Chapter 3

Define my weal, and tell the joys of heaven; Express my woes and show the pains of hell; Declare what fate unlucky stars have given, And ask a world upon my life to dwell; Make known the faith that fortune could no move, Compare my worth with others' base desert, Let virtue be the touchstone of my love, So may the heavens read wonders in my heart; Behold the clouds which have eclipsed my sun, And view the crosses which my course do let; Tell me, if ever since the world begun So fair a rising had so foul a set? And see if time, if he would strive to prove, Can show a second to so pure a love.

LXI

Since there's no help, come let us kiss and part, Nay I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart, That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shakes hands for ever, cancel all our vows, And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain. Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes: Now if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

LXII

When first I ended, then I first began; Then more I travelled further from my rest. Where most I lost, there most of all I won; Pinèd with hunger, rising from a feast. Methinks I fly, yet want I legs to go, Wise in conceit, in act a very sot, Ravished with joy amidst a hell of woe, What most I seem that surest am I not. I build my hopes a world above the sky, Yet with the mole I creep into the earth; In plenty I am starved with penury, And yet I surfeit in the greatest dearth. I have, I want, despair, and yet desire, Burned in a sea of ice, and drowned amidst a fire.

LXIII

Truce, gentle Love, a parley now I crave, Methinks 'tis long since first these wars begun; Nor thou, nor I, the better yet can have; Bad is the match where neither party won. I offer free conditions of fair peace, My heart for hostage that it shall remain. Discharge our forces, here let malice cease, So for my pledge thou give me pledge again. Or if no thing but death will serve thy turn, Still thirsting for subversion of my state, Do what thou canst, raze, massacre, and burn; Let the world see the utmost of thy hate; I send defiance, since if overthrown, Thou vanquishing, the conquest is mine own.

FIDESSA MORE CHASTE THAN KIND by B. GRIFFIN, GENT.

BARTHOLOMEW GRIFFIN

The author of _Fidessa_ has gained undeserved notice from the fact that the piratical printer W. Jaggard, included a transcript of one of his sonnets in a volume that he put forth in 1599, under the name of Shakespeare. It would be easy to believe, in spite of the doubtful rimes characteristic of _Fidessa_, that sonnet three was not Griffin's, for no singer in the Elizabethan choir was more skilful in turning his voice to other people's melodies than was he. He has been called "a gross plagiary;" yet it must be realised that the sonneteers of that time felt they had a right, almost a duty, to take up the poetic themes used by their models. Griffin shows great ingenuity in the manipulation of the stock-themes, and the lover of Petrarch and all the young Abraham-Slenders of the day must have been delighted with the familiar "designs" as they re-appeared in _Fidessa_.

Bartholomew Griffin was buried in Coventry in 1602. In 1596 he dedicated his "slender work" _Fidessa_ to William Essex of Lamebourne in Berkshire. He adds an address to the Gentlemen of the Inns of Court, whom he begs to "censure mildly as protectors of a poor stranger" and "judge the best as encouragers of a young beginner." Of the poet little further is known. From the sonnets themselves we learn that Fidessa was "of high regard," the child of a beautiful mother and of a renowned father; she sprang in fact from the same root with the poet himself, who writes "Gent." after his name on the title-page. She had been kind to him in sickness and had "yielded to each look of his a sweet reply." After giving these slight hints, he pushes forth from the moorings of realism and sets sail on the ocean of the sonneteer's fancy, meeting the usual adventures. His sonnets, while showing versatility and ingenuity, lack spontaneous feeling and have serious defects in form; yet these defects are in part offset by their conversational ease and dramatic vividness.

TO FIDESSA

I

_Fertur Fortunam Fortuna favere ferenti_

Fidessa fair, long live a happy maiden! Blest from thy cradle by a worthy mother, High-thoughted like to her, with bounty laden, Like pleasing grace affording, one and other; Sweet model of thy far renownèd sire! Hold back a while thy ever-giving hand, And though these free penned lines do nought require, For that they scorn at base reward to stand, Yet crave they most for that they beg the least Dumb is the message of my hidden grief, And store of speech by silence is increased; O let me die or purchase some relief! Bounteous Fidessa cannot be so cruel As for to make my heart her fancy's fuel!

II

How can that piercing crystal-painted eye, That gave the onset to my high aspiring. Yielding each look of mine a sweet reply, Adding new courage to my heart's desiring, How can it shut itself within her ark, And keep herself and me both from the light, Making us walk in all misguiding dark, Aye to remain in confines of the night? How is it that so little room contains it, That guides the orient as the world the sun, Which once obscured most bitterly complains it, Because it knows and rules whate'er is done? The reason is that they may dread her sight, Who doth both give and take away their light.

