Part 47

Hermes, the son of Jove and Maia, sing, O Muse, th’ Arcadian and Cyllenian king, They rich in flocks, he heaven enriching still In messages return’d with all his will. Whom glorious Maia, the nymph rich in hair, Mixing with Jove in amorous affair, Brought forth to him, sustaining a retreat From all th’ Immortals of the blessed seat, And living in the same dark cave, where Jove Inform’d at midnight the effect of love, Unknown to either man or Deity, Sweet sleep once having seized the jealous eye Of Juno deck’d with wrists of ivory. But when great Jove’s high mind was consummate, The tenth month had in heaven confined the date Of Maia’s labour, and into the sight She brought in one birth labours infinite; For then she bore a son, that all tried ways Could turn and wind to wish’d events assays, A fair-tongu’d, but false-hearted, counsellor, Rector of ox-stealers, and for all stealths bore A varied finger; speeder of night’s spies, And guide of all her dreams’ obscurities; Guard of door-guardians; and was born to be, Amongst th’ Immortals, that wing’d Deity That in an instant should do acts would ask The powers of others an eternal task. Born in the morn, he form’d his lute at noon, At night stole all the oxen of the Sun; And all this in his birth’s first day was done, Which was the fourth of the increasing moon. Because celestial limbs sustain’d his strains, His sacred swath-bands must not be his chains, So, starting up, to Phœbus’ herd he stept, Found straight the high-roof’d cave where they were kept, And th’ entry passing, he th’ invention found Of making lutes; and did in wealth abound By that invention, since he first of all Was author of that engine musical, By this means moved to the ingenious work: Near the cave’s inmost overture did lurk A tortoise, tasting th’ odoriferous grass, Leisurely moving; and this object was The motive to Jove’s son (who could convert To profitable uses all desert That nature had in any work convey’d) To form the lute; when, smiling, thus he said: “Thou mov’st in me a note of excellent use, Which thy ill form shall never so seduce T’ avert the good to be inform’d by it, In pliant force, of my form-forging wit.” Then the slow tortoise, wrought on by his mind, He thus saluted: “All joy to the kind Instinct of nature in thee, born to be The spiriter of dances, company For feasts, and following banquets, graced and blest For bearing light to all the interest Claim’d in this instrument! From whence shall spring Play fair and sweet, to which may Graces sing. A pretty painted coat thou putt’st on here, O Tortoise, while thy ill-bred vital sphere Confines thy fashion; but, surprised by me, I’ll bear thee home, where thou shalt ever be A profit to me; and yet nothing more Will I contemn thee in my merited store. Goods with good parts got worth and honour gave, Left goods and honours every fool may have, And since thou first shall give me means to live, I’ll love thee ever. Virtuous qualities give To live at home with them enough content, Where those that want such inward ornament Fly out for outward, their life made their load. _Tis best to be at home, harm lurks abroad._ And certainly thy virtue shall be known, ’Gainst great-ill-causing incantation To serve as for a lance or amulet. And where, in comfort of thy vital heat, Thou now breath’st but a sound confus’d for song, Expos’d by nature, after death, more strong Thou shalt in sounds of art be, and command Song infinite sweeter.” Thus with either hand He took it up, and instantly took flight Back to his cave with that his home delight. Where (giving to the mountain tortoise vents Of life and motion) with fit instruments Forged of bright steel he straight inform’d a lute, Put neck and frets to it, of which a suit He made of splitted quills, in equal space Impos’d upon the neck, and did embrace Both back and bosom. At whose height (as gins T’ extend and ease the string) he put in pins. Seven strings of several tunes he then applied, Made of the entrails of a sheep well-dried, And throughly twisted. Next he did provide A case for all, made of an ox’s hide, Out of his counsels to preserve as well As to create. And all this action fell Into an instant consequence. His word And work had individual accord, All being as swiftly to perfection brought As any worldly man’s most ravish’d thought, Whose mind care cuts in an infinity Of varied parts or passions instantly, Or as the frequent twinklings of an eye. And thus his house-delight given absolute end, He touch’d it, and did every string extend (With an exploratory spirit assay’d) To all the parts that could on it be play’d. It sounded dreadfully; to which he sung, As if from thence the first and true force sprung That fashions virtue. God in him did sing. His play was likewise an unspeakable thing, Yet, but as an extemporal assay, Of what show it would make being the first way, It tried his hand; or a tumultuous noise, Such as at feasts the first-flower’d spirits of boys Pour out in mutual contumelies still, As little squaring with his curious will, Or was as wanton and untaught a store. Of Jove, and Maia that rich shoes still wore, He sung; who suffer’d ill reports before, And foul stains under her fair titles bore. But Hermes sung her nation, and her name Did iterate ever; all her high-flown fame Of being Jove’s mistress; celebrating all Her train of servants, and collateral Sumpture of houses; all her tripods there, And caldrons huge, increasing every year. All which she knew, yet felt her knowledge stung With her fame’s loss, which (found) she more wish’d sung. But now he in his sacred cradle laid His lute so absolute, and straight convey’d Himself up to a watch-tow’r forth his house, Rich, and divinely odoriferous, A lofty wile at work in his conceit, Thirsting the practice of his empire’s height. And where impostors rule (since sable night Must serve their deeds) he did his deeds their right. For now the never-resting Sun was turn’d For th’ under earth, and in the ocean burn’d His coach and coursers; when th’ ingenious spy Pieria’s shady hill had in his eye, Where the immortal oxen of the Gods In air’s flood solaced their select abodes, And earth’s sweet green flow’r, that was never shorn, Fed ever down. And these the witty-born, Argicides, set serious spy upon, Severing from all the rest, and setting gone Full fifty of the violent bellowers. Which driving through the sands, he did reverse (His birth’s-craft straight rememb’ring) all their hoves, And them transpos’d in opposite removes, The fore behind set, the behind before, T’ employ the eyes of such as should explore. And he himself, as sly-pac’d, cast away His sandals on the sea sands; past display And unexcogitable thoughts in act Putting, to shun of his stol’n steps the tract, Mixing both tamrisk and like-tamrisk sprays In a most rare confusion, to raise His footsteps up from earth. Of which sprays he (His armful gathering fresh from off the tree) Made for his sandals ties, both leaves and ties Holding together; and then fear’d no eyes That could affect his feet’s discoveries. The tamrisk boughs he gather’d, making way Back from Pieria, but as to convey Provision in them for his journey fit, It being long and, therefore, needing it. An old man, now at labour near the field Of green Onchestus, knew the verdant yield Of his fair armful; whom th’ ingenious son Of Maia, therefore, salutation Did thus begin to: “Ho, old man! that now Art crooked grown with making plants to grow, Thy nerves will far be spent, when these boughs shall To these their leaves confer me fruit and all. But see not thou whatever thou dost see, Nor hear though hear, but all as touching me Conceal, since nought it can endamage thee.” This, and no more, he said, and on drave still His broad-brow’d oxen. Many a shady hill, And many an echoing valley, many a field Pleasant and wishful, did his passage yield Their safe transcension. But now the divine And black-brow’d Night, his mistress, did decline Exceeding swiftly; Day’s most early light Fast hasting to her first point, to excite Worldlings to work; and in her watch-tow’r shone King Pallas-Megamedes’ seed (the Moon); When through th’ Alphæan flood Jove’s powerful son Phœbus-Apollo’s ample-foreheaded herd (Whose necks the lab’ring yoke had never sphered) Drave swiftly on; and then into a stall (Hilly, yet pass’d to through an humble vale And hollow dells, in a most lovely mead) He gather’d all, and them divinely fed With odorous cypress, and the ravishing tree That makes his eaters lose the memory Of name and country. Then he brought withal Much wood, whose sight into his search let fall The art of making fire; which thus he tried: He took a branch of laurel, amplified Past others both in beauty and in size, Yet lay next hand, rubb’d it, and straight did rise A warm fume from it; steel being that did raise (As agent) the attenuated bays To that hot vapour. So that Hermes found Both fire first, and of it the seed close bound In other substances; and then the seed He multiplied, of sere-wood making feed The apt heat of it, in a pile combined Laid in a low pit, that in flames straight shined, And cast a sparkling crack up to the sky, All the dry parts so fervent were, and high In their combustion. And how long the force Of glorious Vulcan kept the fire in course, So long was he in dragging from their stall Two of the crook-haunch’d herd, that roar’d withal, And raged for fear, t’ approach the sacred fire, To which did all his dreadful pow’rs aspire. When, blust’ring forth their breath, he on the soil Cast both at length, though with a world of toil, For long he was in getting them to ground After their through-thrust and most mortal wound. But work to work he join’d, the flesh and cut, Cover’d with fat, and, on treen broches put, In pieces roasted; but in th’ intestines The black blood, and the honorary chines, Together with the carcases, lay there, Cast on the cold earth, as no Deities’ cheer; The hides upon a rugged rock he spread. And thus were these now all in pieces shred, And undistinguish’d from earth’s common herd, Though born for long date, and to heaven endear’d, And now must ever live in dead event. But Hermes, here hence having his content, Cared for no more, but drew to places even The fat-works, that, of force, must have for heaven Their capital ends, though stol’n, and therefore were In twelve parts cut, for twelve choice Deities’ cheer, By this devotion. To all which he gave Their several honours, and did wish to have His equal part thereof, as free and well As th’ other Deities; but the fatty smell Afflicted him, though he Immortal were, Playing mortal parts, and being like mortals here Yet his proud mind nothing the more obey’d For being a God himself, and his own aid Having to cause his due, and though in heart He highly wish’d it; but the weaker part Subdued the stronger, and went on in ill. Even heavenly pow’r had rather have his will Than have his right; and will’s the worst of all, When but in least sort it is criminal, One taint being author of a number still. And thus, resolved to leave his hallow’d hill, First both the fat parts and the fleshy all Taking away, at the steep-entried stall He laid all, all the feet and heads entire, And all the sere-wood, making clear with fire. And now, he leaving there then all things done, And finish’d in their fit perfection, The coals put out, and their black ashes thrown From all discovery by the lovely light The cheerful moon cast, shining all the night, He straight assumed a novel voice’s note, And in the whirl-pit-eating flood afloat He set his sandals. When now, once again The that-morn-born Cyllenius did attain His home’s divine height; all the far-stretch’d way No one bless’d God encount’ring his assay, Nor mortal man; nor any dog durst spend His born-to-bark mouth at him; till in th’ end He reach’d his cave, and at the gate went in Crooked, and wrapt into a fold so thin That no eye could discover his repair, But as a darkness of th’ autumnal air. When, going on fore-right, he straight arrived At his rich fane; his soft feet quite deprived Of all least noise of one that trod the earth, They trod so swift to reach his room of birth. Where, in his swath-bands he his shoulders wrapt, And (like an infant, newly having scap’t The teeming straits) as in the palms he lay Of his loved nurse. Yet instantly would play (Freeing his right hand) with his bearing cloth About his knees wrapt, and straight (loosing both His right and left hand) with his left he caught His much-loved lute. His mother yet was taught His wanton wiles, nor could a God’s wit lie Hid from a Goddess, who did therefore try His answer thus: “Why, thou made-all-of-sleight, And whence arriv’st thou in this rest of night? Improvident impudent! In my conceit Thou rather shouldst be getting forth thy gate, With all flight fit for thy endanger’d state, (In merit of th’ inevitable bands To be impos’d by vex’d Latona’s hands, Justly incens’d for her Apollo’s harms) Than lie thus wrapt, as ready for her arms, To take thee up and kiss thee. Would to heaven, In cross of that high grace, thou hadst been given Up to perdition, ere poor mortals bear Those black banes, that thy Father Thunderer Hath planted thee of purpose to confer On them and Deities!” He returned reply: “As master of the feats of policy, Mother, why aim you thus amiss at me, As if I were a son that infancy Could keep from all the skill that age can teach, Or had in cheating but a childish reach, And of a mother’s mandates fear’d the breach? I mount that art at first, that will be best When all times consummate their cunningest, Able to counsel now myself and thee, In all things best, to all eternity. We cannot live like Gods here without gifts, No, nor without corruption and shifts, And, much less, without eating; as we must In keeping thy rules, and in being just, Of which we cannot undergo the loads. ’Tis better here to imitate the Gods, And wine or wench out all time’s periods, To that end growing rich in ready heaps, Stored with revenues, being in corn-field reaps Of infinite acres, than to live enclosed In caves, to all earth’s sweetest air exposed. I as much honour hold as Phœbus does; And if my Father please not to dispose Possessions to me, I myself will see If I can force them in; for I can be Prince of all thieves. And, if Latona’s son Make after my stealth indignation, I’ll have a scape as well as he a search, And overtake him with a greater lurch; For I can post to Pythos, and break through His huge house there, where harbours wealth enough, Most precious tripods, caldrons, steel, and gold, Garments rich wrought, and full of liberal fold. All which will I at pleasure own, and thou Shalt see all, wilt thou but thy sight bestow.” Thus changed great words the Goat-hide-wearer’s son, And Maia of majestic fashion. And now the air-begot Aurora rose From out the Ocean great-in-ebbs-and-flows, When, at the never-shorn pure-and-fair grove (Onchestus) consecrated to the love Of round-and-long-neck’d Neptune, Phœbus found A man whom heavy years had press’d half round, And yet at work in plashing of a fence About a vineyard, that had residence Hard by the highway; whom Latona’s son Made it not strange, but first did question, And first saluted: “Ho you! aged sire, That here are hewing from the vine the briar, For certain oxen I come here t’ inquire Out of Pieria; females all, and rear’d All with horns wreath’d, unlike the common herd; A coal-black bull fed by them all alone; And all observ’d, for preservation, Through all their foody and delicious fen With four fierce mastiffs, like one-minded men. These left their dogs and bull (which I admire) And, when was near set day’s eternal fire, From their fierce guardians, from their delicate fare, Made clear departure. To me then declare, O old man, long since born, if thy grave ray Hath any man seen making steathful way With all those oxen.” Th’ old man made reply: “’Tis hard, O friend, to render readily Account of all that may invade mine eye, For many a traveller this highway treads, Some in much ills search, some in noble threads, Leading their lives out; but I this young day, Even from her first point, have made good display Of all men passing this abundant hill Planted with vines, and no such stealthful ill Her light hath shown me; but last evening, late, I saw a thing that show’d of childish state To my old lights, and seem’d as he pursued A herd of oxen with brave heads endued, Yet but an infant, and retain’d a rod; Who wearily both this and that way trod, His head still backwards turn’d.” This th’ old man spake; Which he well thought upon, and swiftly brake Into his pursuit with abundant wing, That strook but one plain, ere he knew the thing That was the thief to be th’ impostor born; Whom Jove yet with his son’s name did adorn. In study and with ardour then the King (Jove’s dazzling son) placed his exploring wing On sacred Pylos, for his forced herd, His ample shoulders in a cloud enspher’d Of fiery crimson. Straight the steps he found Of his stol’n herd, and said: “Strange sights confound My apprehensive powers, for here I see The tracks of oxen, but aversively Converted towards the Pierian hills, As treading to their mead of daffodils: But nor mine eye men’s feet nor women’s draws, Nor hoary wolves’, nor bears’, nor lions’, paws, Nor thick-neck’d bulls, they show. But he that does These monstrous deeds, with never so swift shoes Hath pass’d from that hour hither, but from hence His foul course may meet fouler consequence.” With this took Phœbus wing; and Hermes still, For all his threats, secure lay in his hill Wall’d with a wood; and more, a rock, beside, Where a retreat ran, deeply multiplied In blinding shadows, and where th’ endless Bride Bore to Saturnius his ingenious son; An odour, worth a heart’s desire, being thrown Along the heaven-sweet hill, on whose herb fed Rich flocks of sheep, that bow not where they tread Their horny pasterns. There the Light of men (Jove’s son, Apollo) straight descended then The marble pavement, in that gloomy den. On whom when Jove and Maia’s son set eye, Wroth for his oxen, on then, instantly, His odorous swath-bands flew; in which as close Th’ impostor lay, as in the cool repose Of cast-on ashes hearths of burning coals Lie in the woods hid, under the controls Of skilful colliers; even so close did lie Inscrutable Hermes in Apollo’s eye, Contracting his great Godhead to a small And infant likeness, feet, hands, head, and all. And as a hunter hath been often view’d, From chase retired, with both his hands embrued In his game’s blood, that doth for water call To cleanse his hands, and to provoke withal Delightsome sleep, new-wash’d and laid to rest; So now lay Hermes in the close-compress’d Chace of his oxen, his new-found-out lute Beneath his arm held, as if no pursuit But that prise, and the virtue of his play, His heart affected. But to Phœbus lay His close heart open; and he likewise knew The brave hill-nymph there, and her dear son, new- Born, and as well wrapt in his wiles as weeds. All the close shrouds too, for his rapinous deeds, In all the cave he knew; and with his key He open’d three of them, in which there lay Silver and gold-heaps, nectar infinite store, And dear ambrosia; and of weeds she wore, Pure white and purple, a rich wardrobe shined. Fit for the bless’d states of Pow’rs so divined. All which discover’d, thus to Mercury He offer’d conference: “Infant! You that lie Wrapt so in swath-bands, instantly unfold In what conceal’d retreats of yours you hold My oxen stol’n by you; or straight we shall Jar, as beseems not Pow’rs Celestial. For I will take and hurl thee to the deeps Of dismal Tartarus, where ill Death keeps His gloomy and inextricable fates, And to no eye that light illuminates Mother nor Father shall return thee free, But under earth shall sorrow fetter thee, And few repute thee their superior.” On him replied craft’s subtlest Counsellor: “What cruel speech hath past Latona’s care! Seeks he his stol‘n wild-cows where Deities are? I have nor seen nor heard, nor can report From others’ mouths one word of their resort To any stranger. Nor will I, to gain A base reward, a false relation feign. Nor would I, could I tell. Resemble I An ox-thief, or a man? Especially A man of such a courage, such a force As to that labour goes, that violent course? No infant’s work is that. My pow’rs aspire To sleep, and quenching of my hunger’s fire With mother’s milk, and, ’gainst cold shades, to arm With cradle-cloths my shoulders, and baths warm, That no man may conceive the war you threat Can spring in cause from my so peaceful heat. And, even amongst th’ Immortals it would bear Event of absolute miracle, to hear A new-born infant’s forces should transcend The limits of his doors; much less contend With untam’d oxen. This speech nothing seems To savour the decorum of the beams Cast round about the air Apollo breaks, Where his divine mind her intention speaks. I brake but yesterday the blessed womb, My feet are tender, and the common tomb Of men (the Earth) lies sharp beneath their tread. But, if you please, even by my Father’s head I’ll take the great oath, that nor I protest Myself to author on your interest Any such usurpation, nor have I Seen any other that feloniously Hath forced your oxen. Strange thing! What are those Oxen of yours? Or what are oxen? Knows My rude mind, think you? My ears only touch At their renown, and hear that there are such.” This speech he pass’d; and, ever as he spake, Beams from the hair about his eyelids brake, His eyebrows up and down cast, and his eye Every way look’d askance and carelessly, And he into a lofty whistling fell, As if he idle thought Apollo’s spell. Apollo, gently smiling, made reply: “O thou impostor, whose thoughts ever lie In labour with deceit! For certain, I Retain opinion, that thou (even thus soon) Hast ransack’d many a house, and not in one Night’s-work alone, nor in one country neither, Hast been besieging house and man together, Rigging and rifling all ways, and no noise Made with thy soft feet, where it all destroys. Soft, therefore, well, and tender, thou may’st call The feet that thy stealths go and fly withal, For many a field-bred herdsman (unheard still) Hast thou made drown the caverns of the hill, Where his retreats lie, with his helpless tears, When any flesh-stealth thy desire endears, And thou encount’rest either flocks of sheep, Or herds of oxen! Up then! Do not sleep Thy last nap in thy cradle, but come down, Companion of black night, and, for this crown Of thy young rapines, bear from all the state And style of Prince Thief, into endless date.” This said, he took the infant in his arms, And with him the remembrance of his harms, This presage utt’ring, lifting him aloft: “Be evermore the miserably-soft Slave of the belly, pursuivant of all, And author of all mischiefs capital.” He scorn’d his prophecy so he sneezed in’s face Most forcibly; which hearing, his embrace He loathed and hurl’d him ’gainst the ground; yet still Took seat before him, though, with all the ill He bore by him, he would have left full fain That hewer of his heart so into twain. Yet salv’d all thus: “Come, you so-swaddled thing! Issue of Maia, and the Thunder’s King! Be confident, I shall hereafter find My broad-brow’d oxen, my prophetic mind So far from blaming this thy course, that I Foresee thee in it to posterity The guide of all men, always, to their ends.” This spoken, Hermes from the earth ascends, Starting aloft, and as in study went, Wrapping himself in his integument, And thus ask’d Phœbus: “Whither force you me, Far-shot, and far most powerful Deity? I know, for all your feigning, you’re still wroth About your oxen, and suspect my troth. O Jupiter! I wish the general race Of all earth’s oxen rooted from her face. I steal your oxen! I again profess That neither I have stol’n them, nor can guess Who else should steal them. What strange beasts are these Your so-loved oxen? I must say, to please Your humour thus far, that even my few hours Have heard their fame. But be the sentence yours Of the debate betwixt us, or to Jove (For more indifferency) the cause remove.” Thus when the solitude-affecting God, And the Latonian seed, had laid abroad All things betwixt them; though not yet agreed, Yet, might I speak, Apollo did proceed Nothing unjustly, to charge Mercury With stealing of the cows he does deny. But his profession was, with filed speech, And craft’s fair compliments, to overreach All, and even Phœbus. Who because he knew His trade of subtlety, he still at view Hunted his foe through all the sandy way Up to Olympus. Nor would let him stray From out his sight, but kept behind him still. And now they reach’d the odorif’rous hill Of high Olympus, to their Father Jove, To arbitrate the cause in which they strove. Where, before both, talents of justice were Propos’d for him whom Jove should sentence clear, In cause of their contention. And now About Olympus, ever crown’d with snow, The rumour of their controversy flew. All the Incorruptible, to their view, On Heaven’s steep mountain made return’d repair. Hermes, and He that light hurls through the air, Before the Thund’rer’s knees stood; who begun To question thus far his illustrious Son: “Phœbus! To what end bring’st thou captive here Him in whom my mind puts delights so dear? This new-born infant, that the place supplies Of Herald yet to all the Deities? This serious business, you may witness, draws The Deities’ whole Court to discuss the cause.” Phœbus replied: “And not unworthy is The cause of all the Court of Deities, For, you shall hear, it comprehends the weight Of devastation, and the very height Of spoil and rapine, even of Deities’ rights. Yet you, as if myself loved such delights, Use words that wound my heart. I bring you here An infant, that, even now, admits no peer In rapes and robb’ries. Finding out his place, After my measure of an infinite space, In the Cyllenian mountain, such a one In all the art of opprobration, As not in all the Deities I have seen, Nor in th’ oblivion-mark’d whole race of men. In night he drave my oxen from their leas, Along the lofty roar-resounding seas, From out the road-way quite; the steps of them So quite transpos’d, as would amaze the beam Of any mind’s eye, being so infinite much Involv’d in doubt, as show’d a deified touch Went to the work’s performance; all the way, Through which my cross-hoved cows he did convey, Had dust so darkly-hard to search, and he So past all measure wrapt in subtilty. For, nor with feet, nor hands, he form’d his steps, In passing through the dry way’s sandy heaps, But used another counsel to keep hid His monstrous tracts, that show’d as one had slid On oak or other boughs, that swept out still The footsteps of his oxen, and did fill Their prints up ever, to the daffodill (Or dainty-feeding meadow) as they trod, Driven by this cautelous and infant God. A mortal man, yet, saw him driving on His prey to Pylos. Which when he had done, And got his pass sign’d, with a sacred fire, In peace, and freely (though to his desire, Not to the Gods, he offer’d part of these My ravish’d oxen) he retires, and lies, Like to the gloomy night, in his dim den, All hid in darkness; and in clouts again Wrapp’d him so closely, that the sharp-seen eye Of your own eagle could not see him lie. For with his hands the air he rarified (This way, and that moved) till bright gleams did glide About his being, that, if any eye Should dare the darkness, light appos’d so nigh Might blind it quite with her antipathy. Which wile he wove, in curious care t’ illude Th’ extreme of any eye that could intrude. On which relying, he outrageously (When I accus’d him) trebled his reply: ‘I did not see, I did not hear, nor I Will tell at all, that any other stole Your broad-brow’d beeves. Which an impostor’s soul Would soon have done, and any author fain Of purpose only a reward to gain.’ And thus he colour’d truth in every lie.” This said, Apollo sat; and Mercury The Gods’ Commander pleased with this reply: “Father! I’ll tell thee truth (for I am true, And far from art to lie): He did pursue Even to my cave his oxen this self day, The sun new-raising his illustrious ray; But brought with him none of the Bliss-endued, Nor any ocular witness, to conclude His bare assertion; but his own command Laid on with strong and necessary hand, To show his oxen; using threats to cast My poor and infant powers into the vast Of ghastly Tartarus; because he bears Of strength-sustaining youth the flaming years, And I but yesterday produced to light. By which it fell into his own free sight, That I in no similitude appear’d Of power to be the forcer of a herd. And credit me, O Father, since the grace Of that name, in your style, you please to place, I drave not home his oxen, no, nor prest Past mine own threshold; for ’tis manifest, I reverence with my soul the Sun, and all The knowing dwellers in this heavenly Hall, Love you, observe the least; and ’tis most clear In your own knowledge, that my merits bear No least guilt of his blame. To all which I Dare add heaven’s great oath, boldly swearing by All these so well-built entries of the Blest. And therefore when I saw myself so prest With his reproaches, I confess I burn’d In my pure gall, and harsh reply return’d. Add your aid to your younger then, and free The scruple fixt in Phœbus’ jealousy.” This said he wink’d upon his Sire; and still His swathbands held beneath his arm; no will Discern’d in him to hide, but have them shown. Jove laugh’d aloud at his ingenious Son, Quitting himself with art, so likely wrought, As show’d in his heart not a rapinous thought; Commanding both to bear atoned minds And seek out th’ oxen; in which search he binds Hermes to play the guide, and show the Sun (All grudge exil’d) the shrowd to which he won His fair-eyed oxen; then his forehead bow’d For sign it must be so; and Hermes show’d His free obedience; so soon he inclined To his persuasion and command his mind. Now, then, Jove’s jarring Sons no longer stood, But sandy Pylos and th’ Alphæan flood Reach’d instantly, and made as quick a fall On those rich-feeding fields and lofty stall Where Phœbus’ oxen Hermes safely kept, Driven in by night. When suddenly he stept Up to the stony cave, and into light Drave forth the oxen. Phœbus at first sight Knew them the same, and saw apart dispread Upon a high-rais’d rock the hides new flead Of th’ oxen sacrific’d. Then Phœbus said: “O thou in crafty counsels undisplaid! How couldst thou cut the throats, and cast to earth, Two such huge oxen, being so young a birth, And a mere infant? I admire thy force, And will, behind thy back. But this swift course Of growing into strength thou hadst not need Continue any long date, O thou Seed Of honour’d Maia!” Hermes (to show how He did those deeds) did forthwith cut and bow Strong osiers in soft folds, and strappled straight One of his hugest oxen, all his weight Lay’ng prostrate on the earth at Phœbus’ feet, All his four cloven hoves eas’ly made to greet Each other upwards, all together brought. In all which bands yet all the beast’s powers wrought, To rise, and stand; when all the herd about The mighty Hermes rush’d in, to help out Their fellow from his fetters. Phœbus’ view Of all this up to admiration drew Even his high forces; and stern looks he threw At Hermes for his herd’s wrong, and the place To which he had retir’d them, being in grace And fruitful riches of it so entire; All which set all his force on envious fire. All whose heat flew out of his eyes in flames, Which fain he would have hid, to hide the shames, Of his ill-govern’d passions. But with ease Hermes could calm them, and his humours please. Still at his pleasure, were he ne’er so great In force and fortitude, and high in heat, In all which he his lute took, and assay’d A song upon him, and so strangely play’d, That from his hand a ravishing horror flew. Which Phœbus into laughter turn’d, and grew Pleasant past measure; tunes so artful clear Strook even his heart-strings, and his mind made hear. His lute so powerful was in forcing love, As his hand rul’d it, that from him it drove All fear of Phœbus; yet he gave him still The upper hand; and, to advance his skill To utmost miracle, he play’d sometimes Single awhile; in which, when all the climes Of rapture he had reach’d, to make the Sun Admire enough, O then his voice would run Such points upon his play, and did so move, They