But on the cold deare earth himselfe 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 shepheard peares, 145
To whom alive was nought so deare as hee?
And ye, faire mayds, the matches of his yeares,
Which in his grace did boast you most to bee?
Ah! where were ye, when he of you had need,
To stop his wound, that wondrously did bleed? 150
Ah, wretched boy, the shape of dreryhead,
And sad ensample of mans suddein end!
Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead,
Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or frend;
Whilest none is nigh, thine eylids up to close, 155
And kisse thy lips like faded leaves of rose.
A sort of shepheards, sewing of the chace,
As they the forest raunged on a day,
By fate or fortune came unto the place,
Where as the lucklesse boy yet bleeding lay; 160
Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled,
Had not good hap those shepheards thether led.
They stopt his wound (too late to stop it was)
And in their armes then softly did him reare:
Tho (as he wild) unto his loved lasse, 165
His dearest love, him dolefully did beare.
The dolefulst beare that ever man did see
Was Astrophel, but dearest unto mee.
She, when she saw her love in such a plight,
With crudled blood and filthie gore deformed, 170
That wont to be with flowers and gyrlonds dight,
And her deare favours dearly well adorned,
Her face, the fairest face that eye mote see,
She likewise did deforme like him to bee.
Her yellow locks, that shone so bright and long, 175
As sunny beames in fairest somers day,
She fiersly tore, and with outragious wrong
From her red cheeks the roses rent away,
And her faire brest, the threasury of joy,
She spoyld thereof, and filled with annoy. 180
His palled face, impictured with death,
She bathed oft with teares and dried oft:
And with sweet kisses suckt the wasting breath
Out of his lips like lillies pale and soft:
And oft she cald to him, who answerd nought, 185
But onely by his lookes did tell his thought.
The rest of her impatient regret,
And piteous mone the which she for him made,
No toong can tell, nor any forth can set,
But he whose heart like sorrow did invade. 190
At last when paine his vitall powres had spent,
His wasted life her weary lodge forwent.
Which when she saw, she staied not a whit,
But after him did make untimely haste:
Forthwith her ghost out of her corps did flit, 195
And followed her make like turtle chaste;
To prove that death their hearts cannot divide,
Which living were in love so firmly tide.
The gods, which all things see, this same beheld,
And pittying this paire of lovers trew, 200
Transformed them, there lying on the field,
Into one flowre that is both red and blew:
It first growes red, and then to blew doth fade,
Like Astrophel, which thereinto was made.
And in the midst thereof a star appeares, 205
As fairly formd as any star in skyes,
Resembling Stella in her freshest yeares,
Forth darting beames of beautie from her eyes;
And all the day it standeth full of deow,
Which is the teares that from her eyes did flow. 210
That hearbe, of some, Starlight is cald by name,
Of others Penthia, though not so well:
But thou, where ever thou doest finde the same,
From this day forth do call it Astrophel:
And when so ever thou it up doest take, 215
Do pluck it softly for that shepheards sake.
Hereof when tydings far abroad did passe,
The shepheards all which loved him full deare,
And sure full deare of all he loved was,
Did thether flock to see what they did heare. 220
And when that pitteous spectacle they vewed,
The same with bitter teares they all bedewed.
And every one did make exceeding mone,
With inward anguish and great griefe opprest:
And every one did weep and waile and mone, 225
And meanes deviz’d to shew his sorrow best:
That from that houre since first on grassie greene
Shepheards kept sheep, was not like mourning seen.
But first his sister, that Clorinda hight,
The gentlest shepheardesse that lives this day, 230
And most resembling both in shape and spright
Her brother deare, began this dolefull lay.
Which, least I marre the sweetnesse of the vearse,
In sort as she it sung I will rehearse.
[Verses presumably by the Countess of Pembroke.]
AY me! to whom shall I my case complaine, 235
That may compassion my impatient griefe?
Or where shall I unfold my inward paine,
That my enriven heart may find reliefe?
Shall I unto the heavenly powres it show?
Or unto earthly men that dwell below? 240
To heavens? Ah! they, alas! the authors were,
And workers of my unremedied wo:
For they foresee what to us happens here,
And they foresaw, yet suffred this be so.
From them comes good, from them comes also il; 245
That which they made, who can them warne to spill?
To men? Ah! they, alas! like wretched bee,
And subject to the heavens ordinance:
Bound to abide what ever they decree,
Their best redresse is their best sufferance. 250
How then can they, like wretched, comfort mee,
The which no lesse need comforted to bee?
Then to my selfe will I my sorrow mourne,
Sith none alive like sorrowfull remaines:
And to my selfe my plaints shall back retourne, 255
To pay their usury with doubled paines.
The woods, the hills, the rivers shall resound
The mournfull accent of my sorrowes ground.
