CORYDON
Say, shepherd's boy, what makes thee greet[1] so sore?
Why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight?
Young are thy years, thy cheeks with roses dight:
Then sing for joy, sweet swain, and sigh no more.
This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine
Both promise shade; then sit thee down and sing,
And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring,
Till Phoebus deign all westward to decline.
[Footnote 1: weep.]
MONTANUS
Ah, Corydon, unmeet is melody
To him whom proud contempt hath overborne:
Slain are my joys by Phoebe's bitter scorn;
Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.
Love's burning brand is couchèd in my breast,
Making a Phoenix of my faintful heart:
And though his fury do enforce my smart,
Ay blithe am I to honor his behest.
Prepared to woes, since so my Phoebe wills,
My looks dismayed, since Phoebe will disdain;
I banish bliss and welcome home my pain:
So stream my tears as showers from Alpine hills.
In error's mask I blindfold judgment's eye,
I fetter reason in the snares of lust,
I seem secure, yet know not how to trust;
I live by that which makes me living die.
Devoid of rest, companion of distress,
Plague to myself, consumèd by my thought,
How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought,
Since I am reft of solace and delight?
CORYDON
Ah, lorrel lad, what makes thee hery[1] love?
A sugared harm, a poison full of pleasure,
A painted shrine full filled with rotten treasure;
A heaven in show, a hell to them that prove.[2]
A gain in seeming, shadowed still with want,
A broken staff which folly doth uphold,
A flower that fades with every frosty cold,
An orient rose sprung from a withered plant.
A minute's joy to gain a world of grief,
A subtle net to snare the idle mind,
A seeing scorpion, yet in seeming blind,
A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.
Forthy,[3] Montanus, follow mine arede,[4]
(Whom age hath taught the trains[5] that fancy useth)
Leave foolish love, for beauty wit abuseth,
And drowns, by folly, virtue's springing seed.
[Footnote 1: praise.]
[Footnote 2: try, test.]
[Footnote 3: hence.]
[Footnote 4: advice.]
[Footnote 5: stratagems.]
MONTANUS
So blames the child the flame because it burns,
And bird the snare because it doth entrap,
And fools true love because of sorry hap,
And sailors curse the ship that overturns.
But would the child forbear to play with flame,
And birds beware to trust the fowler's gin,
And fools foresee before they fall and sin,
And masters guide their ships in better frame;
The child would praise the fire because it warms,
And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail,
And fools prevent before their plagues prevail,
And sailors bless the barque that saves from harms.
Ah, Corydon, though many be thy years,
And crooked elde[1] hath some experience left,
Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft,
In view of love, whose power in me appears.
The ploughman little wots to turn the pen,
Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart;
Nor can the cobbler count the terms of art,
Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.
Nor withered age, unmeet for beauty's guide,
Uncapable of love's impression,
Discourse of that whose choice possession
May never to so base a man be tied.
But I, whom nature makes of tender mould,
And youth most pliant yields to fancy's fire,
Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire,
On sweet desire, more dear to me than gold.
Think I of love, oh, how my lines aspire!
How haste the Muses to embrace my brows,
And hem my temples in with laurel boughs,
And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire!
Then leave my lines their homely equipage,
Mounted beyond the circle of the sun:
Amazed I read the stile when I have done,
And hery[2] love that sent that heavenly rage.
Of Phoebe then, of Phoebe then I sing,
Drawing the purity of all the spheres,
The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears,
Her honored face and fame to light to bring.
In fluent numbers, and in pleasant veins,
I rob both sea and earth of all their state,
To praise her parts: I charm both time and fate,
To bless the nymph that yields me lovesick pains.
My sheep are turned to thoughts, whom froward will
Guides in the restless labyrinth of love;
Fear lends them pasture wheresoe'er they move,
And by their death their life reneweth still.
My sheephook is my pen, mine oaten reed
My paper, where my many woes are written.
Thus silly swain, with love and fancy bitten,
I trace the plains[3] of pain in woeful weed.
Vet are my cares, my broken sleeps, my tears,
My dreams, my doubts, for Phoebe sweet to me:
Who waiteth heaven in sorrow's vale must be,
And glory shines where danger most appears.
Then, Corydon, although I blithe me not,
Blame me not, man, since sorrow is my sweet:
So willeth love, and Phoebe thinks it meet,
And kind Montanus liketh well his lot.