took Apollo prisoner to his love. And now the deathless Gods and deathful Earth He sung, beginning at their either’s birth To full extent of all their empery. And, first, the honour to Mnemosyne, The Muses’ mother, of all Goddess states He gave; even forced to’t by the equal fates. And then (as it did in priority fall Of age and birth) he celebrated all. And with such elegance and order sung (His lute still touch’d, to stick more off his tongue) That Phœbus’ heart with infinite love he eat. Who, therefore, thus did his deserts entreat: “Master of sacrifice! Chief soul of feast! Patient of all pains! Artizan so blest, That all things thou canst do in anyone! Worth fifty oxen is th’ invention Of this one lute. We both shall now, I hope, In firm peace work to all our wishes’ scope. Inform me (thou that every way canst wind, And turn to act, all wishes of thy mind) Together with thy birth came all thy skill? Or did some God, or God-like man, instill This heavenly song to thee? Methink I hear A new voice, such as never yet came near The breast of any, either man or God, Till in thee it had prime and period. What art, what Muse that med’cine can produce For cares most cureless, what inveterate use Or practice of a virtue so profuse (Which three do all the contribution keep That Joy or Love confers, or pleasing Sleep.) Taught thee the sovereign facture of them all? I of the Muses am the capital Consort, or follower; and to these belong The grace of dance, all worthy ways of song, And ever-flourishing verse, the delicate set And sound of instruments. But never yet Did anything so much affect my mind With joy and care to compass, as this kind Of song and play, that for the spritely feast Of flourishing assemblies are the best And aptest works that ever worth gave act. My powers with admiration stand distract, To hear with what a hand to make in love Thou rul’st thy lute. And (though thy yong’st hours move At full art in old councils) here I vow (Even by this cornel dart I use to throw) To thee, and to thy mother, I’ll make thee Amongst the Gods of glorious degree, Guide of men’s ways and theirs; and will impart To thee the mighty imperatory art, Bestow rich gifts on thee, and in the end Never deceive thee.” Hermes (as a friend That wrought on all advantage, and made gain His capital object) thus did entertain Phœbus Apollo: “Do thy dignities, Far-working God and circularly wise, Demand my virtues? Without envy I Will teach thee to ascend my faculty. And this day thou shalt reach it; finding me, In acts and counsels, all ways kind to thee, As one that all things knows, and first tak’st seat Amongst th’ Immortals, being good and great, And therefore to Jove’s love mak’st free access, Even out of his accomplisht holiness. Great gifts he likewise gives thee; who, fame says, Hast won thy greatness by his will, his ways, By him know’st all the powers prophetical, O thou far-worker, and the fates of all! Yea, and I know thee rich, yet apt to learn, And even thy wish dost but discern and earn. And since thy soul so burns to know the way So play and sing as I do, sing, and play; Play, and perfection in thy play employ; And be thy care, to learn things good, thy joy. Take thou my lute (my love) and give thou me The glory of so great a faculty. This sweet-tuned consort, held but in thy hand, Sing, and perfection in thy song command. For thou already hast the way to speak Fairly and elegantly, and to break All eloquence into thy utter’d mind. One gift from heaven found may another find. Use then securely this thy gift, and go To feasts and dances that enamour so, And to that covetous sport of getting glory, That day nor night will suffer to be sory. Whoever does but say in verse, sings still; Which he that can of any other skill Is capable, so he be taught by art And wisdom, and can speak at every part Things pleasing to an understanding mind; And such a one that seeks this lute shall find. Him still it teaches eas’ly, though he plays Soft voluntaries only, and assays As wanton as the sports of children are, And (even when he aspires to singular In all the mast’ries he shall play or sing) Finds the whole work but an unhappy thing, He, I say, sure shall of this lute be king. But he, whoever rudely sets upon Of this lute’s skill th’ inquest or question Never so ardently and angrily, Without the aptness and ability Of art, and nature fitting, never shall Aspire to this, but utter trivial And idle accents, though sung ne’er so loud, And never so commended of the crowd. But thee I know, O eminent Son of Jove, The fiery learner of whatever Love Hath sharpen’d thy affections to achieve, And thee I give this lute. Let us now live Feeding upon the hill and horse-fed earth Our never-handled oxen; whose dear birth Their females, fellow’d with their males, let flow In store enough hereafter; nor must you (However cunning-hearted your wits are) Boil in your gall a grudge too circular.” Thus gave he him his lute, which he embrac’d, And gave again a goad, whose bright head cast Beams like the light forth; leaving to his care His oxen’s keeping. Which, with joyful fare, He took on him. The lute Apollo took Into his left hand, and aloft he shook Delightsome sounds up, to which God did sing. Then were the oxen to their endless spring Turn’d; and Jove’s two illustrous Offsprings flew Up to Olympus where it ever snew, Delighted with their lute’s sound all the way. Whom