Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left
Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint;
LYCON unfortunate? What spiteful fate?
What luckless destiny hath thee bereft
Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay?
Where is become thy wonted happy state?
Alas, wherein through many a hill and dale,
Through pleasant woods, and many an unknown way,
Along the banks of many silver streams,
Thou with him yodest; and with him did scale
The craggy rocks of th'Alps and Appennine?
Still with the Muses sporting, while those beams
Of virtue kindled in his noble breast;
Which after did so gloriously forth shine?
But, woe is me, they now yquenched are
All suddenly, and death hath them oppressed,
Lo, father NEPTUNE! with sad countenance,
How he sits mourning on the strond now bare
Yonder; where th'OCEAN with his rolling waves
The white feet washeth, wailing this mischance,
Of Dover cliffs. 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,
The fruitful Severn, with the rest; are come
To help their lord to mourn, and eke to see
The doleful sight, and sad pomp funeral
Of the dead corps passing through his kingdom;
And all their heads with cypress garlands crowned:
With woeful shrieks salute him, great and small.
Eke wailful ECHO, forgetting her dear
NARCISSUS, their last accents doth resound.
=Colin.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O luckless age!
O widow world! O brooks and fountains clear!
O hills! O dales! O woods that oft have rung
With his sweet carolling, which could assuage
The fiercest wrath of tiger or of bear!
Ye sylvans, fawns and satyrs, that emong
These thickets oft have danced after his pipe!
Ye Nymphs and Naiads with golden hair
That oft have left your purest crystal springs
To hearken to his lays, that coulden wipe
Away all grief and sorrow from your hearts!
Alas! who now is left that like him sings?
When shall you hear again like harmony?
So sweet a sound, who to you now imparts?
Lo where engravèd by his hand yet lives
The name of STELLA in yonder bay tree.
Happy name! happy tree! Fair may you grow
And spread your sacred branch, which honour gives,
To famous emperors; and poets crown.
Unhappy flock! that wander scattered now.
What marvel if through grief, ye woxen lean,
Forsake your food, and hang your heads adown?
For such a shepherd never shall you guide;
Whose parting, hath of weal bereft you clean.
=Lycon.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O happy sprite!
That now in heaven with blessèd souls dost bide.
Look down awhile from where thou sitt'st above,
And see how busy shepherds be to indite
Sad songs of grief, their sorrows to declare;
And grateful memory of their kind love.
Behold myself with COLIN gentle swain,
Whose learned Muse thou cherisht most whilere,
Where we thy name recording, seek to ease
The inward torment and tormenting pain
That thy departure to us both hath bred;
Ne can each other's sorrow yet appease.
Behold the fountains now left desolate,
And withered grass with cypress boughs bespread!
Behold these flowers which on thy grave we strew!
Which faded, show the givers' faded state;
(Though eke they show their fervent zeal and pure)
Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew.
Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for aye,
That to thy ashes, rest they may assure;
That learnedst shepherds honour may thy name
With yearly praises; and the nymphs alway,
Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowers;
And that for ever may endure thy fame.
=Colin.= The sun, lo, hastened hath his face to steep
In western waves, and th'air with stormy showers,
Warns us to drive homewards our silly sheep.
LYCON! let's rise, and take of them good keep.
_Virtute summa; cætera fortuna._
=L. B.=
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_An Elegy, or Friend's Passion_ _for his ASTROPHIL._
_Written upon the death of the Right Honourable Sir PHILIP SIDNEY,
Knight, Lord Governor of Flushing._
[Illustration]
As then, no wind at all there blew,
No swelling cloud accloyed the air,
The sky, like grass of watchet hue,
Reflected PHŒBUS' golden hair;
The garnished tree no pendant stirred,
No voice was heard of any bird.
There might you see the burly bear,
The lion king, the elephant.
The maiden unicorn was there,
So was ACTÆON'S horned plant:
And what of wild or tame are found,
Were couched in order on the ground.
ALCIDES' speckled poplar tree;
The palm that monarchs do obtain;
With love juice stained, the mulberry,
The fruit that dews the poet's brain;
And PHILLIS' filbert there away
Compared with myrtle and the bay:
The tree that coffins doth adorn,
With stately height threat'ning the sky,
And for the bed of love forlorn,
The black and doleful ebony:
All in a circle compassed were
Like to an amphitheatre.
Upon the branches of those trees,
The air-winged people sat,
Distinguishèd in odd degrees;
One sort is this, another that.
Here PHILOMEL that knows full well
What force and wit in love doth dwell.
The sky-bred eagle, royal bird,
Perched there upon an oak above;
The turtle by him never stirred,
Example of immortal love.