[Footnote 1: old age.]
[Footnote 2: praise.]
[Footnote 3: complaints.]
CORYDON
O stayless youth, by error so misguided,
Where will proscribeth laws to perfect wits,
Where reason mourns, and blame in triumph sits,
And folly poisoneth all that time provided!
With wilful blindness bleared, prepared to shame,
Prone to neglect Occasion when she smiles:
Alas, that love, by fond and froward guiles,
Should make thee tract[1] the path to endless blame!
Ah, my Montanus, cursèd is the charm,
That hath bewitchèd so thy youthful eyes.
Leave off in time to like these vanities,
Be forward to thy good, and fly thy harm.
As many bees as Hybla daily shields,
As many fry as fleet on ocean's face,
As many herds as on the earth do trace,
As many flowers as deck the fragrant fields,
As many stars as glorious heaven contains,
As many storms as wayward winter weeps,
As many plagues as hell enclosèd keeps,
So many griefs in love, so many pains.
Suspicions, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers,
Mislikes, misdeeds, fond joys, and feignèd peace,
Illusions, dreams, great pains, and small increase,
Vows, hopes, acceptance, scorns, and deep despairs,
Truce, war, and woe do wait at beauty's gate;
Time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge,
And last, fierce love is but a partial judge,
Who yields for service shame, for friendship hate.
[Footnote 1: trace, walk.]
MONTANUS
All adder-like I stop mine ears, fond swain,
So charm no more, for I will never change.
Call home thy flocks in time that straggling range,
For lo, the sun declineth hence amain.
TERENTIUS
In amore haec omnia insunt vitia: induciae, inimicitiae,
bellum, pax rursum: incerta haec si tu postules ratione
certa fieri, nihilo plus agas, quam si des operam, ut cum
ratione insanias.
The shepherds having thus ended their eclogue, Aliena stepped with
Ganymede from behind the thicket; at whose sudden sight the shepherds
arose, and Aliena saluted them thus:
"Shepherds, all hail, for such we deem you by your flocks, and lovers,
good luck, for such you seem by your passions, our eyes being witness
of the one, and our ears of the other. Although not by love, yet by
fortune, I am a distressed gentlewoman, as sorrowful as you are
passionate, and as full of woes as you of perplexed thoughts.
Wandering this way in a forest unknown, only I and my page, wearied
with travel, would fain have some place of rest. May you appoint us
any place of quiet harbor, be it never so mean, I shall be thankful to
you, contented in myself, and grateful to whosoever shall be mine
host."
Corydon, hearing the gentlewoman speak so courteously, returned her
mildly and reverently this answer:
"Fair mistress, we return you as hearty a welcome as you gave us a
courteous salute. A shepherd I am, and this a lover, as watchful to
please his wench as to feed his sheep: full of fancies, and therefore,
say I, full of follies. Exhort him I may, but persuade him I cannot;
for love admits neither of counsel nor reason. But leaving him to his
passions, if you be distressed, I am sorrowful such a fair creature is
crossed with calamity; pray for you I may, but relieve you I cannot.
Marry, if you want lodging, if you vouch to shroud yourselves in a
shepherd's cottage, my house for this night shall be your harbor."
Aliena thanked Corydon greatly, and presently sate her down and
Ganymede by her. Corydon looking earnestly upon her, and with a
curious survey viewing all her perfections, applauded (in his
thought) her excellence, and pitying her distress was desirous to hear
the cause of her misfortunes, began to question her thus:
"If I should not, fair damosel, occasion offence, or renew your griefs
by rubbing the scar, I would fain crave so much favor as to know the
cause of your misfortunes, and why, and whither you wander with your
page in so dangerous a forest?"
Aliena, that was as courteous as she was fair, made this reply:
"Shepherd, a friendly demand ought never to be offensive, and
questions of courtesy carry privileged pardons in their foreheads.
Know, therefore, to discover my fortunes were to renew my sorrows, and
I should, by discoursing my mishaps, but rake fire out of the cinders.
Therefore let this suffice, gentle shepherd: my distress is as great
as my travel is dangerous, and I wander in this forest to light on
some cottage where I and my page may dwell: for I mean to buy some
farm, and a flock of sheep, and so become a shepherdess, meaning to
live low, and content me with a country life; for I have heard the
swains say, that they drunk without suspicion, and slept without
care."
