Then to my selfe will I my sorrow mourne,
Sith none alive like sorrowfull remaines :
And to my selfe my plaints shall back retourne,
To
pay their usury with doubled paines.
The woods, the hills, the rivers, shall resound
The mournfull accent of my sorrowes ground.
Woods, hills, and rivers, now are desolate,
Sith he is gone the which them all did grace;
And all the fields do waile their widow state,
Sith death their fairest flowre did late deface:
The fairest flowre in field that ever grew
Was Astrophel; that was, we all may rew.
What cruell hand of cursed foe unknowne,
Hath cropt the stalke which bore so faire a flowre;
Untimely cropt, before it well were growne,
And cleane defaced in untimely howre?
Great losse to all that ever him did see,
Great losse to all, but greatest losse to mee!
Breake now your gyrlonds, O ye shepheards lasses!
Sith the faire flowre which them adornd is gon:
The flowre which them adornd is gone to ashes,
Never againe let lasse put gyrlond on.
In stead of gyrlond, weare sad Cypres nowe,
And bitter Elder, broken from the bowe.
Ne ever sing the love-layes which he made:
Who ever made such layes of love as hee?
Ne ever read the riddles, which he sayd
Unto your
selves to make you mery glee:
Your mery glee is now laid all abed,
Your mery maker now, alasse is dead.
Death, the devourer of all worlds delight,
Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my joy:
Both you and me, and all the world he quight
Hath robd of joyance, and left sad annoy.
Joy of the world, and shepheards pride was hee! Shepheards, hope never like againe to see.
Oh Death! that hast us of such riches reft,
Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him, whose flowre here left
Is but the shadow of his likenesse gone?
Scarse like the shadow of that which he was,
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pas.
But that immortall spirit, which was deckt
With all the dowries of celestiall grace,
By soveraine choyce from th' hevenly quires select,
And lineally deriv'd from Angels race,
O! what is now of it become aread ?
Ay me! can so divine a thing be dead?
Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die,
But lives for aie, in blisfull Paradise;
Where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie,
In bed of lillies wrapt in tender wise;
And compast all about with roses sweet,
And daintie violets from head to feet.
There thousand birds, all of celestiall brood,
To him do sweetly caroll day and night;
And with straunge notes, of him well understood,
Lull him a sleep in Angelick delight;
Whilest in sweet dreame to him presented bee
Immortall beauties, which no eye may see.
But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine aspects, appearing plaine,
And kindling love in him above all measure,
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling paine;
For what so goodly forme he there doth see,
He may enjoy from jealous rancor free.
There liveth he in everlasting blis,
Sweet spirit, never fearing more to die;
Ne dreading harme from any foes of his,
Ne fearing salvage beasts more crueltie,
Whilest we here, wretches, waile his private lack, And with vaine vowes do often call him back. 90
But live thou there, still happie, happie spirit!
And give us leave thee here thus to lament;
Not thee that doest thy heavens joy inherit,
But our owne selves that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and waile, and wear our eies,
Mourning in others our owne miseries.
WHICH when she ended had, another swaine
Of gentle wit and daintie sweet device,
Whom Astrophel full deare did entertaine
Whilest here he liv'd, and held in passing price,
Hight Thestylis, began his mournfull tourne:
And made the Muses in his song to mourne.
And after him full many other moe,
As everie one in order lov'd him best,
Gan dight themselves t' expresse their inward woe
With dolefull lays, unto the time addrest:
The which I here in order will rehearse,
As fittest flowres to deck his mournfull hearse
OME forth, ye Nymphes, come forth! forsake your watry bowres,
Forsake your mossy caves, and help me to lament:
Help me to tune my dolefull notes to gurgling sound Of Liffies tumbling streames: Come, let salt teares of
Mix with his waters fresh. O come: let one consent Joyne us to mourne with wailfull plaints the deadly
Which fatall clap hath made, decreed by higher
The dreery day in which they have from us yrent The noblest plant that might from East to West be found.
Mourne, mourn, great Phillips fall, mourn we his
Whom spitefull death hath pluct untimely from the
Whiles yet his yeares in flowre did promise worthie frute.
Ah dreadful Mars! why didst thou not thy knight
What wrathfull mood, what fault of ours, hath moved thee
Of such a shining light to leave us destitute?
Tho[u] with benigne aspect sometime didst us behold,
Thou hast in Britons valour tane delight of old,
And with thy presence oft vouchsaft to attribute
Fame and renowme to us for glorious martiall deeds.
But now thy ireful bemes have chill'd our harts with
cold;
Thou hast estrang'd thy self, and deignest not our
Farre off to others now thy favour honour breeds, And high disdaine doth cause thee shun our clime, (I
For hadst thou not bene wroth, or that time neare at
Thou wouldst have heard the cry that wofull England
Eke Zelands piteous plaints, and Hollands toren heare,
Would haply have appeas'd thy divine angry mynd: Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yeeld their shade,
And wailing to let fall the honor of their head;
And birds in mournfull tunes lamenting in their
Up from his tombe the mightie Corineus rose,
Who cursing oft the fates that this mishap had bred,
His hoary locks he tare, calling the heavens unkinde.
The Thames was heard to roare, the Reyne and eke
the Mose,
The Schald, the Danow selfe, this great mischance did
With torment and with grief: their fountains pure and
Were troubled, and with swelling flouds declar'd their
The Muses comfortles, the Nymphs with paled hue, The Silvan Gods likewise, came running farre and neere, And all with teares bedeawd, and eyes cast up on hie;
|