it is written, was by match neere alied, and in affection greatly devoted, unto your Ladiship. The occasion why I wrote the same, was as well the great good fame which I heard of her deceassed, as the particular goodwill which I bear unto her husband Master Arthur Gorges, a lover of learning and vertue, whose house, as your Ladiship by marriage hath honoured, so doe I find the name of them, by many notable records, to be of great antiquitie in this realme, and such as have ever borne themselves with honourable reputation to the world, and unspotted loyaltie to their Prince and countrey: besides, so lineally are they descended from the Howards, as that the Lady Anne Howard, eldest daughter to John Duke of Norfolke, was wife to Sir Edmund, mother to Sir Edward, and grandmother to Sir William and Sir Thomas Gorges, Knightes: and therefore I doe assure my selfe that no due honour done to the White Lyon, but will be most gratefull to your Ladiship, whose husband and children do so neerely participate with the bloud of that noble family. So in all dutie 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 heavie mynd,
With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest,

Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd,
Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest,
Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive,
Even sad Alcyon, whose empierced brest
Sharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive.

But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,
Or in this wretched life doeth take delight,
Let him be banisht farre away from hence;
Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight,
Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing ;

For even their heavie song would breede delight;
But here no tunes, save sobs and grones, shall ring.

In stead of them, and their sweet harmonie,
Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad hands
Doe weave the direfull threeds of Destinie,
And in their wrath break off the vitall bands,
Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull Queene
Of Darknes deepe come from the Stygian strands,
And grisly Ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene.

In gloomy evening, when the wearie Sun,
After his dayes long labour drew to rest,
And sweatie steedes, now having overrun
The compast skie, gan water in the West,
I walkt abroad to breathe the freshing ayre
In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest
With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.

There came unto my mind a troublous thought,
Which dayly doth my weaker wit possesse,
Ne lets it rest untill it forth have brought
Her long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse,
Which she conceived hath through meditation
Of this worlds vainnesse and life's wretchednesse,
That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion.

So as I muzed on the miserie

In which men live, and I of many most,
Most miserable man; I did espie
Where towards me a sory wight did cost,
Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray,
And Jacob staffe in hand devoutly crost,
Like to some Pilgrim come from farre away.

His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne,
Hong long adowne, and beard all overgrowne,
That well he seem'd to be some wight forlorne:
Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne,
As loathing light; and ever as he went
He sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone,
As if his heart in peeces would have rent.

Approaching nigh, his face I vewed nere,
And by the semblant of his countenaunce
Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,
Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;
Alcyon he, the jollie Shepheard swaine,
That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce,
And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.

Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disguize,
I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-withall
He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,
Yet stayed not, till I againe did call:

Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow sound,
"Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,

29

The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?"—