Part 19

=Colin.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O harmful death! O deadly harm! Unhappy Albion! When shalt thou see emong thy shepherds all Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath Envy could touch for virtuous life and skill: Courteous, valiant, and liberal. Behold the sacred PALES! where with hair Untrusst, she sits in shade of yonder hill; And her fair face bent sadly down, doth send A flood of tears to bathe the earth: and there Doth call the heavens despiteful, envious; Cruel his fate, that made so short an end Of that same life, well worthy to have been Prolonged with many years, happy and famous. The Nymphs and Oreades her round about Do sit lamenting on the grassy green; And with shrill cries, beating their whitest breasts, Accuse the direful dart that DEATH sent out To give the fatal stroke. The stars they blame; That deaf or careless seem at their request. The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun. They leave their crystal springs, where they wont frame Sweet bowers of myrtle twigs and laurel fair; To sport themselves free from the scorching sun. And now the hollow caves, where HORROR dark Doth dwell, whence banished is the gladsome air They seek; and there in mourning spend their time With wailful tunes; whiles wolves do howl and bark, And seem to bear a bourdon to their plaint.

=Lycon.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O doleful rhyme! Why should my tongue express thee? Who is left Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint; LYCON unfortunate? What spiteful fate? What luckless destiny hath thee bereft Of thy chief comfort, of thy only stay? Where is become thy wonted happy state? Alas, wherein through many a hill and dale, Through pleasant woods, and many an unknown way, Along the banks of many silver streams, Thou with him yodest; and with him did scale The craggy rocks of th'Alps and Appennine? Still with the Muses sporting, while those beams Of virtue kindled in his noble breast; Which after did so gloriously forth shine? But, woe is me, they now yquenched are All suddenly, and death hath them oppressed, Lo, father NEPTUNE! with sad countenance, How he sits mourning on the strond now bare Yonder; where th'OCEAN with his rolling waves The white feet washeth, wailing this mischance, Of Dover cliffs. His sacred skirt about The sea gods all are set; from their moist caves, All for his comfort gathered there they be. The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout, The fruitful Severn, with the rest; are come To help their lord to mourn, and eke to see The doleful sight, and sad pomp funeral Of the dead corps passing through his kingdom; And all their heads with cypress garlands crowned: With woeful shrieks salute him, great and small. Eke wailful ECHO, forgetting her dear NARCISSUS, their last accents doth resound.

=Colin.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O luckless age! O widow world! O brooks and fountains clear! O hills! O dales! O woods that oft have rung With his sweet carolling, which could assuage The fiercest wrath of tiger or of bear! Ye sylvans, fawns and satyrs, that emong These thickets oft have danced after his pipe! Ye Nymphs and Naiads with golden hair That oft have left your purest crystal springs To hearken to his lays, that coulden wipe Away all grief and sorrow from your hearts! Alas! who now is left that like him sings? When shall you hear again like harmony? So sweet a sound, who to you now imparts? Lo where engravèd by his hand yet lives The name of STELLA in yonder bay tree. Happy name! happy tree! Fair may you grow And spread your sacred branch, which honour gives, To famous emperors; and poets crown. Unhappy flock! that wander scattered now. What marvel if through grief, ye woxen lean, Forsake your food, and hang your heads adown? For such a shepherd never shall you guide; Whose parting, hath of weal bereft you clean.

=Lycon.= PHILLISIDES is dead! O happy sprite! That now in heaven with blessèd souls dost bide. Look down awhile from where thou sitt'st above, And see how busy shepherds be to indite Sad songs of grief, their sorrows to declare; And grateful memory of their kind love. Behold myself with COLIN gentle swain, Whose learned Muse thou cherisht most whilere, Where we thy name recording, seek to ease The inward torment and tormenting pain That thy departure to us both hath bred; Ne can each other's sorrow yet appease. Behold the fountains now left desolate, And withered grass with cypress boughs bespread! Behold these flowers which on thy grave we strew! Which faded, show the givers' faded state; (Though eke they show their fervent zeal and pure) Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew. Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for aye, That to thy ashes, rest they may assure; That learnedst shepherds honour may thy name With yearly praises; and the nymphs alway, Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowers; And that for ever may endure thy fame.

=Colin.= The sun, lo, hastened hath his face to steep In western waves, and th'air with stormy showers, Warns us to drive homewards our silly sheep. LYCON! let's rise, and take of them good keep.

_Virtute summa; cætera fortuna._

=L. B.=

_An Elegy, or Friend's Passion_ _for his ASTROPHIL._

_Written upon the death of the Right Honourable Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Knight, Lord Governor of Flushing._

As then, no wind at all there blew, No swelling cloud accloyed the air, The sky, like grass of watchet hue, Reflected PHŒBUS' golden hair; The garnished tree no pendant stirred, No voice was heard of any bird.