The swan that sings about to die;
Leaving MEANDER, stood thereby.
And that which was of wonder most,
The Phœnix left sweet Araby;
And on a cedar in this coast,
Built up her tomb of spicery.
As I conjecture by the same,
Prepared to take her dying flame.
In midst and centre of this plot,
I saw one grovelling on the grass;
A man or stone, I knew not what.
No stone; of man, the figure was.
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.
At length I might perceive him rear
His body on his elbows' end:
Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer,
Upon his knees he upward tend;
Seeming like one in uncouth stound,
To be ascending out the ground.
A grievous sigh forthwith he throws,
As might have torn the vital strings;
Then down his cheeks the tears so flows
As doth the stream of many springs.
So thunder rends the cloud in twain,
And makes a passage for the rain.
Incontinent with trembling sound,
He woefully 'gan to complain;
Such were the accents as might wound,
And tear a diamond rock in twain.
After his throbs did somewhat stay,
Thus heavily he 'gan to say.
"O sun!" said he, seeing the sun,
"On wretched me, why dost thou shine?
My star is fallen, my comfort done;
Out is the apple of my eyen.
Shine upon those possess delight,
And let me live in endless night!"
"O grief! that liest upon my soul,
As heavy as a mount of lead;
The remnant of my life control,
Consort me quickly with the dead!
Half of this heart, this sprite and will,
Died in the breast of ASTROPHIL."
"And you compassionate of my woe,
Gentle birds, beasts, and shady trees!
I am assured ye long to know
What be the sorrows me aggrieves;
Listen ye then to what ensu'th,
And hear a tale of tears and ruth."
"You knew, who knew not ASTROPHIL?
(That I should live to say I knew,
And have not in possession still!)
Things known, permit me to renew:
Of him you know, his merit such,
I cannot say, you hear too much."
"Within these woods of Arcady,
His chief delight and pleasure took:
And on the mountain Partheny,
Upon the crystal liquid brook,
The Muses met him every day;
That taught him sing, to write, and say."
"When he descended down the mount,
His personage seemed most divine;
A thousand graces one might count
Upon his lovely cheerful eyen:
To hear him speak, and sweetly smile;
You were in Paradise the while."
"A sweet attractive kind of grace;
A full assurance given by looks;
Continual comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospel books.
I trow that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eye."
"Was ever eye did see that face;
Was never ear did hear that tongue;
Was never mind did mind his grace;
That ever thought the travail long:
But eyes and ears and every thought,
Were with his sweet perfections caught."
"O GOD! that such a worthy man,
In whom so rare deserts did reign;
Desired thus, must leave us then:
And we to wish for him in vain.
O could the stars that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixèd sit."
"Then being filled with learned dew,
The Muses willèd him to love:
That instrument can aptly show,
How finely our conceits will move.
As BACCHUS opes dissembled hearts,
So LOVE sets out our better parts."
"STELLA, a nymph within this wood,
Most rare, and rich of heavenly bliss;
The highest in his fancy stood,
And she could well demerit this.
'Tis likely, they acquainted soon:
He was a sun, and she a moon."
"Our ASTROPHIL did STELLA love.
O STELLA! vaunt of ASTROPHIL!
Albeit thy graces gods may move;
Where wilt thou find an ASTROPHIL?
The rose and lily have their prime;
And so hath beauty but a time,"
"Although thy beauty do exceed
In common sight of every eye;
Yet in his poesies when we read,
It is apparent more thereby.
He that hath love and judgment too,
Sees more than any others do."
"Then ASTROPHIL hath honoured thee.
For when thy body is extinct,
Thy graces shall eternal be.
And live by virtue of his ink.
For by his verses he doth give
To shortlived beauty aye to live."
"Above all others this is he,
Which erst approvèd in his song
That love and honour might agree,
And that pure love will do no wrong.
Sweet saints! it is no sin nor blame
To love a man of virtuous name."
"Did never love so sweetly breathe
In any mortal breast before?
Did never Muse inspire beneath,
A poet's brain with finer store?
He wrote of love with high conceit;
And beauty reared above her height."
"Then PALLAS afterward attired
Our ASTROPHIL with her device,
Whom in his armour heaven admired,
As of the nation of the skies:
He sparkled in his arms afar,
As he were dight with fiery stars."
"The blaze whereof, when MARS beheld
(An envious eye doth see afar)
'Such majesty,' quoth he, 'is seld.
Such majesty, my mart may mar.
Perhaps this may a suitor be
To set MARS by his deity.'"
