Chapter 7

_Dick_. Ah Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee, With sight made dim with daily tears another’s sport to see. Whoever lambkins saw, yet lambkins love to play, To play when that their lovéd dams are stolen or gone astray? If this in them be true, as true in men think I, A lustless song forsooth thinks he that hath more lust to cry.

_Will_. A time there is for all, my mother often says, When she, with skirts tucked very high, with girls at football plays When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room: Now let those lightsome sights we see thy darkness overcome.

_Dick_. What joy the joyful sun gives unto blearéd eyes; That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries.

_Will_. What? Is thy bagpipe broke, or are thy lambs miswent; Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost; or thy new raiment-rent?

_Dick_. I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well.

_Will_. Thou see’st my ears do itch at it: good Dick thy sorrow tell.

_Dick_. Hear then, and learn to sigh: a mistress I do serve, Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve; Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most, And looks so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost.

_Will_. What? These are riddles sure: art thou then bound to her?

_Dick_. Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power, to stir.

_Will_. Who bound thee?

_Dick_. Love, my lord.

_Will_. What witnesses thereto?

_Dick_. Faith in myself, and Worth in her, which no proof can undo.

_Will_. What seal?

_Dick_. My heart deep graven.

_Will_. Who made the band so fast?

_Dick_. Wonder that, by two so black eyes the glitt’ring stars be past.

_Will_. What keepeth safe thy band?

_Dick_. Remembrance is the chest Lock’d fast with knowing that she is of worldly things the best.

_Will_. Thou late of wages plain’dst: what wages may’sh thou have?

_Dick_. Her heavenly looks, which more and more do give me cause to crave.

_Will_. If wages make you want, what food is that she gives?

_Dick_. Tear’s drink, sorrow’s meat, wherewith not I, but in me my death lives.

_Will_. What living get you then?

_Dick_. Disdain; but just disdain; So have I cause myself to plain, but no cause to complain.

_Will_. What care takes she for thee?

_Dick_. Her care is to prevent My freedom, with show of her beams, with virtue, my content.

_Will_. God shield us from such dames! If so our dames be sped, The shepherds will grow lean I trow, their sheep will be ill-fed. But Dick, my counsel mark: run from the place of woo: The arrow being shot from far doth give the smaller blow.

_Dick_. Good Will, I cannot take thy good advice; before That foxes leave to steal, they find they die therefore.

_Will_. Then, Dick, let us go hence lest we great folks annoy: For nothing can more tedious be than plaint in time of joy.

_Dick_. Oh hence! O cruel word! which even dogs do hate: But hence, even hence, I must needs go; such is my dogged fate.

SONG.

_To the tune of_ “_Wilhelmus van Nassau_,” _&c._

WHO hath his fancy pleased, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raised On Nature’s sweetest light; A light which doth dissever, And yet unite the eyes; A light which, dying, never Is cause the looker dies.

She never dies, but lasteth In life of lover’s heart; He ever dies that wasteth In love his chiefest part. Thus is her life still guarded, In never dying faith; Thus is his death rewarded, Since she lives in his death.

Look then and die, the pleasure Doth answer well the pain; Small loss of mortal treasure, Who may immortal gain. Immortal be her graces, Immortal is her mind; They, fit for heavenly places, This heaven in it doth bind.

But eyes these beauties see not, Nor sense that grace descries; Yet eyes deprivéd be not From sight of her fair eyes: Which, as of inward glory They are the outward seal, So may they live still sorry, Which die not in that weal.

But who hath fancies pleaséd, With fruits of happy sight, Let here his eyes be raiséd On Nature’s sweetest light.

THE SMOKES OF MELANCHOLY.

I.

WHO hath e’er felt the change of love, And known those pangs that losers prove, May paint my face without seeing me, And write the state how my fancies be, The loathsome buds grown on Sorrow’s tree.

