Chapter 4

Now from Leander's place she rose, and found Her hair and rent robe scatter'd on the ground; Which taking up, she every piece did lay Upon an altar, where in youth of day She us'd t' exhibit private sacrifice: Those would she offer to the deities Of her fair goddess and her powerful son, As relics of her late-felt passion; And in that holy sort she vow'd to end them, In hope her violent fancies, that did rend them, Would as quite fade in her love's holy fire, As they should in the flames she meant t' inspire. Then she put on all her religious weeds, That deck'd her in her secret sacred deeds; A crown of icicles, that sun nor fire Could ever melt, and figur'd chaste desire; A golden star shin'd in her naked breast, In honour of the queen-light of the east. In her right hand she held a silver wand, On whose bright top Peristera did stand, Who was a nymph, but now transform'd a dove, And in her life was dear in Venus' love; And for her sake she ever since that time Choos'd doves to draw her coach through heaven's blue clime. Her plenteous hair in curled billows swims On her bright shoulder: her harmonious limbs Sustain'd no more but a most subtile veil, That hung on them, as it durst not assail Their different concord; for the weakest air Could raise it swelling from her beauties fair; Nor did it cover, but adumbrate only Her most heart-piercing parts, that a blest eye Might see, as it did shadow, fearfully, All that all-love-deserving paradise: It was as blue as the most freezing skies; Near the sea's hue, for thence her goddess came: On it a scarf she wore of wondrous frame; In midst whereof she wrought a virgin's face, From whose each cheek a fiery blush did chase Two crimson flames, that did two ways extend, Spreading the ample scarf to either end; Which figur'd the division of her mind, Whiles yet she rested bashfully inclined, And stood not resolute to wed Leander; This serv'd her white neck for a purple sphere, And cast itself at full breadth down her back: There, since the first breath that begun the wrack Of her free quiet from Leander's lips, She wrought a sea, in one flame, full of ships; But that one ship where all her wealth did pass, Like simple merchants' goods, Leander was; For in that sea she naked figur'd him; Her diving needle taught him how to swim, And to each thread did such resemblance give, For joy to be so like him it did live: Things senseless live by art, and rational die By rude contempt of art and industry. Scarce could she work, but, in her strength of thought, She fear'd she prick'd Leander as she wrought, And oft would shriek so, that her guardian, frighted, Would staring haste, as with some mischief cited: They double life that dead things' grief sustain; They kill that feel not their friends' living pain. Sometimes she fear'd he sought her infamy; And then, as she was working of his eye, She thought to prick it out to quench her ill; But, as she prick'd, it grew more perfect still: Trifling attempts no serious acts advance; The fire of love is blown by dalliance. In working his fair neck she did so grace it, She still was working her own arms t' embrace it. That, and his shoulders, and his hands were seen Above the stream; and with a pure sea-green She did so quaintly shadow every limb, All might be seen beneath the waves to swim. In this conceited scarf she wrought beside A moon in change, and shooting stars did glide In number after her with bloody beams; Which figur'd her affects in their extremes, Pursuing nature in her Cynthian body, And did her thoughts running on change imply; For maids take more delight, when they prepare, And think of wives' states, than when wives they are. Beneath all these she wrought a fisherman, Drawing his nets from forth the ocean; Who drew so hard, ye might discover well The toughen'd sinews in his neck did swell: His inward strains drave out his blood-shot eyes And springs of sweat did in his forehead rise; Yet was of naught but of a serpent sped, That in his bosom flew and stung him dead: And this by Fate into her mind was sent, Not wrought by mere instinct of her intent. At the scarf's other end her hand did frame, Near the fork'd point of the divided flame, A country virgin keeping of a vine, Who did of hollow bulrushes combine Snares for the stubble-loving grasshopper, And by her lay her scrip that nourish'd her. Within a myrtle shade she sate and sung; And tufts of waving reeds about her sprung Where lurk'd two foxes, that, while she applied Her trifling snares, their thieveries did divide, One to the vine, another to her scrip, That she did negligently overslip; By which her fruitful vine and wholesome fare She suffer'd spoil'd, to make a childish snare. These ominous fancies did her soul express, And every finger made a prophetess, To show what death was hid in love's disguise, And make her judgment conquer Destinies. O, what sweet forms fair ladies' souls do shroud, Were they made seen and forced through their blood; If through their beauties, like rich work through lawn, They would set forth their minds with virtues drawn, In letting graces from their fingers fly, To still their eyas thoughts with