COLIN clouts Come home again.  
By Ed. Spencer.  
LONDON Printed for William Ponsonbie. 1595.   

TO THE RIGHT worthy and noble Knight Sir Walter Raleigh, captain of her majesties Guard, Lord Wardein of the Stanneries, and Lieutenant of the county of Cornwall.  
SIR, that you may see that I am not always idle as ye think, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogether undutiful, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple pastoral, unworthy of your higher conceit for the meanness of the style, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of payment of the infinite debt in which I acknowledge myself bounden unto you, for your singular favours and sundry good turns showed to me at my late being in England, and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evil mouths, which are always wide open to carp at and misconstrue my simple meaning.  
I pray continually for your happiness.  
From my house of Kilcolman, the 27. of December. 1591. Yours ever humbly. Ed. Sp.   

COLIN clouts come home again.  
THe shepherds boy (best known by that name)  
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,  
Lays of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,  
Sat (as his custom was) upon a day,  
Charming his oaten pipe unto his peers,  
The shepherd swains that did about him play:  
Who all the while with greedy listful ears,  
Did stand astonished at his curious skill,  
Like heartless dear, dismayed with thunder's sound.  
At last when as he piped had his fill,  
He rested him: and sitting then around,  
One of those grooms (a jolly groom was he,  
As ever piped on an oaten reed,  
And loved this shepherd dearest in degree,  
Hight Hobbinol) 'gan thus to him aread.  
Colin my lief, my life, how great a loss  
Had all the shepherds nation by thy lack?  
And I poor swain of many greatest cross:  
That sith thy Muse first since thy turning back  
Was heard to sound as she was wont on high,  
Hast made us all so blessed and so blithe.  
Whilst thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lie:  
The woods were heard to wail full many a sith,  
And all their birds with silence to complain:  
The fields with faded flowers did seem to mourn,  
And all their flocks from feeding to refrain:  
The running waters wept for thy return,  
And all their fish with languour did lament:  
But now both woods and fields, and floods revive,  
Sith thou art come, their cause of merriment,  
That us late dead, hast made again alive:  
But were it not too painful to repeat  
The passed fortunes, which to thee befell  
In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat,  
Now at thy leisure them to us to tell.  
To whom the shepherd gently answered thus,  
Hobbin thou temptest me to that I covet:  
For of good passed newly to discus,  
By double usury doth twice renew it.  
And since I saw that angel's blessed eye,  
Her world's bright sun, her heavens fairest light,  
My mind full of my thoughts satiety,  
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:  
Since that same day in nought I take delight.  
Ne feeling have in any earthly pleasure,  
But in remembrance of that glorious bright,  
My life's sole bliss, my hearts eternal treasure.  
Wake then my pipe, my sleepy Muse awake,  
Till I have told her praises lasting long:  
Hobbin desires, thou Mayst it not forsake,  
Hark then ye jolly shepherds to my song.  
With that they all 'gan throng about him near,  
With hungry ears to hear his harmony:  
The whiles their flocks devoid of dangers fear,  
Did round about them feed at liberty.  
One day (quoth he) I sat, (as was my trade)  
Under the foot of Mole that mountain hoar,  
Keeping my sheep amongst the cool shade,  
Of the green alders by the mulla's shore:  
There a strange shepherd chanced to find me out,  
Whether alured with my pipes delight,  
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,  
Or thither led by chance, I know not right:  
Whom when I asked from what place he came,  
And how he hight, himself he did yclepe,  
The shepherd of the Ocean by name,  
And said he came far from the main-sea deep.  
He sitting me beside in that same shade,  
Provoked me to play some pleasant fit,  
And when he heard the music which I made,  
He found himself full greatly pleased at it:  
Yet aemuling my pipe, he took in hand  
My pipe before that aemuled of many,  
And played thereon; (for well that skill he con)  
Himself as skilful in that art as any.  
He piped, I sung; and when he sung, I piped,  
By change of turns, each making other merry,  
Neither envying other, nor envied,  
So piped we, until we both were weary.  
There interrupting him, a bonny swain,  
That Cuddy hight, him thus atween bespoke:  
And should it not thy ready course restrain,  
I would request thee Colin, for my sake,  
To tell what thou didst sing, when he did play.  
For well I ween it worth recounting was,  
Whether it were some hymn, or moral lay,  
Or carol made to praise thy loved lass.  
Nor of my love, nor of my loss (quoth he)  
I then did sing, as then occasion fell:  
For love had me forlorn, forlorn of me,  
That made me in that desert chose to dwell.  
But of my river Bregogs' love I song,  
Which to the shiny Mulla he did bear,  
And yet doth bear, and ever will, so long  
As water doth within his banks appear.  
Of fellowship (said then that bony Boy)  
Record to us that lovely lay again:  
The stay whereof, shall nought these ears annoy,  
Who all that Colin makes, do covet feign.  
Hear then (quoth he) the tenor of my tale,  
In sort as I it to that shepherd told:  
No leasing new, nor Grandams fable stolen,  
But ancient truth confirmed with credence old.  
Old father Mole, (Mole hight that mountain grey  
That walls the Northside of Armulla dale)  
He had a daughter fresh as flower of May,  
Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale;  
Mulla the daughter of old Mole, so hight  
The nymph, which of that water course has charge,  
That springing out of Mole, doth run down right  
To Buttevant, where spreading forth at large,  
It giveth name unto that ancient city,  
Which Kilnemullah cleped is of old:  
Whose ragged ruins breed great ruth and pity,  
To travailers, which it from far behold.  
Full feign she loved, and was beloved full feign,  
Of her own brother river, Bregog hight,  
So hight because of this deceitful train,  
Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight.  
But her old sire more careful of her good,  
And meaning her much better to prefer,  
Did think to match her with the neighbour flood,  
Which Allo hight, Broad water called far:  
And wrought so well with his continual pain,  
That he that river for his daughter won:  
The dower agreed, the day assigned plain,  
The place appointed where it should be done.  
Natheless the Nymph her former liking held;  
For love will not be drawn, but must be led,  
And Bregog did so well her fancy wield,  
That her good will he got her first to wed.  
But for her father sitting still on high,  
Did warily still watch which way she went,  
And eke from far observed with jealous eye,  
Which way his course the wanton Bregog bend,  
Him to deceive for all his watchful ward,  
The wily lover did devise this slight:  
First into many parts his stream he shared,  
That whilst the one was watched, the other might  
Pass unespide to meet her by the way;  
And then beside, those little streams so broken  
He under ground so closely did convey,  
That of their passage doth appear no token,  
Till they into the mulla's water slide.  
So secretly did he his love enjoy:  
Yet not so secret, but it was descried,  
And told her father by a shepherds boy.  
Who wondrous wrath for that so foul despite,  
In great avenge did roll down from his hill  
Huge mighty stones, the which encumber might  
His passage, and his watercourses spill.  
So of a river, which he was of old,  
He none was made, but scattered all to nought,  
And lost among those rocks into him rolled,  
Did lose his name: so dear his love he bought.  
Which having said, him Thestylis bespoke,  
Now by my life this was a merry lay:  
Worthy of Colin self, that did it make.  
But read now eke of friendship I thee pray,  
What ditty did that other shepherd sing?  
For I do covet most the same to hear,  
As men use most to covet foreign thing.  
That shall I eke (quoth he) to you declare.  
His song was all a lamentable lay,  
Of great unkindness, and of usage hard,  
Of Cynthia the Lady of the sea,  
Which from her presence faultless him debarred.  
And ever and anon with singulfs rife,  
He cried out, to make his undersong  
Ah my loves Queen, and goddess of my life,  
Who shall me pity, when thou dost me wrong?  
Then 'gan a gentle bonnilass to speak,  
That Marin hight, Right well he sure did plain:  
That could great Cynthia's sore displeasure break,  
And move to take him to her grace again.  
But tell on further Colin, as befell  
Twixt him and thee, that thee did hence dissuade.  
When thus our pipes we both had wearied well,  
(Quoth he) and each an end of singing made,  
He 'gan to cast great liking to my lore,  
And great disliking to my luckless lot:  
That banished had myself, like wight forlorn,  
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot.  
The which to leave, thenceforth he counselled me,  
Unmeet for man, in whom was aught regardful  
And wend with him, his Cynthia to see:  
Whose grace was great, & bounty most rewardfull.  
Besides her peerless skill in making well  
And all the ornaments of wondrous wit,  
Such as all womankind did far excel:  
Such as the world admired and praised it:  
So what with hope of good, and hate of ill,  
He me persuaded forth with him to far,  
Nought took I with me, but mine oaten quill:  
Small needments else need shepherd to prepare.  
So to the sea we came; the sea? that is  
A world of waters heaped upon high,  
Rolling like mountains in wide wilderness,  
Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cry.  
And is the sea (quoth Coridon) so fearful?  
Fearful much more (quoth he) than heart can fear:  
Thousand wild beasts with deep mouths gaping direful  
Therein still wait poor passengers to tear.  
Who life doth loath, and longs death to behold,  
Before he die, already dead with fear,  
And yet would live with heart half stony cold,  
Let him to sea, and he shall see it there.  
And yet as ghastly dreadful, as it seems,  
Bold men presuming life for gain to sell,  
Dare tempt that gulf, and in those wandering streams  
Seek ways unknown, ways leading down to hell.  
For as we stood there waiting on the strand,  
Behold an huge great vessel to us came,  
Dancing upon the waters back to land,  
As if it scorned the danger of the same;  
Yet was it but a wooden frame and frail,  
Glued together with some subtle matter,  
Yet had it arms and wings, and head and tail,  