III

Venus, and young Adonis sitting by her, Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him; She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, so fell she to him. "Even thus," quoth she, "the wanton god embraced me!" And then she clasped Adonis in her arms; "Even thus," quoth she, "the warlike god unlaced me!" As if the boy should use like loving charms. But he, a wayward boy, refused the offer, And ran away the beauteous queen neglecting Showing both folly to abuse her proffer, And all his sex of cowardice detecting. O that I had my mistress at that bay, To kiss and clip me till I ran away!

IV

Did you sometimes three German brethren see, Rancour 'twixt two of them so raging rife, That th' one could stick the other with his knife? Now if the third assaulted chance to be By a fourth stranger, him set on the three, Them two 'twixt whom afore was deadly strife Made one to rob the stranger of his life; Then do you know our state as well as we. Beauty and chastity with her were born, Both at one birth, and up with her did grow. Beauty still foe to chastity was sworn, And chastity sworn to be beauty's foe; And yet when I lay siege unto her heart, Beauty and chastity both take her part.

V

Arraigned, poor captive at the bar I stand, The bar of beauty, bar to all my joys; And up I hold my ever trembling hand, Wishing or life or death to end annoys. And when the judge doth question of the guilt, And bids me speak, then sorrow shuts up words. Yea, though he say, "Speak boldly what thou wilt!" Yet my confused affects no speech affords, For why? Alas, my passions have no bound, For fear of death that penetrates so near; And still one grief another doth confound, Yet doth at length a way to speech appear. Then, for I speak too late, the Judge doth give His sentence that in prison I shall live.

VI

Unhappy sentence, worst of worst of pains, To be in darksome silence, out of ken, Banished from all that bliss the world contains, And thrust from out the companies of men! Unhappy sentence, worse than worst of deaths, Never to see Fidessa's lovely face! O better were I lose ten thousand breaths, Than ever live in such unseen disgrace! Unhappy sentence, worse than pains of hell, To live in self-tormenting griefs alone; Having my heart, my prison and my cell, And there consumed without relief to moan! If that the sentence so unhappy be, Then what am I that gave the same to me?

VII

Oft have mine eyes, the agents of mine heart, False traitor eyes conspiring my decay, Pleaded for grace with dumb and silent art, Streaming forth tears my sorrows to allay; Moaning the wrong they do unto their lord, Forcing the cruel fair by means to yield; Making her 'gainst her will some grace t'afford, And striving sore at length to win the field; Thus work they means to feed my fainting hope, And strengthened hope adds matter to each thought; Yet when they all come to their end and scope They do but wholly bring poor me to nought. She'll never yield although they ever cry, And therefore we must all together die.

VIII

Grief-urging guest, great cause have I to plain me, Yet hope persuading hope expecteth grace, And saith none but myself shall ever pain me; But grief my hopes exceedeth in this case; For still my fortune ever more doth cross me By worse events than ever I expected; And here and there ten thousand ways doth toss me, With sad remembrance of my time neglected. These breed such thoughts as set my heart on fire, And like fell hounds pursue me to my death; Traitors unto their sovereign lord and sire, Unkind exactors of their father's breath, Whom in their rage they shall no sooner kill Than they themselves themselves unjustly spill.

IX

My spotless love that never yet was tainted, My loyal heart that never can be moved, My growing hope that never yet hath fainted, My constancy that you full well have proved, All these consented have to plead for grace These all lie crying at the door of beauty;-- This wails, this sends out tears, this cries apace, All do reward expect of faith and duty; Now either thou must prove th' unkindest one, And as thou fairest art must cruelest be, Or else with pity yield unto their moan, Their moan that ever will importune thee. Ah, thou must be unkind, and give denial, And I, poor I, must stand unto my trial!

X

Clip not, sweet love, the wings of my desire, Although it soar aloft and mount too high: But rather bear with me though I aspire, For I have wings to bear me to the sky. What though I mount, there is no sun but thee! And sith no other sun, why should I fear? Thou wilt not burn me, though thou terrify, And though thy brightness do so great appear. Dear, I seek not to batter down thy glory, Nor do I envy that thy hope increaseth; O never think thy fame doth make me sorry! For thou must live by fame when beauty ceaseth. Besides, since from one root we both did spring, Why should not I thy fame and beauty sing?

XI

Winged with sad woes, why doth fair zephyr blow Upon my face, the map of discontent? Is it to have the weeds of sorrow grow So long and thick, that they will ne'er be spent? No, fondling, no! It is to cool the fire Which hot desire within thy breast hath made. Check him but once and he will soon retire. O but he sorrows brought which cannot fade! The sorrows that he brought, he took from thee, Which fair Fidessa span and thou must wear! Yet hath she nothing done of cruelty, But for her sake to try what thou wilt bear. Come, sorrows, come! You are to me assigned; I'll bear you all, it is Fidessa's mind.

