I saw amidst the vain, and fabulous hoast,
Fair Galatea lean’d on A[c] is’ brest;
Rude Polyphemus noise disturbs their rest.
Glaucus alone swims through the dangerous seas,
And missing her who should his phansie please,
Curseth the cruels Love transform’d her shape.
Canens laments that Picus could not scape
The dire enchantresse; he in Italy
170 Was once a King, now a pie’d Bird; for she
Who made him such, chang’d not his clothes nor name,
His Princely habit still appears the same.
Egeria, while she wept, became a Well:
Scylla (a horrid rock by Circes spell)
Hath made infamous the Sicilian strand.
Next, she who holdeth in her trembling hand
A guilty knife, her right hand writ her name.
Pygmalion next, with his live mistresse came.
Sweet Aganippe, and Castalia have
180 A thousand more; all there sung by the brave
And deathlesse Poets, on their faire banks plac’d;
Cydippe by an apple fool’d at last.
Chap. III
The Argument
Love woundeth Petrarchs wary heart,
Who well describes that dying smart.
My heart was fill’d with wonder and amaze,
As one struck dumb, in silence stands at gaze
Expecting Counsel, when my friend drew neare,
And said: What doe you looke? why stay you here?
What mean you? know you not that I am one
Of these? and must attend? pray, let’s be gone
Deare friend (said I) consider what desire
To learn the rest hath set my heart on fire;
My owne haste stops me. I beleeve’t (said he)
10 And I will help; ’tis not forbidden me.
This Noble man, on whom the others wait,
(You see) is Pompey, justly call’d, The great:
Cornelia followeth, weeping his hard fate,
And Ptolemies unworthy causelesse hate.
You see farre off the Grecian general;
His base wife, with Ægisthus wrought his fal:
Behold them there, and judge if Love be blinde.
But here are Lovers of another kinde,
And other faith they kept. Lyncus was sav’d
20 By Hypermnestra: Pyramus bereav’d
Himselfe of life, thinking his mistresse slain:
Thisbes like end, shortned her mourning pain.
Leander swimming often, drown’d at last;
Hero her faire selfe from her window cast.
Courteous Ulisses his long stay doth mourn;
His chaste wife prayeth for his safe return,
While Circes amarous charmes her prayers controule,
And rather vexe then please his vertuous soule.
Amilcars sonne, who made great Rome afraid,
30 By a mean wench of Spain is captive led.
This Hipsicrates is, the vertuous faire,
Who for her husbands deare Love cut her haire,
And serv’d in all his warres: This is the wife
Of Brutus; Portia, constant in her life
And death: this Julia is, who seems to mone,
That Pompey loved best, when she was gone.
Looke here and see the Patriarch much abus’d
Who twice seven years for his fair Rachel choos’d
To serve: O! powerfull love increast by woe!
40 His father this: Now see his Grandsire goe
With Sarah from his home. This cruel Love
O’recame good David; so it had power to move
His righteous heart to that abhorrid crime,
For which he sorrowed all his following time.
Just such like errour soil’d his wise sonnes fame,
For whose idolatry Gods anger came;
Here’s he who in one houre could love and hate:
Here Tamar full of anguish wailes her state;
Her brother Absolon attempts t’ appease
50 Her grieved soul. Sampson takes care to please
His fancy; and appeares more strong then wise,
Who in a traitresse bosome sleeping lies.
Amongst those pikes and speares which guard the place,
Love, wine, and sleep, a beauteous widdowes face
And pleasing Art hath Holophernes taine;
She backe again retires, who hath him slain,
With her one maide, bearing the horrid head
In haste, and thanks God that so wel she sped.
The next is Sichem, he who found his death
60 In circumcision, his father hath
Like mischiefe felt; the City all did prove
The same effect of his rash violent Love.
You see Ahasuerus how well he bears
His losse; a new love soon expels his cares:
This cure in this disease doth seldom fail,
One naile best driveth out another nail.
If you would see Love mingled oft with hate,
Bitter with sweet; behold fierce Herods state,
Beset with Love and crueltie at once:
70 Enraged first, then late his fault bemoans,
And Mariamne cals; those three faire Dames
(Who in the list of Captives write their names)
P[r]ocris, Deidamia, Artimesia were
All good, the other three as wicked are;
Semiramis, Biblis, and Myrrha nam’d,
Who of their crooked wayes are now asham’d:
Here be the erring Knights in ancient scroules,
Lancelot, Tristram, and the vulgar soules
That wait on these; Jiniver, and the faire
80 Isond, with other Lovers; and the pair
Who, as they walke together, seeme to plain
Their just, but cruel fate, by one hand slaine;
Thus he discours’d: and as a man that feares
Approching harme, when he a trumpet heares,
Starts at the blow ere touch’t, my frighted blood
Retir’d: as one rais’d from his Tombe I stood;
When by my side I spi’d a lovely maide,
(No Turtle ever purer whitenesse had)
And straight was caught (who lately swore I would
90 Defend me from a man at Armes) nor could
Resist the wounds of words with motion grac’t;
The image yet is in my phansie plac’t.
