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When, from old Tithons bed, shee weeping did arise.
The blinded Archer-boy, like Larke in showre of raine,
Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend
Under those cristall drops, which fell from her faire eies;
And at their brightest beames him proynd in lovely wise.
Yet sorie for her grief, which he could not amend,
The gentle boy gan wipe her eies, and clear those lights,
Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine.
The Graces tuckt her hair, which hung like threds of gold,
Along her Yvorie brest, the treasure of delights,
All things with her to weep, it seemed, did encline,
The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.
The aire did help them mourne, with dark clouds, raine, and
Forbearing many a day to cleare it selfe againe;
Which made them eftsoones feare the daies of Pirrha shold
Of creatures spoile the earth, their fatall threds untwist.
For Phabus gladsome raies were wished for in vaine,
And with her quivering light Latonas daughter faire,
And Charles-waine eke refus'd to be the shipmans guide.
On Neptune warre was made by Aeolus and his traine,
Who, letting loose the winds, tost and tormented th' aire,
So that on ev'ry coast men shipwrack did abide,
Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves,
And such as came to shoare were beaten with despaire.
The Medwaies silver streames, that wont so still to slide,
Were troubled now and wrothe; whose hidden hollow
Along his banks with fog then shrowded from mans eye, Ay Phillip did resownd, aie Phillip they did crie.
His Nimphs were seen no more (thogh custom stil it craves)
With haire spred to the wynd themselves to bath or sport,
Or with the hooke or net, barefooted wantonly,
The pleasant daintie fish to entangle or deceive.
The shepheards left their wonted places of resort,
Their bagpipes now were still; their loving mery layes
Were quite forgot; and now their flocks men might perceive
206 MOURNING MUSE OF THESTYLIS.
To wander and to straie, all carelesly neglect.
And, in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and dayes
Nought els was to be heard, but woes, complaints, and mone.
But thou (O blessed soule!) doest haply not respect
These teares we shead, though full of loving pure affect,
Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne,
Where full of majestie the High Creator reignes ;
In whose bright shining face thy joyes are all complete,
Whose love kindles thy spright; where, happie alwaies one,
Thou liv'st in blis that earthly passion never staines;
Where from the purest spring the sacred Nectar sweete
Is thy continuall drinke; where thou doest gather now
Of well emploied life th' inestimable gaines.
There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place,
And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy vertue bow,
And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.
In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,
A chaire of gold he setts to thee, and there doth tell
Thy noble acts anew, whereby even they that boast
Themselves of auncient fame, as Pirrhus, Hanniball,
Scipio, and Cæsar, with the rest that did excell
In martiall prowesse, high thy glory do admire.
All haile, therefore, O worthie Phillip immortall, The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy name! Whose worthie praise to sing, my Muses not aspire, But sorrowfull and sad these teares to thee let fall; Yet wish their verses might so farre and wide thy fame Extend, that envies rage, nor time, might end the same.
UPON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY, KNIGHT, ETC.
OLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd,
This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine
This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres.
Hear'st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd
He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine,
And seemes to say unto the fading flowres,
Along his bankes, unto the bared trees;
Phillisides is dead. Up, jolly swaine,
Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay,
Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese,
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part
Sure would I beare, though rude: But, as may,
With sobs and sighes I second will thy song,
And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart.
COLIN. Ah Lycon, Lycon, what need skill, to teach
A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints! how long
Hath the pore Turtle gon to school (weenest thou)
To learne to mourne her lost Make! No, no, each
Creature by nature can tell how to waile.
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes
In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile
With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare.
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that
Himselfe of late? did any cheerfull note
Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare
Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre?
Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat,
And testified his grief with flowing teares?
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his
Doth us invite to make a sad consort;
Come, let us joyne our mournfull song with theirs.
Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce,
Thy voice; and Eccho will our words report.
LYCON. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses frame, That others farre excell; yet will I force
My selfe to answere thee the best I can,
And honor my base words with his high name.
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit
In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe (O Pun)
To pardon me, and hear this hard constraint
With patience while I sing, and pittie it.
And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell
In these wilde woods; if ever piteous plaint
We did endite, or taught a wofull minde
With words of pure affect his griefe to tell,
Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on,
And I will follow thee, though farre behinde.
COLIN. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death,
O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion,
When shalt thou see, emong thy shepheards all,
Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath
Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill;
Curteous, valiant, and liberall.
Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire
Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill.
And her faire face, bent sadly downe, doth send
A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there
Doth call the Heav'ns despightfull, envious,
Cruell his fate, that made so short an end
Of that same life, well worthie to have bene
Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous.
The Nymphs and Oreades her round about
Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene;
And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests,
Accuse the direfull dart that death sent out
To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame,
That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request.
The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun;
They leave their cristall springs, where they wont frame
Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire,
To sport themselves free from the scorching sun.
And now the hollow caves where horror darke
Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire,
They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time
With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and barke,
And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint.
LYCON. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme!
Why should my toong expresse thee? who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint,
Lycon unfortunate! What spitefull fate,
What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort; of thy onely stay!
Where is become thy wonted happie state,
(Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne way,
Along the bankes of many silver streames,
Thou with himn yodest; and with him didst scale
The craggie rocks of th' Alpes and Appenine!
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames
Of vertue kindled in his noble brest,
Which after did so gloriously forth shine!
But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are
All suddenly, and death hath them opprest.
Loe father Neptune, with sad countenance,
How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare,
Yonder, where th' Ocean with his rolling waves
The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance)
Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about
The Sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves
All for his comfort gathered there they be.
The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout,