Part 22
The Spring of Youth, which now is in his prime; Winter of Age, with hoary frosts shall nip! Beauty shall then be made the prey of Time! And sour Remorse, deceitful Pleasures whip! Then, henceforth, let Discretion rule Desire! And Reason quench the flame of CUPID'S fire!
XXI.
O what a life was that sometime I led! When Love with Passions did my peace encumber; While, like a man neither alive nor dead, I was rapt from myself, as one in slumber: Whose idle senses, charmed with fond illusion, Did nourish that which bred their own confusion.
XXII.
The child, for ever after, dreads the fire; That once therewith by chance his finger burned. Water of Time distilled doth cool Desire. "And far he ran," they say, "that never turned." After long storms, I see the port at last. Farewell, Folly! For now my love is past!
XXIII.
Base servile thoughts of men, too much dejected, That seek, and crouch, and kneel for women's grace! Of whom, your pain and service is neglected; Yourselves, despised; rivals, before your face! The more you sue, the less you shall obtain! The less you win, the more shall be your gain!
XXIV.
In looking back unto my follies past; While I the present, with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste Painting on clouds, and building in the air: I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, "This thing which fools call Love, is nought but Madness!"
XXV.
"The things we have, we most of all neglect; And that we have not, greedily we crave. The things we may have, little we respect; And still we covet, that we cannot have. Yet, howsoe'er, in our conceit, we prize them; No sooner gotten, but we straight despise them."
XXVI.
Who seats his love upon a woman's will, And thinks thereon to build a happy state; Shall be deceived, when least he thinks of ill, And rue his folly when it is too late. He ploughs on sand, and sows upon the wind, That hopes for constant love in Womankind.
XXVII.
I will no longer spend my time in toys! Seeing Love is Error, Folly, and Offence; An idle fit for fond and reckless boys, Or else for men deprived of common sense. 'Twixt Lunacy and Love, these odds appear; Th' one makes fools, monthly; th' other, all the year.
XXVIII.
While season served to sow, my plough stood still; My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom. I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill; But never thought of Winter's cold to come; Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone; When I awaked, and saw my harvest none.
XXIX.
Now LOVE sits all alone, in black attire; His broken bow, and arrows lying by him; His fire extinct, that whilom fed Desire; Himself the scorn of lovers that pass by him: Who, this day, freely may disport and play; For it is PHILOPARTHEN's Holiday.
XXX.
[Sidenote: _Otia si tellas periere Cupidinis arcus._]
Nay, think not LOVE! with all thy cunning slight, To catch me once again! Thou com'st too late! Stern Industry puts Idleness to flight: And Time hath changed both my name and state. Then seek elsewhere for mates, that may befriend thee! For I am busy, and cannot attend thee!
XXXI.
Loose Idleness! the Nurse of fond Desire! Root of all ills that do our youth betide; That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire: I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide All austere hardness, and continual pain; Than to revoke thee! or to love again!
XXXII.
The time will come when, looking in a glass, Thy rivelled face, with sorrow thou shalt see! And sighing, say, "It is not as it was! These cheeks were wont more fresh and fair to be! But now, what once made me so much admired Is least regarded, and of none desired!"
XXXIII.
[Sidenote: _Temporis soltus honesta est avaritia._]
Though thou be fair, think Beauty but a blast! A morning's dew! a shadow quickly gone! A painted flower, whose colour will not last! Time steals away, when least we think thereon. Most precious time! too wastefully expended; Of which alone, the sparing is commended.
XXXIV.
How vain is Youth that, crossed in his Desire, Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine; As though 'gainst heaven itself, he would conspire; And with his fraility, 'gainst his fate combine, Who of itself continues constant still; And doth us good, ofttimes against our will.
XXXV.
In prime of Youth, when years and Wit were ripe, Unhappy Will, to ruin led the way. Wit danced about, when Folly 'gan to pipe; And Will and he together went astray. Nought then but Pleasure, was the good they sought! Which now Repentance proves too dearly bought.
XXXVI.
[Sidenote: _Est virtus placitis abstinuisse bonis._]
He that in matters of delight and pleasure, Can bridle his outrageous affection; And temper it in some indifferent measure, Doth prove himself a man of good direction. In conquering Will, true courage most is shown; And sweet temptations makes men's virtues known.
