Chapter 3

Ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans, O tears which gladly would burst out to brooks, Oh spent on fruitless sand my surging moans, Oh thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks! Ah just laments of my unjust distress, Ah fond desires whom reason could not guide! Oh hopes of love that intimate redress, Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide! When will you cease? Or shall pain never-ceasing, Seize oh my heart? Oh mollify your rage, Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing, Procure my death, or call on timeless age. What if they do? They shall but feed the fire, Which I have kindled by my fond desire.

XXII

Fair art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid, As nor the sun, nor I have seen more fair; For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed, And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair. Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue, And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath; About thy neck do all the graces throng, And lay such baits as might entangle death. In such a breast what heart would not be thrall? From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces? At thy fair hands who wonders not at all, Wonder itself through ignorance embases? Yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these, My faith is far more wonderful than all these.

XXIII

Burst, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope; Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep; Let all my senses have no further scope; Let death be lord of me and all my sheep! For Phillis hath betrothèd fierce disdain, That makes his mortal mansion in her heart; And though my tongue have long time taken pain To sue divorce and wed her to desert, She will not yield, my words can have no power; She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays, She fills my soul with never ceasing sour, Who filled the world with volumes of her praise. In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave His peace from death, who can no mercy have!

XXIV

No glory makes me glorious or glad, Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose, No comfort can revive my senses sad, Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose. Nor in her absence taste I one delight, Nor in her presence am I well content; Was never time gave term to my despite, Nor joy that dried the tears of my lament. Nor hold I hope of weal in memory, Nor have I thought to change my restless grief, Nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty, Nor hope repose, nor confidence relief. For why? She sorts her frowns and favours so, As when I gain or lose I cannot know.

XXV

I wage the combat with two mighty foes, Which are more strong than I ten thousand fold; The one is when thy pleasure I do lose, The other, when thy person I behold. In seeing thee a swarm of loves confound me, And cause my death in spite of my resist, And if I see thee not, thy want doth wound me, For in thy sight my comfort doth consist. The one in me continual care createth, The other doth occasion my desire; The one the edge of all my joy rebateth, The other makes me a phoenix in love's fire. So that I grieve when I enjoy your presence, And die for grief by reason of your absence.

XXVI

I'll teach thee, lovely Phillis, what love is. It is a vision seeming such as thou, That flies as fast as it assaults mine eyes; It is affection that doth reason miss; It is a shape of pleasure like to you, Which meets the eye, and seen on sudden dies; It is a doubled grief, a spark of pleasure Begot by vain desire. And this is love, Whom in our youth we count our chiefest treasure, In age for want of power we do reprove. Yea, such a power is love, whose loss is pain, And having got him we repent our gain.

XXVII

Fair eyes, whilst fearful I your fair admire, By unexpressèd sweetness that I gain, My memory of sorrow doth expire, And falcon-like, I tower joy's heavens amain. But when your suns in oceans of their glory Shut up their day-bright shine, I die for thought; So pass my joys as doth a new-played story, And one poor sigh breathes all delight to naught. So to myself I live not, but for you; For you I live, and you I love, but none else, Oh then, fair eyes, whose light I live to view, Or poor forlorn despised to live alone else, Look sweet, since from the pith of contemplation Love gathereth life, and living, breedeth passion.

XXVIII

Not causeless were you christened, gentle flowers, The one of faith, the other fancy's pride; For she who guides both faith and fancy's power, In your fair colors wraps her ivory side. As one of you hath whiteness without stain, So spotless is my love and never tainted; And as the other shadoweth faith again, Such is my lass, with no fond change acquainted. And as nor tyrant sun nor winter weather May ever change sweet amaranthus' hue, So she though love and fortune join together, Will never leave to be both fair and true. And should I leave thee then, thou pretty elf? Nay, first let Damon quite forget himself.

XXIX

I feel myself endangered beyond reason, My death already 'twixt the cup and lip, Because my proud desire through cursèd treason, Would make my hopes mount heaven, which cannot skip; My fancy still requireth at my hands Such things as are not, cannot, may not be, And my desire although my power withstands, Will give me wings, who never yet could flee. What then remains except my maimèd soul Extort compassion from love-flying age, Or if naught else their fury may control, To call on death that quells affection's rage; Which death shall dwell with me and never fly, Since vain desire seeks that hope doth deny.

