Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

by Edmund Spenser

  ‘Hobbin, thou temptest me to that I covet:

  For of good passed newly to discus,

  By dubble usurie doth twise renew it.

  And since I saw that Angels blessed eie, 40

  Her worlds bright sun, her heavens fairest light,

  My mind, full of my thoughts satietie,

  Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:

  Since that same day in nought I take delight,

  Ne feeling have in any earthly pleasure, 45

  But in remembrance of that glorious bright,

  My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure.

  Wake then, my pipe! my sleepie Muse, awake!

  Till I have told her praises lasting long:

  Hobbin desires, thou maist it not forsake. 50

  Harke then, ye jolly shepheards, to my song.’

  With that they all gan throng about him neare,

  With hungrie eares to heare his harmonie:

  The whiles their flocks, devoyd of dangers feare,

  Did round about them feed at libertie. 55

  ‘One day,’ quoth he, ‘I sat (as was my trade)

  Under the foote of Mole, that mountaine hore,

  Keeping my sheepe amongst the cooly shade

  Of the greene alders by the Mullaes shore.

  There a straunge shepheard chaunst to find me out, 60

  Whether allured with my pipes delight,

  Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,

  Or thither led by chaunce, I know not right:

  Whom when I asked from what place he came,

  And how he hight, himselfe he did ycleepe 65

  The Shepheard of the Ocean by name,

  And said he came far from the main-sea deepe.

  He, sitting me beside in that same shade,

  Provoked me to plaie some pleasant fit,

  And when he heard the musicke which I made, 70

  He found himselfe full greatly pleasd at it:

  Yet æmuling my pipe, he tooke in hond

  My pipe, before that æmuled of many,

  And plaid theron; (for well that skill he cond)

  Himselfe as skilfull in that art as any. 75

  He pip’d, I sung, and when he sung, I piped,

  By chaunge of turnes, each making other mery,

  Neither envying other, nor envied,

  So piped we, untill we both were weary.’

  There interrupting him, a bonie swaine, 80

  That Cuddy hight, him thus atweene bespake:

  ‘And should it not thy readie course restraine,

  I would request thee, Colin, for my sake,

  To tell what thou didst sing, when he did plaie:

  For well I weene it worth recounting was, 85

  Whether it were some hymne, or morall laie,

  Or carol made to praise thy loved lasse.’

  ‘Nor of my love, nor of my lasse,’ quoth he,

  ‘I then did sing, as then occasion fell:

  For love had me forlorne, forlorne of me, 90

  That made me in that desart chose to dwell.

  But of my river Bregogs love I soong,

  Which to the shiny Mulla he did beare,

  And yet doth beare, and ever will, so long

  As water doth within his bancks appeare.’ 95

  ‘Of fellowship,’ said then that bony boy,

  ‘Record to us that lovely lay againe:

  The staie whereof shall nought these eares annoy,

  Who all that Colin makes do covet faine.’

  ‘Heare then,’ quoth he, ‘the tenor of my tale, 100

  In sort as I it to that shepheard told:

  No leasing new, nor grandams fable stale,

  But auncient truth confirm’d with credence old.

  ‘Old Father Mole, (Mole hight that mountain gray

  That walls the northside of Armulla dale) 105

  He had a daughter fresh as floure of May,

  Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale;

  Mulla, the daughter of old Mole, so hight

  The nimph, which of that water course has charge,

  That, springing out of Mole, doth run downe right 110

  To Buttevant, where spreading forth at large,

  It giveth name unto that auncient cittie,

  Which Kilnemullah cleped is of old:

  Whose ragged ruines breed great ruth and pittie

  To travailers which it from far behold. 115

  Full faine she lov’d, and was belov’d full faine

  Of her owne brother river, Bregog hight,

  So hight because of this deceitfull traine

  Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight.

  But her old sire, more carefull of her good, 120

  And meaning her much better to preferre,

  Did thinke to match her with the neighbour flood,

  Which Allo hight, Broadwater called farre:

  And wrought so well with his continuall paine,

  That he that river for his daughter wonne: 125

  The dowre agreed, the day assigned plaine,

  The place appointed where it should be doone.

  Nath’lesse the nymph her former liking held;

  For love will not be drawne, but must be ledde;

  And Bregog did so well her fancie weld, 130

  That her good will he got her first to wedde.

  But, for her father, sitting still on hie,

  Did warily still watch which way she went,

  And eke from far observ’d, with jealous eie,

  Which way his course the wanton Bregog bent, 135

  Him to deceive, for all his watchfull ward,

  The wily lover did devise this slight:

  First into many parts his streame he shar’d,

  That, whilest the one was watcht, the other might

  Passe unespide to meete her by the way; 140

  And then besides, those little streames so broken

  He under ground so closely did convay,

  That of their passage doth appeare no token,

  Till they into the Mullaes water slide.

  So secretly did he his love enjoy: 145

  Yet not so secret, but it was descride,

  And told her father by a shepheards boy.

