Whatever man he be whose heavie mynd,
With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest,
Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd,
Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest,
Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive,
Even sad Alcyon*, whose empierced brest
Sharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive.
[* I.e. Sir Arthur Gorges.]
But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,
Or in this wretched life doeth take delight,
Let him he banisht farre away from hence; 10
Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight*,
Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing,
For even their heavie song would breede delight;
But here no tunes save sobs and grones shall ring.
[* _Hight_, summoned.]
In stead of them and their sweet harmonie, 15
Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad hands
Doe weave the direfull threeds of destinie,
And in their wrath break off the vitall bands,
Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull Queene
Of Darknes deepe come from the Stygian strands, 20
And grisly ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene*,
[* _Teene_, sorrow]
In gloomy evening, when the wearie sun
After his dayes long labour drew to rest,
And sweatie steedes, now having overrun
The compast skie, gan water in the west, 25
I walkt abroad to breath the freshing ayre
In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest
With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.
There came unto my mind a troublous thought,
Which dayly doth my weaker wit possesse, 30
Ne lets it rest untill it forth have brought
Her long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse,
Which she conceived hath through meditation
Of this worlds vainnesse and life’s wretchednesse,
That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion*. 35
[* _Empassion_, move]
So as I muzed on the miserie
In which men live, and I of many most,
Most miserable man, I did espie
Where towards me a sory wight did cost*,
Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray, 40
And Iacob staffe ** in hand devoutly crost,
Like to some pilgrim come from farre away.
[* _Cost_, approach]
[** _Iacob staffe_, a pilgrim’s staff, in the form of a cross]
His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne,
Hong long adowne, and bearde all overgrowne,
That well he seemd to be some wight forlorne: 45
Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne,
As loathing light, and ever as he went
He sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone,
As if his heart in peeces would have rent.
Approaching nigh his face I vewed nere, 50
And by the semblant of his countenaunce
Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,
Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;
Alcyon he, the iollie shepheard swaine,
That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce, 55
And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.
Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disguize,
I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-withall
He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,
Yet stayed not, till I againe did call: 60
Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow sound,
“Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,
The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?”
“One whom like wofulnesse, impressed deepe,
Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare, 65
And given like cause with thee to waile and wepe;
Griefe finds some ease by him that like does beare.
Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard! stay,”
Quoth I, “till thou have to my trustie eare
Committed what thee dooth so ill apay*.” 70
[* _Ill apay _, discontent, distress.]
“Cease, foolish man!” saide he halfe wrothfully,
“To seeke to heare that which cannot be told;
For the huge anguish, which doeth multiply
My dying paines, no tongue can well unfold;
Ne doo I care that any should bemone 75
My hard mishap, or any weepe that would,
But seeke alone to weepe, and dye alone.”
“Then be it so,” quoth I, “that thou are bent
To die alone, unpitied, unplained;
Yet, ere thou die, it were convenient 80
To tell the cause which thee thereto constrained,
Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt,
And say, when thou of none shall be maintained,
That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt.”
“Who life does loath, and longs to be unbound 85
From the strong shackles of fraile flesh,” quoth he,
“Nought cares at all what they that live on ground
Deem the occasion of his death to bee;
Rather desires to be forgotten quight,
Than question made of his calamitie; 90
For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light.
“Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe,
And car’st for one that for himselfe cares nought,
(Sign of thy love, though nought for my reliefe,
For my reliefe exceedeth living thought,) 95
I will to thee this heavie case relate:
Then harken well till it to end be brought,
For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate.
“Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know)
My little flocke on westerns downes to keep, 100
Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth flow,
And flowrie bancks with silver liquor steepe;
Nought carde I then for worldly change or chaunce,
For all my ioy was on my gentle sheepe,
And to my pype to caroll and to daunce. 105
“It there befell, as I the fields did range
Fearlesse and free, a faire young Lionesse,
White as the native rose before the chaunge
Which Venus blood did in her leaves impresse,
I spied playing on the grassie plaine 110
Her youthfull sports and kindlie wantonnesse,
That did all other beasts in beawtie staine.