XXXVII.
[Sidenote: _Invidia fatorum series summisque negatum staro diu._]
Each natural thing, by course of Kind, we see, In his perfection long continueth not. Fruits once full ripe, will then fall from the tree; Or in due time not gathered, soon will rot. It is decreed, by doom of Powers Divine, Things at their height, must thence again decline.
XXXVIII.
Thy large smooth forehead, wrinkled shall appear! Vermillion hue, to pale and wan shall turn! Time shall deface what Youth has held most dear! Yea, these clear Eyes (which once my heart did burn) Shall, in their hollow circles, lodge the night; And yield more cause of terror, than delight!
XXXIX.
[Sidenote: _Quanto piace al mondo, e breue sogno._]
Lo here, the Record of my follies past, The fruits of Wit unstaid, and hours misspent! Full wise is he that perils can forecast, And so, by others' harms, his own prevent. All Worldly Pleasure that delights the Sense, Is but a short Sleep, and Time's vain expense!
XL.
The sun hath twice his annual course performed, Since first unhappy I, began to love; Whose errors now, by Reason's rule reformed, Conceits of Love but smoke and shadows prove. Who, of his folly, seeks more praise to win; Where I have made an end, let him begin!
_J. C._
FINIS.
DAIPHANTUS,
OR
The Passions of Love.
Comical to read,
_But Tragical to act:_
As full of Wit, as Experience.
By AN. SC. Gentleman.
_Fœlix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum._
Whereunto is added,
_The Passionate Man's Pilgrimage._
LONDON:
Printed by T. C. for WILLIAM COTTON: and are to be sold at his shop, near Ludgate. 1604.
_The Argument._
Daiphantus, a younger brother, very honourably descended, brought up but not born in Venice; naturally subject to Courting, but not to Love; reputed a man rather full of compliment, than of true courtesy; more desirous to be thought honest, than so to be wordish beyond discretion; promising more to all, than friendship could challenge; mutable in all his actions, but his affections aiming indeed to gain opinion rather than goodwill; challenging love from greatness, not from merit; studious to abuse his own wit, by the common sale of his infirmities; lastly, under the colour of his natural affection (which indeed was very pleasant and delightful) coveted to disgrace every other to his own discontent: a scourge to Beauty, a traitor to Women, and an infidel to Love.
This He, this creature, at length, falls in love with two at one instant; yea, two of his nearest allies: and so indifferently [_equally_] yet outrageously, as what was commendable in the one, was admirable in the other. By which means, as not despised, not regarded! if not deceived, not pitied! They esteemed him as he was in deed, not words. He protested, they jested! He swore he loved in sadness; they in sooth believed, but seemed to give no credence to him: thinking him so humorous as no resolution could be long good; and holding this his attestation to them of affection in that kind, [no] more than his contesting against it before time.
Thus overcome of that he seemed to conquer, he became a slave to his own fortunes. Laden with much misery, utter mischief seized upon him. He fell in love with another, a wedded Lady. Then with a fourth, named VITULLIA. And so far was he imparadised in her beauty (She not recomforting him) that he fell from Love to Passion, so to Distraction, then to Admiration [_wonderment_] and Contemplation, lastly to Madness. Thus did he _act_ the Tragical scenes, who only penned the Comical: became, if not as brutish as ACTÆON, as furious as ORLANDO. Of whose Humours and Passions, I had rather you should read them, than I act them!
In the end, by one, or rather by all, he was recovered. A Voice did mad him; and a Song did recure him! Four in one sent him out of this world; and one with four redeemed him to the world. To whose unusual strains in Music, and emphatical emphasis in Love; I will leave you to turn over a new leaf!
This only I will end with:
Who, of Love should better write, Than he that Love learns to indite?
To the mighty, learned, and ancient Potentate, QUISQUIS, Emperor of +, King of Great and Little A., Prince of B. C. and D., &c.; ALIQUIS wisheth the much increase of true subjects, free from Passion, spleen, and melancholy; and endued with virtue, wisdom, and magnanimity.