But who by hearsay speaks, and hath not fully felt What kind of fires they be in which those spirits melt, Shall guess, and fail, what doth displease, Feeling my pulse, miss my disease.

II.

O no! O no! trial only shows The bitter juice of forsaken woes; Where former bliss, present evils do stain; Nay, former bliss adds to present pain, While remembrance doth both states contain. Come, learners, then to me, the model of mishap, Ingulphéd in despair, slid down from Fortune’s lap; And, as you like my double lot, Tread in my steps, or follow not.

III.

For me, alas! I am full resolved Those bands, alas! shall not be dissolved; Nor break my word, though reward come late; Nor fail my faith in my failing fate; Nor change in change, though change change my state:

But always own myself, with eagle-eyed Truth, to fly Up to the sun, although the sun my wings do fry; For if those flames burn my desire, Yet shall I die in Phoenix’ fire.

ODE.

WHEN, to my deadly pleasure, When to my lively torment, Lady, mine eyes remainéd Joinéd, alas! to your beams.

With violence of heavenly Beauty, tied to virtue; Reason abashed retiréd; Gladly my senses yielded.

Gladly my senses yielding, Thus to betray my heart’s fort, Left me devoid of all life.

They to the beamy suns went, Where, by the death of all deaths, Find to what harm they hastened.

Like to the silly Sylvan, Burned by the light he best liked, When with a fire he first met.

Yet, yet, a life to their death, Lady you have reservéd; Lady the life of all love.

For though my sense be from me, And I be dead, who want sense, Yet do we both live in you.

Turnéd anew, by your means, Unto the flower that aye turns, As you, alas! my sun bends.

Thus do I fall to rise thus; Thus do I die to live thus; Changed to a change, I change not.

Thus may I not be from you; Thus be my senses on you; Thus what I think is of you; Thus what I seek is in you; All what I am, it is you.

VERSES.

_To the tune of a Neapolitan song_, _which beginneth_, “_No_, _no_, _no_, _no_.”

NO, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; For so fair a flame embraces All the places, Where that heat of all heats springeth, That it bringeth To my dying heart some pleasure, Since his treasure Burneth bright in fairest light. No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; Since our lives be not immortal, But to mortal Fetters tied, do wait the hour Of death’s power, They have no cause to be sorry Who with glory End the way, where all men stay. No, no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, I cannot hate my foe, Although with cruel fire, First thrown on my desire, She sacks my rendered sprite; No man doubts, whom beauty killeth, Fair death feeleth, And in whom fair death proceedeth, Glory breedeth: So that I, in her beams dying, Glory trying, Though in pain, cannot complain. No, no, no, no.

SONG.

_To the tune of a Neapolitan Villanel_.

ALL my sense thy sweetness gained; Thy fair hair my heart enchained; My poor reason thy words moved, So that thee, like heaven, I loved.

Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan: Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: While to my mind the outside stood, For messenger of inward good.

Nor thy sweetness sour is deemed; Thy hair not worth a hair esteemed; Reason hath thy words removed, Finding that but words they proved.

Fa, la, la, leridan, dan, dan, dan, deridan, Dan, dan, dan, deridan, deridan, dei: For no fair sign can credit win, If that the substance fail within.

No more in thy sweetness glory, For thy knitting hair be sorry; Use thy words but to bewail thee That no more thy beams avail thee; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, Lay not thy colours more to view, Without the picture be found true.

Woe to me, alas, she weepeth! Fool! in me what folly creepeth? Was I to blaspheme enraged, Where my soul I have engaged? Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And wretched I must yield to this; The fault I blame her chasteness is.

Sweetness! sweetly pardon folly; Tie me, hair, your captive wholly: Words! O words of heavenly knowledge! Know, my words their faults acknowledge; Dan, dan, Dan, dan, And all my life I will confess, The less I love, I live the less.

TRANSLATION.

_From_ “_La Diana de Monte-Mayor_,” _in Spanish_: _where Sireno_, _a shepherd_, _whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him_, _pulling out a little of her hair_, _wrapped about with green silk_, _to the hair he thus bewailed himself_.

