EXCELLENT LORD, THE EARLE OF LEICESTER,
LATE DECEASED. 1591.
WRONG'D, yet not daring to expresse my paine,
Το you (great Lord) the causer of my care,
In clowdie teares my case I thus complaine
your selfe that onely privie are.
But if that any Edipus unware
Shall chaunce, through power of some divining spright,
To reade the secrete of this riddle rare,
And know the purporte of my evill plight;
Let him rest pleased with his owne insight,
Ne further seeke to glose upon the text:
For griefe enough it is to grieved wight
To feele his fault, and not be further vext.
But what so by my selfe may not be showen,
May by this Gnatts complaint be easily knowen.
E now have playde, Augustus, wantonly,
Tuning our song unto a tender Muse,
And, like a cobweb weaving slenderly,
Have onely playde: Let thus much then excuse
This Gnats small Poëme, that th' whole historie
Is but a jest, though envie it abuse:
But who such sports and sweet delights doth blame,
Shall lighter seeme then this Gnats idle name.
Hereafter, when as season more secure
Shall bring forth fruit, this Muse shall speak to thee
In bigger notes, that may thy sense allure,
And for thy worth frame some fit Poesie:
The golden ofspring of Latona pure,
And ornament of great Joves progenie,
Phabus shall be the Author of my song,
Playing on Ivorie harp with silver strong.
He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood
Of Poets Prince, whether he woon beside
Faire Xanthus sprincled with Chimæras blood;
Or in the woods of Astery abide;
Or whereas mount Parnasse, the Muses brood,
Doth his broad forhead like two hornes divide,
And the sweete waves of sounding Castaly
With liquid foote doth slide downe easily.
Wherefore ye Sisters, which the glorie bee
Of the Pierian streames, fayre Naiades,
Go too; and, dauncing all in companie,
Adorne that God: And thou holie Pales,
To whome the honest care of husbandrie
Returneth by continuall successe,
Have care for to pursue his footing light
Through the wide woods, and groves, with green leaves
Professing thee I lifted am aloft
Betwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky:
And thou, most dread Octavius, which oft
To learned wits giv'st courage worthily,
O come, thou sacred childe, come sliding soft,
And favour my beginnings graciously:
For not these leaves do sing that dreadfull stound,
When Giants bloud did staine Phlegraan ground.
Nor how th' halfe horsy people Centaures hight,
Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord;
Nor how the East with tyranous despight
Burnt th' Attick towres, and people slew with sword;
Nor how mount Athos through exceeding might
Was digged downe; nor yron bands abord
The Pontick sea by their huge Navy cast;
My volume shall renowne, so long since past.
Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete,
When flocking Persians did the Greeks affray:
But my soft Muse, as for her power more meete,
Delights (with Phabus friendly leave) to play
An easie running verse with tender feete.
And thou, dread sacred child, to thee alway
Let everlasting lightsome glory strive,
Through the worlds endles ages to survive.
And let an happie roome remaine for thee
Mongst heavenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest;
And let long lasting life with joyous glee,
As thy due meede that thou deservest best,
Hereafter many yeares remembred be
Amongst good men, of whom thou oft art blest;
Live thou for ever in all happinesse!
But let us turne to our first businesse.
The fiery Sun was mounted now on hight
Up to the heavenly towers, and shot each where
Out of his golden Charet glistering light;
And fayre Aurora, with her rosie heare,
The hatefull darknes now had put to flight;
When as the shepheard, seeing day appeare,
His little Goats gan drive out of their stalls,
To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls.
To an high mountaines top he with them went,
Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills:
They now amongst the woods and thickets ment,
Now in the valleies wandring at their wills,
Spread themselves farre abroad through each descent;
Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills;
Some, clambring through the hollow cliffes on hy,
Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.
Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop,
And brouze the woodbine twigges that freshly bud;
This with full bit doth catch the utmost top
Of some soft Willow, or new growen stud;
This with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop,
And chaw the tender prickles in her Cud;
The whiles another high doth overlooke
Her owne like image in a christall brooke.
O the great happines, which shepheards have,
Who so loathes not too much the poore estate,
With minde that ill use doth before deprave,
Ne measures all things by the costly rate
Of riotise, and semblants outward brave!
No such sad cares, as wont to macerate
And rend the greedie mindes of covetous men,
Do ever creepe into the shepheards den.
Ne cares he if the fleece, which him arayes,
Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye;
Ne glistering of golde which underlayes,
The Summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye;
Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayes
Of precious stones, whence no good commeth by ;
Ne yet his cup embost with Imagery
Of Batus or of Alcons vanity.
Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee,
Which are from Indian Seas brought far away:
But with pure brest from carefull sorrow free,
On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft display,
In sweete Spring time, when flowres varietie
With sundrie colours paints the sprinckled lay;
There, lying all at ease from guile or spight,
With pype of fennie reedes doth him delight.
There he, Lord of himselfe, with palme bedight,
His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine:
There his milk-dropping Goats be his delight,
And fruitefull Pales, and the forrest greene,
And darkesome caves in pleasaunt vallies pight,
Wheras continuall shade is to be seene,
And where fresh springing wells, as christall neate,
Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate.
O! who can lead then a more happie life
Than he, that with cleane minde, and heart sincere,
No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife,
No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare ;
Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife,
That in the sacred temples he may reare
A trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure,
may abound in riches above measure.
Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe,
And not with skill of craftsman polished:
He joyes in groves, and makes himselfe full blythe
With sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gathered;
Ne frankincens he from Panchaa buyth:
Sweete Quiet harbours in his harmeles head,
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