What should I here depaint her lily hand, Her veins of violets, her ermine breast, Which there in orient colors living stand? Or how her gown with silken leaves is dressed? Or how her watchmen, armed with boughy crest,
A wall of prim hid in his bushes bears, Shaking at every wind their leafy spears, While she supinely sleeps, ne to be wakëd fears?
Over the hedge depends the graping elm, Whose greener head, empurpelëd in wine, Seemed to wonder at his bloody helm, And half suspect the bunches of the vine, Lest they, perhaps, his wit should undermine;
For well he knew such fruit he never bore, But her weak arms embraced him the more, And with her ruby grapes laughed at her paramour.
Under the shadow of these drunken elms A fountain rose, where Pangloretta uses, When her some flood of fancy overwhelms And one of all her favorites she chooses, To bathe herself, whom she in lust abuses, And from his wanton body sucks his soul, Which, drowned in pleasure in that shaly bowl, And swimming in delight, doth amorously roll.
The font of silver was, and so his showers In silver fell, only the gilded bowls (Like to a furnace that the min'ral pours) Seemed to have molt it in their shining holes; And on the water, like to burning coals On liquid silver, leaves of roses lay; But when Panglory here did list to play, Rose-water then it ran, and milk it rained, they say.
The roof thick clouds did paint, from which three boys Three gaping mermaids with their ewers did feed, Whose breasts let fall the stream with sleepy noise To lions' mouths, from whence it leapt with speed, And in the rosy laver seemed to bleed.
The naked boys, unto the waters' fall, Their stony nightingales had taught to call, When Zephyr breathed into their wat'ry interal.
And all about, embayëd in soft sleep, A herd of charmëd beasts aground were spread, Which the fair witch in golden chains did keep, And them in willing bondage fetterëd;
Once men they lived, but now the men were dead,
And turned to beasts; so fabled Homer old, That Circe with her potion, charmed in gold, Used manly souls in beastly bodies to immould.
Through this false Eden to his leman's bower, Whom thousand souls devoutly idolize, Our first destroyer led our Savior. There in the lower room, in solemn wise, They danced a round and poured their sacrifice
To plump Lyæus, and among the rest The jolly priest, in ivy garlands dressed, Chanted wild orgials in honor of the feast.
Others within their arbors swilling sat, For all the room about was arborëd, With laughing Bacchus, that was grown so fat That stand he could not, but was carried, And every evening freshly waterëd
To quench his fiery cheeks, and all about Small cocks broke through the wall, and sallied out Flagons of wine to set on fire that spewing rout.
This their inhumëd souls esteemed their wealths, To crown the bouzing can from day to night, And sick to drink themselves with drinking healths, Some vomiting, all drunken with delight. Hence to a loft, carved all in ivory white,
They came, where whiter ladies naked went, Melted in pleasure and soft languishment, And sunk in beds of roses, amorous glances sent.
Fly, fly, thou holy child, that wanton room, And thou, my chaster muse, those harlots shun, And with him to a higher story come, Where mounts of gold and floods of silver run, The while the owners, with their wealth undone, Starve in their store and in their plenty pine, Tumbling themselves upon their heaps of mine, Glutting their famished souls with the deceitful shine,
Ah, who was he such precious perils found? How strongly nature did her treasures hide, And threw upon them mountains of thick ground, To dark their ory luster; but quaint pride Hath taught her sons to wound their mother's side, And gauge the depth to search for flaring shells In whose bright bosom spumy Bacchus swells, That neither heav'n nor earth henceforth in safety dwells.
O sacred hunger of the greedy eye, Whose need hath end, but no end covetize,
Empty in fulness, rich in poverty,
That having all things, nothing can suffice, How thou befanciest the men most wise!
The poor man would be rich, the rich man great,
The great man king, the king in God's own seat
Enthroned, with mortal arm dares flames and thunder threat. 440
Therefore above the rest Ambition sat;
His court with glitterant pearl was all enwalled, And round about the wall in chairs of state And most majestic splendor, were installed A hundred kings, whose temples were impalled In golden diadems, set here and there With diamonds, and gemmëd everywhere, And of their golden verges none disceptered were.
High over all, Panglory's blazing throne, In her bright turret, all of crystal wrought, Like Phœbus' lamp in midst of heaven, shone; Whose starry top, with pride infernal fraught, Self-arching columns to uphold were taught, In which her image still reflected was By the smooth crystal, that most like her glass In beauty and in frailty, did all others pass.
A silver wand the sorceress did sway, And for a crown of gold her hair she wore, Only a garland of rosebuds did play About her locks, and in her hand she bore A hollow globe of glass that long before
She full of emptiness had bladderëd, And all the world therein depicturëd, Whose colors, like the rainbow, ever vanished.
Such wat'ry orbicles young boys do blow Out from their soapy shells, and much admire The swimming world, which tenderly they row With easy breath, till it be wavëd higher; But if they chance but roughly once aspire, The painted bubble instantly doth fall. Here when she came she gan for music call, And sung this wooing song to welcome him withal:
Love is the blossom where there blows Everything that lives or grows; Love doth make the heav'ns to move, And the sun doth burn in love;
Love the strong and weak doth yoke, And makes the ivy climb the oak, Under whose shadows lions wild, Softened by love, grow tame and mild; Love no med'cine can appease, He burns the fishes in the seas,
Not all the skill his wounds can stench, Not all the sea his fire can quench;
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a leafy coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay Sweet birds, for love, that sing and play;
And of all love's joyful flame,
I the bud and blossom am.
Only bend thy knee to me, Thy wooing shall thy winning be.
See, see the flowers that below Now as fresh as morning blow, And of all the virgin rose, That as bright Aurora shows, How they all unleavëd die,
Loosing their virginity;
Like unto a summer shade,
But now born, and now they fade.
Everything doth pass away,
There is danger in delay; Come, come gather then the rose, Gather it, or it you lose.
All the sand of Tagus' shore
Into my bosom casts his ore; All the valley's swimming corn To my house is yearly borne;
Every grape of every vine
Is gladly bruised to make me wine, While ten thousand kings, as proud To carry up my train, have bowed, And a world of ladies send me, In my chambers to attend me; All the stars in heav'n that shine, And ten thousand more, are mine; Only bend thy knee to me,
Thy wooing shall thy winning be.
Thus sought the dire enchantress in his mind Her guileful bait to have embosomëd, But he her charms dispersed into wind, And her of insolence admonishëd, And all her optic glasses shatterëd.
So with her sire to hell she took her flight, The starting air flew from the damnëd sprite, Where deeply both aggrieved, plunged themselves in night.
But to their Lord, now musing in his thought, A heavenly volley of light angels flew, And from his father him a banquet brought Through the fine element, for well they knew After his lenten fast he hungry grew;
And as he fed, the holy choirs combine To sing a hymn of the celestial Trine;
All thought to pass, and each was past all thought divine.
The birds' sweet notes, to sonnet out their joys, Attempered to the lays angelical,
And to the birds the winds attune their noise, And to the winds the waters hoarsely call, And echo back again revoicëd all,
That the whole valley rung with victory. But now our Lord to rest doth homewards fly; See how the night comes stealing from the mountains high.
PHINEAS FLETCHER
The Introduction and Notes are at page 1007 FROM The Locusts, or Apollyonists, 1627
Of men, nay beasts; worse, monsters; worst of all, Incarnate fiends, English Italianate,
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