XXX

I do compare unto thy youthly clear, Which always bides within thy flow'ring prime, The month of April, that bedews our clime With pleasant flowers, when as his showers appear. Before thy face shall fly false cruelty, Before his face the doly season fleets; Mild been his looks, thine eyes are full of sweets; Firm is his course, firm is thy loyalty. He paints the fields through liquid crystal showers, Thou paint'st my verse with Pallas, learnèd flowers; With Zephirus' sweet, breath he fills the plains, And thou my heart with weeping sighs dost wring; His brows are dewed with morning's crystal spring, Thou mak'st my eyes with tears bemoan my pains.

XXXI

Devoid of reason, thrall to foolish ire, I walk and chase a savage fairy still, Now near the flood, straight on the mounting hill, Now midst the woods of youth, and vain desire. For leash I bear a cord of careful grief; For brach I lead an over-forward mind; My hounds are thoughts, and rage despairing blind, Pain, cruelty, and care without relief. But they perceiving that my swift pursuit My flying fairy cannot overtake, With open mouths their prey on me do make, Like hungry hounds that lately lost their suit. And full of fury on their master feed, To hasten on my hapless death with speed.

XXXII

A thousand times to think and think the same, To two fair eyes to show a naked heart, Great thirst with bitter liquor to restrain, To take repast of care and crooked smart; To sigh full oft without relent of ire, To die for grief and yet conceal the tale, To others' will to fashion my desire, To pine in looks disguised through pensive-pale; A short dispite, a faith unfeignèd true, To love my foe, and set my life at naught, With heedless eyes mine endless harms to view, A will to speak, a fear to tell the thought; To hope for all, yet for despair to die, Is of my life the certain destiny.

XXXIII

When first sweet Phillis, whom I must adore, Gan with her beauties bless our wond'ring sky, The son of Rhea, from their fatal store Made all the gods to grace her majesty. Apollo first his golden rays among, Did form the beauty of her bounteous eyes; He graced her with his sweet melodious song, And made her subject of his poesies. The warrior Mars bequeathed her fierce disdain, Venus her smile, and Phoebe all her fair, Python his voice, and Ceres all her grain, The morn her locks and fingers did repair. Young Love, his bow, and Thetis gave her feet; Clio her praise, Pallas her science sweet.

XXXIV

I would in rich and golden-coloured rain, With tempting showers in pleasant sort descend Into fair Phillis' lap, my lovely friend, When sleep her sense with slumber doth restrain. I would be changèd to a milk-white bull, When midst the gladsome fields she should appear, By pleasant fineness to surprise my dear, Whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull. I were content to weary out my pain, To be Narsissus so she were a spring, To drown in her those woes my heart do wring. And more; I wish transformèd to remain, That whilst I thus in pleasure's lap did lie, I might refresh desire, which else would die.

XXXV

I hope and fear, I pray and hold my peace, Now freeze my thoughts and straight they fry again, I now admire and straight my wonders cease, I loose my bonds and yet myself restrain; This likes me most that leaves me discontent, My courage serves and yet my heart doth fail, My will doth climb whereas my hopes are spent, I laugh at love, yet when he comes I quail; The more I strive, the duller bide I still. I would be thralled, and yet I freedom love, I would redress, yet hourly feed mine ill, I would repine, and dare not once reprove; And for my love I am bereft of power, And strengthless strive my weakness to devour.

XXXVI

If so I seek the shades, I presently do see The god of love forsakes his bow and sit me by; If that I think to write, his Muses pliant be If so I plain my grief, the wanton boy will cry, If I lament his pride, he doth increase my pain; If tears my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with moan; If I disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain, He takes his fascia off, and wipes them dry anon. If so I walk the woods, the woods are his delight; If I myself torment, he bathes him in my blood; He will my soldier be if once I wend to fight, If seas delight, he steers my bark amidst the hood. In brief, the cruel god doth never from me go, But makes my lasting love eternal with my woe.

XXXVII

These fierce incessant waves that stream along my face, Which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains, Fair Phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains; For why? Such streams of ruth within me find no place. These floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace And thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers Which from thy beauties spring; whereto I medley showers Of rose and lilies too, the colours of thy face. My love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is, The aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame, The limbec is mine eye that doth distil the same; And by how much my fire is violent and sly, By so much doth it cause the waters mount on high, That shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss.

XXXVIII

Who lives enthralled to Cupid and his flame, From day to day is changed in sundry sort; The proof whereof myself may well report, Who oft transformed by him may teach the same. I first was turned into a wounded hart, That bare the bloody arrow in my side; Then to a swan that midst the waters glide, With piteous voice presaged my deadly smart; Eftsoons I waxed a faint and fading flower; Then was I made a fountain sudden dry, Distilling all my tears from troubled eye; Now am I salamander by his power, Living in flames, but hope ere long to be A voice, to talk my mistress' majesty.