Jove much joy’d to see, and endless stay Gave to their knot of friendship. From which date Hermes gave Phœbus an eternal state In his affection, whose sure pledge and sign His lute was, and the doctrine so divine Jointly conferr’d on him; which well might be True symbol of his love’s simplicity. On th’ other part, Apollo in his friend Form’d th’ art of wisdom, to the binding end Of his vow’d friendship; and (for further meed) Gave him the far-heard fistulary reed. For all these forms of friendship, Phœbus yet Fear’d that both form and substance were not met In Mercury’s intentions; and, in plain, Said (since he saw him born to craft and gain, And that Jove’s will had him the honour done To change at his will the possession Of others’ goods) he fear’d his breach of vows In stealing both his lute and cunning bows, And therefore wish’d that what the Gods affect Himself would witness, and to his request His head bow, swearing by th’ impetuous flood Of Styx that of his whole possessions not a good He would diminish, but therein maintain The full content in which his mind did reign. And then did Maia’s son his forehead bow, Making, by all that he desired, his vow Never to prey more upon anything In just possession of the far-shot King, Nor ever to come near a house of his. Latonian Phœbus bow’d his brow to this, With his like promise, saying: “Not anyone Of all the Gods, nor any man, that son Is to Saturnius, is more dear to me, More trusted, nor more honour’d is than thee. Which yet with greater gifts of Deity In future I’ll confirm, and give thy state A rod that riches shall accumulate, Nor leave the bearer thrall to death, or fate, Or any sickness. All of gold it is, Three-leaved, and full of all felicities. And, this shall be thy guardian, this shall give The Gods to thee in all the truth they live, And, finally, shall this the tut’ress be Of all the words and works informing me From Jove’s high counsels, making known to thee All my instructions. But to prophesy, Of best of Jove’s beloved, and that high skill Which to obtain lies burning in thy will, Nor thee, nor any God, will Fate let learn. Only Jove’s mind hath insight to discern What that importeth; yet am I allow’d (My known faith trusted, and my forehead bow’d, Our great oath taken, to resolve to none Of all th’ Immortals the restriction Of that deep knowledge) of it all the mind. Since then it sits in such fast bounds confin’d, O brother, when the golden rod is held In thy strong hand, seek not to have reveal’d Any sure fate that Jove will have conceal’d. For no man shall, by know’ng, prevent his fate; And therefore will I hold in my free state The pow’r to hurt and help what man I will, Of all the greatest, or least touch’d with ill, That walk within the circle of mine eye, In all the tribes and sexes it shall try. Yet, truly, any man shall have his will To reap the fruits of my prophetic skill, Whoever seeks it by the voice or wing Of birds, born truly such events to sing. Nor will I falsely, nor with fallacies, Infringe the truth on which his faith relies, But he that truths in chattering plumes would find, Quite opposite to them that prompt my mind, And learn by natural forgers of vain lies The more-than-ever-certain Deities, That man shall sea-ways tread that leave no tracts, And false or no guide find for all his facts. And yet will I his gifts accept as well As his to whom the simple truth I tell. One other thing to thee I’ll yet make known, Maia’s exceedingly renowned son, And Jove’s, and of the Gods’ whole session The most ingenious genius: There dwell Within a crooked cranny, in a dell Beneath Parnassus, certain Sisters born, Call’d Parcæ, whom extreme swift wings adorn, Their number three, that have upon their heads White barley-flour still sprinkled, and are maids; And these are schoolmistresses of things to come, Without the gift of prophecy. Of whom (Being but a boy, and keeping oxen near) I learn’d their skill, though my great Father were Careless of it, or them. These flying from home To others’ roofs, and fed with honeycomb, Command all skill, and (being enraged then) Will freely tell the truths of things to men. But if they give them not that Gods’ sweet meat, They then are apt to utter their deceit, And lead men from their way. And these will I Give thee hereafter, when their scrutiny And truth thou hast both made and learn’d; and then Please thyself with them, and the race of men (Wilt thou know any) with thy skill endear, Who will, be sure, afford it greedy ear, And hear it often if it prove sincere. Take these, O Maia’s son, and in thy care Be horse and oxen, all such men as are Patient of labour, lions, white-tooth’d boars, Mastiffs, and flocks that feed the flow’ry shores, And every four-foot beast; all which shall stand In awe of thy high imperatory hand. Be thou to Dis, too, sole Ambassador, Who, though all gifts and bounties he abhor, On thee he will bestow a wealthy one.” Thus king Apollo honour’d Maia’s son With all the rites of friendship; all whose love Had imposition from the will of Jove. And thus with Gods and mortals Hermes lived, Who truly help’d but few, but all deceived With an undifferencing respect, and made Vain words and false persuasions his trade. His deeds were all associates of the night, In which his close wrongs cared for no man’s right. So all salutes to Hermes that are due, Of whom, and all Gods, shall my Muse sing true.