Or to the Reader.
_An Epistle to the Reader! Why! that must have his Forehead or first entrance like a Courtier, fair-spoken and full of expectation; his Middle or centre like your citizen's warehouse, beautified with enticing vanities, though the true riches consist of bald commodities; his_ Rendezvous _or conclusion like the lawyer's case, able to pocket up any matter; but let good words be your best evidence! In the General or foundation, he must be like Paul's Church, resolved to let every Knight and Gull travel upon him: yet his Particulars or lineaments may be Royal as the Exchange, with ascending steps, promising new but costly devices and fashions. It must have Teeth like a Satyr, Eyes like a critic; and yet may your Tongue speak false Latin, like your panders and bawds of poetry. Your Genius and Species should march in battle array with our politicians: yet your Genius ought to live with an honest soul indeed._
_It should be like the never-too-well-read_ Arcadia, _where the Prose and Verse, Matter and Words, are like his_ [SIDNEY'S] _Mistress's eyes! one still excelling another, and without corrival! or to come home to the vulgar's element, like friendly SHAKE-SPEARE's_ Tragedies, _where the Comedian rides, when the Tragedian stands on tiptoe. Faith, it should please all, like Prince_ HAMLET! _But, in sadness, then it were to be feared, he would run mad. In sooth, I will not be moonsick, to please! nor out of my wits, though I displease all! What? Poet! are you in Passion, or out of Love? This is as strange as true!_
_Well, well! if I seem mystical or tyrannical; whether I be a fool or a Lord's-Ingle; all's one! If you be angry, you are not well advised! I will tell you, it is an Indian humour I have snuffed up from Divine Tobacco! and it is most gentlemanlike, to puff it out at any place or person!_
_I'll no_ Epistle! _It were worse than one of HERCULES' labours! but will conclude honesty is a man's best virtue. And but for the Lord Mayor and the two Sheriffs, the Inns of Court, and many Gallants elsewhere, this last year might have been burned! As for MOMUS (carp and bark who will!), if the_ noble Ass _bray not, I am as good a Knight Poet, as_ Ætatis suæ, _Master_ An. Dom.'s _son-in-law._
_Let your critic look to the rowels of his spurs, the pad of his saddle, and the jerk of his wand! then let him ride me and my rhymes down, as hotly as he would. I care not! We shall meet and be friends again, with the breaking of a spear or two! and who would do less, for a fair Lady?_
_There I leave you, where you shall ever find me!_
* * * * *
_Passionate DAIPHANTUS, your loving subject, Gives you to understand, he is a_ Man in Print, _and it is enough he hath undergone a Pressing, though for your sakes and for Ladies: protesting for this poor infant of his brain, as it was the price of his virginity, born into the world with tears: so (but for a many his dear friends that took much pains for it) it had died, and never been laughed at! and that if Truth have wrote less than Fiction; yet it is better to err in Knowledge than in Judgement! Also, if he have caught up half a line of any other's, it was out of his memory, not of any ignorance!_
_Why he dedicates it to All, and not to any Particular, as his Mistress or so? His answer is, He is better born, than to creep into women's favours, and ask their leave afterwards._
_Also he desireth you to help to correct such errors of the Printer, which (because the Author is dead, or was out of the City) hath been committed. And it was his folly, or the Stationer's, you had not an_ Epistle _to the purpose._
_Thus like a lover, wooes he for your favour; Which, if you grant, then_ Omnia vincit Amor.
_DAIPHANTUS._
Proem
I sing the old World in an infant story! I sing the new World in an ancient ditty! I sing this World; yes, this World's shame and glory! I sing a Medley of rigour and of pity! I sing the Court's, City's, and the Country's fashions! Yet sing I but of Love and her strange Passions!
I sing that anthem lovers sigh in sadness! I sing sweet times of joys in wo[e]-ven verses! I sing those lines, I once did act in madness! I sing and weep! (tears follow birth and hearses!) I sing a _Dirge!_ a Fury did indite it! I sing Myself! whilst I myself do write it.