XII

O if my heavenly sighs must prove annoy, Which are the sweetest music to my heart, Let it suffice I count them as my joy, Sweet bitter joy and pleasant painful smart! For when my breast is clogged with thousand cares, That my poor loaded heart is like to break, Then every sigh doth question how it fares, Seeming to add their strength, which makes me weak; Yet for they friendly are, I entertain them, And they too well are pleasèd with their host. But I, had not Fidessa been, ere now had slain them; It's for her cause they live, in her they boast; They promise help but when they see her face; They fainting yield, and dare not sue for grace.

XIII

Compare me to the child that plays with fire, Or to the fly that dieth in the flame, Or to the foolish boy that did aspire To touch the glory of high heaven's frame; Compare me to Leander struggling in the waves, Not able to attain his safety's shore, Or to the sick that do expect their graves, Or to the captive crying evermore; Compare me to the weeping wounded hart, Moaning with tears the period of his life, Or to the boar that will not feel the smart, When he is stricken with the butcher's knife; No man to these can fitly me compare; These live to die, I die to live in care.

XIV

When silent sleep had closèd up mine eyes, My watchful mind did then begin to muse; A thousand pleasing thoughts did then arise, That sought by slights their master to abuse. I saw, O heavenly sight! Fidessa's face, And fair dame nature blushing to behold it; Now did she laugh, now wink, now smile apace, She took me by the hand and fast did hold it; Sweetly her sweet body did she lay down by me; "Alas, poor wretch," quoth she, "great is thy sorrow; But thou shall comfort find if thou wilt try me. I hope, sir boy, you'll tell me news to-morrow." With that, away she went, and I did wake withal; When ah! my honey thoughts were turned to gall.

XV

Care-charmer sleep! Sweet ease in restless misery! The captive's liberty, and his freedom's song! Balm of the bruisèd heart! Man's chief felicity! Brother of quiet death, when life is too too long! A comedy it is, and now an history; What is not sleep unto the feeble mind! It easeth him that toils and him that's sorry; It makes the deaf to hear, to see the blind; Ungentle sleep, thou helpest all but me! For when I sleep my soul is vexèd most. It is Fidessa that doth master thee; If she approach, alas, thy power is lost! But here she is! See how he runs amain! I fear at night he will not come again.

XVI

For I have lovèd long, I crave reward; Reward me not unkindly, think on kindness; Kindness becometh those of high regard; Regard with clemency a poor man's blindness; Blindness provokes to pity when it crieth; It crieth "Give!" Dear lady, shew some pity! Pity or let him die that daily dieth; Dieth he not oft who often sings this ditty? This ditty pleaseth me although it choke me; Methinks dame Echo weepeth at my moaning, Moaning the woes that to complain provoke me. Provoke me now no more, but hear my groaning, Groaning both day and night doth tear my heart, My heart doth know the cause and triumphs in the smart.

XVII

Sweet stroke,--so might I thrive as I must praise-- But sweeter hand that gives so sweet a stroke! The lute itself is sweetest when she plays. But what hear I? A string through fear is broke! The lute doth shake as if it were afraid. O sure some goddess holds it in her hand, A heavenly power that oft hath me dismayed, Yet such a power as doth in beauty stand! Cease lute, my ceaseless suit will ne'er be heard! Ah, too hard-hearted she that will not hear it! If I but think on joy, my joy is marred; My grief is great, yet ever must I bear it; But love 'twixt us will prove a faithful page, And she will love my sorrows to assuage.

XVIII

O she must love my sorrows to assuage. O God, what joy felt I when she did smile, Whom killing grief before did cause to rage! Beauty is able sorrow to beguile. Out, traitor absence! thou dost hinder me, And mak'st my mistress often to forget, Causing me to rail upon her cruelty, Whilst thou my suit injuriously dost let; Again her presence doth astonish me, And strikes me dumb as if my sense were gone; Oh, is not this a strange perplexity? In presence dumb, she hears not absent moan; Thus absent presence, present absence maketh, That hearing my poor suit, she it mistaketh.

XIX

My pain paints out my love in doleful verse, The lively glass wherein she may behold it; My verse her wrong to me doth still rehearse, But so as it lamenteth to unfold it. Myself with ceaseless tears my harms bewail, And her obdurate heart not to be moved; Though long-continued woes my senses fail, And curse the day, the hour when first I loved. She takes the glass wherein herself she sees, In bloody colours cruelly depainted; And her poor prisoner humbly on his knees, Pleading for grace, with heart that never fainted. She breaks the glass; alas, I cannot choose But grieve that I should so my labour lose!