And life to move itself upon the water.  
Strange thing, how bold & swift the monster was,  
That neither cared for wind, nor hail, nor rain,  
Nor swelling waves, but through them did pass  
So proudly, that she made them roar again.  
The same aboard us gently did receive,  
And without harm us far away did bear,  
So far that land our mother us did leave,  
And nought but sea and heaven to us appear.  
Then heartless quite and full of inward fear,  
That shepherd I besought to me to tell,  
Under what sky, or in what world we were,  
In which I saw no living people dwell.  
Who me recomforting all that he might,  
Told me that that same was the Regiment  
Of a great shepherdess, that Cynthia hight,  
His liege his Lady, and his life's Regent.  
If then (quoth I) a shepherdess she be,  
Where be the flocks and herds, which she doth keep?  
And where may I the hills and pastures see,  
On which she useth for to feed her sheep?  
These be the hills (quoth he) the surges hie,  
On which fair Cynthia her herds doth feed:  
Her herds be thousand fishes with their fry,  
Which in the bosom of the billows breed.  
Of them the shepherd which hath charge in chief,  
Is Triton blowing loud his wreathed horn:  
At sound whereof, they all for their relief  
Wend too and fro at evening and at morn.  
And Proteus eke with him does drive his herd  
Of stinking seals and porpoises together,  
With hoary head and dewy dropping beard,  
Compelling them which way he list, and whether.  
And I among the rest of many least,  
Have in the Ocean charge to me assigned:  
Where I will live or die at her behest,  
And serve and honour her with faithful mind.  
Besides an hundred Nymphs all heavenly borne,  
And of immortal race, do still attend  
To wash fair Cynthia's sheep, when they be shorn,  
And fold them up, when they have made an end.  
Those be the shepherds which my Cynthia serve,  
At sea, beside a thousand more at land:  
For land and sea my Cynthia doth deserve  
To have in her commandment at hand.  
Thereat I wondered much, till wondering more  
And more, at length we land far off descried:  
Which sight much gladded me; for much afore  
I feared, least land we never should have eyed:  
Thereto our ship her course directly bend,  
As if the way she perfectly had known.  
We Lunday pass; by that same name is meant  
An Island, which the first to west was shown.  
From thence another world of land we kend,  
Floating amid the sea in jeopardy,  
And round about with mighty white rocks hemmed,  
Against the seas encroaching cruelty.  
Those same the shepherd told me, were the fields  
In which dame Cynthia her landherds fed,  
Fair goodly fields, than which Armulla yields  
None fairer, nor more fruitful to be red.  
The first to which we nigh approached, was  
An high headland thrust far into the sea,  
Like to an horn, whereof the name it has,  
Yet seemed to be a goodly pleasant lee:  
There did a lofty mount at first us greet,  
Which did a stately heap of stones upreare,  
That seemed amid the surges for to fleet,  
Much greater than that frame, which us did bear:  
There did our ship her fruitful womb unlade,  
And put us all a shore on Cynthia's land.  
What land is that thou meanest (than Cuddy said)  
And is there other, then whereon we stand?  
Ah Cuddy (than quoth Colin) thou a fon,  
That hast not seen least part of nature's work:  
Much more there is unkend, than thou dost kon,  
And much more that does from men's knowledge lurk.  
For that same land much larger is then this,  
And other men and beasts and birds doth feed:  
There fruitful corn, fair trees, fresh herbage is  
And all things else that living creatures need.  
Besides most goodly rivers there appear,  
No whit inferior to thy Funchins' praise,  
Or unto Allo or to Mulla clear:  
Nought haste thou foolish boy seen in thy days,  
But if that land be there (quoth he) as here,  
And is their heaven likewise there all one?  
And if like heaven, be heavenly graces there,  
Like as in this same world where we do won?  
Both heaven and heavenly graces do much more  
(Quoth he) abound in that same land, than this.  
For there all happy peace and plenteous store  
Conspire in one to make contented bliss:  
No wailing there nor wretchedness is heard,  
No bloody issues nor no leprosies,  
No grisly famine, nor no raging sword,  
No nightly bodrags, nor no hue and cries;  
The shepherds there abroad may safely lie,  
On hills and downs, withouten dread or danger:  
No ravenous wolves the good man's hope destroy,  
Nor outlaws fell affray the forest ranger.  
There learned arts do flourish in great honour,  
And Poets wits are had in peerless price:  
Religion hath lay power to rest upon her,  
Advancing virtue and suppressing vice.  
For end, all good, all grace there freely grows,  
Had people grace it gratefully to use:  
For God his gifts there plenteously bestows,  
But graceless men them greatly do abuse.  
But say on further, then said Corylas,  
The rest of thine adventures, that betided.  
Forth on our voyage we by land did pass,  
(Quoth he) as that same shepherd still us guided,  
Until that we to Cynthia's presence came:  
Whose glory greater than my simple thought,  
I found much greater than the former fame;  
Such greatness I cannot compare to aught:  
But if I her like aught on earth might read,  
I would her liken to a crown of lilies,  
Upon a virgin brides adorned head,  
With Roses light and Goolds and daffodils;  
Or like the circlet of a Turtle true,  
In which all colours of the rainbow be;  
Or like fair Phebe's garland shining new,  
In which all pure perfection one may see.  
But vain it is to think by paragon  
Of earthly things, to judge of things divine:  
Her power, her mercy, and her wisdom, none  
Can deem, but who the Godhead can define.  
Why then do I base shepherd bold and blind,  
Presume the things so sacred to profane?  
More fit it is t'adore with humble mind,  
The image of the heavens in shape human.  
With that Alexis broke his tale asunder,  
Saying, By wondering at thy Cynthia's praise:  
Colin, thyself thou makest us more to wonder,  
And her upraising, dost thyself upraise.  
But let us hear what grace she showed thee,  
And how that shepherd strange, thy cause advanced?  
The shepherd of the Ocean (quoth he)  
Unto that goddess grace me first enhanced:  
And to mine oaten pipe inclined her ear,  
That she thenceforth therein 'gan take delight,  
And it desired at timely hours to hear,  
All were my notes but rude and roughly dight,  
For not by measure of her own great mind,  
And wondrous worth she mott my simple song,  
But joyed that country shepherd aught could find  
Worth hearkening to, amongst that learned throng.  
Why? (said Alexis then) what needeth she  
That is so great a shepherdess herself  
And hath so many shepherds in her fee,  
To hear thee sing, a simple silly elf?  
Or be the shepherds which do serve her lazy?  
That they list not their merry pipes apply,  
Or be their pipes untunable and craesie,  
That they cannot her honour worthily?  
Ah nay (said Colin) neither so, nor so,  
For better shepherds be not under sky,  
Nor better able, when they list to blow,  
Their pipes aloud, her name to glorify.  
There is good Harpalus now waxed aged,  
In faithful service of fair Cynthia,  
And there is a Corydon though meanly waged,  
Yet ablest wit of most I know this day.  
And there is sad Aleyon bend to mourn,  
Though fit to frame an everlasting ditty,  
Whose gentle sprite for Daphne's death doth turn  
Sweet lays of love to endless plaints of pity.  
Ah pensive boy pursue that brave conceit,  
In thy sweet Eglantine of Meriflure,  
Lift up thy notes unto their wont height,  
That may thy Muse and mates to mirth allure.  
There eke is Palin worthy of great praise,  
Albe he envy at my rustic quill:  
And there is pleasing Alcon, could he raise  
His tunes from lays to matter of more skill.  
And there is old Palemon free from spite,  
Whose careful pipe may make the hearer rue:  
Yet he himself may rued be more right,  
That sung so long until quite hoarse he grew.  
And there is Alabaster thoroughly taught,  
In all this skill, though known yet to few,  
Yet were he known to Cynthia as he ought,  
His Eliseïs' would be red anew.  
Who lives that can match that heroic song,  
Which he hath of that mighty Princess made?  
O dreaded Dread, do not thyself that wrong,  
To let thy fame lie so in hidden shade:  
But call it forth, O call him forth to thee,  
To end thy glory which he hath begun:  
That when he finished hath as it should be,  
No braver poem can be under Sun.  
Nor Po nor tybur's swans so much renowned,  
Nor all the brood of Greece so highly praised,  
Can match that Muse when it with bays is crowned,  
And to the pitch of her perfection raised.  
And there is a new shepherd late up sprung,  
The which doth all afore him far surpass:  
Appearing well in that well tuned song,  
Which late he sung unto a scornful lass.  
Yet doth his trembling Muse but lowly fly,  
As daring not too rashly mount on height,  
And doth her tender plumes as yet but try,  
In loves soft lays and loser thoughts delight.  
Then rouse thy feathers quickly Daniel,  
And to what course thou please thyself advance:  
But most me seems, thy accent will excel,  
In tragic plaints and passionate mischance.  
And there that shepherd of the Ocean is,  
That spends his wit in loves consuming smart:  
Full sweetly tempered is that Muse of his  
That can empierce a Prince's mighty heart.  
There also is (ah no, he is not now)  
But since I said he is, he quite is gone,  
Amyntas quite is gone and lies full low,  
Having his Amaryllis left to moan.  
Help, O ye shepherds help ye all in this,  
Help Amaryllis this her loss to mourn:  
Her loss is yours, your loss Amyntas is,  
Amyntas flower of shepherds pride forlorn:  
He whilst he lived was the noblest swain,  
That ever piped in an oaten quill:  
Both did he other, which could pipe, maintain,  
And eke could pipe himself with passing skill.  
And there though last not lest is Action,  
A gentler shepherd may no where be found:  
Whose Muse full of high thoughts invention,  
Doth like himself Heroically sound.  
All these, and many others more remain,  
Now after Astrofell is dead and gone.  
But while as Astrofell did live and rain,  
Amongst all these was none his paragon,  
All these do flourish in their sundry kind,  
And do their Cynthia immortal make:  
Yet found I liking in her royal mind,  
Not for my skill, but for that shepherds sake.  
Then spoke a lovely lass, height Lucida,  
Shepheard, enough of shepherds thou hast told:  
Which favour thee, and honour Cynthia,  
But of so many Nymphs which she doth hold  
In her retinue, thou hast nothing said,  
That seems, with none of them thou favour foundest,  
Or art ingrateful to each gentle maid,  
That none of all their due deserts resoundest.  
Ah far be it (quoth Colin Clout) fro me,  
That I of gentle maids should ill deserve:  
For that myself I do profess to be  
Vassal to one, whom all my days I serve.  
The beam of beauty sparkled from above,  
The flower of virtue and pure chastity:  
The blossom of sweet joy and perfect love,  
The pearl of peerless grace and modesty,  
To her my thoughts I daily dedicate,  
To her my heart I nightly martyrize:  
To her my love I lowly do prostrate,  
To her my life I wholly sacrifice,  
My thought, my heart, my love, my life is she:  
And I hers ever only, ever one:  
One ever I all vowed hers to be,  
One ever I, and others never none.  
Then thus Melissa said; thrice happy maid,  
Whom thou dost so enforce to deify:  
That woods, and hills, and valleys, thou hast made,  
Her name to echo unto heaven high.  
But say, who else vouchsafed thee of grace?  
They all (quoth he) me graced goodly well,  
That all I praise, but in the highest place,  
Vriana, sister unto Astrofell,  
In whose brave mind as in a golden coffer,  
All heavenly gifts and riches locked are:  
More rich than pearls of Ynde, or gold of Opher,  
And in her sex more wonderful and rare.  
Ne less praise worthy I Theana read,  
Whose goodly beams though they be over dight  
With mourning stole of careful widow head,  
Yet through that darksome vale do glister bright.  
She is the well of bounty and brave mind,  
Excelling most in glory and great light:  
She is the ornament of womankind,  
And Courts chief garland with all virtues dight.  
Therefore great Cynthia her in chiefest grace,  
Doth hold, and next unto herself advance,  
Well worthy she of so honourable place:  
For her great worth and noble governance.  
Ne less praise worthy is her sister dear,  
Fair Marïan, the muse's only darling:  
Whose beauty shineth as the morning clear,  
With silver dew upon the roses pearling.  
Ne less praise worthy is Mansilia,  
Best known by bearing up great Cynthia's train:  
That same is she to whom Daphnaida  
Upon her nieces death I did complain.  
She is the pattern of true womanhood,  
And only mirror of feminity:  
Worthy next after Cynthia to tread,  
As she is next her in nobility.  
Ne less praise worthy Galathea seems,  
Then best of all that honourable crew,  
Fair Galathea with bright shining beams,  
Inflaming feeble eyes that her do view.  
She there then waited upon Cynthia,  
Yet there is not her won, but here with us  
About the borders of our rich Coshma,  
Now made of Maa the Nymph delicious.  
Ne less praiseworthy fair Neaera is,  
Neaera ours, not theirs, though there she be,  
For of the famous sure, the Nymph she is,  
For high desert, advanced to that degree.  
She is the blossom of grace and courtesy,  
Adorned with all honourable parts:  
She is the branch of true nobility,  
Beloved of high and low with faithful hearts.  
Ne less praiseworthy Stella do I read,  
Though nought my praises of her needed are,  
Whom verse of noblest shepherd lately dead  
Hath praised and raised above each other star.  
Ne less praiseworthy are the sisters three,  
The honour of the noble family:  
Of which I meanest boast myself to be,  
And most that unto them I am so nigh.  
Phyllis, Charillis, and sweet Amaryllis,  
Phyllis the fair, is eldest of the three:  
The next to her, is bountiful Charillis.  
But th'youngest is the highest in degree.  
Phyllis the flower of rare perfection,  
Fair spreading forth her leaves with fresh delight,  
That with their beauties amorous reflection,  
Bereave of sense each rash beholder's sight.  
But sweet Charillis is the paragon  
Of peerless price, and ornament of praise,  
Admired of all, yet envied of none,  
Through the mild temperance of her goodly rays.  
Thrice happy do I hold thee noble swain,  
The which art of so rich a spoil possessed,  
And it embracing dear without disdain,  
Hast sole possession in so chaste a breast:  
Of all the shepherds daughters which there be,  
And yet there be the fairest under sky,  
Or that elsewhere I ever yet did see.  
A fairer Nymph yet never saw mine eye:  
She is the pride and primrose of the rest,  
Made by the maker self to be admired:  
And like a goodly beacon high addressed,  
That is with sparks of heavenle beauty fired.  
But Amaryllis, whether fortunate,  
Or else unfortunate may I aread,  
That freed is from Cupid's yoke by fate,  
Since which he doth new bands adventure dread.  
Shepheard what ever thou hast heard to be  
In this or that praised diversly apart,  
In her thou Mayst them all assembled see.  
And sealed up in the treasure of her heart,  
Ne thee less worthy gentle Flavia,  
For thy chaste life and virtue I esteem,  
Ne thee less worthy courteous Candida,  
For thy true love and loyalty I deem.  
Besides yet many more that Cynthia serve,  
Right noble Nymphs, and high to be commended,  
But if I all should praise as they deserve,  
This sun would fail me ere I half had ended.  
Therefore in closure of a thankful mind,  
I deem it best to hold eternally,  
Their bounteous deeds and noble favours shrynd,  
Then by discourse them to indignify.  
So having said, Aglaura him bespoke:  
Colin, well worthy were those goodly favours  
Bestowed on thee, that so of them dost make.  
And them requitest with thy thankful labours.  
But of great Cynthia's goodness and high grace,  
Finish the story which thou hast begun.  
More each (quoth he) it is in such a case,  
How to begin, then know how to have done.  
For every gift and every goodly meed,  
Which she on me bestowed; demands a day,  
And every day, in which she did a deed,  
Demands a year it duly to display.  
Her words were like a stream of honey fleeting,  
The which doth softly trickle from the hive:  
Able to melt the hearers heart unwitting,  
And eke to make the dead again alive.  
Her deeds were like great glusters of ripe grapes,  
Which load the bunches of the fruitful vine:  
Offering to fall into each mouth that gapes,  
And fill the same with store of timely wine.  
Her looks were like beams of the morning Sun,  
Forth looking through the windows of the East:  
When first the fleecy cattle have begun  
Upon the perled grass to make their feast.  
Her thoughts are like the fume of frankincense,  
Which from a golden Censer forth doth rise:  
And throwing forth sweet odours mounts fro thence  
In rolling globes up to the vauted skies.  
There she beholds with high aspiring thought,  
The cradle of her own creation:  
Amongst the seats of Angels heavenly wrought,  
Much like an angel in all form and fashion.  
Colin (said Cuddy then) thou hast forgot  
Thyself, me seems, too much, to mount so high:  
Such lofty flight, base shepherd seemeth not,  
From flocks and fields, to Angels and to sky.  
True (answered he) but her great excellence,  
Lifts me above the measure of my might:  
That being filled with furious insolence,  
I feel myself like one yrapt in sprite.  
For when I think of her, as oft I ought,  
Then want I words to speak it fitly forth:  
And when I speak of her what I have thought,  
I cannot think according to her worth.  
Yet will I think of her, yet will I speak,  
So long as life my limbs doth hold together,  
And when as death these vital bands shall break,  
Her name recorded I will leave for ever.  
Her name in every tree I will endoss,  
That as the trees do grow, her name may grow:  
And in the ground each where will it engross,  
And fill with stones, that all men may it know.  
The speaking woods and murmuring waters fall,  
Her name I'll teach in known terms to frame:  
And eke my lambs when for their dams they call,  
I'll teach to call for Cynthia by name.  
And long while after I am dead and rotten:  
Among the shepherds daughters dancing round,  
My lays made of her shall not be forgotten.  
But sung by them with flowery garlands crowned.  
And ye, who so ye be, that shall survive:  
When as ye hear her memory renewed,  
Be witness of her bounty here alive,  
Which she to Colin her poor shepherd showed.  
Much was the whole assembly of those herds,  
Moved at his speech, so feelingly he spoke:  
And stood awhile astonished at his words,  
Till Thestylis at last their silence broke,  
Saying, Why Colin, since thou foundst such grace  
With Cynthia and all her noble crew:  
Why didst thou ever leave that happy place,  
In which such wealth might unto thee accrue?  
And back returnedst to this barren soil,  
Where cold and care and penury do dwell:  
Here to keep sheep, with hunger and with toil,  
Most wretched he, that is and cannot tell.  
Happy indeed (said Colin) I him hold,  
That may that blessed presence still enjoy,  
Of fortune and of envy uncomptrold,  
Which still are wont most happy states t'annoy:  
But I by that which little while I proved:  
Some part of those enormities did see,  
The which in Court continually hooved,  
And followed those which happy seemed to be.  
Therefore I silly man, whose former days  
Had in rude fields been altogether spent,  
Darest not adventure such unknown ways,  
Nor trust the guile of fortune's blandishment,  
But rather chose back to my sheep to turn,  
Whose utmost hardness I before had tried,  
Then having learned repentance late, to mourn  
Amongst those wretches which I there descried.  
Shepherd (said Thestylis) it seems of spite  
Thou speakest thus 'gainst their felicity,  
Which thou enviest, rather then of right  
That aught in them blameworthy thou dost spy.  
Cause have I none (quoth he) of cankered will  
To quite them ill, that me demeaned so well:  
But self-regard of private good or ill,  
Moves me of each, so as I found, to tell  
And eke to warn young shepherds wandering wit,  
Which through report of that lives painted bliss,  
Abandon quiet home, to seek for it,  
And leave their lambs to loss misled amiss.  
For soothe to say, it is no sort of life,  
For shepherd fit to lead in that same place,  
Where each one seeks with malice and with strife,  
To thrust down other into foul disgrace,  
Himself to raise: and he doth soon rise  
That best can handle his deceitful wit,  
In subtle shifts, and finest sleights devise,  
Either by slandering his well deemed name,  
Through leasings lewd, and feigned forgery:  
Or else by breeding him some blot of blame,  
By creeping close into his secrecy;  
To which him needs, a guileful hollow heart,  
Masked with fair dissembling courtesy,  
A filled tongue furnished with terms of art,  
No art of school, but courtier's schoolery.  
For arts of school have there small countenance,  
Counted but toys to busy idle brains,  
And there professors find small maintenance,  
But to be instruments of others gains.  
Ne is there place for any gentle wit,  
Unless to please, itself it can apply:  
But shouldered is, or out of door quite shit,  
As base, or blunt, unmeet for melody.  
For each man's worth is measured by his weed,  
As hearts by horns or asses by their ears:  
Yet asses been not all whose ears exceed,  
Nor yet all hearts, that horns the highest bears.  
For highest looks have not the highest mind,  
Nor haughty words most full of highest thoughts:  
But are like bladders blown up with wind,  
That being pricked do vanish into noughts,  
Even such is all their vaunted vanity,  
Nought else but smoke, that fumeth soon away,  
Such is their glory that in simple eye  
Seem greatest, when their garments are most gay.  
So they themselves for praise of fools do sell,  
And all their wealth for painting on a wall;  
With price whereof, they buy a golden bell,  
And purchase highest rooms in bower and hall:  
Whiles single Truth and simple honesty  
Do wander up and down despised of all;  
Their plain attire such glorious gallantry  
Disdains so much, that none them in doth call.  
Ah Colin (then said Hobbinol) the blame  
Which thou imputest, is too general,  
As if not any gentle wit of name,  
Nor honest mind might there be found at all.  
For well I wots, sith I myself was there,  
To wait on Lobbin (Lobbin well thou knewest)  
Full many worthy ones then waiting were,  
As ever else in Prince's Court thou viewest.  
Of which, among you many yet remain,  
Whose names I cannot readily now guess:  
Those that poor suitors papers do retain,  
And those that skill of medicine profess.  
And those that do to Cynthia expound,  
The leaden of strange languages in charge:  
For Cynthia doth in sciences abound,  
And gives to their professors stipends large.  
Therefore unjustly thou dost wite them all,  
For that which thou mislikedst in a few.  
Blame is (quoth he) more blameless general.  
Then that which private errors doth pursue:  
For well I wots, that there amongst them be  
Full many persons of right worthy parts,  
Both for report of spotless honesty,  
And for profession of all learned arts,  
Whose praise hereby no whit impaired is,  
Though blame do light on those that faulty be,  
For all the rest do most-what far amiss,  
And yet their own misfaring will not see:  
For either they be puffed up with pride,  
Or fraught with envy that their galls do swell,  
Or they their days to idleness divide,  
Or drowned lie in pleasures wasteful well,  
In which like Moldwarps nuzzling still they lurk,  
Unmindful of chief parts of manliness,  
And do themselves for want of other work,  
Vain votaries of lazy love profess,  
Whose service high so basely they ensue,  
That Cupid self of them ashamed is,  
And mustering all his men in Venus' view,  
Denies them quite for servitors of his.  
And is love then (said Corylas) once known  
In Court, and his sweet lore professed there,  
I weened sure he was our God alone:  
And only wound in fields and forests here,  
Not so (quoth he) love most aboundeth there.  
For all the walls and windows there are writ,  
All full of love, and love, and love my dear,  
And all their talk and study is of it.  
Ne any there doth brave or valiant seem,  
Unless that some gay mistress badge he bears:  
Ne any one himself doth aught esteem,  
Unless he swim in love up to the ears.  
But they of love and of his sacred lere,  
(As it should be) all otherwise devise,  
Then we poor shepherds are accustomed here,  
And him do sue and serve all otherwise.  
For with lewd speeches and licentious deeds,  
His mighty mysteries they do profane,  
And use his idle name to other needs,  
But as a complement for courting vain.  
So him they do not serve as they profess,  
But make him serve to them for sordid uses,  
Ah my dread Lord, that dost liege hearts possess,  
Avenge thyself on them for their abuses.  
But we poor shepherds whether rightly so,  
Or through our rudeness into error led:  
Do make religion how we rashly go,  
To serve that God, that is so greatly dread;  
For him the greatest of the Gods we deem,  
Borne without sire or couples of one kind,  
For Venus' self doth solely couples seem,  
Both male and female through commixture joined.  
So pure and spotless Cupid forth she brought,  
And in the gardens of Adonis nursed:  
Where growing he, his own perfection wrought,  
And shortly was of all the Gods the first.  
Then got he bow and shafts of gold and lead,  
In which so fell and puissant he grew,  
That Jove himself his power began to dread,  
And taking up to heaven, him godded new.  
From thence he shoots his arrows every where  
Into the world, at random as he will,  
On us frail men, his wretched vassals here,  
Like as himself us pleaseth, save or spill.  
So we him worship, so we him adore  
With humble hearts to heaven uplifted high,  
That to true loves he may us evermore  
Prefer, and of their grace us dignify:  
Ne is there shepherd, ne yet shepherds swain,  
What ever feeds in forest or in field,  
That dare with evil deed or leasing vain  
Blaspheme his power, or terms unworthy yield.  
Shepherd it seems that some celestial rage  
Of love (quoth Cuddy) is breathed into thy breast,  
That poureth forth these oracles so sage,  
Of that high power, wherewith thou art possessed.  
But never witted I till this present day  
Albe of love I always humbly deemed,  
That he was such an one, as thou dost say,  
And so religiously to be esteemed.  
Well may it seem by this thy deep insight,  
That of that God the Priest thou shouldest be:  
So well thou wotest the mystery of his might,  
As if his godhead thou didst present see.  
Of loves perfection perfectly to speak,  
Or of his nature rightly to define,  
Indeed (said Colin) passeth reasons reach,  
And needs his priest t'express his power divine.  
For long before the world he was y'bore  
And bred above in Venus' bosom dear:  
For by his power the world was made of yore,  
And all that therein wondrous doth appear.  
For how should else things so far from atone  
And so great enemies as of them be,  
Be ever drawn together into one,  
And taught in such accordance to agree.  
Through him the cold began to covet heat,  
And water fire; the light to mount on high,  
And th'heavy down to poise; the hungry t'eat  
And voidness to seek full satiety.  
So being former foes, they waxed friends,  
And 'gan by little learn to love each other:  
So being knit, they brought forth other kinds  
Out of the fruitful womb of their great mother.  
Then first 'gan heaven out of darkness dread  
For to appear, and brought forth cheerful day:  
Next 'gan the earth to show her naked head,  
Out of deep waters which her drowned always.  
And shortly after every living wight,  
Crept forth like worms out of her slimy nature,  
Soon as on them the Suns like giving light,  
Had powered kindly heat and formal feature,  
Thenceforth they 'gan each one his like to love,  
And like himself desire for to beget,  
The lion chose his mate, the Turtle dove  
Her dear, the Dolphin his own Dolphinet,  
But man that had the spark of reasons might,  
More than the rest to rule his passion:  
Chose for his love the fairest in his sight,  
Like as himself was fairest by creation.  
For beauty is the bait which with delight  
Doth man allure, for to enlarge his kind,  
Beauty the burning lamp of heavens light,  
Darting her beams into each feeble mind:  
Against whose power, nor God nor man can find,  
Defence; ne ward the danger of the wound,  
But being hurt, seek to be medicine  
Of her that first did stir that mortal stound.  
Then do they cry and call to love apace,  
With prayers loud importuning the sky,  
Whence he them hears, & when he list show grace,  
Does grant them grace that otherwise would die.  
So love is Lord of all the world by right,  
And rules their creatures by his powerful saw:  
All being made the vassals of his might,  
Through secret sense which thereto doth them draw.  
Thus ought all lovers of their lord to deem:  
And with chaste heart to honour him always:  
But who so else doth otherwise esteem,  
Are outlaws, and his lore do disobey.  
For their desire is base, and doth not merit,  
The name of love, but of disloyal lust:  
Ne 'mongst true lovers they shall place inherit,  
But as Exuls out of his court be thrust.  
So having said, Melissa spoke at will,  
Colin, thou now full deeply hast divined:  
Of love and beauty and with wondrous skill,  
Hast Cupid self depainted in his kind.  
To thee are all true lovers greatly bound,  
That dost their cause so mightily defend:  
But most, all women are thy debtors found,  
That dost their bounty still so much commend.  
That ill (said Hobbinol) they him requite,  
For having loved ever one most dear:  
He is repaid with scorn and foul despite,  
That irks each gentle heart which it doth hear.  
Indeed (said Lucid) I have often heard  
Fair Rosalind of divers foully blamed:  
For being to that swain too cruel hard,  
That her bright glory else hath much defamed.  
But who can tell what cause had that fair maid  
To use him so that used her so well:  
Or who with blame can justly her upbraid,  
For loving not? for who can love compel.  
And sooth to say, it is foolhardy thing,  
Rashly to wyten creatures so divine,  
For demi-gods they be and first did spring  
From heaven, though grafted in frailness feminine.  
And well I wot, that oft I heard it spoken,  
How one that fairest Helen did revile:  
Through judgement of the Gods to been wrought  
Lost both his eyes and so remained long while,  
Till he recanted had his wicked rhymes:  
And made amends to her with triple praise,  
Beware therefore, ye grooms, I read betimes,  
How rashly blame of Rosalind ye raise.  
Ah shepherds (than said Colin) ye ne weet  
How great a guilt upon your heads ye draw:  
To make so bold a doom with words unmeet,  
Of thing celestial which ye never saw.  
For she is not like as the other crew  
Of shepherds daughters which amongst you be,  
But of divine regard and heavenly hue,  
Excelling all that ever ye did see.  
Not then to her that scorned thing so base,  
But to myself the blame that looked so high:  
So hie her thoughts as she herself have place,  
And loathe each lowly thing with lofty eye.  
Yet so much grace let her vouchsafe to grant  
To simple swain, sith her I may not love:  
Yet that I may her honour paravant,  
And praise her worth, though far my wit above.  
Such grace shall be some guerdon for the grief,  
And long affliction which I have endured:  
Such grace sometimes shall give me some relief,  
And ease of pain which cannot be recured.  
And ye my fellow shepherds which do see  
And hear the languors of my too long dying,  
Unto the world for ever witness be,  
That hers I die, nought to the world denying,  
This simple trophy of her great conquest.  
So having ended, he from ground did rise,  
And after him uprose eke all the rest:  
All loath to part, but that the glooming skies,  
Warned them to draw their bleating flocks to rest.  
FINIS.   


ASTROPHEL.  
A pastoral elegy upon the death of the most Noble and valorous Knight, Sir Philip Sidney.  
Dedicated To the most beautiful and virtuous Lady, the Countess of Essex.   

Astrophel.  

Shepherds that wont on pipes of oaten reed,  
Oft times to plain your loves concealed smart:  
And with your piteous lays have learned to breed  
Compassion in a country lass' heart.  
Hearken ye gentle shepherds to my song,  
And place my doleful plaint your plaints among.   

To you alone I sing this mournful verse,  
The mournfullest verse that ever man heard tell:  
To you whose softened hearts it may empierse,  
With dolours dart for death of Astrophel.  
To you I sing and to none other wight,  
For well I wots my rhymes been rudely dight.   

Yet as they been, if any nicer wit  
Shall hap to hear, or covet them to read:  
Think he, that such are for such ones most fit,  
Made not to please the living but the dead.  
And if in him found pity ever place,  
Let him be moved to pity such a case.   

A Gentle shepherd borne in Arcady,  
Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore:  
About the grassy banks of Haemony,  
Did keep his sheep, his little stock and store.  
Full carefully he kept them day and night,  
In fairest fields, and Astrophel he hight.   

Young Astrophel the pride of shepherds praise,  
Young Astrophel the rustic lass' love:  
Far passing all the pastors of his days,  
In all that seemly shepherd might behove.  
In one thing only failing of the best,  
That he was not so happy as the rest.   

For from the time that first the Nymph his mother  
Him forth did bring, and taught her lambs to feed:  
A slender swain excelling far each other,  
In comely shape, like her that did him breed.  
He grew up fast in goodness and in grace,  
And doubly fair wox both in mind and face.   

Which daily more and more he did augment,  
With gentle usage and demeanour mild:  
That all men's hearts with secret ravishment  
He stole away, and wittingly beguiled.  
Ne spite itself that all good things doth spill,  
Found aught in him, that she could say was ill.   

His sports were fair, his joyance innocent,  
Sweet without sour, and honey without gall:  
And he himself seemed made for merriment,  
Merrily masking both in bower and hall.  
There was no pleasure nor delightful play,  
When Astrophel so ever was away.   

For he could pipe and dance, and carol sweet,  
Amongst the shepherds in their shearing feast:  
As summer's lark that with her song doth greet,  
The dawning day forth coming from the East.  
And lays of love he also could compose,  
Thrice happy she, whom he to praise did chose.   

Full many maidens often did him woe,  
Them to vouchsafe amongst his rhymes to name,  
Or make for them as he was wont to do,  
For her that did his heart with love inflame.  
For which they promised to dight for him,  
Gay chapelets of flowers and garlands trim.   

And many a Nymph both of the wood and brook,  
Soon as his oaten pipe began to shrill:  
Both crystal wells and shady groves forsook,  
To hear the charms of his enchanting skill.  
And brought him presents, flowers if it were prime,  
Or mellow fruit if it were harvest time.   

But he for none of them did care a whit,  
Yet would Gods for them oft sighed sore:  
Ne for their gifts unworthy of his wit,  
Yet not unworthy of the country's store.  
For one alone he cared, for one he sight,  
His life's desire, and his dear loves delight.   

Stella the fair, the fairest star in sky,  
As fair as Venus or the fairest fair:  
A fairer star saw never living eye,  
Shot her sharp pointed beams through purest air.  
Her he did love, her he alone did honour,  
His thoughts, his rhymes, his songs were all upon her.   

To her he vowed the service of his days,  
On her he spent the riches of his wit:  
For her he made hymns of immortal praise,  
Of only her he sung, he thought, he writ.  
Her, and but her of love he worthy deemed,  
For all the rest but little he esteemed.   

Ne her with idle words alone he wooed,  
And verses vain (yet verses are not vain)  
But with brave deeds to her sole service vowed,  
And bold achievements her did entertain.  
For both in deeds and words he nourtred was,  
Both wise and hardy (too hardy alas)   

In wrestling nimble, and in running swift,  
In shooting steady, and in swimming strong:  
Well made to strike, to throw, to leap, to lift,  
And all the sports that shepherds are among.  
In every one he vanquished every one,  
He vanquished all, and vanquished was of none.   

Besides, in hunting such felicity,  
Or rather infelicity he found:  
That every field and forest far away,  
He sought, where salvage beasts do most abound.  
No beast so salvage but he could it kill,  
No chase so hard, but he therein had skill.   