XXXIX

My matchless mistress, whose delicious eyes Have power to perfect nature's privy wants, Even when the sun in greatest pomp did rise, With pretty tread did press the tender plants. Each stalk whilst forth she stalks, to kiss her feet Is proud with pomp, and prodigal of sweet. Her fingers fair in favouring every flower That wooed their ivory for a wishèd touch, By chance--sweet chance!--upon a blessed hour Did pluck the flower where Love himself did couch. Where Love did couch by summer toil suppressed, And sought his sleeps within so sweet a nest. The virgin's hand that held the wanton thrall, Imprisoned him within the roseate leaves; And twixt her teats, with favour did install The lovely rose, where Love his rest receives. The lad that felt the soft and sweet so nigh, Drowned in delights, disdains his liberty; And said, let Venus seek another son, For here my only matchless mother is; From whose fair orient orbs the drink doth run, That deifies my state with greater bliss. This said, he sucked, my mistress blushing smiled, Since Love was both her prisoner and her child.

AN ODE

Now I find thy looks were feignèd, Quickly lost, and quickly gainèd; Soft thy skin, like wool of wethers, Heart unstable, light as feathers, Tongue untrusty, subtile-sighted, Wanton will, with change delighted, Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Of thine eyes, I made my mirror, From thy beauty came mine error, All thy words I counted witty, All thy smiles I deemèd pity. Thy false tears that me aggrievèd, First of all my trust deceivèd. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Feigned acceptance when I askèd, Lovely words with cunning maskèd, Holy vows but heart unholy; Wretched man, my trust was folly! Lily white and pretty winking, Solemn vows, but sorry thinking. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Now I see, O seemly cruel, Others warm them at my fuel! Wit shall guide me in this durance, Since in love is no assurance. Change thy pasture, take thy pleasure; Beauty is a fading treasure. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for this treason!

Prime youth lusts not age still follow, And make white these tresses yellow; Wrinkled face for looks delightful Shall acquaint the dame despightful; And when time shall eat thy glory, Then too late thou wilt be sorry. Siren pleasant, foe to reason, Cupid plague thee for thy treason!

XL

Resembling none, and none so poor as I, Poor to the world, and poor in each esteem, Whose first-born loves at first obscured did die, And bred no fame but flame of base misdeem, Under the ensign of whose tirèd pen, Love's legions forth have masked, by others masked; Think how I live wrongèd by ill-tongued men, Not master of myself, to all wrongs tasked! Oh thou that canst, and she that may do all things, Support these languishing conceits that perish! Look on their growth; perhaps these silly small things May win this wordly palm, so you do cherish. Homer hath vowed, and I with him do vow this, He will and shall revive, if you allow this.

LICIA

OR

POEMS OF LOVE IN HONOR OF THE ADMIRABLE AND SINGULAR VIRTUES OF HIS LADY, TO THE IMITATION OF THE BEST LATIN POETS AND OTHERS

BY

GILES FLETCHER, LL.D.

GILES FLETCHER, LL.D.

Giles Fletcher, author of _Licia_, was one of that distinguished family that included Richard Fletcher, the Bishop of London, and his son John Fletcher, the dramatist. The two sons of Dr. Giles Fletcher were also men of marked poetic ability: Phineas, the author of that extraordinary allegorical poem, _The Purple Island_; and Giles, of _Christ's Victory and Triumph_. There was a strong family feeling in this circle; Phineas and Giles pay compliments to each other in their verse and show great reverence and tenderness toward the memory of the poetic powers of their father. But Giles Fletcher the elder was not thought of in his own time as a poet. Educated at Eton and Trinity, Cambridge, where he was made LL.D. in 1581, a member of Parliament in '85, employed in many public services at home and abroad during a career that lasted until 1611, in which year Dr. Fletcher died at the age of seventy-two, he was known as a man of action, a man for public responsibility, rather than as the retired scholar or riming courtier. Most important among the foreign embassages undertaken by Fletcher was the one to Russia. The results were of great import to England, commercially and otherwise, but the book he wrote on his return was, for political reasons, suppressed.

It happened that the years of enforced idleness that followed the suppression of this book came in the time when the young sonneteers at London were all busy. He returned from his embassage in '89; the book was suppressed in '91. _Licia_ was published in '93. The writing of _Licia_ was "rather an effect than a cause of idleness;" he did it "only to try his humor," he says apologetically in the dedicatory addresses. "Whereas my thoughts and some reasons drew me rather to have dealt in causes of greater weight, yet the present jar of this disagreeing age drives me into a fit so melancholy, as I had only leisure to grow passionate."