WHAT changes here, O hair, I see, since I saw you! How ill fits you this green to wear, For hope, the colour due! Indeed, I well did hope, Though hope were mixed with fear, No other shepherd should have scope Once to approach this hair.

Ah hair! how many days My Dian made me show, With thousand pretty childish plays, If I ware you or no: Alas, how oft with tears,— O tears of guileful breast!— She seeméd full of jealous fears, Whereat I did but jest.

Tell me, O hair of gold, If I then faulty be, That trust those killing eyes I would, Since they did warrant me? Have you not seen her mood, What streams of tears she spent, ’Till that I sware my faith so stood, As her words had it bent?

Who hath such beauty seen In one that changeth so? Or where one’s love so constant been, Who ever saw such woe? Ah, hair! are you not grieved To come from whence you be, Seeing how once you saw I lived, To see me as you see?

On sandy bank of late, I saw this woman sit; Where, “Sooner die than change my state,” She with her finger writ: Thus my belief was staid, Behold Love’s mighty hand On things were by a woman said, And written in the sand.

_The same Sireno in_ “_Monte-Mayor_,” _holding his mistress’s glass before her_, _and looking upon her while she viewed herself_, _thus sang_:—

Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined, No farther debt on me is laid, Since that in self-same metal coined, Sweet lady, you remain well paid;

For if my place give me great pleasure, Having before my nature’s treasure, In face and eyes unmatchéd being, You have the same in my hands, seeing What in your face mine eyes do measure.

Nor think the match unevenly made, That of those beams in you do tarry, The glass to you but gives a shade, To me mine eyes the true shape carry; For such a thought most highly prized, Which ever hath Love’s yoke despised, Better than one captived perceiveth, Though he the lively form receiveth, The other sees it but disguised.

SONNETS.

THE dart, the beams, the sting, so strong I prove, Which my chief part doth pass through, parch, and tie, That of the stroke, the heat, and knot of love, Wounded, inflamed, knit to the death, I die.

Hardened and cold, far from affection’s snare Was once my mind, my temper, and my life; While I that sight, desire, and vow forbare, Which to avoid, quench, lose, nought boasted strife.

Yet will not I grief, ashes, thraldom change For others’ ease, their fruit, or free estate; So brave a shot, dear fire, and beauty strange, Bid me pierce, burn, and bind, long time and late, And in my wounds, my flames, and bonds, I find A salve, fresh air, and bright contented mind.

* * * * *

VIRTUE, beauty, and speech, did strike, wound, charm, My heart, eyes, ears, with wonder, love, delight, First, second, last, did bind, enforce, and arm, His works, shows, suits, with wit, grace, and vows’ might,

Thus honour, liking, trust, much, far, and deep, Held, pierced, possessed, my judgment, sense, and will, Till wrongs, contempt, deceit, did grow, steal, creep, Bands, favour, faith, to break, defile, and kill,

Then grief, unkindness, proof, took, kindled, taught, Well-grounded, noble, due, spite, rage, disdain: But ah, alas! in vain my mind, sight, thought, Doth him, his face, his words, leave, shun, refrain. For nothing, time, nor place, can loose, quench, ease Mine own embracéd, sought, knot, fire, disease.

WOOING-STUFF.

FAINT amorist, what, dost thou think To taste Love’s honey, and not drink One dram of gall? or to devour A world of sweet, and taste no sour? Dost thou ever think to enter Th’ Elysian fields, that dar’st not venture In Charon’s barge? a lover’s mind Must use to sail with every wind. He that loves and fears to try, Learns his mistress to deny. Doth she chide thee? ’tis to show it, That thy coldness makes her do it: Is she silent? is she mute? Silence fully grants thy suit: Doth she pout, and leave the room? Then she goes to bid thee come: Is she sick? why then be sure, She invites thee to the cure: Doth she cross thy suit with “No?” Tush, she loves to hear thee woo: Doth she call the faith of man In question? Nay, she loves thee than; And if e’er she makes a blot, She’s lost if that thou hit’st her not. He that after ten denials, Dares attempt no farther trials, Hath no warrant to acquire The dainties of his chaste desire.