Such skill matched with such courage as he had,  
Did prick him forth with proud desire of praise:  
To seek abroad, of danger nought y'drad,  
His mistress name, and his own fame to raise.  
What need peril to be sought abroad,  
Since round about us, it doth make abode?   

It fortuned as he, that perilous game  
In foreign soil pursued far away:  
Into a forest wide, and waste he came  
Where store he heard to be of salvage prey.  
So wide a forest and so waste as this,  
Nor famous arden, nor fowl Arlo is.   

There his welwoven toils and subtle trains,  
He laid the brutish nation to enwrap:  
So well he wrought with practice and with pains,  
That he of them great troops did soon entrap.  
Full happy man (misweening much) was he,  
So rich a spoil within his power to see.   

eftsoons all heedless of his dearest hale,  
Full greedily into the heard he thrust:  
To slaughter them, and work their final bale,  
Lest that his toil should of their troops be burst.  
Wide wounds amongst them many one he made,  
Now with his sharp boarspear, now with his blade.   

His care was all how he them all might kill,  
That none might scape (so partial unto none)  
Ill mind so much to mind another's ill,  
As to become unmindful of his own.  
But pardon that unto the cruel skies,  
That from himself to them withdrew his eyes.   

So as he raged amongst that beastly rout,  
A cruel beast of most accursed brood:  
Upon him turned (despair makes cowards stout)  
And with fell tooth accustomed to blood,  
Launched his thigh with so mischievous might,  
That it both bone and muscles rived quite.   

So deadly was the dint and deep the wound,  
And so huge streams of blood thereout did flow:  
That he endured not the direful stound,  
But on the cold dear earth himself did throw.  
The whiles the captive heard his nets did rend,  
And having none to let, to wood did wend.   

Ah where were ye this while his shepherd pears,  
To whom alive was nought so dear as he:  
And ye fair maids the matches of his years,  
Which in his grace did boast you most to be?  
Ah where were ye, when he of you had need,  
To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed?   

Ah wretched boy the shape of dreary head,  
And sad ensample of man's sudden end:  
Full little faileth but thou shalt be dead,  
Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or friend.  
Whilst none is nigh, thine eyelids up to close,  
And kiss thy lips like faded leaves of rose.   

A sort of shepherds sewing of the chase,  
As they the forest ranged on a day:  
By fate or fortune came unto the place,  
Where as the luckless boy yet bleeding lay.  
Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled,  
Had not good hap those shepherds thither led.   

They stopped his wound (too late to stop it was)  
And in their arms then softly did him rear:  
though (as he willed) unto his loved lass,  
His dearest love him dolefully did bear.  
The dolefulst bear that ever man did see,  
Was Astrophel, but dearest unto me.   

She when she saw her love in such a plight,  
With curdled blood and filthy gore deformed:  
That wont to be with flowers and garlands dight,  
And her dear favours dearly well adorned  
Her face, the fairest face, that eye moat see,  
She likewise did deform like him to be.   

Her yellow locks that shone so bright and long,  
As Sunny beams in fairest summer's day:  
She fiercely tore, and with outrageous wrong  
From her red cheeks the roses rend away.  
And her fair breast the threasury of joy,  
She spoiled thereof, and filled with annoy.   

His palled face impictured with death,  
She bathed oft with tears and dried oft:  
And with sweet kisses sucked the wasting breath,  
Out of his lips like lilies pale and soft.  
And oft she called to him, who answered nought,  
But only by his looks did tell his thought.   

The rest of her impatient regret,  
And piteous moan the which she for him made:  
No tongue can tell, nor any forth can set,  
But he whose heart like sorrow did invade.  
At last when pain his vital powers had spent,  
His wasted life her weary lodge forewent.   

Which when she saw, she stayed not a whit,  
But after him did make untimely haste:  
Forth with her ghost out of her corpse did flit,  
And followed her make like Turtle chaste.  
To prove that death their hearts cannot divide,  
Which living were in love so firmly tied.   

The Gods which all things see, this same beheld,  
And pitying this pair of lovers true:  
Transformed them there lying on the field,  
Into one flower that is both red and blue.  
It first grows red, and then to blue doth fade,  
Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.   

And in the midst thereof a star appears,  
As fairly formed as any star in skies:  
Resembling Stella in her freshest years,  
Forth darting beams of beauty from her eyes,  
And all the day it standeth full of deow,  
Which is the tears, that from her eyes did flow.   

That herb of some, Starlight is called by name,  
Of others Penthia, though not so well:  
But thou where ever thou dost find the same,  
From this day forth do call it Astrophel.  
And when so ever thou it up dost take,  
Do pluck it softly for that shepherds sake.   

Hereof when tidings far abroad did pass,  
The shepherds all which loved him full dear:  
And sure full dear of all he loved was,  
Did thither flock to see what they did hear.  
And when that piteous spectacle they viewed,  
The same with bitter tears they all bedewed.   

And every one did make exceeding moan,  
With inward anguish and great grief oppressed:  
And every one did weep and wail, and moan,  
And means devised to show his sorrow best.  
That from that hour since first on grassy green,  
Shepherds kept sheep, was not like mourning seen.   

But first his sister that Clorinda hight,  
The gentlest shepherdess that lives this day:  
And most resembling both in shape and sprite  
Her brother dear, began this doleful lay.  
Which lest I mar the sweetness of the verse,  
In sort as she it sung, I will rehearse.   

AY me, to whom shall I my case complain,  
That may compassion my impatient grief?  
Or where shall I unfold my inward pain,  
That my enriven heart may find relief?  
Shall I unto the heavenly powers it show?  
Or unto earthly men that dwell below?   

To heavens? ah they alas the authors were,  
And workers of my unremedied woe:  
For they foresee what to us happens here,  
And they foresaw, yet suffered this be so.  
From them comes good, from them comes also ill,  
That which they made, who can them warn to spill.   

To men? ah they alas like wretched be,  
And subject to the heavens ordinance:  
Bond to abide what ever they decree,  
Their best redress, is their best sufferance.  
How then can they like wretched comfort me,  
The which no less, need comforted to be?   

Then to myself will I my sorrow mourn,  
Sith none alive like sorrowful remains:  
And to myself my plaints shall back return,  
To pay their usury with doubled pains.  
The woods, the hills, the rivers shall resound  
The mournful accent of my sorrows ground.   

Woods, hills and rivers, now are desolate,  
Sith he is gone the which them all did grace:  
And all the fields do wail their widow state,  
Sith death their fairest flower did late deface.  
The fairest flower in field that ever grew,  
Was Astrophel; that was, we all may rue.   

What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown,  
Hath cropped the stalk which bore so fair a flower?  
Untimely cropped, before it well were grown,  
And clean defaced in untimely hour.  
Great loss to all that ever him see,  
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me.   

Break now your garlands, O ye shepherds lasses,  
Sith the fair flower, which them adorned, is gone:  
The flower, which them adorned, is gone to ashes,  
Never again let lass put garland on.  
Instead of garland, wear sad cypress now,  
And bitter Elder, broken from the bow.   

Ne ever sing the love-lays which he made,  
Who ever made such lays of love as he?  
Ne ever read the riddles, which he said  
Unto yourselves, to make you merry glee.  
Your merry glee is now laid all a-bed,  
Your merry maker now alas is dead.   

Death the devourer of all world's delight,  
Hath rob you and rest fro me my joy:  
Both you and me, and all the world he quite  
Hath robbed of joyance, and lest sad annoy.  
joy of the world, and shepherds pride was he,  
Shepherds hope never like again to see.   

Oh death that hast us of such riches rest,  
Tell us at least, what hast thou with it done?  
What is become of him whose flower here left  
Is but the shadow of his likeness gone.  
Scarce like the shadow of that which he was,  
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.   

But that immortal spirit, which was decked  
With all the dowries of celestial grace:  
By sovereign choice from th'heavenly quires select,  
And lineally derived from angel's race,  
O what is now of it become aread.  
Ay me, can so divine a thing be dead?   

Ah no: it is not dead, ne can it die,  
But lives for aye, in blissful Paradise:  
Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie,  
In bed of lilies wrapped in tender wise.  
And compassed all about with roses sweet,  
And dainty violets from head to feet.   

There thousand birds all of celestial brood,  
To him do sweetly carol day and night:  
And with strange notes, of him well understood,  
Lull him a sleep in angelic delight;  
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be  
Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.   

But he them sees and takes exceeding pleasure  
Of their divine aspects, appearing plain,  
And kindling love in him above all measure,  
Sweet love still joyous, never feeling pain.  
For what so goodly form he there doth see,  
He may enjoy from jealous rancour free.   

There liveth he in everlasting bliss,  
Sweet spirit never fearing more to die:  
Ne dreading harm from any foes of his,  
Ne fearing salvage beasts more cruelty.  
Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack,  
And with vain vows do often call him back.   