"Marry, mistress," quoth Corydon, "if you mean so, you came in good
time, for my landslord intends to sell both the farm I till, and the
flock I keep, and cheap you may have them for ready money: and for a
shepherd's life, O mistress, did you but live awhile in their content,
you would say the court were rather a place of sorrow than of solace.
Here, mistress, shall not fortune thwart you, but in mean misfortunes,
as the loss of a few sheep, which, as it breeds no beggary, so it can
be no extreme prejudice: the next year may mend all with a fresh
increase. Envy stirs not us, we covet not to climb, our desires mount
not above our degrees, nor our thoughts above our fortunes. Care
cannot harbor in our cottages, nor do our homely couches know broken
slumbers: as we exceed not in diet, so we have enough to satisfy: and,
mistress, I have so much Latin, _Satis est quod sufficit_."
"By my troth, shepherd," quoth Aliena, "thou makest me in love with
your country life, and therefore send for thy landslord, and I will
buy thy farm and thy flocks, and thou shalt still under me be overseer
of them both: only for pleasure sake I and my page will serve you,
lead the flocks to the field, and fold them. Thus will I live quiet,
unknown, and contented."
This news so gladded the heart of Corydon, that he should not be put
out of his farm, that putting off his shepherd's bonnet, he did her
all the reverence that he might. But all this while sate Montanus in a
muse, thinking of the cruelty of his Phoebe, whom he wooed long, but
was in no hope to win. Ganymede, who still had the remembrance of
Rosader in his thoughts, took delight to see the poor shepherd
passionate, laughing at Love, that in all his actions was so
imperious. At last, when she had noted his tears that stole down his
cheeks, and his sighs that broke from the centre of his heart, pitying
his lament, she demanded of Corydon why the young shepherd looked so
sorrowful.
"O sir," quoth he, "the boy is in love."
"Why," quoth Ganymede, "can shepherds love?"
"Aye," quoth Montanus, "and overlove, else shouldst not thou see me so
pensive. Love, I tell thee, is as precious in a shepherd's eye, as in
the looks of a king, and we country swains entertain fancy with as
great delight as the proudest courtier doth affection. Opportunity,
that is the sweetest friend to Venus, harboreth in our cottages, and
loyalty, the chiefest fealty that Cupid requires, is found more among
shepherds than higher degrees. Then, ask not if such silly swains can
love."
"What is the cause then," quoth Ganymede, "that love being so sweet to
thee, thou lookest so sorrowful?"
"Because," quoth Montanus, "the party beloved is froward, and having
courtesy in her looks, holdeth disdain in her tongue's end."
"What hath she, then," quoth Aliena, "in her heart?"
"Desire, I hope madam," quoth he, "or else, my hope lost, despair in
love were death."
As thus they chatted, the sun being ready to set, and they not having
folded their sheep, Corydon requested she would sit there with her
page, till Montanus and he lodged their sheep for that night.
"You shall go," quoth Aliena, "but first I will entreat Montanus to
sing some amorous sonnet, that he made when he hath been deeply
passionate."
"That I will," quoth Montanus, and with that he began thus:
_Montanus's Sonnet_
Phoebe sate,
Sweet she sate,
Sweet sate Phoebe when I saw her;
White her brow,
Coy her eye:
Brow and eye how much you please me!
Words I spent,
Sighs I sent:
Sighs and words could never draw her.
O my love,
Thou art lost,
Since no sight could ever ease thee.
Phoebe sat
By a fount;
Sitting by a fount I spied her:
Sweet her touch,
Rare her voice:
Touch and voice what may distain you?
As she sung
I did sigh,
And by sighs whilst that I tried her,
O mine eyes!
You did lose
Her first sight whose want did pain you.
Phoebe's flocks,
White as wool:
Yet were Phoebe's locks more whiter.
Phoebe's eyes
Dovelike mild:
Dovelike eyes, both mild and cruel.
Montan swears,
In your lamps
He will die for to delight her.
Phoebe yield,
Or I die:
Shall true hearts be fancy's fuel?[1]
[Footnote 1: This poem was parodied by one of Lodge's contemporaries
under the title "Ronsard's Description of his Mistress" in allusion to
Lodge's habit of imitating foreign poets.]