SONNETS

SINCE shunning pain, I ease can never find; Since bashful dread seeks where he knows me harmed; Since will is won, and stoppéd ears are charmed; Since force doth faint, and sight doth make me blind; Since loosing long, the faster still I bind; Since naked sense can conquer reason armed; Since heart, in chilling fear, with ice is warmed; In fine, since strife of thought but mars the mind, I yield, O Love, unto thy loathed yoke, Yet craving law of arms, whose rule doth teach, That, hardly used, who ever prison broke, In justice quit, of honour made no breach: Whereas, if I a grateful guardian have, Thou art my lord, and I thy vowéd slave.

When Love puffed up with rage of high disdain, Resolved to make me pattern of his might, Like foe, whose wits inclined to deadly spite, Would often kill, to breed more feeling pain; He would not, armed with beauty, only reign On those affects which easily yield to sight; But virtue sets so high, that reason’s light, For all his strife can only bondage gain: So that I live to pay a mortal fee, Dead palsy-sick of all my chiefest parts, Like those whom dreams make ugly monsters see, And can cry help with naught but groans and starts: Longing to have, having no wit to wish, To starving minds such is god Cupid’s dish.

SONG.

_To the tune of_ “_Non credo gia che piu infelice amante_.”

THE nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus’ force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

II.

Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish, But Tereus’ love, on her by strong hand wroken, Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having. O Philomela fair! O take some gladness, That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness: Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.

SONG.

_To the tune of_ “_Basciami vita mia_.”

SLEEP, baby mine, Desire’s nurse, Beauty, singeth; Thy cries, O baby, set mine head on aching: The babe cries, “’Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”

Lully, lully, my babe, Hope cradle bringeth Unto my children alway good rest taking: The babe cries, “Way, thy love doth keep me waking.”

Since, baby mine, from me thy watching springeth, Sleep then a little, pap Content is making; The babe cries, “Nay, for that abide I waking.”

I.

THE scourge of life, and death’s extreme disgrace; The smoke of hell, the monster calléd Pain: Long shamed to be accursed in every place, By them who of his rude resort complain; Like crafty wretch, by time and travel taught, His ugly evil in others’ good to hide; Late harbours in her face, whom Nature wrought As treasure-house where her best gifts do bide; And so by privilege of sacred seat, A seat where beauty shines and virtue reigns, He hopes for some small praise, since she hath great, Within her beams wrapping his cruel stains. Ah, saucy Pain, let not thy terror last, More loving eyes she draws, more hate thou hast.

II.

Woe! woe to me, on me return the smart: My burning tongue hath bred my mistress pain? For oft in pain, to pain my painful heart, With her due praise did of my state complain. I praised her eyes, whom never chance doth move; Her breath, which makes a sour answer sweet; Her milken breasts, the nurse of child-like love; Her legs, O legs! her aye well-stepping feet: Pain heard her praise, and full of inward fire, (First sealing up my heart as prey of his) He flies to her, and, boldened with desire, Her face, this age’s praise, the thief doth kiss. O Pain! I now recant the praise I gave, And swear she is not worthy thee to have.

III.

Thou pain, the only guest of loathed Constraint; The child of Curse, man’s weakness foster-child; Brother to Woe, and father of Complaint: Thou Pain, thou hated Pain, from heaven exiled, How hold’st thou her whose eyes constraint doth fear, Whom cursed do bless; whose weakness virtues arm; Who others’ woes and plaints can chastely bear: In whose sweet heaven angels of high thoughts swarm? What courage strange hath caught thy caitiff heart? Fear’st not a face that oft whole hearts devours? Or art thou from above bid play this part, And so no help ’gainst envy of those powers? If thus, alas, yet while those parts have woe; So stay her tongue, that she no more say, “O.”

