Chapter 5

The sub-title of _Chloris_ arouses an expectation that is gratified in the pastoral modishness of the sonnets. Corin sits under the "lofty pines, co-partners of his woe," with oaten reed at his lips, and calls on sylvans, lambkins and all Parnassans to testify to the beauty and cruelty of Chloris. The attitude is a self-conscious one, yet the poem reveals little of the personality of the author beyond the facts of his youthfulness and of his devotion to "the most excellent and learned Shepheard, Colin Cloute." It was in 1595, but one year before the publication of _Chloris_, that Spenser had sung his own sonnets of true love, and it is perhaps on this account that William Smith finds him in a mood favourable to the defence of a young aspirant. At any rate, the language of the dedication rings with something more than mere desire for distinguished patronage. The youth looks with a beautiful humility upward toward the greater but "dear and most entire beloved" poet. His own sonnets, he says, are "of my study the budding springs"; they are but "young-hatched orphan things." He nowhere boasts that they will give immortal renown to the scornful beauty, but modestly promises that if her cruel disdain does not ruin him, the time shall come when he "more large" her "praises forth shall pen." Chloris had once been favourable, as sonnet forty-eight distinctly shows, but the cycle does not bring any happy conclusion to the story. Corin is left weeping but faithful, and the picture of Chloris is composed of such faint outlines only as the sonneteer's conventions can delineate. Beyond this no certain information in regard to poet or honoured lady has yet been unearthed.

For all its formality, however, the sonnet-cycle is not wanting in touches of real feeling and lines of musical sweetness; the writer shows considerable skill in the management of rime, and in structure he adopts the form preferred by Shakespeare, whose "sugared sonnets" may by this date have passed beneath his eye. The melodies piped by other sonnet-shepherds re-echo with a great deal of distinctness in Covin's strains; nevertheless he has himself taken a draught from the true Elizabethan fount of lyric inspiration, and the nymph Chloris with her heart-robbing eye well deserves a place on the snow-soft downs where the sonneteering shepherds were wont to assemble.

TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED SHEPHERD COLIN CLOUT

I

Colin my dear and most entire beloved, My muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee, Desiring that thy patience be not moved By these rude lines, written here you see; Fain would my muse whom cruel love hath wronged, Shroud her love labours under thy protection, And I myself with ardent zeal have longed That thou mightst know to thee my true affection. Therefore, good Colin, graciously accept A few sad sonnets which my muse hath framed; Though they but newly from the shell are crept, Suffer them not by envy to be blamed, But underneath the shadow of thy wings Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things.

II

Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things, Which chill with cold to thee for succour creep; They of my study are the budding springs; Longer I cannot them in silence keep. They will be gadding sore against my mind. But courteous shepherd, if they run astray, Conduct them that they may the pathway find, And teach them how the mean observe they may. Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes, Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear; Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats, Yet forth they wand'ring are devoid of fear. They which have tasted of the muses' spring, I hope will smile upon the tunes they sing.

TO ALL SHEPHERDS IN GENERAL

You whom the world admires for rarest style, You which have sung the sonnets of true love, Upon my maiden verse with favour smile, Whose weak-penned muse to fly too soon doth prove; Before her feathers have their full perfection, She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.

You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry, The everlasting palm of praise have won, You paragons of learnèd poesy, Favour these mists, which fall before your sun, Intentions leading to a more effect If you them grace but with your mild aspect.

And thou the Genius of my ill-tuned note, Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein Through mighty oceans of despair to float, That I in rime thy cruelty complain: Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad Nuntiates of woe with sorrow being clad.

CHLORIS

I

Courteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend Thy helping hand to my untunèd song, And grace these lines which I to write pretend, Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong. And those thy sacred sisters I beseech, Which on Parnassus' mount do ever dwell, To shield my country muse and rural speech By their divine authority and spell. Lastly to thee, O Pan, the shepherds' king, And you swift-footed Dryades I call; Attend to hear a swain in verse to sing Sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall! O Chloris, weigh the task I undertake! Thy beauty subject of my song I make.

II

Thy beauty subject of my song I make, O fairest fair, on whom depends my life! Refuse not then the task I undertake, To please thy rage and to appease my strife; But with one smile remunerate my toil, None other guerdon I of thee desire. Give not my lowly muse new-hatched the foil, But warmth that she may at the length aspire Unto the temples of thy star-bright eyes, Upon whose round orbs perfect beauty sits, From whence such glorious crystal beams arise, As best my Chloris' seemly face befits; Which eyes, which beauty, which bright crystal beam, Which face of thine hath made my love extreme.