I invocate, to grace my Artless labour, The faithful goddess, men call MEMORY (True Poet's treasure, and their Wit's best favour); To deck my Muse with truest poesy! Though Love write well, yet Passion blinds th'affection. _Man ne'er rules right, that's in the least subjection._
Sweet Memory! Soul's life, new life increasing! The Eye of Justice! Tongue of Eloquence! The Lock of Learning! Fountain never ceasing! The Cabinet of Secrets! Caske[t] of Sense! Which governest Nature, teacheth Man his awe! That art all Conscience, and yet rul'st by Law!
Bless thou, this Love Song-Air of my best wishes! (Thou art the Parent nourisheth Desire!) Blow, gentle winds! safe land me at my blisses! Love still mounts high, though lovers not aspire. My Poem's Truth! Fond poets feign at pleasure! A loving subject is a Prince's treasure.
THE PASSIONS OF LOVE.
In Venice fair, the city most admired; Their lived a Gallant, who DAIPHANTUS hight. Right nobly born, well lettered, loved, desired Of every Courtier in their most delight: So full of pleasance, that he seemed to be A man begot in VENUS' infancy.
His face was fair, full comely was his feature: Lipped like the cherry, with a wanton's eye: A MARS in anger, yet a VENUS' creature; Made part of CYNTHIA, most of MERCURY: A pitied soul, so made of Love and Hate, Though still beloved, in love unfortunate.
Thus made by Nature, Fortune did conspire To balance him, with weight of CUPID'S wings; Passant in Love, yet oft in great Desire; Sudden in Love, not staid in anything. He courted all, not loved: and much did strive To die for Love, yet never meant to wive!
As Nature made him fair, so likewise witty; (She not content) his thoughts thus very fickle. Fortune that gained him, placed him in this city, To wheel his head, which she had made most tickle. Fortune made him beloved, and so distraught him! His reins let forth, he fell; and CUPID caught him.
Not far from Venice, in an Abbey fair, Well walled about, two worthy Ladies dwelt: Who virgins were, so sweet and debonair, The ground they trod on, of their odour smelt. Two virgin Sisters, matchless in a phere, Had livèd virgins well nigh eighteen year.
EURIALÆ, the elder sister's named; The other was URANIA the wise. Nature for making them was surely blamed: VENUS herself, by them all did despise! Such beauties with such virtue! so combined, That all exceeds, yet nought excels their mind.
EURIALÆ so shows as doth the sun, When mounted on the continent of heaven: Yet oft she's clouded; but when her glory's come, Two suns appear! to make her glory even. Her smiles send brightness when the sun's not bright! Her looks give beauty, when the sun lends light!
Modest and humble, of nature mild and sweet; Unmatched beauty with her virtue meeting: Proud that her lowly 'beisance doth re-greet With her chaste silence. Virtue ever keeping. This is the sun, that sets before it rise! This is a star! no less are both her eyes!
Her beauty peerless! peerless is her mind! Her body matchless! matchless are her thoughts! Herself but one! but one like her, we find! Her wealth's her virtue! Such virtue is not bought! This is a heaven on earth, makes her divine! This is the sun, obscures where it doth shine!
URANIA next. O that I had that Art Could write her worth! her worth no eye may see! Or that her tongue (O heaven!) were now my heart, What silver lines in showers should drop from me! My heart she keeps! how can I then indite? No heart-less creature can Love Passions write!
As a black veil upon the wings of morn, Brings forth a day as clear as VENUS' face; Or a fair jewel, by an Ethiope worn, Enricheth much the eye, which it doth grace: Such is her beauty, if it well be told! Placed in a jetty chariot set with gold.
Her hair, Night's canopy in mourning weeds Is still enthroned, when locked within is seen A Deity, drawn by a pair of steeds Like VENUS' eyes! And if the like have been, Her eyes two radiant stars, but yet divine! Her face day's sun (heaven all!) if once they shine!
Upon the left side of this heavenly feature, In curious work, Nature hath set a seal, Wherein is writ, _This is a matchless creature!_ Where Wit and Beauty strives for the appeal: The Judges choosed are Love and Fancy. They rise, And looking on her, with her, left their eyes!