  Who, wondrous wroth for that so foule despight,

  In great avenge did roll downe from his hill

  Huge mightie stones, the which encomber might 150

  His passage, and his water-courses spill.

  So of a river, which he was of old,

  He none was made, but scattred all to nought,

  And, lost emong those rocks into him rold,

  Did lose his name: so deare his love he bought.’ 155

  Which having said, him Thestylis bespake:

  ‘Now by my life this was a mery lay,

  Worthie of Colin selfe, that did it make.

  But read now eke, of friendship I thee pray,

  What dittie did that other shepheard sing? 160

  For I do covet most the same to heare,

  As men use most to covet forreine thing.’

  ‘That shall I eke,’ quoth he, ‘to you declare.

  His song was all a lamentable lay,

  Of great unkindnesse, and of usage hard, 165

  Of Cynthia, the Ladie of the Sea,

  Which from her presence faultlesse him debard.

  And ever and anon, with singulfs rife,

  He cryed out, to make his undersong:

  “Ah! my loves queene, and goddesse of my life, 170

  Who shall me pittie, when thou doest me wrong?”’

  Then gan a gentle bonylasse to speake,

  That Marin hight: ‘Right well he sure did plaine,

  That could great Cynthiaes sore displeasure breake,

  And move to take him to her grace againe. 175

  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 lyking to my lore, 180

  And great dislyking to my lucklesse lot,

  That banisht had my selfe, like wight forlore,

  Into that waste, where I was quite forgot.

  The which to leave, thenceforth he counseld mee,

  Unmeet for man in whom was ought regard-full, 185

  And wend with him, his Cynthia to see,

  Whose grace was great, and bounty most rewardfull:

  Besides her peerlesse skill in making well,

  And all the ornaments of wondrous wit,

  Such as all womankynd did far excell, 190

  Such as the world admyr’d and praised it:

  So what with hope of good, and hate of ill,

  He me perswaded forth with him to fare;

  Nought tooke I with me, but mine oaten quill:

  Small needments else need shepheard to prepare. 195

  So to the sea we came; the sea? that is

  A world of waters heaped up on hie,

  Rolling like mountaines in wide wildernesse,

  Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse crie.’

  ‘And is the sea,’ quoth Coridon, ‘so fearfull?’ 200

  ‘Fearful much more,’ quoth he, ‘then hart can fear:

  Thousand wyld beasts with deep mouthes gaping direfull

  Therin stil wait poore passengers to teare.

  Who life doth loath, and longs death to behold,

  Before he die, alreadie dead with feare, 205

  And yet would live with heart halfe stonie cold,

  Let him to sea, and he shall see it there.

  And yet as ghastly dreadfull as it seemes,

  Bold men, presuming life for gaine to sell,

  Dare tempt that gulf, and in those wandring stremes 210

  Seek waies unknowne, waies leading down to hell.

  For as we stood there waiting on the strond,

  Cehold! an huge great vessell to us came,

  Dauncing upon the waters back to lond,

  As if it scornd the daunger of the same; 215

  Yet was it but a wooden frame and fraile,

  Glewed togither with some subtile matter,

  Yet had it armes and wings, and head and taile,

  And life to move it selfe upon the water.

  Strange thing, how bold and swift the monster was, 220

  That neither car’d for wynd, nor haile, nor raine,

  Nor swelling waves, but thorough them did passe

  So proudly that she made them roare againe!

  The same aboord us gently did receave,

  And without harme us farre away did beare, 225

  So farre that land, our mother, us did leave,

  And nought but sea and heaven to us appeare.

  Then hartlesse quite and full of inward feare,

  That shepheard I besought to me to tell,

  Under what skie, or in what world we were, 230

  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 shepheardesse, that Cynthia hight,

  His liege, his ladie, and his lifes regent. 235

  “If then,” quoth I, “a shepheardesse she bee,

  Where be the flockes and heards, which she doth keep?

  And where may I the hills and pastures see,

  On which she useth for to feed her sheepe?”

  “These be the hills,” quoth he, “the surges hie, 240

  On which faire Cynthia her heards doth feed:

  Her heards be thousand fishes, with their frie,

  Which in the bosome of the billowes breed.

  Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief

  Is Triton blowing loud his wreathed horne: 245

  At sound whereof, they all for their relief

  Wend too and fro at evening and at morne.

  And Proteus eke with him does drive his heard

  Of stinking seales and porcpisces together,

  With hoary head and deawy dropping beard, 250

  Compelling them which way he list, and whether.

  And I among the rest, of many least,

  Have in the ocean charge to me assignd:

  Where I will live or die at her beheast,

  And serve and honour her with faithfull mind. 255

  Besides, an hundred nymphs, all heavenly borne,

  And of immortall race, doo still attend

  To wash faire Cynthiaes sheep, when they be shorne,

  And fold them up, when they have made an end.

  Those be the shepheards which my Cynthia serve 260

  At sea, beside a thousand moe at land:

  For land and sea my Cynthia doth deserve

  To have in her commandement at hand.”