III

Feed, silly sheep, although your keeper pineth, Yet like to Tantalus doth see his food. Skip you and leap, no bright Apollo shineth, Whilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood, Where woeful Philomela doth record, And sings with notes of sad and dire lament The tragedy wrought by her sisters' lord; I'll bear a part in her black discontent. That pipe which erst was wont to make you glee Upon these downs whereon you careless graze, Shall to her mournful music tunèd be. Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze; There underneath that dark and dusky bower, Whole showers of tears to Chloris I will pour.

IV

Whole showers of tears to Chloris I will pour, As true oblations of my sincere love, If that will not suffice, most fairest flower, Then shall my sighs thee unto pity move. If neither tears nor sighs can aught prevail, My streaming blood thine anger shall appease, This hand of mine by vigour shall assail To tear my heart asunder thee to please. Celestial powers on you I invocate; You know the chaste affections of my mind, I never did my faith yet violate; Why should my Chloris then be so unkind? That neither tears, nor sighs, nor streaming blood, Can unto mercy move her cruel mood.

V

You fawns and silvans, when my Chloris brings Her flocks to water in your pleasant plains, Solicit her to pity Corin's strings, The smart whereof for her he still sustains. For she is ruthless of my woeful song; My oaten reed she not delights to hear. O Chloris, Chloris! Corin thou dost wrong, Who loves thee better than his own heart dear. The flames of Aetna are not half so hot As is the fire which thy disdain hath bread. Ah cruel fates, why do you then besot Poor Corin's soul with love, when love is fled? Either cause cruel Chloris to relent, Or let me die upon the wound she sent!

VI

You lofty pines, co-partners of my woe, When Chloris sitteth underneath your shade, To her those sighs and tears I pray you show, Whilst you attending I for her have made. Whilst you attending, droppèd have sweet balm In token that you pity my distress, Zephirus hath your stately boughs made calm. Whilst I to you my sorrows did express, The neighbour mountains bended have their tops, When they have heard my rueful melody, And elves in rings about me leaps and hops, To frame my passions to their jollity. Resounding echoes from their obscure caves, Reiterate what most my fancy craves.

VII

What need I mourn, seeing Pan our sacred king Was of that nymph fair Syrinx coy disdained? The world's great light which comforteth each thing, All comfortless for Daphne's sake remained. If gods can find no help to heal the sore Made by love's shafts, which pointed are with fire, Unhappy Corin, then thy chance deplore, Sith they despair by wanting their desire. I am not Pan though I a shepherd be, Yet is my love as fair as Syrinx was. My songs cannot with Phoebus' tunes agree, Yet Chloris' doth his Daphne's far surpass. How much more fair by so much more unkind, Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne, I her find!

VIII

No sooner had fair Phoebus trimmed his car, Being newly risen from Aurora's bed, But I in whom despair and hope did war, My unpenned flock unto the mountains led. Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied Three nymphs more fairer than those beautys three Which did appear to Paris on mount Ide. Coming more near, my goddess I there see; For she the field-nymphs oftentimes doth haunt, To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar; And having sported virelays they chaunt, Whilst I unhappy helpless cares deplore. There did I call to her, ah too unkind! But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.

IX

Unto the fountain where fair Delia chaste The proud Acteon turnèd to a hart, I drove my flock, that water sweet to taste, 'Cause from the welkin Phoebus 'gan depart. There did I see the nymph whom I admire, Rememb'ring her locks, of which the yellow hue Made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire, Which Jove himself with wonder well might view; Then red with ire, her tresses she berent, And weeping hid the beauty of her face, Whilst I amazèd at her discontent, With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace; But she regarding neither tears nor moan, Flies from the fountain leaving me alone.

X

Am I a Gorgon that she doth me fly, Or was I hatchèd in the river Nile? Or doth my Chloris stand in doubt that I With syren songs do seek her to beguile? If any one of these she can object 'Gainst me, which chaste affected love protest, Then might my fortunes by her frowns be checked, And blameless she from scandal free might rest. But seeing I am no hideous monster born, But have that shape which other men do bear, Which form great Jupiter did never scorn, Amongst his subjects here on earth to wear, Why should she then that soul with sorrow fill, Which vowèd hath to love and serve her still?

XI

Tell me, my dear, what moves thy ruthless mind To be so cruel, seeing thou art so fair? Did nature frame thy beauty so unkind? Or dost thou scorn to pity my despair? O no, it was not nature's ornament, But wingèd love's unpartial cruel wound, Which in my heart is ever permanent, Until my Chloris make me whole and sound. O glorious love-god, think on my heart's grief; Let not thy vassal pine through deep disdain; By wounding Chloris I shall find relief, If thou impart to her some of my pain. She doth thy temples and thy shrines abject; They with Amintas' flowers by me are decked.