XX

Great is the joy that no tongue can express! Fair babe new born, how much dost thou delight me! But what, is mine so great? Yea, no whit less! So great that of all woes it doth acquite me. It's fair Fidessa that this comfort bringeth, Who sorry for the wrongs by her procured, Delightful tunes of love, of true love singeth, Wherewith her too chaste thoughts were ne'er inured. She loves, she saith, but with a love not blind. Her love is counsel that I should not love, But upon virtues fix a stayèd mind. But what! This new-coined love, love doth reprove? If this be love of which you make such store, Sweet, love me less, that you may love me more!

XXI

He that will Cæsar be, or else not be-- Who can aspire to Cæsar's bleeding fame, Must be of high resolve; but what is he That thinks to gain a second Cæsar's name? Whoe'er he be that climbs above his strength, And climbeth high, the greater is his fall! For though he sit awhile, we see at length, His slippery place no firmness hath at all, Great is his bruise that falleth from on high. This warneth me that I should not aspire; Examples should prevail; I care not, I! I perish must or have what I desire! This humour doth with mine full well agree I must Fidessa's be, or else not be!

XXII

It was of love, ungentle gentle boy! That thou didst come and harbour in my breast; Not of intent my body to destroy, And have my soul, with restless cares opprest. But sith thy love doth turn unto my pain, Return to Greece, sweet lad, where thou wast born. Leave me alone my griefs to entertain, If thou forsake me, I am less forlorn; Although alone, yet shall I find more ease. Then see thou hie thee hence, or I will chase thee; Men highly wrongèd care not to displease; My fortune hangs on thee, thou dost disgrace me, Yet at thy farewell, play a friendly part; To make amends, fly to Fidessa's heart.

XXIII

Fly to her heart, hover about her heart, With dainty kisses mollify her heart, Pierce with thy arrows her obdurate heart, With sweet allurements ever move her heart, At midday and at midnight touch her heart, Be lurking closely, nestle about her heart, With power--thou art a god!--command her heart, Kindle thy coals of love about her heart, Yea, even into thyself transform her heart! Ah, she must love! Be sure thou have her heart; And I must die if thou have not her heart; Thy bed if thou rest well, must be her heart; He hath the best part sure that hath her heart; What have I not, if I have but her heart!

XXIV

Striving is past! Ah, I must sink and drown, And that in sight of long descrièd shore! I cannot send for aid unto the town, All help is vain and I must die therefore. Then poor distressèd caitiff, be resolved To leave this earthly dwelling fraught with care; Cease will thy woes, thy corpse in earth involved, Thou diest for her that will no help prepare. O see, my case herself doth now behold; The casement open is; she seems to speak;-- But she has gone! O then I dare be bold And needs must say she caused my heart to break. I die before I drown, O heavy case! It was because I saw my mistress' face.

XXV

Compare me to Pygmalion with his image sotted, For, as was he, even so am I deceived. The shadow only is to me allotted, The substance hath of substance me bereaved. Then poor and helpless must I wander still In deep laments to pass succeeding days, Welt'ring in woes that poor and mighty kill. O who is mighty that so soon decays! The dread Almighty hath appointed so The final period of all worldly things. Then as in time they come, so must they go; Death common is to beggars and to kings For whither do I run beside my text? I run to death, for death must be the next.

XXVI

The silly bird that hastes unto the net, And flutters to and fro till she be taken, Doth look some food or succour there to get, But loseth life, so much is she mistaken. The foolish fly that fleeth to the flame With ceaseless hovering and with restless flight, Is burnèd straight to ashes in the same, And finds her death where was her most delight The proud aspiring boy that needs would pry Into the secrets of the highest seat, Had some conceit to gain content thereby, Or else his folly sure was wondrous great. These did through folly perish all and die: And though I know it, even so do I.

XXVII

Poor worm, poor silly worm, alas, poor beast! Fear makes thee hide thy head within the ground, Because of creeping things thou art the least, Yet every foot gives thee thy mortal wound. But I, thy fellow worm, am in worse state, For thou thy sun enjoyest, but I want mine. I live in irksome night, O cruel fate! My sun will never rise, nor ever shine. Thus blind of light, mine eyes misguide my feet, And baleful darkness makes me still afraid; Men mock me when I stumble in the street, And wonder how my young sight so decayed. Yet do I joy in this, even when I fall, That I shall see again and then see all.

XXVIII

Well may my soul, immortal and divine, That is imprisoned in a lump of clay, Breathe out laments until this body pine, That from her takes her pleasures all away. Pine then, thou loathèd prison of my life, Untoward subject of the least aggrievance! O let me die! Mortality is rife; Death comes by wounds, by sickness, care, and chance. O earth, the time will come when I'll resume thee, And in thy bosom make my resting-place; Then do not unto hardest sentence doom me; Yield, yield betimes; I must and will have grace! Richly shalt thou be entombed, since, for thy grave, Fidessa, fair Fidessa, thou shalt have!

XXIX