But live thou there still happy, happy spirit,  
And give us leave thee here thus to lament:  
Not thee that dost thy heavens joy inherit,  
But our own selves that here in dole are drent.  
Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes,  
Mourning in others, our own miseries.   

Which when she ended had, another swain  
Of gentle wit and dainty sweet device:  
Whom Astrophel full dear did entertain,  
Whilst here he lived, and held in passing price,  
Height Thestylis, began his mournful turn,  
And made the Muses in his song to mourn.   

And after him full many other more,  
As every one in order loved him best,  
'Gan dight themselves t'express their inward woe,  
With doleful lays unto the time addressed.  
The which I here in order will rehearse,  
As fittest flowers to deck his mournful hearse.    

The mourning Muse of Thestylis.  
COme forth ye nymphs come forth, forsake you watery bowers,  
Forsake your mossy caves, and help me to lament:  
Help me to tune my doleful notes to gurgling sound  
Of Liffies tumbling streams: Come let salt tears of ours,  
Mix with his waters fresh. O come let one consent  
join us to mourn with wailful plaints the deadly wound  
Which fatal clap hath made; decreed by higher powers.  
The dreary day in which they have from us rent  
The noblest plant that might from East to West be found.  
Mourn, mourn, great Philip's fall, mourn we his woeful end,  
Whom spiteful death hath plucked untimely from the tree,  
Whiles yet his years in flower, did promise worthy fruit.  
Ah dreadful Mars why didst thou not thy knight defend?  
What wrathful mood, what fault of ours hath moved thee  
Of such a shining light to leave us destitute?  
though with benign aspect sometime didst us behold,  
Thou hast in Britons valour ta'en delight of old,  
And with thy presence oft vouchsafed to attribute  
Fame and renown to us for glorious martial deeds.  
But now their ireful beams have chilled our hearts with cold,  
Thou hast estranged thyself, and deignest not our land:  
far off to others now, thy favour honour breeds,  
And high disdain doth cause thee shun our clime (I fear)  
For hadst thou not been wroth, or that time near at hand,  
Thou wouldst have heard the cry that woeful England made,  
Eke Zelands' piteous plaints, and Holland's torens hear  
Would haply have appeased thy divine angry mind:  
Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yield their shade  
And wailing to let fall the honour of their head,  
And birds in mournful tunes lamenting in their kind:  
Up from his tomb the mighty corineus' rose,  
Who cursing oft the fates that this mishap had bred,  
His hoary locks he tore, calling the heavens unkind.  
The Thames was heard to roar, the rain and eke the Mose,  
The Schald, the Danow self this great mischance did rue,  
With torment and with grief; their fountains pure & clear  
Were troubled, & with swelling floods declared their woes.  
The Muses comfortless, the Nymphs with paled hue,  
The sylvan Gods likewise came running far and near,  
And all with tears bedewed, and eyes cast up on high,  
O help, O help ye Gods, they ghastly 'gan to cry.  
O change the cruel fate of this so rare a wight,  
And grant that nature's course may measure out his age.  
The beasts their food forsook, and trembling fearfully,  
Each sought his cave or den, this cry did them so fright.  
Out from amid the waves, by storm then stirred to rage's  
This cry did cause to rise th'old father Ocean hoar,  
Who grave with eld, and full of majesty in sight,  
Spoke in this wise. Refrain (quoth he) your tears & plaints,  
Cease these your idle words, make vain requests no more.  
No humble speech nor moan, may move the fixed stint  
Of destiny or death: Such is his will that paints  
The earth with colours fresh; the darkest skies with store  
Of starry lights: And though your tears a heart of flint  
Might tender make, yet nought herein they will prevail.  
Whiles thus he said, the noble knight, who 'gan to feel  
His vital force to faint, and death with cruel dint  
Of direful dart his mortal body to assail,  
With eyes lift up to heaven, and courage frank as steel,  
With cheerful face; where valour lively was expressed,  
But humble mind he said. O Lord if ought this frail  
And earthly carcase have thy service sought t'advance,  
If my desire have been still to relieve th'oppressed:  
If justice to maintain that valour I have spent  
Which thou me gav'st; or if henceforth I might advance  
Thy name, thy truth, then spare me (Lord) if thou think best,  
Forbear these unripe years. But if thy will be bend,  
If that prefixed time be come which thou hast set,  
Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be placed,  
In th'everlasting bliss, which with thy precious blood  
Thou purchase didst for us. With that a sigh he fet,  
And strait a cloudy mist his senses overcast,  
His lips waxed pale and wan, like damask roses bud  
Cast from the stalk, or like in field to purple flower,  
Which languisheth being shred by coulter as it past.  
A trembling chilly cold ran through their veins, which were  
With eyes brimful of tears to see his fatal hour,  
Whose blustering sighs at first their sorrow did declare,  
Next, murmuring ensued; at last they not forbear  
Plain outcries, all against the heavens that enviously  
Deprived us of a sprite so perfect and so rare.  
The Sun his lightsome beams did shroud, and hide his face  
For grief, whereby the earth feared night eternally:  
The mountains each where shook, the rivers turned their streams,  
And th'air 'gan winterlike to rage and fret apace:  
And grisly ghosts by night were seen, and fiery gleams,  
Amid the clouds with claps of thunder, that did seem  
To rend the skies, and made both man and beast afeard:  
The birds of ill presage this luckless chance foretold,  
By dernfull noise, and dogs with howling made man deem  
Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteem  
As tokens of mishap, and so have done of old.  
Ah that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella plain  
Her grievous loss, or seen her heavy mourning cheer,  
While she with woe oppressed, her sorrows did unfold.  
Her hair hung lose neglect, about her shoulders twain,  
And from those two bright stars, to him sometime so dear  
Her heart sent drops of pearl, which fell in foison down  
Twixt lily and the rose. She wrong her hands with pain,  
And piteously 'gan say, My true and faithful fere,  
Alas and woe is me, why should my fortune frown  
On me thus frowardly to rob me of my joy?  
What cruel envious hand hath taken thee away,  
And with thee my content, my comfort and my stay?  
Thou only wast the ease of trouble and annoy,  
When they did me assail, in thee my hopes did rest.  
Alas what now is left but grief, that night and day  
Afflicts this woeful life, and with continual rage  
Torments ten thousand ways my mtserable breast?  
O greedy envious heaven what needed thee to have  
Enriched with such a jewel this unhappy age,  
To take it back again so soon? Alas when shall  
Mine eyes see aught that may content them, since thy grave  
My only treasure hides the joys of my poor heart?  
As herewith thee on earth I lived, even so equal  
Me thinks it were with thee in heaven I did abide:  
And as our troubles all we here on earth did part,  
So reason would that there of thy most happy state  
I had my share. Alas if thou my trusty guide  
Were wont to be, how canst thou leave me thus alone  
In darkness and astray; weak, weary, desolate,  
Plung d in a world of woe, refusing for to take  
Me with thee, to the place of rest where thou art gone.  
This said, she held her peace, for sorrow tied her tongue;  
And instead of more words, seemed that her eyes a lake  
Of tears had been, they flowed so plenteously therefrom:  
And with her sobs and sighs, th'air round about her rung.  
If Venus when she wailed her dear Adonis slain,  
Aught moved in thy fires heart compassion of her woe,  
His noble sister's plaints, her sighs and tears among,  
Would sure have made thee mild, and inly rue her pain:  
Aurora half so fair, herself did never show,  
When from old Tithon's bed, she weeping did arise.  
The blinded archer-boy, like lark in shower of rain  
Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend  
Under those crystal drops, which fell from her fair eyes,  
And at their brightest beams him pruned in lovely wise.  
Yet sorry for her grief, which he could not amend,  
The gentle boy 'gan wipe her eyes, & clear those lights,  
Those lights through which, his glory and his conquests shine.  
The Graces tucked her hair, which hung like threads of gold,  
Along her ivory breast the treasure of delights.  
All things with her to weep, it seemed, did incline,  
The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold.  
The air did help them mourn, with dark clouds, rain and mist,  
Forbearing many a day to clear itself again,  
Which made them eftsoons fear the days of Pirrha should,  
Of creatures spoil the earth, their fatal threads untwist.  
For Phoebus' gladsome rays were wished for in vain,  
And with her quivering light Latona's daughter fair,  
And Charles-waine eke refused to be the shipman's guide.  
On Neptune war was made by Aeolus and his train,  
Who letting lose the winds, tossed and tormented th'air,  
So that on every coast men shipwreck did abide,  
Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves,  
And such as came to shore, were beaten with despair.  
The Medwaies silver streams, that wont so still to slide,  
Were troubled now & wroth: whose hidden hollow caves  
Along his banks with fog then shrouded from man's eye,  
Ay Philip did resound, aye Philip they did cry.  
His nymphs were seen no more (though custom still it craves)  
With hair spread to the wind themselves to bathe or sport,  
Or with the hook or net, barefooted wanton  
The pleasant dainty fish to entangle or deceive.  
The shepherds left their wont places of resort,  
Their bagpipes now were still; their loving merry lays  
Were quite forgot; and now their flocks, men might perceive  
To wander and to stray, all carelessly neglect.  
And in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and days  
Nought else was to be heard, but woes, complaints & moan.  
But thou (O blessed soul) dost haply not respect,  
These tears we shed, though full of loving pure affect,  
Having affixed thine eyes on that most glorious throne,  
Where full of majesty the high creator reigns.  
In whose bright shining face thy joys are all complete,  
Whose love kindles thy sprite; where happy always one,  
Thou liv'st in bliss that earthly passion never stains;  
Where from the purest spring the sacred Nectar sweet  
Is thy continual drink: where thou dost gather now  
Of well employed life, th'inestimable gains.  
There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place,  
And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy virtue bow,  
And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most.  
In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace,  
A chair of gold he sets to thee, and there doth tell  
Thy noble acts a-row, whereby even they that boast  
Themselves of ancient fame, as Pyrrhus, Hannibal,  
Scipio and Caesar, with the rest that did excel  
In martial prowess, high thy glory do admire.  
All hail therefore O worthy Philip immortal,  
The flower of sydney's race, the honour of thy name,  
Whose worthy praise to sing, my Muses not aspire,  
But sorrowful and sad these tears to thee let fall,  
Yet wish their verses might so far and wide thy fame  
Extend, that envies rage, nor time might end the same.   