IV.

And have I heard her say, “O cruel pain!” And doth she know what mould her beauty bears? Mourns she in truth, and thinks that others feign? Fears she to feel, and feels not others’ fears? Or doth she think all pain the mind forbears? That heavy earth, not fiery spirits, may plain? That eyes weep worse than heart in bloody tears? That sense feels more than what doth sense contain? No, no, she is too wise, she knows her face Hath not such pain as it makes others have: She knows the sickness of that perfect place Hath yet such health, as it my life can save. But this, she thinks, our pain high cause excuseth, Where her, who should rule pain, false pain abuseth.

* * * * *

LIKE as the dove, which seeléd up doth fly, Is neither freed, nor yet to service bound; But hopes to gain some help by mounting high, Till want of force do force her fall to ground: Right so my mind, caught by his guiding eye, And thence cast off where his sweet hurt he found, Hath neither leave to live, nor doom to die; Nor held in evil, nor suffered to be sound. But with his wings of fancies up he goes, To high conceits, whose fruits are oft but small; Till wounded, blind, and wearied spirit, lose Both force to fly, and knowledge where to fall: O happy dove, if she no bondage tried! More happy I, might I in bondage bide!

* * * * *

IN wonted walks, since wonted fancies change, Some cause there is, which of strange cause doth rise: For in each thing whereto mine eye doth range, Part of my pain, me-seems, engravéd lies. The rocks, which were of constant mind the mark, In climbing steep, now hard refusal show; The shading woods seem now my sun to dark, And stately hills disdain to look so low. The restful caves now restless visions give; In dales I see each way a hard ascent: Like late-mown meads, late cut from joy I live; Alas, sweet brooks do in my tears augment: Rocks, woods, hills, caves, dales, meads, brooks, answer me; Infected minds infect each thing they see. IF I could think how these my thoughts to leave, Or thinking still, my thoughts might have good end; If rebel sense would reason’s law receive; Or reason foiled, would not in vain contend: Then might I think what thoughts were best to think: Then might I wisely swim, or gladly sink.

If either you would change your cruel heart, Or, cruel still, time did your beauties stain: If from my soul this love would once depart, Or for my love some love I might obtain; Then might I hope a change, or ease of mind, By your good help, or in myself, to find.

But since my thoughts in thinking still are spent. With reason’s strife, by senses overthrown; You fairer still, and still more cruel bent, I loving still a love that loveth none: I yield and strive, I kiss and curse the pain, Thought, reason, sense, time, You, and I, maintain.

A FAREWELL.

OFT have I mused, but now at length I find Why those that die, men say, they do depart: Depart: a word so gentle to my mind, Weakly did seem to paint Death’s ugly dart.

But now the stars, with their strange course, do bind Me one to leave, with whom I leave my heart; I hear a cry of spirits faint and blind, That parting thus, my chiefest part I part.

Part of my life, the loathéd part to me, Lives to impart my weary clay some breath; But that good part wherein all comforts be, Now dead, doth show departure is a death:

Yea, worse than death, death parts both woe and joy, From joy I part, still living in annoy.

* * * * *

FINDING those beams, which I must ever love, To mar my mind, and with my hurt to please, I deemed it best, some absence for to prove, If farther place might further me to ease.

My eyes thence drawn, where livéd all their light, Blinded forthwith in dark despair did lie, Like to the mole, with want of guiding sight, Deep plunged in earth, deprivéd of the sky.

In absence blind, and wearied with that woe, To greater woes, by presence, I return; Even as the fly, which to the flame doth go, Pleased with the light, that his small corse doth burn:

Fair choice I have, either to live or die A blinded mole, or else a burnéd fly.

THE SEVEN WONDERS OF ENGLAND.

I.