industry: That their plied wits in number'd silks might sing Passion's huge conquest, and their needles leading Affection prisoner through their own-built cities, Pinion'd with stories and Arachnean ditties. Proceed we now with Hero's sacrifice: She odours burn'd, and from their smoke did rise Unsavoury fumes, that air with plagues inspir'd; And then the consecrated sticks she fir'd, On whose pale frame an angry spirit flew, And beat it down still as it upward grew; The virgin tapers that on th' altar stood, When she inflam'd them, burn'd as red as blood: All sad ostents of that too near success, That made such moving beauties motionless. Then Hero wept; but her affrighted eyes She quickly wrested from the sacrifice, Shut them, and inwards for Leander look'd. Search'd her soft bosom, and from thence she pluck'd His lovely picture: which when she had view'd, Her beauties were with all love's joys renew'd; The odours sweeten'd, and the fires burn'd clear, Leander's form left no ill object there: Such was his beauty, that the force of light, Whose knowledge teacheth wonders infinite, The strength of number and proportion, Nature had plac'd in it to make it known, Art was her daughter, and what human wits For study lost, entomb'd in drossy spirits. After this accident, (which for her glory Hero could not but make a history,) Th' inhabitants of Sestos and Abydos Did every year, with feasts propitious, To fair Leander's picture sacrifice: And they were persons of special price That were allow'd it, as an ornament T' enrich their houses, for the continent Of the strange virtues all approv'd it held; For even the very look of it repell'd All blastings, witchcrafts, and the strifes of nature In those diseases that no herbs could cure: The wolfy sting of avarice it would pull, And make the rankest miser bountiful; It kill'd the fear of thunder and of death; The discords that conceit engendereth 'Twixt man and wife, it for the time would cease; The flames of love it quench'd, and would increase; Held in a prince's hand, it would put out The dreadful'st comet; it would ease all doubt Of threatened mischiefs; it would bring asleep Such as were mad; it would enforce to weep Most barbarous eyes; and many more effects This picture wrought, and sprung Leandrian sects; Of which was Hero first; for he whose form, Held in her hand, clear'd such a fatal storm, From hell she thought his person would defend her, Which night and Hellespont would quickly send her. With this confirm'd, she vow'd to banish quite All thought of any check to her delight; And, in contempt of silly bashfulness, She would the faith of her desires profess, Where her religion should be policy, To follow love with zeal her piety; Her chamber her cathedral-church should be, And her Leander her chief diety; For in her love these did the gods forego; And though her knowledge did not teach her so, Yet did it teach her this, that what her heart Did greatest hold in her self-greatest part, That she did make her god; and 'twas less naught To leave gods in profession and in thought, Than in her love and life; for therein lies Most of her duties and their dignities; And, rail the brain-bald world at what it will, That's the grand atheism that reigns in it still. Yet singularity she would use no more, For she was singular too much before; But she would please the world with fair pretext; Love would not leave her conscience perplext: Great men that will have less do for them, still Must bear them out, though th' acts be ne'er so ill; Meanness must pander be to Excellence; Pleasure atones Falsehood and Conscience: Dissembling was the worst, thought Hero then, And that was best, now she must live with men. O virtuous love, that taught her to do best When she did worst, and when she thought it least! Thus would she still proceed in works divine, And in her sacred state of priesthood shine, Handling the holy rites with hands as bold, As if therein she did Jove's thunder hold, And need not fear those menaces of error, Which she at others threw with greatest terror. O lovely Hero, nothing is thy sin, Weigh'd with those foul faults other priests are in! That having neither faiths, nor works, nor beauties, T' engender any 'scuse for slubber'd duties, With as much countenance fill their holy chairs, And sweat denouncements 'gainst profane affairs, As if their lives were cut out by their places, And they the only fathers of the graces. Now, as with settled mind she did repair Her thoughts to sacrifice her ravish'd hair And her torn robe, which on the altar lay, And only for religion's fire did stay, She heard a thunder by the Cyclops beaten, In such a volley as the world did threaten, Given Venus as she parted th' airy sphere, Descending now to chide with Hero here: When suddenly the goddess' waggoners, The swans and turtles that, in coupled pheres, Through all worlds' bosoms draw her influence, Lighted in Hero's window, and from thence To her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves,-- Graceful Ædone that sweet pleasure loves, And ruff-foot Chreste with the tufted crown; Both which did kiss her, though their goddess frown. The swans did