XII

Cease, eyes, to weep sith none bemoans your weeping; Leave off, good muse, to sound the cruel name Of my love's queen which hath my heart in keeping, Yet of my love doth make a jesting game! Long hath my sufferance laboured to inforce One pearl of pity from her pretty eyes, Whilst I with restless oceans of remorse Bedew the banks where my fair Chloris lies, Where my fair Chloris bathes her tender skin, And doth triumph to see such rivers fall From those moist springs, which never dry have been Since she their honour hath detained in thrall; And still she scorns one favouring smile to show Unto those waves proceeding from my woe.

XIII

_A Dream_

What time fair Titan in the zenith sat, And equally the fixèd poles did heat, When to my flock my daily woes I chat, And underneath a broad beech took my seat, The dreaming god which Morpheus poets call, Augmenting fuel to my Aetna's fire, With sleep possessing my weak senses all, In apparitions makes my hopes aspire. Methought I saw the nymph I would imbrace, With arms abroad coming to me for help, A lust-led satyr having her in chase Which after her about the fields did yelp. I seeing my love in perplexèd plight, A sturdy bat from off an oak I reft, And with the ravisher continue fight Till breathless I upon the earth him left. Then when my coy nymph saw her breathless foe, With kisses kind she gratifies my pain, Protesting never rigour more to show. Happy was I this good hap to obtain; But drowsy slumbers flying to their cell, My sudden joy converted was to bale; My wonted sorrows still with me do dwell. I lookèd round about on hill and dale, But I could neither my fair Chloris view, Nor yet the satyr which erstwhile I slew.

XIV

Mournful Amintas, thou didst pine with care, Because the fates by their untimely doom Of life bereft thy loving Phillis fair, When thy love's spring did first begin to bloom. My care doth countervail that care of thine, And yet my Chloris draws her angry breath; My hopes still hoping hopeless now repine, For living she doth add to me but death. Thy Phinis, dying, lovèd thee full dear; My Chloris, living, hates poor Corin's love, Thus doth my woe as great as thine appear, Though sundry accents both our sorrows move. Thy swan-like songs did show thy dying anguish; These weeping truce-men show I living languish.

XV

These weeping truce-men show I living languish, My woeful wailings tells my discontent; Yet Chloris nought esteemeth of mine anguish, My thrilling throbs her heart cannot relent. My kids to hear the rimes and roundelays Which I on wasteful hills was wont to sing, Did more delight the lark in summer days, Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring. But now my flock all drooping bleats and cries, Because my pipe, the author of their sport, All rent and torn and unrespected lies; Their lamentations do my cares consort. They cease to feed and listen to the plaint Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint.

XVI

Which I pour forth unto a cruel saint, Who merciless my prayers doth attend, Who tiger-like doth pity my complaint, And never ear unto my woes will lend! But still false hope dispairing life deludes, And tells my fancy I shall grace obtain; But Chloris fair my orisons concludes With fearful frowns, presagers of my pain. Thus do I spend the weary wand'ring day, Oppressèd with a chaos of heart's grief; Thus I consume the obscure night away, Neglecting sleep which brings all cares relief; Thus do I pass my ling'ring life in woe; But when my bliss will come I do not know.

XVII

The perils which Leander took in hand Fair Hero's love and favour to obtain, When void of fear securely leaving land, Through Hellespont he swam to Cestos' main, His dangers should not counterpoise my toil, If my dear love would once but pity show, To quench these flames which in my breast do broil, Or dry these springs which from mine eyes do flow. Not only Hellespont but ocean seas, For her sweet sake to ford I would attempt, So that my travels would her ire appease, My soul from thrall and languish to exempt. O what is't not poor I would undertake, If labour could my peace with Chloris make!

XVIII

My love, I cannot thy rare beauties place Under those forms which many writers use: Some like to stones compare their mistress' face; Some in the name of flowers do love abuse; Some makes their love a goldsmith's shop to be, Where orient pearls and precious stones abound; In my conceit these far do disagree The perfect praise of beauty forth to sound. O Chloris, thou dost imitate thyself, Self's imitating passeth precious stones, Or all the eastern Indian golden pelf; Thy red and white with purest fair atones; Matchless for beauty nature hath thee framed, Only unkind and cruel thou art named!