A pastoral eclogue upon the death of Sir Philip Sidney Knight, etc.  Lycon. Colin. 
Colin, well fits thy sad cheer this sad stound,  
This woeful stound, wherein all things complain  
This great mishap, this grievous loss of ours.  
Hearest thou the Orown? how with hollow sound  
He slides away, and murmuring doth plain,  
And seems to say unto the sading flowers,  
Along his banks, unto the bared trees;  
Phillisides is dead. Up jolly swain,  
Thou that with skill canst tune a doleful lay,  
Help him to mourn. My heart with grief doth freeze,  
Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part  
Sure would I bear, though rude: But as I may,  
With sobs and sighs I second will thy song,  
And so express the sorrows of my heart.  Colin. 
Ah Lycon, Lycon, what need skill, to teach  
A grieved mind power forth his plaints? how long  
Hath the poor Turtle gone to school (weenest thou)  
To learn to mourn her lost make? No, no, each  
Creature by nature can tell how to wail.  
Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now?  
Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes  
In doleful sound. Like him, not one doth fail  
With hanging head to show a heavy cheer,  
What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes  
Himself of late? did any cheerful note  
Come to thine ears, or gladsome sight appear  
Unto thine eyes, since that same fatal hour?  
Hath not the air put on his mourning coat,  
And testfied his grief with flowing tears?  
Sith then, it seemeth each thing to his power  
Doth us invite to make a sad consort;  
Come let us join our mournful song with theirs.  
Grief will indite, and sorrow will enforce  
Thy voice, and echo will our words report.  Lyc. 
Though my rude rhymes, ill with thy verses frame,  
That others far excel; yet will I force  
Myself to answer thee the best I can,  
And honour my base words with his high name.  
But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit  
In secret shade or cave; vouchsafe (O Pan)  
To pardon me, and here this hard constraint  
With patience while I sing, and pity it.  
And eke ye rural Muses, that do dwell  
In these wild woods; If ever piteous plaint  
We did indite, or taught a woeful mind  
With words of pure affect, his grief to tell,  
Instruct me now. Now Colin then go on,  
And I will follow thee, though far behind.  Colin. 
Phillisides is dead. O harmful death,  
O deadly harm. Unhappy Albion  
When shalt thou see among 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  
Untrust she sits, in shade of yonder hill.  
And her fair face bend 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 want frame  
Sweet bowers of Myrtel 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 burden to their plaint.  Lyc. 
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 wont 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 didst scale  
The craggy rocks of th'alps and Apennine?  
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 strand 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 Severne, 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 corpse 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.  Col. 
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 Siluans, fawns, and satires, that among  
These thickets oft have danced after his pipe,  
Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden hear,  
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 engraved 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 waxed 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.  Lyc. 
Phillisides is dead. O happy spirit,  
That now in heaven with blessed souls dost bide:  
Look down a while from where thou sit'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 cherished 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 others sorrow yet appease.  
Behold the fountains now left desolate,  
And with red 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 & pure)  
Whose only comfort on thy welfare grew.  
Whose prayers importune shall the heavens for ay,  
That to thy ashes, rest they may assure:  
That learnedst shepherds honour may thy name  
With yearly praises, and the Nymphs always  
Thy tomb may deck with fresh & 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: caetera fortuna. L. B.   

An elegy, or friends passion, for his Astrophill. Written upon the death of the right Honourable sir Philip Sidney Knight, Lord governor of Flushing.  

AS then, no wind at all there blue,  
No swelling cloud, accloye the air,  
The sky, like grass of watchet hue,  
Reflected Phoebus' 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 Actaeon'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 monarches do obtain,  
With love juice stained the mulberry,  
The fruit that dews the poet's brain,  
And Phillis philbert there away,  
Compared with myrtle and the bay.   

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

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

The skiebred Egle 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 Phoenix left sweet Arabia:  
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 groveling on the grass:  
A man or stone, I knew not that,  
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 elbow 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 eine,  
Shine upon those possess delight,  
And let me live in endless might.   

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 spirit and will,  
Died in the breast of Astrophill.   

And you compassionate of my woe,  
Gentle birds, beasts and shady trees,  
I am assured ye long to know,  
What be the sorrows me agreeu's,  
Listen ye then to that insu'th,  
And hear a tale of tears and ruth.   

You knew, who knew not Astrophill,  
(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,  
He chief delight and pleasure took,  
And on the mountain Parthenie,  
Upon the crystal liquid brook,  
The Muses met him every day,  
That taught him sing, to write and say.   

When he descended down to the mount,  
His parsonage seemed most divine,  
A thousand graces one might count,  
Upon his lovely cheerful eine,  
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 travel 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 than,  
And we to wish for him in vain,  
O could the stars that bred that wit,  
In force no longer fixed sit.   

Then being filled with learned dew,  
The Muses willed 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 Astrophill did Stella love,  
O Stella vaunt of Astrophrill,  
Albeit thy grace's gods may move,  
Where wilt thou find an Astrophill,  
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 reed,  
It is apparent more thereby,  
He that hath love and judgement to,  
Sees more than any other do.   

Then Astrophill 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 short lived beauty aye to live.   

Above all others this is he,  
Which erst approved 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 breath  
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 Astrophill 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 ceil,  
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 cane wherein he put,  
The thunder that in clouds do breed,  
The flame and bolt together shut.  
With privy force burst out again,  
And so our Astrophill was slain.   

His word (was slain) straightway did move,  
And natures inward life strings twitch,  
The sky immediately above,  
Was dimmed with hideous clouds of pitch,  
The wrestling 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 Astrophill,  
Unto her notes annexed a phill.   

The Turtle dove with tunes of ruth,  
Showed feeling passion of his death,  
Me thought 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 Phoenix where she laid,  
Her ashes flying with the wind,  
So as I might with reason see,  
That such a Phoenix near 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,  
Than under branches ere 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 the case,  
What sorrow nature doth sustain,  
For Astrophill by envy slain.   

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

This spectacle had firmly wrought,  
A deep compassion in my sprite,  
My molting heart issued me thought,  
In streams forth at mine eyes aright,  
And here my pen is forced to shrink,  
My tears discolours 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 high, pure, 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 suppressed,  
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 resumde it near,  
To sit in skies, and sort with powers divine.   

Kent thy birth days, and Oxford held thy youth,  
The heavens made haste, & 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 hence.   

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.   

There didst thou vanquish shame and tedious age,  
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortunes might:  
Thy rising day, saw never woeful night,  
But past with praise, from of 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,  
Oh happy race with so great praises run.   

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

Nations thy wit, our minds lay up thy love,  
Letters thy learning, thy loss, years long to come,  
In worthy heart's 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,  
stalled are my thoughts, which loved, & lost, the wonder of our age,  
Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now,  
Enraged I writ, I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how.   

Hard hearted minds relent, and rigours 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 spring tide,  
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, & wrong, & 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 to long,  
Who tied to wretched life, who looks for no relief,  
Must spend my ever dying days, in never ending grief.   

Heart's ease and only I, like parables 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 wont waking dreams,  
Farewell sometimes enjoyed, joy, eclipsed are thy beams,  
Farewell self pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth,  
And farewell friendships sacred league, uniting minds of worth.   

And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds,  
And all sports, which for lives restore, variety assigns,  
Let all that sweet is void; in me no mirth may dwell,  
Philip, the cause of all this woe, my lives 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 seeks that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find,  
Salute the stones, that keep the limbs, that held so good a mind.   
FINIS.    

LONDON Printed by T. C. for William Ponsonbie. 1595.