Her Wit and Beauty were at many frays, "Whether the deep impressions did cause?" "Nature!" said Beauty; Art, her Wit did praise: Love thought her Face; her tongue had Truth's applause. Whilst they contend, Which was the better part? I lent an eye; She robbed me of my heart!
Sisters these two are, like the Day and Night: Their glories, by their virtues they do merit, One as the Day to see the other's might; The other's Night to shadow a high spirit. If all were Day, how could a lover rest? Or if all Night, lovers were too much blest!
Both fair, as eke their bodies tall and slender: Both wise, yet silence shews their modesty: Both grave, although they both are young and tender: Both humble hearted, not in policy. So fair, wise, grave, and humble are esteemed; Yet what men see, the worst of them is deemed!
Nature that made them fair, doth love perfection. What Youth counts wisdom, Age doth bring to trial. Grave years in Youth, in Age needs no direction. A humble heart deserves, finds, no denial. Fairs ring their knells, and yet Fame never dies! True judgement's from the heart, not from the eyes!
These two, two sisters, cousins to this lover; He often courts, as was his wonted fashion. Who swears all's fair, yet hath no heart to prove her, Seems still in Love or in a lover's Passion, Now learns this lesson! and love-scoffers find it! _CUPID hits rightest, when Lovers do least mind it!_
Although his guise were fashioned to his mind, And wording Love, as compliment he used; Seemed still to jest at Love and lovers' kind, Never obtained, but where he was refused: Yet now, his words with wit so are rewarded; He loves! loves two! loves all! of none regarded.
Now he that laughed to hear true lovers sigh, Can bite his lips, until his heart doth bleed! Who jibed at all, loves all! each day's his night! Who scorned, now weeps and howls! writes his own meed! He that would bandy Love, is now the ball! Who feared no hazard, himself hath ta'en the fall!
Beauty and Virtue, who did praise the fashion; Who, Love and Fancy thought a comedy: Now is turned Poet! and writes Love in Passion! His verses fit the bleeding Tragedy! In willow weeds, right well he acts his part! His Scenes are tears, whose embryon was his heart!
He loves, where Love to all doth prove disaster! His eyes no sooner see, but he's straight blind! His kindred, friends, or foes, he follows faster Than his own good! He's now but too too kind! He that spent all, would fain find out Love's treasure! Extremities are, for extremes the measure.
Thus thinks he, of the words he spent in vain; And wishes now, his tongue had eloquence! He's dumb! all motion that a world could gain, A centre now without circumference! CUPID, with words who fought! would teach him Art, Hath lost his tongue; and with it, left his heart!
He swears he loves! (the heat doth prove the fire!) He weeps his Love, his tears shew his Affection. He writes his Love, his lines plead his Desire. He sings his Love, the ditty mourns the action. He sings, writes, weeps, and swears that he's in sadness! It is believed, _Not cured, Love turns to madness!_
Love once dissembled, oaths are a grace most slender! Tears oft are heard, Ambassadors for Beauty! Words writ in gold, an iron heart may render! A Passion Song shews much more hope than duty! Oaths spoke in tears; words, song; prove no true ditty: _A feignèd Love must find a feignèd Pity!_
Thus is the good DAIPHANTUS like the fly, Who playing with the candle feels the flame. The smiles of scorn are lovers' misery: That soul's most vex't, is grievèd with his name. Though kind DAIPHANTUS do most love protest; Yet is his cross, still to be thought in jest!
Poor tortured lover! Like a perjured soul, Swears till he's hoarse, yet never is believed! (Who's once a villain, still is counted foul!) O woful pity! when with wind relieved, Learns this by wrote, _Though Love unconstant be, They must prove constant, will her comforts see!_
Now to the humble heart of his dread Saint, EURIALÆ, he kneels; but's not regarded! Then to URANIA sighs, till he grows faint: Such is her Wit, in silence he's rewarded! His humble voice, EURIALÆ accuseth! His sighing Passion, URANIA refuseth!
Then lifts he up his eyes, but Heaven frowneth! Bows down his head, Earth is a mass of sorrow! Runs to the seas; the sea, it storms and howleth! Hies to the woods, the birds sad tunes do borrow! Heaven, Earth, sea, woods, and all things do conspire He burn in Love, yet freeze in his Desire!