Woods, hills, and rivers now are desolate,
Sith he is gone the which them all did grace: 260
And all the fields do waile their widow state,
Sith death their fairest flowre did late deface.
The fairest flowre in field that ever grew
Was Astrophel; that was, we all may rew.
What cruell hand of cursed foe unknowne 265
Hath cropt the stalke which bore so faire a flowre?
Untimely cropt, before it well were growne,
And cleane defaced in untimely howre.
Great losse to all that ever him did see,
Great losse to all, but greatest losse to mee! 270
Breake now your gyrlonds, O ye shepheards lasses,
Sith the faire flowre which them adornd is gon:
The flowre which them adornd is gone to ashes;
Never againe let lasse put gyrlond on.
In stead of gyrlond, weare sad cypres noew, 275
And bitter elder, broken from the bowe.
Ne ever sing the love-layes which he made;
Who ever made such layes of love as hee?
Ne ever read the riddles which he sayd
Unto your selves, to make you mery glee. 280
Your mery glee is now laid all abed,
Your mery maker no
w, alasse! is dead.
Death, the devourer of all worlds delight,
Hath robbed you and reft fro me my joy:
Both you and me and all the world he quight 285
Hath robd of joyance, and left sad annoy.
Joy of the world and shepheards pride was hee:
Shepheards, hope never like againe to see.
Oh Death! that hast us of such riches reft,
Tell us at least, what hast thou with it done? 290
What is become of him whose flowre here left
Is but the shadow of his likenesse gone?
Scarse like the shadow of that which he was,
Nought like, but that he like a shade did pas.
But that immortall spirit, which was deckt 295
With all the dowries of celestiall grace,
By soveraine choyce from th’ hevenly quires select,
And lineally deriv’d from angels race,
O! what is now of it become, aread.
Ay me! can so divine a thing be dead? 300
Ah, no! it is not dead, ne can it die,
But lives for aie in blisfull Paradise:
Where like a new-borne babe it soft doth lie,
In bed of lillies wrapt in tender wise,
And compast all about with roses sweet, 305
And daintie violets from head to feet.
There thousand birds, all of celestiall brood,
To him do sweetly caroll day and night;
And with straunge notes, of him well understood,
Lull him a sleep in angelick delight; 310
Whilest in sweet dreame to him presented bee
Immortall beauties, which no eye may see.
But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure
Of their divine aspects, appearing plaine,
And kindling love in him above all measure, 315
Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling paine.
For what so goodly forme he there doth see,
He may enjoy from jealous rancor free.
There liveth he in everlasting blis,
Sweet spirit, never fearing more to die: 320
Ne dreading harme from any foes of his,
Ne fearing salvage beasts more crueltie.
Whilest we here, wretches, waile his private lack,
And with vaine vowes do often call him back.
But live thou there, still happie, happie spirit, 325
And give us leave thee here thus to lament:
Not thee that doest thy heavens joy inherit,
But our owne selves that here in dole are drent.
Thus do we weep and waile, and wear our eies,
Mourning in others our own miseries. 330
WHICH when she ended had, another swaine,
Of gentle wit and daintie sweet device,
Whom Astrophel full deare did entertaine,
Whilest here he liv’d, and held in passing price,
Hight Thestylis, began his mournfull tourne, 335
And made the Muses in his song to mourne.
And after him full many other moe,
As everie one in order lov’d him best,
Gan dight themselves t’ expresse their inward woe,
With dolefull layers unto the time addrest. 340
The which I here in order will rehearse,
As fittest flowres to deck his mournfull hearse.
The Mourning Muse of Thestylis
[By Lodowick Bryskett.]
COME forth, ye Nymphes, come forth, forsake your watry bowres,
Forsake your mossy caves, and help me to lament:
Help me to tune my dolefull notes to gurgling sound
Of Liffies tumbling streames: come, let salt teares of ours
Mix with his waters fresh. O come, let one consent 5
Joyne us to mourne with wailfull plaints the deadly wound
Which fatall clap hath made; decreed by higher powres;
The dreery day in which they have from us yrent
The noblest plant that might from East to West be found.
Mourne, mourn great Philips fall, mourn we his wofull end, 10
Whom spitefull Death hath pluct untimely from the tree,
Whiles yet his yeares in flowre did promise worthie frute.
Ah! dreadful Mars, why didst thou not thy knight defend?
What wrathfull mood, what fault of ours hath moved thee
Of such a shining light to leave us destitute? 15
Thou with benigne aspect sometime didst us behold,
Thou hast in Britons valour tane delight of old,
And with thy presence oft vouchsaft to attribute
Fame and renowme to us for glorious martiall deeds.
But now thy ireful bemes have chill’d our harts with cold; 20
Thou hast estrang’d thy self, and deignest not our land:
Farre off to others now thy favour honour breeds,
And high disdaine doth cause thee shun our clime (I feare.)