Montanus had no sooner ended his sonnet, but Corydon with a low
courtesy rose up and went with his fellow, and shut their sheep in the
folds; and after returning to Aliena and Ganymede, conducted them home
weary to his poor cottage. By the way there was much good chat with
Montanus about his loves, he resolving Aliena that Phoebe was the
fairest shepherdess in all France, and that in his eye her beauty was
equal with the nymphs.
"But," quoth he, "as of all stones the diamond is most clearest, and
yet most hard for the lapidary to cut: as of all flowers the rose is
the fairest, and yet guarded with the sharpest prickles: so of all our
country lasses Phoebe is the brightest, but the most coy of all to
stoop unto desire. But let her take heed," quoth he, "I have heard of
Narcissus, who for his high disdain against Love, perished in the
folly of his own love."
With this they were at Corydon's cottage, where Montanus parted from
them, and they went in to rest. Aliena and Ganymede glad of so
contented a shelter, made merry with the poor swain; and though they
had but country fare and coarse lodging, yet their welcome was so
great, and their cares so little, that they counted their diet
delicate, and slept as soundly as if they had been in the court of
Torismond. The next morn they lay long in bed, as wearied with the
toil of unaccustomed travel; but as soon as they got up, Aliena
resolved there to set up her rest,[1] and by the help of Corydon
swept[2] a bargain with his landslord, and so became mistress of the
farm and the flock, herself putting on the attire of a shepherdess,
and Ganymede of a young swain: every day leading forth her flocks,
with such delight, that she held her exile happy, and thought no
content to the bliss of a country cottage. Leaving her thus famous
amongst the shepherds of Arden, again to Saladyne.
[Footnote 1: choose her dwelling.]
[Footnote 2: concluded.]
When Saladyne had a long while concealed a secret resolution of
revenge, and could no longer hide fire in the flax, nor oil in the
flame, for envy is like lightning, that will appear in the darkest
fog, it chanced on a morning very early he called up certain of his
servants, and went with them to the chamber of Rosader, which being
open, he entered with his crew, and surprised his brother being
asleep, and bound him in fetters, and in the midst of his hall chained
him to a post. Rosader, amazed at this strange chance, began to reason
with his brother about the cause of this sudden extremity, wherein he
had wronged, and what fault he had committed worthy so sharp a
penance. Saladyne answered him only with a look of disdain, and went
his way, leaving poor Rosader in a deep perplexity; who, thus abused,
fell into sundry passions, but no means of relief could be had:
whereupon for anger he grew into a discontented melancholy. In which
humor he continued two or three days without meat, insomuch that
seeing his brother would give him no food, he fell into despair of his
life. Which Adam Spencer, the old servant of Sir John of Bordeaux,
seeing, touched with the duty and love he ought[1] to his old master,
felt a remorse in his conscience of his son's mishap; and therefore,
although Saladyne had given a general charge to his servants that none
of them upon pain of death should give either meat or drink to
Rosader, yet Adam Spencer in the night rose secretly, and brought him
such victuals as he could provide, and unlocked him, and set him at
liberty. After Rosader had well feasted himself, and felt he was
loose, straight his thoughts aimed at revenge, and now, all being
asleep, he would have quit Saladyne with the method of his own
mischief. But Adam Spencer did persuade him to the contrary with these
reasons:
[Footnote 1: owed.]
"Sir," quoth he, "be content, for this night go again into your old
fetters, so shall you try the faith of friends, and save the life of
an old servant. To-morrow hath your brother invited all your kindred
and allies to a solemn breakfast, only to see you, telling them all
that you are mad, and fain to be tied to a post. As soon as they come,
complain to them of the abuse proffered you by Saladyne. If they
redress you, why so: but if they pass over your plaints _sicco
pede_,[1] and hold with the violence of your brother before your
innocence, then thus: I will leave you unlocked that you may break out
at your pleasure, and at the end of the hall shall you see stand a
couple of good poleaxes, one for you and another for me. When I give
you a wink, shake off your chains, and let us play the men, and make
havoc amongst them, drive them out of the house and maintain
possession by force of arms, till the king hath made a redress of your
abuses."
[Footnote 1: with dry foot = carelessly.]
These words of Adam Spencer so persuaded Rosader, that he went to the
place of his punishment, and stood there while[1] the next morning.