[Ver. 107.—_A fair young Lionesse,_ So called from the white lion in
the arms of the Duke of Norfolk, the head of the family to which Lady
Douglas Howard belonged. H.]
“Much was I moved at so goodly sight,
Whose like before mine eye had seldome seene,
And gan to cast how I her compasse might, 115
And bring to hand that yet had never beene:
So well I wrought with mildnes and with paine,
That I her caught disporting on the greene,
And brought away fast bound with silver chaine.
“And afterwardes I handled her so fayre, 120
That though by kind shee stout and salvage were,
For being borne an auncient lions hayre,
And of the race that all wild beastes do feare,
Yet I her fram’d, and wan so to my bent,
That shee became so meeke and milde of cheare 125
As the least lamb in all my flock that went.
“For shee in field, where-ever I did wend,
Would wend with me, and waite by me all day;
And all the night that I in watch did spend,
If cause requir’d, or els in sleepe, if nay, 130
Shee would all night by me or watch or sleepe;
And evermore when I did sleepe or play,
She of my flock would take full warie keepe*.
[* _Keepe_, care.]
“Safe then, and safest, were my sillie sheepe,
Ne fear’d the wolfe, ne fear’d the wildest beast,
135
All* were I drown’d in carelesse quiet deepe:
My lovely Lionesse without beheast
So careful was for them and for my good,
That when I waked, neither most nor least
I found miscarried, or in plaine or wood. 140
[* _All_, although.]
“Oft did the shepheards which my hap did heare,
And oft their lasses, which my luck envyde,
Daylie resort to me from farre and neare,
To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wyde
Were spred abroad; and when her worthinesse 145
Much greater than the rude report they tryde*,
They her did praise, and my good fortune blesse.
[* _Tryde_, proved, found.]
“Long thus I ioyed in my happinesse,
And well did hope my ioy would have no end;
But oh! fond man! that in worlds ficklenesse 150
Reposedst hope, or weenedst Her thy frend
That glories most in mortall miseries,
And daylie doth her changefull counsels bend
To make new matter fit for tragedies.
“For whilest I was thus without dread or dout, 155
A cruel Satyre with his murdrous dart,
Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about,
Gave her the fatall wound of deadly smart,
And reft from me my sweete companion,
And reft from me my love, my life, my hart: 160
My Lyonesse, ah woe is me! is gon!
“Out of the world thus was she reft away,
Out of the world, unworthy such a spoyle,
And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray;
Much fitter then the lyon which with toyle 165
Alcides slew, and fixt in firmament;
Her now I seeke throughout this earthly soyle,
And seeking misse, and missing doe lament.”
Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe,
That I for pittie of his heavie plight 170
Could not abstain mine eyes with teares to steepe;
But when I saw the anguish of his spright
Some deale alaid, I him bespake againe:
“Certes, Alcyon, painfull is thy plight,
That it in me breeds almost equall paine, 175
“Yet doth not my dull wit well understand
The riddle of thy loved Lionesse;
For rare it seemes in reason to be skand,
That man, who doth the whole worlds rule possesse,
Should to a beast his noble hart embase, 180
And be the vassall of his vassalesse;
Therefore more plain areade* this doubtfull case.”
[* _Areade_, explain.]
Then sighing sore, “Daphne thou knew’st,” quoth he;
“She now is dead”: no more endur’d to say,
But fell to ground for great extremitie; 185
That I, beholding it, with deepe dismay
Was much apald, and, lightly him uprearing,
Revoked life, that would have fled away,
All were my selfe through grief in deadly drearing*.
[* _Drearing_, sorrowing.]
Then gan I him to comfort all my best, 190
And with milde counsaile strove to mitigate
The stormie passion of his troubled brest;
But he thereby was more empassionate,
As stubborne steed that is with curb restrained
Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate, 195
And, breaking foorth at last, thus dearnely* plained:
[* _Dearnely_, sadly.]