Part 1

Transcriber’s Note: Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original printing. Some minor errors in punctuation and capitalisation have been corrected, and some changes to the text are listed at the end.

SIR P. S. HIS ASTROPHEL AND _STELLA_.

Wherein the excellence of sweete Poesie is concluded.

At London, Printed for Thomas Newman. _Anno Domini._ 1591.

SIR P. S. HIS ASTROPHEL AND _STELLA_.

Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show, That the deere _Shee_, might take some pleasure of my paine: Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine. I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine, Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe, Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine. But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay, Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes: And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way, Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes, Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite: Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot, Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede: But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede, Till by degrees it had full conquest got. I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not, I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede: At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede: Yet with repining at so partiall lot. Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite: I call it praise to suffer tyrannie, And now imploy the remnant of my wit To make my selfe believe that all is well, While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine, That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde: Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine, Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold: Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine, Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old: Or with strange similes, inricht each line, Of hearbes or beasts, which _Inde_ or _Affricke_ hold. For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know, Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe. And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites, How then? even thus in _Stellas_ face I reede, What love and beautie be, then all my deede But coppying is, what in her nature writes.

Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest, Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit; If vaine love have my simple soule opprest, Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it. Thy Scepter use in some olde _Catoes_ brest, Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit: I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,) My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit. But if that needes, thou wilt usurping bee The little reason that is left in mee. And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove, I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee, That shrines in flesh so true a deitie, That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.

It is most true, that eyes are found to serve The inward light: and that the heavenly part Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve, Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart. It is most true, what wee call _Cupids_ dart, An Image is, which for ourselves we carve: And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart, Till that good God make church and Church-men starve. True that true beautie vertue is in deede, Whereof this beautie can but be a shade: Which Elements with mortall mixture breede, True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made, And should in soule, up to our Country move: True and most true, that I must _Stella_ love.

Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires, Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine; Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres. Some one his songs in _Jove_ and _Joves_ straunge tales attyres, Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine: Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres, Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine. To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes, Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move. I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they, But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display, When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do _Stella_ love.

When nature made her chiefe worke, _Stella’s_ eyes, In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright? Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise, Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light? Or did she els that sober hewe devise, In object best, to strength and knitt our sighte Least if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise, They Sun-like should more dazell than delight. Or would she her miraculous power shewe, That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie, Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flower Both so and thus; she minding Love should bee Plaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede: To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.

Love borne in _Greece_, of late fled from his native place, Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hart Were no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart: And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race. But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace, Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some part Where with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art. At length he preach’d himselfe in _Stellas_ joyfull face, Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow: Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light, Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe. But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flight To my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay, He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.

Queene Vertues Court, which some call _Stellas_ face, Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture: Hath his front built of Alabaster pure. Gold is the covering of that statelie place. The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her grace Red Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure: Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure, Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace. The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guest Lookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such, Which dare claime from those lights the name of best, Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch, Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe: Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.

Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that still Would’st brabling be, with sence and love in me: I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill, Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree: Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see: Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till? Leave sence and those that sences objects be, Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will. But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence, With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise: Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence, So soone as they strake thee with _Stellas_ rayes. Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove; By reason good, good reason her to love.

In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kinde Thou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies; That when the heaven to thee his best displaies, Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde. That like a Childe that some faire booke doth finde With gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playes Or at the most on some faire picture stares, But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde. So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet, _Stella_, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes: In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set, And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes, Playing and shining in each outward part: But foole seekst not to get into her hart.

_Cupid_ because thou shin’st in _Stellas_ eyes, That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free: That those lips swelde so full of thee they be. That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise, That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes, That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee, What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee: That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes. Thou countest _Stella_ thine, like those whose powres Having got up a breach; (by fighting well) Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours: Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell. So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine: That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.

_Phœbus_ was Judge, betweene _Jove_, _Mars,_ & love, Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were: _Joves_ golden shield, did Eagle Sables beare: Whose talents held young _Ganimede_ above. But in verde fielde, _Mars_ bare a golden Speare, Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove: Each had his Crest, _Mars_ carried _Venus_ glove. _Jove_ on his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare. _Cupid_ then smiles, for on his crest there lyes _Stellas_ faire haire, her face he makes his shielde: Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde. _Phœbus_ drewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes To blase the last, and swore devoutly then: The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.

Alas, have I not paine enough my friend, Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre, Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre; While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend, But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend, To greeve me worse in saying, that desier Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende. If that be sinne which doth the manners frame, Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede, Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame; If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede, A loathing of all lose unchastitie; Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.

You that do search for every purling spring, Which from the rybs of old _Parnassus_ flowes, And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes Neere there about, into your Poesie wring. Ye that do Dictionaries method bring Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes, You that poore _Petrarchs_ long deceased woes With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing; You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such, As doe bewray a want of inward tutch, And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light. But if both for your love and skill you name, You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame, _Stella_ behold and then begin t’endite.