My friend was willing to increase my woe,
And smiling whisperd; You alone may goe
Conferre with whom you please, for now we are
All stained with one crime: My sullen care
Was like to theirs, who are more griev’d to know
Anothers happinesse then their owne woe:
For seeing her, who had enthral’d my minde,
100 Live free in peace, and no disturbance finde:
And seeing that I knew my hurt too late,
And that her beauty was my dying fate:
Love, jealousie, and envie held my sight
So fixt on that faire face, no other light
I could behold; like one who in the rage
Of sicknesse greedily his thirst would swage
With hurtfull drinke, which doth his palat please,
Thus (blinde and deaf t’ all other joyes are ease)
So many doubtful wayes I followed her
110 The memory still shakes my soul with feare.
Since when mine eyes are moist, and view the ground;
My heart is heavie, and my steps have found
A solitary dwelling ’mongst the woods,
I stray ore rocks, and fountains, hils and floods:
Since when such store my scattered papers hold
Of thoughts, of tears, of inke; which oft I fold,
Unfold, and teare: since when I know the scope
Of Love, and what they feare, and what
they hope;
And how they live that in his Cloyster dwell,
120 The skilfull in their face may reade it well.
Mean while I see, how fierce and gallant she
Cares not for me, nor for my misery,
Proud of her vertue, and my overthrow:
And on the other side (if ought I know)
This Lord, who hath the world in triumph led,
She keeps in feare; thus all my hopes are dead,
No strength nor courage left, nor can I be
Reveng’d, as I expected once; for he,
Who tortures me and others, is abused
130 By her; she’le not be caught, and long hath used
(Rebellious as she is!) to shun his warres,
And is a Sunne amidst the lesser starres.
Her grace, smiles, slights, her words in order set;
Her haire disperst, or in a golden net;
Her eyes enflaming with a light divine
So burn my heart, I dare no more repine.
Ah, who is able fully to expresse
Her pleasing wayes, her merit? no excesse,
No bold Hyperboles I need to feare
140 My humble stile cannot enough come neare
The truth; my words are like a little stream
Compar’d with th’ Ocean, so large a theame
Is that high prayse; new worth, not seen before,
Is seen in her, and can be seen no more
Therefore all tongues are silenced; and I,
Her prisoner now, see her at liberty:
And night and day implore (O unjust fate!)
She neither heares, nor pitties my estate:
Hard lawes of Love! But though a partiall lot
150 I plainly see in this, yet must I not
Refuse to serve: the gods, as well as men,
With like reward of old have felt like pain.
Now know I how the mind itselfe doth part,
(Now making peace, now warre, now truce) what art
Poore Lovers use to hide their stinging woe:
And how their bloud now comes, and now doth goe
Betwixt their heart and cheeks, by shame or feare:
How they be eloquent, yet speechlesse are:
And how they both wayes leane, they watch and sleep,
160 Languish to death, yet life and vigor keep:
I trode the pathes made happy by her feet,
And search the foe; I am afraid to meet.
I know how lovers metamorphos’d are
To that they love: I know what tedious care
I feele; how vain my joy, how oft I change
Designe, and countenance; and (which is strange)
I live without a soul: I know the way
To cheat my selfe a thousand times a day:
I know to follow whiles I flee my fire:
170 I freeze when present; absent, my desire
Is hot: I know what cruel rigour Love
Practiseth on the minde, and doth remove
All reason thence, and how he racks the heart;
And how a soul, hath neither strength nor Art
Without a helper to resist his blowes;
And how he flees, and how his darts he throwes:
And how his threats the feareful Lover feels;
And how he robs by force, and how he steales:
How oft his wheels turne round (now high, now low)
180 With how uncertain hope, how certain wo:
How all his promises be voyd of faith,
And how a fire hid in our bones he hath;
How in our vains he makes a secret wound,
Whence open flames and death doe soone abound.
In summe, I know how giddy and how vain
Be Lovers lives; what feare and boldnesse raigne
In all their wayes; how every sweet is paide,
And with a double weight of sowre allaide:
I also know their customes, sighs, and songs;
190 Their sudden mutenesse, and their stammering tongues,
How short their joy, how long their pain doth last,
How Wormwood spoyleth all their hunni’s taste.
Chap. IV
The Argument
Himselfe with other slaves of Love
Are all shut up in Venus grove.
