Ere their arrival Astrophell had done
His shepherd's lay, yet equalized of none.
The admired mirror, glory of our isle,
Thou far far more than mortal man, whose style
Struck more men dumb to hearken to thy song
Than Orpheus' harp, or Tully's golden tongue.
To him, as right, for wit's deep quintessence,
For honour, valour, virtue, excellence,
Be all the garlands, crown his tomb with bay,
Who spake as much as e'er our tongue can say.
He sweetly touchèd what I harshly hit,
Yet thus I glory in what I have writ;
Sidney began, and,—if a wit so mean
May taste with him the dews of Hippocrene,—
I sung the pastoral next; his Muse my mover;
And on the plains full many a pensive lover
Shall sing us to their loves, and praising be
My humble lines the more for praising thee.
Thus we shall live with them, by rocks, by springs,
As well as Homer by the deaths of kings.
As in the rainbow's many-coloured hue,
Here see we watchet deepened with a blue;
There a dark tawny with a purple mixt,
Yellow and flame, with streaks of green betwixt,
A bloody stream into a blushing run,
And ends still with the colour which begun ;
Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'st again,
With such rare art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blue with watchet, green and red with yellow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the dove's neck with variety,
Where none can say, though he it strict attends,
Here one begins, and there the other ends:
So did the maidens with their various flowers
Deck up their windows, and make neat their bowers;
Using such cunning as they did dispose
The ruddy piny with the lighter rose,
The monk's-hoods with the bugloss, and entwine
The white, the blue, the flesh-like columbine
With pinks, sweet-williams: that far off the eye
Could not the manner of their mixtures spy.
BOOK II. SONG 3.
The description of Walla.
A green silk frock her comely shoulders clad,
And took delight that such a seat it had,
Which at her middle gathered up in pleats
A love-knot girdle willing bondage threats.
Nor Venus' ceston held a braver piece,
Nor that which girt the fairest flower of Greece.
Down to her waist her mantle loose did fall
Which Zephyr, as afraid, still played withal,
And then tuck'd up somewhat below the knee
Showed searching eyes where Cupid's columns be.
The inside lined with rich carnation silk,
And in the midst of both lawn white as milk,
Which white beneath the red did seem to shroud,
As Cynthia's beauty through a blushing cloud.
About the edges curious to behold
A deep fringe hung of rich and twisted gold;
So on the green marge of a crystal brook
A thousand yellow flowers at fishes look,
And such the beams are of the glorious sun
That through a tuft of grass dispersed run.
Upon her leg a pair of buskins white
Studded with orient pearl and chrysolite,
And, like her mantle, stitch'd with gold and green,
(Fairer yet never wore the forest's queen)
Knit close with ribands of a party hue,
A knot of crimson and a tuft of blue,
Nor can the peacock in his spotted train
So many pleasing colours show again;
Nor could there be a mixture with more grace,
Except the heavenly roses in her face.
A silver quiver at her back she wore,
With darts and arrows for the stag and boar;
But in her eyes she had such darts again,
Could conquer gods, and wound the hearts of men.
Her left hand held a knotty Brazil bow,
Whose strength, with tears, she made the red deer know.
So clad, so armed, so dressed to win her will
Diana never trod on Latmus hill.
Walla, the fairest nymph that haunts the woods
Walla, beloved of shepherds, fauns, and floods,
Walla, for whom the frolic satyrs pine,
Walla, with whose fine foot the flowerets twine,
Walla, of whom sweet birds their ditties move,
Walla, the earth's delight, and Tavy's love.
As careful merchants do expecting stand
(After long time and merry gales of wind)
Upon the place where their brave ship must land,
So wait I for the vessel of my mind.
Upon a great adventure is it bound
Whose safe return will valued be at more
Than all the wealthy prizes which have crowned
The golden wishes of an age before.
Out of the East jewels of wealth she brings.
Th' unvalu'd diamond of her sparkling eye
Wants in the treasure of all Europe's kings;
And were it mine they nor their crowns should buy.
The sapphires ringed on her panting breast
Run as rich veins of ore about the mould,
And are in sickness with a pale possest
So true, for them I should disvalue gold.
The melting rubies on her cherry lip
Are of such power to hold; that as one day
Cupid flew thirsty by, he stooped to sip,
And fastened there could never get away.
The sweets of Candie are no sweets to me,
When hers I taste; nor the perfumes of price,
Robb'd from the happy shrubs of Araby,
As her sweet breath, so powerful to entice.
Oh hasten then, and if thou be not gone
Unto that wished traffic through the main,
My powerful sighs shall quickly drive thee on,
And then begin to draw thee back again.
If in the mean rude waves have it opprest
It shall suffice, I ventured at the best.
The complaint of Pan.
What boot is it though I am said to be
The worthy son of winged Mercury?
That I with gentle nymphs in forests high
Kissed out the sweet time of my infancy?
And when more years had made me able grown, Was through the mountains as their leader known? That high-browed Mænalus where I was bred,
And stony hills not few have honoured
Me as protector by the hands of swains,
Whose sheep retire there from the open plains?
That I in shepherd's cups-rejecting gold-
Of milk and honey measures eight times told
Have offered to me, and the ruddy wine
Fresh and new pressed from the bleeding vine?
That gleesome hunters pleased with their sport
With sacrifices due have thanked me for 't?
That patient anglers standing all the day
Near to some shallow stickle or deep bay,
And fishermen whose nets have drawn to land
A shoal so great it wellnigh hides the sand,
For such success some promontory's head
Thrust at by waves, hath known me worshipped?
But to increase my grief, what profits this,
'Since still the loss is as the loser is?'
The song of Celadyne.
Marina's gone and now sit I
As Philomela on a thorn,
Turned out of nature's livery,
Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn :
Only she sings not, while my sorrows can
Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan.
So shuts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honey-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I, since she is gone.
To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day;
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, they know not yet
The pain to be deprived, or to forget.
I oft have heard men say there be
Some, that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory;
But could they teach forgetfulness,
I'd learn, and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.
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