In nature apt to like, when I did see Beauties which were of many Carrects fine, My boyling spirits did thether soone encline, And Love I thought that I was full of thee; But finding not those restles flames in mee Which others said did make their soules to pyne, I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine: By my love judging what loves paines might be. But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid, Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld _Stella_: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd? In her sight I a lesson new have speld. I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so, As who by being poysond doth poyson know.

His mother deere _Cupid_ offended late, Because that _Mars_ grew slacker in her love, With pricking shot he did not throughly move To keepe the pace of their first loving state: The boy refusde, for feare of _Marses_ hate; Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove: But she in chafe him from her lap did shove, Brake bowe, brake shafts, where _Cupid_ weeping sate, Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it, Of _Stellas_ browes made him two better bowes: And in her eyes of arrowes infinit. O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes; And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play: Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.

With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent, When into Reasons Audit I doe goe: And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt know Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent, Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent, Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe: And which is worse, no good excuse can showe, But that my wealth I have most idely spent, My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes, My wit doth strive, those passions to defende Which for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes; I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende. I see and yet no greater sorrowe take Than that I looke no more for _Stellas_ sake.

On _Cupids_ bowe, how are my hart strings bent? That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same: When most I glorie, then I feele most shame; I willing run, yet while I runne repent; My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent, My verie ynke, turnes straight to _Stella’s_ name: And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame) Against themselves that they are vainely spent. For though she passe all things, yet what is all That unto me, who fare like him that both Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall, O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth And not in nature, for best fruits unfit; Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.

Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye; See there that boy, that murthering boy I say, Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye, Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray. So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay: As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye. There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye. Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did, And staid pleasd with prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid, But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace, And there descried the glisterings of his dart: But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.

Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame. My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so: That my owne writings like bad servants showe My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame; That _Plato_ I reade for nought, but if he tame Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe Great expectation were a traine of shame. For since mad _March_ great promise made to mee, If now the _May_ of my yeeres much decline, What can be hop’d my harvest time will be, Sure you say well, your wisedomes golden myne Digs deepe with learnings spade: now tell me this, Hath this world ought so faire as _Stella_ is?

In highest way of heaven the Sunne did ride, Progressing then from fayre Twynns golden place, Having no maske of Clowdes before his face, But shining forth of heat in his chiefe pride, When some faire Ladies by hard promise tyde, On horsebacke met him in his furious race, Yet each prepar’de with Fannes well shading grace, From that foes wounds their tender skinnes to hide. _Stella_ alone, with face unarmed marcht, Either to doe like him, which open shone: Or carelesse of the welth, because her owne. Yet were the hid and meaner beauties parcht, Her dainties bare went free; the cause was this, The Sunne which others burnt, did her but kisse.

The curious wits, seeing dull pensivenes Bewray it selfe in my long setled eyes: Whence those same fumes of mellancholie rise, With idle paines and missing ayme do gesse; Some that know how, my spring I did adresse, Deem’d that my Muse some fruite of knowledge plyes: Others, because the Prince my service tryes, Thinke that I thinke, State errors to redresse; But harder Judges, judge ambitious rage, (Scourge of it selfe, still clyming slippery place) Holds my young braine captiv’d in golden cage. O fooles, or over-wise, alas the case; Of all my thoughts have neither stop nor start, But onely _Stellas_ eyes, and _Stellas_ hart.

Rich fooles there there be, whose base and filthie hart, Lyes hatching still the goods wherein they flow: And damning their owne selves to _Tantal’s_ smart, Welth breeding want, more rich, more wretched grow. Yet to those fooles, heaven doth such wit impart, As what their hands doe hold, their heads doe know. And knowing love, and loving lay apart, As scattered things, farre from all dangers show. But that rich foole, who by blind Fortunes lot, The richest gem of love and life enjoyes, And can with foule abuse such beauties blot: Let him deprived of sweet, but unfelt joyes Exilde for aye, from those high treasures which He knowes not grow, in onely follie rich.

The wisest scholler of the wight most wise, By _Phœbus_ doome, with sugred sentence sayes: That vertue if it once meete with our eyes, Strange flames of love it in our soules would rayse. But for that man with paine this truth discries, While he each thing in sences ballance wayes, And so, nor will nor can behold those skyes, Which inward Summe to heroicke mindes displaies. Vertue of late with vertuous care to stir Love of himselfe, takes _Stellas_ shape, that hee To mortall eyes might sweetly shine in her. It is most true, for since I her did see, Vertues great beautie in her face I prove, And finde th’ effect, for I doe burne in love.