There might you see the burly bear, The lion king, the elephant. The maiden unicorn was there, So was ACTÆON'S horned plant: And what of wild or tame are found, Were couched in order on the ground.

ALCIDES' speckled poplar tree; The palm that monarchs do obtain; With love juice stained, the mulberry, The fruit that dews the poet's brain; And PHILLIS' filbert there away Compared with myrtle and the bay:

The tree that coffins doth adorn, With stately height threat'ning the sky, And for the bed of love forlorn, The black and doleful ebony: All in a circle compassed were Like to an amphitheatre.

Upon the branches of those trees, The air-winged people sat, Distinguishèd in odd degrees; One sort is this, another that. Here PHILOMEL that knows full well What force and wit in love doth dwell.

The sky-bred eagle, royal bird, Perched there upon an oak above; The turtle by him never stirred, Example of immortal love. The swan that sings about to die; Leaving MEANDER, stood thereby.

And that which was of wonder most, The Phœnix left sweet Araby; And on a cedar in this coast, Built up her tomb of spicery. As I conjecture by the same, Prepared to take her dying flame.

In midst and centre of this plot, I saw one grovelling on the grass; A man or stone, I knew not what. No stone; of man, the figure was. And yet I could not count him one, More than the image made of stone.

At length I might perceive him rear His body on his elbows' end: Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer, Upon his knees he upward tend; Seeming like one in uncouth stound, To be ascending out the ground.

A grievous sigh forthwith he throws, As might have torn the vital strings; Then down his cheeks the tears so flows As doth the stream of many springs. So thunder rends the cloud in twain, And makes a passage for the rain.

Incontinent with trembling sound, He woefully 'gan to complain; Such were the accents as might wound, And tear a diamond rock in twain. After his throbs did somewhat stay, Thus heavily he 'gan to say.

"O sun!" said he, seeing the sun, "On wretched me, why dost thou shine? My star is fallen, my comfort done; Out is the apple of my eyen. Shine upon those possess delight, And let me live in endless night!"

"O grief! that liest upon my soul, As heavy as a mount of lead; The remnant of my life control, Consort me quickly with the dead! Half of this heart, this sprite and will, Died in the breast of ASTROPHIL."

"And you compassionate of my woe, Gentle birds, beasts, and shady trees! I am assured ye long to know What be the sorrows me aggrieves; Listen ye then to what ensu'th, And hear a tale of tears and ruth."

"You knew, who knew not ASTROPHIL? (That I should live to say I knew, And have not in possession still!) Things known, permit me to renew: Of him you know, his merit such, I cannot say, you hear too much."

"Within these woods of Arcady, His chief delight and pleasure took: And on the mountain Partheny, Upon the crystal liquid brook, The Muses met him every day; That taught him sing, to write, and say."

"When he descended down the mount, His personage seemed most divine; A thousand graces one might count Upon his lovely cheerful eyen: To hear him speak, and sweetly smile; You were in Paradise the while."

"A sweet attractive kind of grace; A full assurance given by looks; Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books. I trow that countenance cannot lie, Whose thoughts are legible in the eye."

"Was ever eye did see that face; Was never ear did hear that tongue; Was never mind did mind his grace; That ever thought the travail long: But eyes and ears and every thought, Were with his sweet perfections caught."

"O GOD! that such a worthy man, In whom so rare deserts did reign; Desired thus, must leave us then: And we to wish for him in vain. O could the stars that bred that wit, In force no longer fixèd sit."

"Then being filled with learned dew, The Muses willèd him to love: That instrument can aptly show, How finely our conceits will move. As BACCHUS opes dissembled hearts, So LOVE sets out our better parts."

"STELLA, a nymph within this wood, Most rare, and rich of heavenly bliss; The highest in his fancy stood, And she could well demerit this. 'Tis likely, they acquainted soon: He was a sun, and she a moon."

"Our ASTROPHIL did STELLA love. O STELLA! vaunt of ASTROPHIL! Albeit thy graces gods may move; Where wilt thou find an ASTROPHIL? The rose and lily have their prime; And so hath beauty but a time,"

"Although thy beauty do exceed In common sight of every eye; Yet in his poesies when we read, It is apparent more thereby. He that hath love and judgment too, Sees more than any others do."

"Then ASTROPHIL hath honoured thee. For when thy body is extinct, Thy graces shall eternal be. And live by virtue of his ink. For by his verses he doth give To shortlived beauty aye to live."

"Above all others this is he, Which erst approvèd in his song That love and honour might agree, And that pure love will do no wrong. Sweet saints! it is no sin nor blame To love a man of virtuous name."

"Did never love so sweetly breathe In any mortal breast before? Did never Muse inspire beneath, A poet's brain with finer store? He wrote of love with high conceit; And beauty reared above her height."