About the time appointed, came all the guests bidden by Saladyne, whom
he entreated with courteous and curious entertainment, as they all
perceived their welcome to be great. The tables in the hall, where
Rosader was tied, were covered, and Saladyne bringing in his guests
together, showed them where his brother was bound, and was enchained
as a man lunatic. Rosader made reply, and with some invectives made
complaints of the wrongs proffered him by Saladyne, desiring they
would in pity seek some means for his relief. But in vain, they had
stopped their ears with Ulysses, that were his words never so
forceable, he breathed only his passions into the wind. They,
careless, sat down with Saladyne to dinner, being very frolic and
pleasant, washing their heads well with wine. At last, when the fume
of the grape had entered pell-mell into their brains, they began in
satirical speeches to rail against Rosader: which Adam Spencer no
longer brooking, gave the sign, and Rosader shaking off his chains got
a poleaxe in his hand, and flew amongst them with such violence and
fury, that he hurt many, slew some, and drave his brother and the rest
quite out of the house. Seeing the coast clear, he shut the doors, and
being sore anhungered, and seeing such good victuals, he sat him down
with Adam Spencer, and such good fellows as he knew were honest men,
and there feasted themselves with such provision as Saladyne had
prepared for his friends. After they had taken their repast, Rosader
rampired up[2] the house, lest upon a sudden his brother should raise
some crew of his tenants, and surprise them unawares. But Saladyne
took a contrary course, and went to the sheriff of the shire and made
complaint of Rosader, who giving credit to Saladyne, in a determined
resolution to revenge the gentleman's wrongs, took with him
five-and-twenty tall[3] men, and made a vow, either to break into the
house and take Rosader, or else to coop him in till he made him yield
by famine. In this determination, gathering a crew together, he went
forward to set Saladyne in his former estate. News of this was brought
unto Rosader, who smiling at the cowardice of his brother, brooked all
the injuries of fortune with patience, expecting the coming of the
sheriff. As he walked upon the battlements of the house, he descried
where Saladyne and he drew near, with a troop of lusty gallants. At
this he smiled, and called Adam Spencer, and showed him the envious
treachery of his brother, and the folly of the sheriff to be so
credulous.
[Footnote 1: until.]
[Footnote 2: barricaded.]
[Footnote 3: brave.]
"Now, Adam," quoth he, "what shall I do? It rests for me either to
yield up the house to my brother and seek a reconcilement, or else
issue out, and break through the company with courage, for cooped in
like a coward I will not be. If I submit (ah Adam) I dishonor myself,
and that is worse than death, for by such open disgraces, the fame of
men grows odious. If I issue out amongst them, fortune may favor me,
and I may escape with life. But suppose the worst; if I be slain, then
my death shall be honorable to me, and so inequal a revenge infamous
to Saladyne."
"Why then, master, forward and fear not! Out amongst them; they be but
faint-hearted losels,[1] and for Adam Spencer, if he die not at your
foot, say he is a dastard."
[Footnote 1: lazy, worthless fellows.]
These words cheered up so the heart of young Rosader, that he thought
himself sufficient for them all, and therefore prepared weapons for
him and Adam Spencer, and were ready to entertain the sheriff; for no
sooner came Saladyne and he to the gates, but Rosader, unlooked for,
leaped out and assailed them, wounded many of them, and caused the
rest to give back, so that Adam and he broke through the prease[1] in
despite of them all, and took their way towards the forest of Arden.
This repulse so set the sheriff's heart on fire to revenge, that he
straight raised all the country, and made hue and cry after them. But
Rosader and Adam, knowing full well the secret ways that led through
the vineyards, stole away privily through the province of Bordeaux,
and escaped safe to the forest of Arden. Being come thither, they were
glad they had so good a harbor: but fortune, who is like the
chameleon, variable with every object, and constant in nothing but
inconstancy, thought to make them mirrors of her mutability, and
therefore still crossed them thus contrarily. Thinking still to pass
on by the by-ways to get to Lyons, they chanced on a path that led
into the thick of the forest, where they wandered five or six days
without meat, that they were almost famished finding neither shepherd
nor cottage to relieve them; and hunger growing on so extreme, Adam
Spencer, being old, began first to faint, and sitting him down on a
hill, and looking about him, espied where Rosader lay as feeble and as
ill perplexed: which sight made him shed tears, and to fall into these
bitter terms:
[Footnote 1: crowd.]
ADAM SPENCER'S SPEECH