"In this surmise, he made with speed
An iron can, wherein he put
The thunders that in clouds do breed;
The flame and bolt together shut,
With privy force burst out again;
And so our ASTROPHIL was slain."
His word, "was slain," straightway did move,
And Nature's inward life-strings twitch,
The sky immediately above,
Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch.
The wrastling winds, from out the ground
Filled all the air with rattling sound.
The bending trees expressed a groan,
And sighed the sorrow of his fall;
The forest beasts made ruthful moan;
The birds did tune their mourning call,
And PHILOMEL for ASTROPHIL,
Unto her notes, annexed a "phil."
The turtle dove with tones of ruth,
Showed feeling passion of his death;
Methought she said "I tell thee truth,
Was never he that drew in breath,
Unto his love more trusty found,
Than he for whom our griefs abound."
The swan that was in presence here,
Began his funeral dirge to sing;
"Good things," quoth he, "may scarce appear;
But pass away with speedy wing.
This mortal life as death is tried,
And death gives life, and so he died."
The general sorrow that was made
Among the creatures of kind,
Fired the Phœnix where she laid,
Her ashes flying with the wind.
So as I might with reason see
That such a Phœnix ne'er should be.
Haply, the cinders driven about,
May breed an offspring near that kind;
But hardly a peer to that, I doubt:
It cannot sink into my mind
That under branches e'er can be,
Of worth and value as the tree.
The eagle marked with piercing sight
The mournful habit of the place;
And parted thence with mounting flight,
To signify to JOVE the case:
What sorrow Nature doth sustain,
For ASTROPHIL, by ENVY slain.
And while I followed with mine eye
The flight the eagle upward took;
All things did vanish by and by,
And disappearèd from my look.
The trees, beasts, birds and grove were gone:
So was the friend that made this moan.
This spectacle had firmly wrought
A deep compassion in my sprite;
My molten heart issued, methought,
In streams forth at mine eyes aright:
And here my pen is forced to shrink;
My tears discolour so mine ink.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable_ Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Knight, Lord
Governor of Flushing._
[Illustration]
To praise thy life or wail thy worthy death;
And want thy wit, thy wit pure, high, divine:
Is far beyond the power of mortal line,
Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.
Yet rich in zeal, though poor in learning's lore;
And friendly care obscured in secret breast,
And love that envy in thy life supprest,
Thy dear life done, and death hath doubled more.
And I, that in thy time and living state,
Did only praise thy virtues in my thought;
As one that seld the rising sun hath sought:
With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.
Drawn was thy race aright from princely line,
Nor less than such (by gifts that Nature gave,
The common mother that all creatures have)
Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.
A King gave thee thy name; a kingly mind
That GOD thee gave: who found it now too dear
For this base world; and hath resumed it near,
To sit in skies, and 'sort with powers divine.
Kent, thy birthdays; and Oxford held thy youth.
The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time;
The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime:
Thy will, thy words; thy words, the seals of truth.
Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence,
To treat from kings, with those more great than kings.
Such hope men had to lay the highest things
On thy wise youth, to be transported thence.
Whence to sharp wars, sweet Honour did thee call,
Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends:
Of worthy men, the marks, the lives and ends;
And her defence, for whom we labour all.
These didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,
Grief, sorrow, sickness and base fortune's might.
Thy rising day saw never woeful night,
But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.
Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought
First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame;
Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame;
Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.
What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won.
Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure
Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure.
O happy race! with so great praises run.
England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same;
Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried.
The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died.
Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame.
Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love.
Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come.
In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb;
Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.
Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears,
Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs bewail thy fall.
ENVY, her sting; and SPITE, hath left her gall.
MALICE herself, a mourning garment wears.
That day their HANNIBAL died, our SCIPIO fell:
SCIPIO, CICERO, and PETRARCH of our time:
Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme,
Let angels speak; and heaven, thy praises tell.
[Illustration]
_Another of the same._
[Illustration]
Silence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage!
Stald are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age.
Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,
Enraged I write, I know not what. Dead, quick, I know not how.
Hard-hearted minds relent, and RIGOUR'S tears abound,
And ENVY strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found;
KNOWLEDGE her light hath lost; VALOUR hath slain her Knight:
SIDNEY is dead! Dead is my friend! Dead is the world's delight.
PLACE pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride.
TIME crieth out "my ebb is come; his life was my springtide."
FAME mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports.
Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.
He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind,
A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined:
Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ;
Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.
He only like himself, was second unto none,
Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan.
Their loss, not him; wail they, that fill the world with cries.
DEATH slew not him; but he made death his ladder to the skies.
Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong,
Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long;
Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief,
Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief.
Heartsease and only I like parallels run on,
Whose equal length keep equal breadth, and never meet in one:
Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell,
Shall not run out; though leak they will, for liking him so well.
Farewell to you! my hopes, my wonted waking dreams.
Farewell sometimes enjoyèd joy! Eclipsèd are thy beams.
Farewell self-pleasing thoughts! which quietness brings forth.
And farewell friendship's sacred league! uniting minds of worth.
And farewell, merry heart! the gift of guiltless minds;
And all sports! which for life's restore, variety assigns.
Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirth may dwell.
PHILIP, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell!
Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill;
And endless grief which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill:
Go, seek that hapless tomb! which if ye hap to find;
Salute the stones that keep the limbs that held so good a mind.
_FINIS._
[Illustration]
_ALCILIA:_
_PHILOPARTHEN's
Loving Folly._
_Non Deus_ (_ut perhibent_) _amor est_, _sed
amaror_, _et error._
[Illustration]
AT LONDON.
_Printed by R. R. for William Mattes_,
dwelling in Fleet street, at the sign of the
_Hand and Plough._
1595.
[The only copy of the 1595 edition, at present known, is in the
City Library, at Hamburg.
It was recovered, and reprinted in 1875 by Herr WILHELM WAGNER,
Ph.D., in Vol. X. of the _Deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft
Jahrbuch;_ copies of this particular text being also separately
printed.
A limited Subscription edition, of fifty-one copies, was printed by
Rev. A. B. GROSART, LL.D., F.S.A., of Blackburn, in 1879: with a
fresh collation of the text by B. S. LEESON, Esq., of Hamburg.
The present modernized text is based on a comparison of the above
two reprints of the 1595 edition with the text of the London
edition of 1613 in which some headings therein inserted between [
], on _pp._ 256, 276, 278) first occur.]
[Illustration]
_A Letter written by a Gentleman to the Author, his friend._
FRIEND PHILOPARTHEN,
[Illustration]
In perusing your Loving Folly, and your Declining from it; I do
behold Reason conquering Passion. The infirmity of loving argueth
you are a man; the firmness thereof, discovereth a good wit and the
best nature: and the falling from it, true virtue. Beauty was always
of force to mislead the wisest; and men of greatest perfection have
had no power to resist Love. The best are accompanied with vices, to
exercise their virtues; whose glory shineth brightest in resisting
motives of pleasure, and in subduing affections. And though I cannot
altogether excuse your Loving Folly; yet I do the less blame you, in
that you loved such a one as was more to be commended for her virtue,
than beauty: albeit even for that too, she was so well accomplished
with the gifts of Nature as in mine conceit (which, for good cause, I
must submit as inferior to yours) there was nothing wanting, either
in the one or the other, that might add more to her worth, except it
were a more due and better regard of your love; which she requited
not according to your deserts, nor answerable to herself in her other
parts of perfection. Yet herein it appeareth you have made good use of
Reason; that being heretofore lost in youthful vanity, have now, by
timely discretion, found yourself!
Let me entreat you to suffer these your Passionate Sonnets to be
published! which may, peradventure, make others, possessed with the
like Humour of Loving, to follow your example, in leaving; and move
other ALCILIAS (if there be any) to embrace deserving love, while they
may!
Hereby, also, she shall know, and, it may be, inwardly repent the
loss of your love, and see how much her perfections are blemished by
ingratitude; which will make your happiness greater by adding to your
reputation, than your contentment could have been in enjoying her love.
At the least wise, the wiser sort, however in censuring them, they may
dislike of your errors; yet they cannot but commend and allow of your
reformation: and all others that shall with indifferency read them, may
reap thereby some benefit, or contentment.
Thus much I have written as a testimony of the good will I bear you!
with whom I do suffer or rejoice according to the quality of your
misfortune or good hap. And so I take my leave; resting, as always,
Yours most assured,
PHILARETES.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Author ipse φιλοπάρθενος ad libellum suum.
[Illustration]
_Parve liber Domini vanos dicture labores,
Insomnes noctes, sollicitosque dies,
Errores varios, languentis tædia vitæ,
Mærores certos, gaudia certa minus,
Peruigiles curas, suspiria, vota, querelas,
Et quæcunque pati dura coegit amor.
I precor intrepidus, duram comiterque salutans
Hæc me ejus causa sustinuisse refer.
Te grato excipiet vultu rubicundula, nomen
Cum titulo inscriptum viderit esse suum.