"Then PALLAS afterward attired Our ASTROPHIL with her device, Whom in his armour heaven admired, As of the nation of the skies: He sparkled in his arms afar, As he were dight with fiery stars."

"The blaze whereof, when MARS beheld (An envious eye doth see afar) 'Such majesty,' quoth he, 'is seld. Such majesty, my mart may mar. Perhaps this may a suitor be To set MARS by his deity.'"

"In this surmise, he made with speed An iron can, wherein he put The thunders that in clouds do breed; The flame and bolt together shut, With privy force burst out again; And so our ASTROPHIL was slain."

His word, "was slain," straightway did move, And Nature's inward life-strings twitch, The sky immediately above, Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch. The wrastling winds, from out the ground Filled all the air with rattling sound.

The bending trees expressed a groan, And sighed the sorrow of his fall; The forest beasts made ruthful moan; The birds did tune their mourning call, And PHILOMEL for ASTROPHIL, Unto her notes, annexed a "phil."

The turtle dove with tones of ruth, Showed feeling passion of his death; Methought she said "I tell thee truth, Was never he that drew in breath, Unto his love more trusty found, Than he for whom our griefs abound."

The swan that was in presence here, Began his funeral dirge to sing; "Good things," quoth he, "may scarce appear; But pass away with speedy wing. This mortal life as death is tried, And death gives life, and so he died."

The general sorrow that was made Among the creatures of kind, Fired the Phœnix where she laid, Her ashes flying with the wind. So as I might with reason see That such a Phœnix ne'er should be.

Haply, the cinders driven about, May breed an offspring near that kind; But hardly a peer to that, I doubt: It cannot sink into my mind That under branches e'er can be, Of worth and value as the tree.

The eagle marked with piercing sight The mournful habit of the place; And parted thence with mounting flight, To signify to JOVE the case: What sorrow Nature doth sustain, For ASTROPHIL, by ENVY slain.

And while I followed with mine eye The flight the eagle upward took; All things did vanish by and by, And disappearèd from my look. The trees, beasts, birds and grove were gone: So was the friend that made this moan.

This spectacle had firmly wrought A deep compassion in my sprite; My molten heart issued, methought, In streams forth at mine eyes aright: And here my pen is forced to shrink; My tears discolour so mine ink.

_An Epitaph upon the Right Honourable_ Sir PHILIP SIDNEY, Knight, Lord Governor of Flushing._

To praise thy life or wail thy worthy death; And want thy wit, thy wit pure, high, divine: Is far beyond the power of mortal line, Nor any one hath worth that draweth breath.

Yet rich in zeal, though poor in learning's lore; And friendly care obscured in secret breast, And love that envy in thy life supprest, Thy dear life done, and death hath doubled more.

And I, that in thy time and living state, Did only praise thy virtues in my thought; As one that seld the rising sun hath sought: With words and tears now wail thy timeless fate.

Drawn was thy race aright from princely line, Nor less than such (by gifts that Nature gave, The common mother that all creatures have) Doth virtue show, and princely lineage shine.

A King gave thee thy name; a kingly mind That GOD thee gave: who found it now too dear For this base world; and hath resumed it near, To sit in skies, and 'sort with powers divine.

Kent, thy birthdays; and Oxford held thy youth. The heavens made haste, and stayed nor years nor time; The fruits of age grew ripe in thy first prime: Thy will, thy words; thy words, the seals of truth.

Great gifts and wisdom rare employed thee thence, To treat from kings, with those more great than kings. Such hope men had to lay the highest things On thy wise youth, to be transported thence.

Whence to sharp wars, sweet Honour did thee call, Thy country's love, religion, and thy friends: Of worthy men, the marks, the lives and ends; And her defence, for whom we labour all.

These didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age, Grief, sorrow, sickness and base fortune's might. Thy rising day saw never woeful night, But passed with praise from off this worldly stage.

Back to the camp, by thee that day was brought First, thine own death; and after, thy long fame; Tears to the soldiers; the proud Castilians' shame; Virtue expressed; and honour truly taught.

What hath he lost? that such great grace hath won. Young years, for endless years; and hope unsure Of fortune's gifts, for wealth that still shall 'dure. O happy race! with so great praises run.

England doth hold thy limbs, that bred the same; Flanders, thy valour: where it last was tried. The camp, thy sorrow; where thy body died. Thy friends, thy want; the world, thy virtue's fame.

Nations, thy wit; our minds lay up thy love. Letters, thy learning; thy loss, years long to come. In worthy hearts, sorrow hath made thy tomb; Thy soul and sprite enrich the heavens above.

Thy liberal heart embalmed in grateful tears, Young sighs, sweet sighs, sage sighs bewail thy fall. ENVY, her sting; and SPITE, hath left her gall. MALICE herself, a mourning garment wears.