For hadst thou not bene wroth, or that time neare at hand,
Thou wouldst have heard the cry that woful England made; 25
Eke Zelands piteous plaints and Hollands toren heare
Would haply have appeas’d thy divine angry mynd.
Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yeeld their shade,
And wailing to let fall the honor of their head,
And birds in mournfull tunes lamenting in their kinde. 30
Up from his tombe the mightie Corineus rose,
Who cursing oft the Fates that this mishap had bred,
His hoary locks he tare, calling the heavens unkinde.
The Thames was heard to roare, the Reyne and eke the Mose,
The Schald, the Danow selfe this great mischance did rue, 35
With torment and with grief; their fountains pure and cleere
Were troubled, and with swelling flouds declar’d their woes.
The Muses comfortles, the Nymphs with paled hue,
The silvan gods likewise came running farre and neere,
And all with teares bedeawd, and eyes cast up on hie, 40
‘O help, O help, ye gods!’ they ghastly gan to crie.
‘O chaunge the cruell fate of this so rare a wight,
And graunt that natures course may measure out his age!’
The beasts their foode forsooke, and trembling fearfully,
Each sought his cave or den, this cry did them so fright. 45
Out from amid the waves, by storme then stirr’d to rage,
This crie did cause to rise th’ old father Ocean hoare,
Who, grave with eld, and full of majestie in sight,
Spake in this wise: ‘Refrain,’ quoth he, ‘your teares and plaints,
Cease these your idle words, make vaine requests no more. 50
No humble speech nor mone may move the fixed stint
Of destinie or death: such is his will that paints
The earth with colours fresh, the darkest skies with store
Of starry lights: and though your teares a hart of flint
Might tender make, yet nought herein they will prevaile.’ 55
Whiles thus he said, the noble knight, who gan to feele
His vitall force to faint, and Death with cruell dint
Of direfull dart his mortall bodie to assaile,
With eyes lift up to heav’n, and courage franke as steele,
With cheerfull face, where valour lively was exprest, 60
But humble mynd, he said: ‘O Lord, if ought this fraile
And earthly carcasse have thy service sought t’ advaunce;
If my desire have bene still to relieve th’ opprest:
If, justice to maintaine, that valour I have spent
Which thou me gav’st; or if henceforth I might advaunce 65
Thy name, thy truth, then spare me (Lord) if thou think best;
Forbeare these unripe yeares. But if thy will be bent,
If that prefixed time be come which
thou hast set,
Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be plast
In th’ everlasting blis which with thy precious blood 70
Thou purchase didst for us.’ With that a sigh he fet,
And straight a cloudie mist his sences overcast,
His lips waxt pale and wan, like damaske roses bud
Cast from the stalke, or like in field to purple flowre,
Which languisheth being shred by culter as it past. 75
A trembling chilly cold ran throgh their veines, which were
With eies brimfull of teares to see his fatall howre;
Whose blustring sighes at first their sorrow did declare;
Next, murmuring ensude; at last they not forbeare
Plaine outcries, all against the heav’ns that enviously 80
Depriv’d us of a spright so perfect and so rare.
The sun his lightsom beames did shrowd, and hide his face
For griefe, whereby the earth feard night eternally:
The mountaines eachwhere shooke, the rivers turn’d their streames,
And th’ aire gan winterlike to rage and fret apace: 85
And grisly ghosts by night were seene, and fierie gleames
Amid the clouds, with claps of thunder, that did seeme
To rent the skies, and made both man and beast afeard.
The birds of ill presage this lucklesse chance foretold,
By dernfull noise, and dogs with howling made man deeme 90
Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteeme
As tokens of mishap, and so have done of old.
Ah! that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella plaine
Her greevous losse, or seene her heavie mourning cheere,
While she, with woe opprest, her sorrowes did unfold. 95
Her haire hung lose neglect, about her shoulders twaine,
And from those two bright starres, to him sometime so deere,
Her heart sent drops of pearle, which fell in foyson downe
Twixt lilly and the rose. She wroong her hands with paine,
And piteously gan say: ‘My true and faithfull pheere, 100
Alas, and woe is me! why should my fortune frowne
On me thus frowardly, to rob me of my joy?
What cruell envious hand hath taken thee away,
And with thee my content, my comfort, and my stay?
Thou onelie wast the ease of trouble and annoy, 105
When they did me assaile, in thee my hopes did rest.
Alas! what now is left but grief, that night and day
Afflicts this wofull life, and with continuall rage
Torments ten thousand waies my miserable brest?
O greedie envious heav’n, what needed thee to have 110
Enricht with such a jewell this unhappie age,
To take it back againe so soone? Alas! when shall
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