When once my will was captive by my fate,
And I had lost the liberty, which late
Made my life happy; I, who us’d before
To flee from Love (as fearefull Deere abhorre
The following huntsman) suddenly became
(Like all my fellow-servants) calme and tame;
And viewd the travels, wrestlings, and the smart,
The crooked by-pathes, and the cosening Art
That guides the amarous flock: then whil’st mine eye
10 I cast in every corner, to espie
Some Ancient or Modern who had prov’d
Famous: I saw him, who had onely lov’d
Euridice, and found out Hel, to call
Her deare Ghost back; he nam’d her in his fall
For whom he died. Alceus there was knowne
Skilfull in Love and verse: Anacreon
Whose Muse sung nought but Love: Pindarus, he
Was also there: there I might Virgil see:
Many brave wits I found, some looser rimes,
20 By others Writ hath pleas’d the ancient times,
Ovid was one: After Catullus came;
Propertius next, his Elegies the name
Of Cynthia beare: Tibullus, and the young
Greeke Poetesse, who is receiv’d among
The noble Troup for her rare Saphick Muse.
Thus looking here and there (as oft I use)
I spi’d much people on a flowry plaine,
Amongst themselves disputes of Love maintaine.
Behold Beatrix with Dant; Selvagia, she
30 Brought her Pistoyon Cin; Guiton may be
Offended that he is the later nam’d:
Behold both Guidoes for their learning fam’d:
Th’honest Bullonian: the Scicilians first
Wrote Love in rimes, but wrote their rimes the worst.
Francischin and Senuchio, (who all know)
Were worthy and humane; after did go
A squadron of another garbe and phrase,
Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,
Great master in Loves Art, his stile as new
40 As sweet, honoures his Countrey: next, a few
Whom Love did lightly wound; both Peters made
Two; one, the lesse Arnaldo: some have had
A harder warre; both the Rimbaldoes, th’ one
Sung Beatrix, though her quality was known
Too much above his reach in Mont-ferrat.
Alvernia’s, old Piero, and Girault:
Flocchetto, who from Genua was estrang’d
And call’d Marsilian, he wisely chang’d
His name, his state, his countrey, and did gain
50 In all: Jeffray made haste to catch his bane
With sails and oares: Guilliam too sweetly sung
That pleasing Art, was cause he di’d so young.
Amareg, Bernard, Hugo, and Anselme
Were there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helme,
Shield, sword, and speare, all their offensive armes,
And their defensive to prevent their harmes.
From those I turn’d, comparing my own woe,
To view my countrey-folks; and there might know
The good Thomasso, who did once adorne
60 Boloigna, now Messina holds his urne.
Ah vanisht joyes! Ah life too full of bane!
How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly tane?
Since without thee nothing is in my power
To doe; Where art thou from me at this houre?
What is our life? If ought it bring of ease,
A sick mans dreame, a fable, told to please.
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Some few there from the common road did stray;
Lelius and Socrates, with whom I may
A longer progresse take: O! what a paire
70 Of deare esteemed friends to me they were!
’Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach their praise;
Neither of these can naked Vertue raise
Above her owne true place: with them I have
Reach’t many heights; one yoke of learning gave
Lawes to our steps, to them my festered wound
I oft have shew’d; no time or place I found
To part from them; and hope, and wish we may
Be undivided till my breath decay:
With them I us’d (too early) to adorne
80 My head with th’honoured branches, onely worne
For her deare sake I did so deeply love,
Who fill’d my thoughts (but ah!) I dayly prove,
No fruit nor leaves from thence can gathered be;
The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.
For this I was accustom’d much to vexe,
But I have seen that which my anger checks:
(A Theame for buskins, not a Comick stage)
She tooke the God, adored by the rage
Of such dul fooles, as he hath captive led:
90 But first, Ile tel you what of us he made;
Then from her hand what was his owne sad fate,
Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.
His winged coursers ore the ditches leapt,
And we their way as desperately kept,
Till he had reached where his mother raignes,
Nor would he ever pul or turne the reignes;
But scour’d ore woods and mountains, none did care
Nor could discerne in what strange world they were.
Beyond the place, where old Ægeus mournes,
100 An Hand lies, Phoebus none sweeter burnes,
Nor Neptune ever bath’d a better shore:
About the midst a beauteous hill, with store
Of shades and pleasing smels, so fresh a spring
As drownes all manly thoughts: this place doth bring
Venus much joy; ’t was given her Deity,
Ere blinde man knew a truer god than she:
Of which original it yet retaines
Too much, so little goodnesse there remains
That it the vicious doth onely please,
110 Is by the vertuous shun’d as a disease.
Here this fine Lord insulteth o’re us all
Tied in a chaine, from Thule to Ganges fall.
Griefes in our breasts, vanity in our armes;
Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harmes:
Repentance swiftly following to annoy:
(Such Tarquine found it, and the bane of Troy)
All that whole valley with the Ecchoes rung
Of running brookes, and birds that gently sung:
The banks were cloath’d in yellow, purple, green,
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