That day their HANNIBAL died, our SCIPIO fell: SCIPIO, CICERO, and PETRARCH of our time: Whose virtues, wounded by my worthless rhyme, Let angels speak; and heaven, thy praises tell.

_Another of the same._

Silence augmenteth grief! writing increaseth rage! Stald are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age. Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write, I know not what. Dead, quick, I know not how.

Hard-hearted minds relent, and RIGOUR'S tears abound, And ENVY strangely rues his end, in whom no fault she found; KNOWLEDGE her light hath lost; VALOUR hath slain her Knight: SIDNEY is dead! Dead is my friend! Dead is the world's delight.

PLACE pensive wails his fall, whose presence was her pride. TIME crieth out "my ebb is come; his life was my springtide." FAME mourns in that she lost the ground of her reports. Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.

He was (woe worth that word!) to each well-thinking mind, A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined: Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ; Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He only like himself, was second unto none, Whose death (though life) we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan. Their loss, not him; wail they, that fill the world with cries. DEATH slew not him; but he made death his ladder to the skies.

Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong, Who wishing death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long; Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief, Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief.

Heartsease and only I like parallels run on, Whose equal length keep equal breadth, and never meet in one: Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell, Shall not run out; though leak they will, for liking him so well.

Farewell to you! my hopes, my wonted waking dreams. Farewell sometimes enjoyèd joy! Eclipsèd are thy beams. Farewell self-pleasing thoughts! which quietness brings forth. And farewell friendship's sacred league! uniting minds of worth.

And farewell, merry heart! the gift of guiltless minds; And all sports! which for life's restore, variety assigns. Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirth may dwell. PHILIP, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell!

Now rhyme, the son of rage, which art no kin to skill; And endless grief which deads my life, yet knows not how to kill: Go, seek that hapless tomb! which if ye hap to find; Salute the stones that keep the limbs that held so good a mind.

_FINIS._

_ALCILIA:_

_PHILOPARTHEN's

Loving Folly._

_Non Deus_ (_ut perhibent_) _amor est_, _sed amaror_, _et error._

AT LONDON.

_Printed by R. R. for William Mattes_, dwelling in Fleet street, at the sign of the _Hand and Plough._

1595.

[The only copy of the 1595 edition, at present known, is in the City Library, at Hamburg.

It was recovered, and reprinted in 1875 by Herr WILHELM WAGNER, Ph.D., in Vol. X. of the _Deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft Jahrbuch;_ copies of this particular text being also separately printed.

A limited Subscription edition, of fifty-one copies, was printed by Rev. A. B. GROSART, LL.D., F.S.A., of Blackburn, in 1879: with a fresh collation of the text by B. S. LEESON, Esq., of Hamburg.

The present modernized text is based on a comparison of the above two reprints of the 1595 edition with the text of the London edition of 1613 in which some headings therein inserted between [ ], on _pp._ 256, 276, 278) first occur.]

_A Letter written by a Gentleman to the Author, his friend._

FRIEND PHILOPARTHEN,

In perusing your Loving Folly, and your Declining from it; I do behold Reason conquering Passion. The infirmity of loving argueth you are a man; the firmness thereof, discovereth a good wit and the best nature: and the falling from it, true virtue. Beauty was always of force to mislead the wisest; and men of greatest perfection have had no power to resist Love. The best are accompanied with vices, to exercise their virtues; whose glory shineth brightest in resisting motives of pleasure, and in subduing affections. And though I cannot altogether excuse your Loving Folly; yet I do the less blame you, in that you loved such a one as was more to be commended for her virtue, than beauty: albeit even for that too, she was so well accomplished with the gifts of Nature as in mine conceit (which, for good cause, I must submit as inferior to yours) there was nothing wanting, either in the one or the other, that might add more to her worth, except it were a more due and better regard of your love; which she requited not according to your deserts, nor answerable to herself in her other parts of perfection. Yet herein it appeareth you have made good use of Reason; that being heretofore lost in youthful vanity, have now, by timely discretion, found yourself!

Let me entreat you to suffer these your Passionate Sonnets to be published! which may, peradventure, make others, possessed with the like Humour of Loving, to follow your example, in leaving; and move other ALCILIAS (if there be any) to embrace deserving love, while they may!

Hereby, also, she shall know, and, it may be, inwardly repent the loss of your love, and see how much her perfections are blemished by ingratitude; which will make your happiness greater by adding to your reputation, than your contentment could have been in enjoying her love. At the least wise, the wiser sort, however in censuring them, they may dislike of your errors; yet they cannot but commend and allow of your reformation: and all others that shall with indifferency read them, may reap thereby some benefit, or contentment.

Thus much I have written as a testimony of the good will I bear you! with whom I do suffer or rejoice according to the quality of your misfortune or good hap. And so I take my leave; resting, as always,