XIX

The hound by eating grass doth find relief, For being sick it is his choicest meat; The wounded hart doth ease his pain and grief If he the herb dictamion may eat; The loathsome snake renews his sight again, When he casts off his withered coat and hue; The sky-bred eagle fresh age doth obtain When he his beak decayed doth renew. I worse than these whose sore no salve can cure, Whose grief no herb nor plant nor tree can ease; Remediless, I still must pain endure, Till I my Chloris' furious mood can please; She like the scorpion gave to me a wound, And like the scorpion she must make me sound.

XX

Ye wasteful woods, bear witness of my woe, Wherein my plaints did oftentimes abound; Ye careless birds my sorrows well do know, They in your songs were wont to make a sound! Thou pleasant spring canst record likewise bear Of my designs and sad disparagement, When thy transparent billows mingled were With those downfalls which from mine eyes were sent! The echo of my still-lamenting cries, From hollow vaults in treble voice resoundeth, And then into the empty air it flies, And back again from whence it came reboundeth. That nymph unto my clamors doth reply, Being likewise scorned in love as well as I.

XXI

Being likewise scorned in love as well as I By that self-loving boy, which did disdain To hear her after him for love to cry, For which in dens obscure she doth remain; Yet doth she answer to each speech and voice, And renders back the last of what we speak, But specially, if she might have her choice, She of unkindness would her talk forth break. She loves to hear of love's most sacred name, Although, poor nymph, in love she was despised; And ever since she hides her head for shame, That her true meaning was so lightly prised; She pitying me, part of my woes doth bear, As you, good shepherds, listening now shall hear.

XXII

O fairest fair, to thee I make my plaint, (_my plaint_) To thee from whom my cause of grief doth spring; (_doth spring_) Attentive be unto the groans, sweet saint, (_sweet saint_) Which unto thee in doleful tunes I sing. (_I sing_) My mournful muse doth always speak of thee; (_of thee_) My love is pure, O do it not disdain! (_disdain_) With bitter sorrow still oppress not me, (_not me_) But mildly look upon me which complain. (_which complain_) Kill not my true-affecting thoughts, but give (_but give_) Such precious balm of comfort to my heart, (_my heart_) That casting off despair in hope to live, (_hope to live_) I may find help at length to ease my smart. (_to ease my smart_) So shall you add such courage to my love, (_my love_) That fortune false my faith shall not remove. (_shall not remove_)

XXIII

The phoenix fair which rich Arabia breeds, When wasting time expires her tragedy, No more on Phoebus' radiant rays she feeds, But heapeth up great store of spicery; And on a lofty towering cedar tree, With heavenly substance she herself consumes, From whence she young again appears to be, Out of the cinders of her peerless plumes. So I which long have frièd in love's flame, The fire not made of spice but sighs and tears, Revive again in hope disdain to shame, And put to flight the author of my fears. Her eyes revive decaying life in me, Though they augmenters of my thraldom be.

XXIV

Though they augmenters of my thraldom be, For her I live and her I love and none else; O then, fair eyes, look mildly upon me, Who poor, despised, forlorn must live alone else, And like Amintas haunt the desert cells, And moanless there breathe out thy cruelty, Where none but care and melancholy dwells. I for revenge to Nemesis will cry; If that will not prevail, my wandering ghost, Which breathless here this love-scorched trunk shall leave, Shall unto thee with tragic tidings post, How thy disdain did life from soul bereave. Then all too late my death thou wilt repent, When murther's guilt thy conscience shall torment.

XXV

Who doth not know that love is triumphant, Sitting upon the throne of majesty? The gods themselves his cruel darts do daunt, And he, blind boy, smiles at their misery. Love made great Jove ofttimes transform his shape; Love made the fierce Alcides stoop at last; Achilles, stout and bold, could not escape The direful doom which love upon him cast; Love made Leander pass the dreadful flood Which Cestos from Abydos doth divide; Love made a chaos where proud Ilion stood, Through love the Carthaginian Dido died. Thus may we see how love doth rule and reigns, Bringing those under which his power disdains.

XXVI

Though you be fair and beautiful withal, And I am black for which you me despise, Know that your beauty subject is to fall, Though you esteem it at so high a price. And time may come when that whereof you boast, Which is your youth's chief wealth and ornament, Shall withered be by winter's raging frost, When beauty's pride and flowering years are spent. Then wilt thou mourn when none shall thee respect; Then wilt thou think how thou hast scorned my tears; Then pitiless each one will thee neglect, When hoary grey shall dye thy yellow hairs; Then wilt thou think upon poor Corin's case, Who loved thee dear, yet lived in thy disgrace.

XXVII