in the solid flood, her glass, Proin their fair plumes; of which the fairest was Jove-lov'd Leucote, that pure brightness is; The other bounty-loving Dapsilis, All were in heaven, now they with Hero were: But Venus' looks brought wrath, and urged fear. Her robe was scarlet; black her head's attire; And through her naked breast shin'd streams of fire, As when the rarified air is driven In flashing streams, and opes the darken'd heaven. In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore; And, breaking th' icy wreath sweet Hero wore, She forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew, And said, "Now, minion, to thy fate be true, Though not to me; endure what this portends: Begin where lightness will, in shame it ends. Love makes thee cunning; thou art current now, By being counterfeit: thy broken vow Deceit with her pied garters must rejoin, And with her stamp thou countenances must coin; Coyness, and pure deceits, for purities, And still a maid wilt seem in cozen'd eyes, And have an antic face to laugh within, While thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin, But since thy lips (least thought forsworn) forswore, Be never virgin's vow worth trusting more!" When Beauty's dearest did her goddess hear Breathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not clear, Dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood, That from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood, From the sweet conduits of her favour fell. The gentle turtles did with moans make swell Their shining gorges; the white black-ey'd swans Did sing as woful epicedians. As they would straightways die: when Pity's queen, The goddess Ecte, that had ever been Hid in a watery cloud near Hero's cries, Since the first instant of her broken eyes, Gave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak, To ease her anguish, whose swoln breast did break With anger at her goddess, that did touch Hero so near for that she us'd so much; And, thrusting her white neck at Venus, said: "Why may not amorous Hero seem a maid, Though she be none, as well as you suppress In modest cheeks your inward wantonness? How often have we drawn you from above, T' exchange with mortals rites for rites in love! Why in your priest, then, call you that offence, That shines in you, and is your influence?" With this, the Furies stopp'd Leucote's lips, Enjoin'd by Venus; who with rosy whips Beat the kind bird. Fierce lightning from her eyes Did set on fire fair Hero's sacrifice, Which was her torn robe and enforced hair; And the bright flame became a maid most fair For her aspect: her tresses were of wire, Knit like a net, where hearts, set all on fire, Struggled in pants, and could not get releast; Her arms were all with golden pincers drest, And twenty-fashion'd knots, pulleys, and brakes, And all her body girt with painted snakes; Her down-parts in a scorpion's tail combin'd, Freckled with twenty colours; pied wings shin'd Out of her shoulders; cloth had never dye, Nor sweeter colours never viewed eye, In scorching Turkey, Cares, Tartary, Than shin'd about this spirit notorious; Nor was Arachne's web so glorious. Of lightning, and of shreds she was begot; More hold in base dissemblers is there not. Her name was Eronusis. Venus flew From Hero's sight, and at her chariot drew This wondrous creature to so steep a height, That all the world she might command with sleight Of her gay wings; and then she bade her haste,-- Since Hero had dissembled, and disgrac'd Her rites so much,--and every breast infect With her deceits: she made her architect Of all dissimulation; and since then Never was any trust in maids or men. O, it spited Fair Venus' heart to see her most delighted, And one she choos'd, for temper of her mind, To be the only ruler of her kind, So soon to let her virgin race be ended! Not simply for the fault a whit offended, But that in strife for chasteness with the Moon, Spiteful Diana bade her show but one That was her servant vow'd, and liv'd a maid; And, now she thought to answer that upbraid, Hero had lost her answer: who knows not Venus would seem as far from any spot Of light demeanour, as the very skin 'Twixt Cynthia's brows? sin is asham'd of sin. Up Venus flew, and scarce durst up for fear Of Phœbe's laughter, when she pass'd her sphere: And so most ugly-clouded was the light, That day was hid in day; night came ere night; And Venus could not through the thick air pierce, Till the day's king, god of undaunted verse, Because she was so plentiful a theme To such as wore his laurel anademe, Like to a fiery bullet made descent, And from her passage those fat vapours rent, That, being not thoroughly rarified to rain, Melted like pitch, as blue as any vein; And scalding tempests made the earth to shrink Under their fervour, and the world did think In every drop a torturing spirit flew, It pierc'd so deeply, and it burn'd so blue. Betwixt all this and Hero, Hero held Leander's picture, as a Persian shield; And she was free from fear of worst success: The more ill threats us, we suspect the less: As we grow hapless, violence subtle grows, Dumb, deaf, and blind, and comes when no man knows.