In case wise heads should think him to be treating "an idle subject and so frivolous," or that it has been "vainly handled and so odious," he sets forth the nobility of his view. "Howsoever, Love in this age hath behaved himself in that loose manner as it is counted a disgrace to give him but a kind look, yet I take the passion in itself to be of that honor and credit, as it is a perfect resemblance of the greatest happiness, and rightly valued at his just price (in a mind that is sincerely and truly amorous), an affection of greatest virtue and able of himself to eternise the meanest vassal." "For Love," he declares, "is a goddess (pardon me though I speak like a poet) not respecting the contentment of him that loves, but the virtues of the beloved; satisfied with wondering, fed with admiration; respecting nothing but his lady's worthiness; made as happy by love as by all favors; chaste by honor; far from violence; respecting but one, and that one in such kindness, honesty, truth, constancy, and honor, as were all the world offered to make a change, yet the boot were too small and therefore bootless. This is love, and far more than this, which I know a vulgar head, a base mind, an ordinary conceit, a common person will not nor cannot have. Thus do I commend that love wherewith in these poems I have honoured the worthy Licia."

The sonnet-cycle is inscribed "To the worthie kinde wise and virtuous ladie, the Ladie Mollineux; wife to the right worshipful Sir Richard Mollineux Knight." Nothing is known of this lady, except that her family may possibly have been very distantly connected with that of Fletcher. What the poet's feeling was towards his patroness he defines sufficiently. "Now in that I have written love sonnets, if any man measure my affection by my style, let him say I am in love.... Yet take this by the way; though I am so liberal to grant thus much, a man may write of love and not be in love, as well as of husbandry and not go to the plough, or of witches and be none, or of holiness and be flat profane."

What "shadowings" the poet may intend he refuses to confide to us. "If thou muse what my Licia is, take her to be some Diana, at the least chaste; or some Minerva; no Venus, fairer far. It may be she is Learning's image, or some heavenly wonder, which the precisest may not dislike: perhaps under that name I have shadowed Discipline. It may be I mean that kind courtesy which I found at the patroness of these poems. It may be some college; it may be my conceit, and portend nothing." It is evident then that the patroness herself is not the real person behind the poetic title. He therefore dedicates _Licia_ to Lady Molineux, not because the sonnets themselves are addressed to her, but because he has received "favours undeserved" at her hands and those of "wise Sir Richard" for which he "wants means to make recompence," and therefore in the meantime he begs her to accept this. "If thou like it," he says to the reader, "take it, and thank the worthy Lady Mollineux, for whose sake thou hast it; worthy, indeed, and so not only reputed by me in private affection of thankfulness but so equally to be esteemed by all that know her. For if I had not received of her ... those unrequitable favours, I had not thus idly toyed."

A warm admirer of Fletcher has expressed his opinion that _Licia_ "sparkles with brilliants of the first water." A more temperate judgment is that of another, who says that he "took part without discredit in the choir of singers who were men of action too." _Licia_ is what a typical sonnet-cycle ought to be, a delicate and almost intangible thread of story on which are strung the separate sonnet-pearls. In this case the jewels have a particular finish. Fletcher has adopted the idea of a series of quatrains, often extending the number to four, and a concluding couplet, which he seems fond of utilising to give an epigrammatic finish to the ingenious incident he so often makes the subject of the sonnet. He is fully in the spirit of the Italian mode, however, acknowledging in his title page his indebtedness to poets of other nationalities than his own.

TO LICIA

THE WISE, KIND, VIRTUOUS, AND FAIR

Bright matchless star, the honour of the sky, From whose clear shine heaven's vault hath all his light, I send these poems to your graceful eye; Do you but take them, and they have their right. I build besides a temple to your name, Wherein my thoughts shall daily sing your praise; And will erect an altar for the same, Which shall your virtues and your honour raise. But heaven the temple of your honour is, Whose brasen tops your worthy self made proud; The ground an altar, base for such a bliss With pity torn, because I sighed so loud. And since my skill no worship can impart, Make you an incense of my loving heart. Sad all alone not long I musing sat, But that my thoughts compelled me to aspire, A laurel garland in my hand I gat; So the Muses I approached the nigher. My suite was this, a poet to become, To drink with them, and from the heavens be fed. Phoebus denied, and sware there was no room, Such to be poets as fond fancy led. With that I mourned and sat me down to weep. Venus she smiled, and smiling to me said, "Come, drink with me, and sit thee still and sleep." This voice I heard; and Venus I obeyed. That poison sweet hath done me all this wrong, For now of love must needs be all my song.

II