Forsitan et nostri miserebitur illa doloris,
Dicet et, ah quantum deseruisse dolet:
Seque nimis sœvam, crudelemque ipsa vocabit,
Cui non est fidei debita cura meæ;
Quod siquidem eveniet, Domino solaminis illud,
Et tibi supremi muneris instar erit.
Si quis (ut est æquum) fatuos damnaverit ignes,
Pigritiæ fructus ingeniique levis:
Tu Dominum cæcis tenebris errasse, sed ipsum
Erroris tandem pænituisse sui,
Me quoque re vera nec tot, nec tanta tulisse,
Sed ficta ad placitum multa fuisse refer.
Ab quanto satius (nisi mens mihi vana) fuisset
Ista meo penitus delituisse sinu:
Quam levia in lucem prodire, aut luce carentis
Insanam Domini prodere stultitiam.
Nil amor est aliud, quam mentis morbus et error
Nil sapienter agit, nil bene, quisquis amat.
Sed non cuique datur sapere, aut melioribus uti,
Forte erit alterius, qui meus error erat.
Cautior incedit, qui nunquam labitur, atqui
Jam proprio evadam cautior ipse malo.
Si cui delicto gravior mea pœna videtur;
Illius in laudes officiosus eris.
Te si quis simili qui carpitur igne videbit,
Ille suam sortem flebit, et ille meam.
ALCILIÆ obsequium supplex præstare memento,
Non minima officii pars erit illa tui.
Te fortasse sua secura recondet in arca,
Et Solis posthæc luminis orbus eris.
Nil referet, fateor me non prudenter amasse;
Ultima deceptæ sors erit illa spei.
Bis proprio PHŒBUS cursu lustraverat orbem,
Conscius erroris, stultitiœque meæ,
A quo primus amor cœpit penetrare medullas,
Et falsa accensos nutriit arte focos.
Desino jam nugas amplecti, seria posthæc
(Ut Ratio monet) ac utiliora sequor._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Amoris Præludium._
[_Vel, Epistola ad Amicam._]
[Illustration]
To thee, ALCILIA! solace of my youth!
These rude and scattered rhymes I have addressed!
The certain Witness of my Love and Truth,
That truly cannot be in words expressed:
Which, if I shall perceive thou tak'st in gree,
I will, from henceforth, write of none but thee!
Here may you find the wounds yourself have made!
The many sorrows, I have long sustained!
Here may you see that LOVE must be obeyed!
How much I hoped, how little I have gained!
That as for you, the pains have been endured;
Even so by you, they may, at length, be cured!
I will not call for aid to any Muse
(It is for learned Poets so to do):
Affection must, my want of Art excuse,
My works must have their patronage from You!
Whose sweet assistance, if obtain I might!
I should be able both to speak and write
[Sidenote: _Nemini datur amare simul et sapere._]
Meanwhile, vouchsafe to read this, as assigned
To no man's censure; but to yours alone!
Pardon the faults, that you therein shall find;
And think the writer's heart was not his own!
Experience of examples daily prove
"That no man can be well advised, and love!"
And though the work itself deserve it not
(Such is your Worth, with my great Wants compared!);
Yet may my love unfeignèd, without spot,
Challenge so much (if more cannot be spared!).
Then, lovely Virgin! take this in good part!
The rest, unseen, is sealed up in the heart.
Judge not by this, the depth of my affection!
Which far exceeds the measure of my skill;
But rather note herein your own perfection!
So shall appear my want of Art, not will:
Wherefore, this now, as part in lieu of greater,
I offer as an insufficient debtor!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_Sic incipit Stultorum Tragicomedia._
[Illustration]
It was my chance, unhappy chance to me!
As, all alone, I wandered on my way;
Void of distrust, from doubt of dangers free,
To pass a grove where LOVE in ambush lay:
Who aiming at me with his feathered dart,
Conveyed it by mine eye unto my heart.
Where, retchless boy! he let the arrow stick,
When I, as one amazèd, senseless stood.
The hurt was great, yet seemèd but a prick!
The wound was deep, and yet appeared no blood!
But inwardly it bleeds. Proof teacheth this.
When wounds do so, the danger greater is.
Pausing a while, and grievèd with my wound,
I looked about, expecting some relief:
Small hope of help, no ease of pain I found.
Like, all at once, to perish in my grief:
When hastily, I pluckèd forth the dart;
But left the head fast fixèd in my heart.
Fast fixèd in my heart, I left the head,
From whence I doubt it will not be removed.
Ah, what unlucky chance that way me led?
O LOVE! thy force thou might'st elsewhere have proved!
And shewed thy power, where thou art not obeyed!
"The conquest's small, where no resist is made."