Though duskie wits dare scorne Astrologie, And fooles can thinke those lampes of purest light, Whose number, waies, greatnes, eternitie, Promising wondrous wonders to invite, To have for no cause birth-right in the skyes. But for to spangle the blacke weedes of Night, Or for some Braule which in that Chamber hie, They should still daunce to please a gazers sight. For mee I doe Nature unydle know, And know great causes, great effects procure, And know those bodies high, raigne on the low. And if these rules did fayle, proofe makes me sure, Who oft foresee my after following case, By onely those two starres in _Stella’s_ face.

Because I oft in darke abstracted guise, Seeme most alone in greatest company, With dearth of words, and aunswers quite awry, To them that would make speech of speech arise; They deeme, and of their doome the rumor flies, That poyson foule of bubling pride doth lie So in my swelling brest, that onely I Faune on my selfe, all others doe dispise: Yet pride (I thinke) doth not my soule possesse, (Which lookes too oft in this unflattering glasse) But one worse fault, ambition I confesse, That makes me oft my best freends over-passe, Unseene unheard, while thought to highest place Bends all his powers, even unto _Stellas_ grace.

You that with allegories curious frame Of others children changelings use to make, With mee those paines for good now doe not take, I list not dig so deepe for brasen fame. When I see _Stella_, I doe meane the same Princesse of beautie, for whose onely sake, The raynes of love I love, though never slake; And joy therein, though Nations count it shame: I begge no subject to use eloquence, Nor in hid waies to guide Philosophie, Looke at my hands for no such quintessence, But know that I in pure simplicitie, Breath out the flames which burn within my hart, Love only leading me into this arte.

Like some weake Lords Neighbord by mightie kings, To keepe themselves and their chiefe Cities free, Doe easily yeelde, that all their coast may be Readie to serve their Campe of needfull things: So _Stellas_ hart finding what power Love brings, To keepe it selfe in life and libertie, Doth willing graunt that in the Frontire he Use all to help his other conquerings. And thus her hart escapes, but thus her eyes Serve him with shot, her lips his Heralds are, Her brests his Tents, legges his tryumphall Chare, Herselfe his foode, her skin his Armour brave. And I but for because my prospect lyes: Upon that coast, am given up for slave.

Whether the Turkish new Moone minded be, To fill her hornes this yeere on Christian coast, How Polands King mindes without leave of hoast, To warme with ill made fire cold _Muscovie_, If French can yet three parts in one agree, What now the Dutch in their full diets boast, How Holland harts, now so good Townes are lost, Trust in the shade of pleasing Orange tree. How Ulster likes of the same goldenbitt, Wherewith my Father made it once halfe tame, If in the Scottish Court be weltering yet; These questions busie wits to me do frame, I combered with good manners, aunswere doe, But know not how, for still I thinke on _you_.

With how sad steps ô Moone thou clim’st the skyes, How silently, and with how meane a face, What may it be, that even in heavenly place, That busie Archer his sharpe Arrowes tryes? Sure if that long with love acquainted eyes Can judge of love, thou feelst of Lovers case, I reade within thy lookes thy languisht grace. To mee that feele the like, my state discries. Then even of fellowship ô Moone tell me, Is constant love deemde there but want of wit? Are beauties there, as proude as here there be? Doe they above, love to be lov’d, and yet Those Lovers scorne, whom that love doth possesse? Doe they call vertue there ungratefulnesse?

_Morpheus_ the lively sonne of deadlie Sleepe, Witnes of life to them that living die: A Prophet oft, and oft an Historie, A Poet eake as humors flye and creepe: Since thou in me so sure a power doost keepe, That never I with clos’d up fence doe lye, But by thy worke, my _Stella_ I discry, Teaching blind eyes both how to smile and weepe, Vouchsafe of all acquaintance this to tell, Whence hast thou Ivorie, Rubies, Pearle, and Golde, To shew _her_ skin, lips, teeth, and head so well? (Foole aunswers he) no _Indes_ such treasures hold, But from thy hart, while my Sire charmeth thee, Sweet _Stellas_ Image I do steale to mee.

I might, unhappy word, (woe me) I might, And then would not, nor could not see my blisse: Till now, wrapt in a most infernall Night, I finde, how heavenly day (wretch) did I misse; Hart rent thy selfe, thou doost thy selfe but right. No lovely _Paris_ made thy _Helen_ his, No force, no fraude, robd thee of thy delight, Nor fortune of thy fortune Author is; But to my selfe, my selfe did give the blow, While too much wit forsooth so trubled me, That I respects for both our sakes must show, And yet could not by rysing morne fore-see, How faire a day was neere, (ô punisht eyes) That I had beene more foolish, or more wise.