THE FIFTH SESTIAD

THE ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH SESTIAD

Day doubles her accustomed date, As loath the Night, incens'd by Fate, Should wreck our lovers. Hero's plight; Longs for Leander and the night: Which ere her thirsty wish recovers, She sends for two betrothed lovers, And marries tham, that, with their crew, Their sports, and ceremonies due, She covertly might celebrate, With secret joy, her own estate. She makes a feast, at which appears The wild nymph Teras, that still bears An ivory lute, tells ominous tales, And sings at solemn festivals.

Now was bright Hero weary of the day, Thought an Olympiad in Leander's stay. Sol and the soft-foot Hours hung on his arms, And would not let him swim, forseeing his harms: That day Aurora double grace obtain'd, Of her love Phœbus; she his horses reign'd, Set on his golden knee, and, as she list, She pull'd him back; and, as she pull'd, she kiss'd, To have him turn to bed: he lov'd her more, To see the love Leander Hero bore: Examples profit much; ten times in one, In persons full of note, good deeds are done. Day was so long, men walking fell asleep; The heavy humours that their eyes did steep Made them fear mischiefs. The hard streets were beds For covetous churls and for ambitious heads, That, spite of Nature, would their business ply: All thought they had the falling epilepsy, Men grovell'd so upon the smother'd ground; And pity did the heart of Heaven confound. The Gods, the Graces, and the Muses came Down to the Destinies, to stay the frame Of the true lovers' deaths, and all world's tears: But Death before had stopp'd their cruel ears. All the celestials parted mourning then, Pierc'd with our human miseries more than men: Ah, nothing doth the world with mischief fill, But want of feeling one another's ill! With their descent the day grew something fair, And cast a brighter robe upon the air. Hero, to shorten time with merriment, For young Alcmane and bright Mya sent, Two lovers that had long crav'd marriage-dues At Hero's hands: but she did still refuse; For lovely Mya was her consort vow'd In her maid state, and therefore not allow'd To amorous nuptials: yet fair Hero now Intended to dispense with her cold vow, Since hers was broken, and to marry her: The rites would pleasing matter minister To her conceits, and shorten tedious day. They came; sweet Music usher'd th' odorous way, And wanton Air in twenty sweet forms danc'd After her fingers; Beauty and Love advanc'd Their ensigns in the downless rosy faces Of youths and maids, led after by the Graces. For all these Hero made a friendly feast, Welcom'd them kindly, did much love protest, Winning their hearts with all the means she might, That, when her fault should chance t' abide the light, Their loves might cover or extenuate it, And high in her worst fate make pity sit. She married them; and in the banquet came, Borne by the virgins. Hero striv'd to frame Her thoughts to mirth: ay me! but hard it is To imitate a false and forced bliss; Ill may a sad mind forge a merry face, Nor hath constrained laughter any grace. Then laid she wines on cares to make them sink: Who fears the threats of Fortune, let him drink. To these quick nuptials enter'd suddenly Admired Teras with the ebon thigh; A nymph that haunted the green Sestian groves, And would consort soft virgins in their loves, At gaysome triumphs and on solemn days, Singing prophetic elegies and lays, And fingering of a silver lute she tied With black and purple scarfs by her left side. Apollo gave it, and her skill withal, And she was term'd his dwarf, she was so small: Yet great in virtue, for his beams enclos'd His virtues in her; never was propos'd Riddle to her, or augury, strange or new, But she resolv'd it; never slight tale flew From her charm'd lips without important sense, Shown in some grave succeeding consequence. This little sylvan, with her songs and tales, Gave such estate to feasts and nuptials, That though ofttimes she forewent tragedies, Yet for her strangeness still she pleas'd their eyes; And for her smallness they admir'd her so, They thought her perfect born, and could not grow. All eyes were on her. Hero did command An altar deck'd with sacred state should stand At the feast's upper end, close by the bride, On which the pretty nymph might sit espied. Then all were silent; every one so hears, As all their senses climb'd into their ears: And first this amorous tale, that fitted well Fair Hero and the nuptials, she did tell.

_The Tale of Teras_