  Thereat I wondred much, till, wondring more

  And more, at length we land far off descryde: 265

  Which sight much gladed me; for much afore

  I feard least land we never should have eyde:

  Thereto our ship her course directly bent,

  As if the way she perfectly had knowne.

  We Lunday passe; by that same name is ment 270

  An island which the first to west was showne.

  From thence another world of land we kend,

  Floting amid the sea in jeopardie,

  And round about with mightie white rocks hemd,

  Against the seas encroching crueltie. 275

  Those same, the shepheard told me, were the fields

  In which Dame Cynthia her landheards fed,

  Faire goodly fields, then which Armulla yields

  None fairer, nor more fruitfull to be red.

  The first to which we nigh approched was 280

  An high headland thrust far into the sea,

  Like to an horne, whereof the name it has,

  Yet seemed to be a goodly pleasant lea:

  There did a loftie mount at first us greet,

  Which did a stately heape of stones upreare, 285

  That seemd amid the surges for to fleet,

  Much greater then that frame which us did beare:

  There did our ship her fruitfull wombe unlade,

  And put us all ashore on Cynthias land.’

  ‘What land is that thou meanst,’ then Cuddy sayd, 290

  ‘And is there other, then whereon we stand?’

  ‘Ah! Cuddy,’ then quoth Colin, ‘thous a fon,

  That hast not seene least part of Natures worke:

  Much more there is unkend then thou doest kon,

  And much more that does from mens knowledge lurke. 295

  For that same land much larger is then this,

  And other men and beasts and birds doth feed:

  There fruitfull corne, faire trees, fresh herbage is,

  And all things else that living creatures need.

  Besides most goodly rivers there appeare, 300

  No whit inferiour to thy Funchins praise,

  Or unto Allo or to Mulla cleare:

  Nought hast thou, foolish boy, seene in thy daies.’

  ‘But if that land be there,’ quoth he, ‘as here,

  And is theyr heaven likewise there all one? 305

  And if like heaven, be heavenly graces there,

  Like as in this same world where we do wone?’

  ‘Both heaven and heavenly graces do much more,’

  Quoth he, ‘abound in that same land then this.

  For there all happie peace and plenteous store 310

  Conspire in one to make contented blisse:

  No wayling there nor wretchednesse is heard,

  No bloodie issues nor no leprosies,

  No griesly famine, nor no raging sweard,

  No nightly bodrags, nor no hue and cries: 315

  The shepheards there abroad may safely lie,

  On hills and
downes, withouten dread or daunger:

  No ravenous wolves the good mans hope destroy,

  Nor outlawes fell affray the forest raunger.

  There learned arts do florish in great honor, 320

  And poets wits are had in peerlesse price:

  Religion hath lay powre to rest upon her,

  Advancing vertue and suppressing vice.

  For end, all good, all grace there freely growes,

  Had people grace it gratefully to use: 325

  For God his gifts there plenteously bestowes,

  But gracelesse men them greatly do abuse.’

  ‘But say on further,’ then said Corylas,

  ‘The rest of thine adventures, that betyded.’

  ‘Foorth on our voyage we by land did passe,’ 330

  Quoth he, ‘as that same shepheard still us guyded,

  Untill that we to Cynthiaes presence came:

  Whose glorie, greater then my simple thought,

  I found much greater then the former fame;

  Such greatnes I cannot compare to ought: 335

  But if I her like ought on earth might read,

  I would her lyken to a crowne of lillies,

  Upon a virgin brydes adorned head,

  With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;

  Or like the circlet of a turtle true, 340

  In which all colours of the rainbow bee;

  Or like faire Phebes garlond shining new,

  In which all pure perfection one may see.

  But vaine it is to thinke, by paragone

  Of earthly things, to judge of things divine: 345

  Her power, her mercy, and her wisedome, none

  Can deeme, but who the Godhead can define.

  Why then do I, base shepheard bold and blind,

  Presume the things so sacred to prophane?

  More fit it is t’ adore, with humble mind, 350

  The image of the heavens in shape humane.’

  With that Alexis broke his tale asunder,

  Saying: ‘By wondring at thy Cynthiaes praise,

  Colin, thy selfe thou mak’st us more to wonder,

  And, her upraising, doest thy selfe upraise. 355

  But let us heare what grace she shewed thee,

  And how that shepheard strange thy cause advanced.’

  ‘The Shepheard of the Ocean,’ quoth he,

  ‘Unto that Goddesse grace me first enhanced,

  And to mine oaten pipe enclin’d her eare, 360

  That she thenceforth therein gan take delight,

  And it desir’d at timely houres to heare,

  All were my notes but rude and roughly dight;

  For not by measure of her owne great mynd

  And wondrous worth she mott my simple song, 365

  But joyd that country shepheard ought could fynd

  Worth harkening to, emongst the learned throng.’

  ‘Why,’ said Alexis then, ‘what needeth shee,