Chapter XX

Some praise the looks, and others praise the locks
Of their fair queens, in love with curious words;
Some laud the breast where love his treasure locks,
All like the eye that life and love affords.
But none of these frail beauties and unstable
Shall make my pen riot in pompous style;
More greater gifts shall my grave muse enable,
Whereat severer brows shall never smile.
I praise her honey-sweeter eloquence,
Which from the fountain of true wisdom floweth,
Her modest mien that matcheth excellence,
Her matchless faith which from her virtue groweth;
And could my style her happy virtues equal,
Time had no power her glories to enthral.

EGLOGA PRIMA DEMADES DAMON

DEMADES

Now scourge of winter's wrack is well nigh spent,
And sun gins look more longer on our clime,
And earth no more to sorrow doth consent,
Why been thy looks forlorn that view the prime?
Unneth thy flocks may feed to see thee faint,
Thou lost, they lean, and both with woe attaint.
For shame! Cast off these discontented looks;
For grief doth wait on life, though never sought;
So Thenot wrote admired for pipe and books.
Then to the spring attemper thou thy thought,
And let advice rear up thy drooping mind,
And leave to weep thy woes unto the wind.

DAMON

Ah Demades, no wonder though I wail,
For even the spring is winter unto me!
Look as the sun the earth doth then avail,
When by his beams her bowels warmèd be;
Even so a saint more sun-bright in her shining
First wrought my weal, now hastes my winter's pining.
Which lovely lamp withdrawn from my poor eyes,
Both parts of earth and fire drowned up in woe
In winter dwell. My joy, my courage dies;
My lambs with me that do my winter know
For pity scorn the spring that nigheth near,
And pine to see their master's pining cheer.
The root which yieldeth sap unto the tree
Draws from the earth the means that make it spring;
And by the sap the scions fostered be,
All from the sun have comfort and increasing
And that fair eye that lights this earthly ball
Kills by depart, and nearing cheereth all.
As root to tree, such is my tender heart,
Whose sap is thought, whose branches are content;
And from my soul they draw their sweet or smart,
And from her eye, my soul's best life is lent;
Which heavenly eye that lights both earth and air,
Quells by depart and quickens by repair.

DEMADES

Give period to the process of thy plaint,
Unhappy Damon, witty in self-grieving;
Tend thou thy flocks; let tyrant love attaint
Those tender hearts that made their love their living.
And as kind time keeps Phillis from thy sight,
So let prevention banish fancy quite.

Cast hence this idle fuel of desire,
That feeds that flame wherein thy heart consumeth;
Let reason school thy will which doth aspire,
And counsel cool impatience that presumeth;
Drive hence vain thoughts which are fond love's abettors,
For he that seeks his thraldom merits fetters.

The vain idea of this deity
Nursed at the teat of thine imagination,
Was bred, brought up by thine own vanity,
Whose being thou mayst curse from the creation;
And so thou list, thou may as soon forget love,
As thou at first didst fashion and beget love.

DAMON

Peace, Demades, peace shepherd, do not tempt me;
The sage-taught wife may speak thus, but not practise;
Rather from life than from my love exempt me,
My happy love wherein my weal and wrack lies;
Where chilly age first left love, and first lost her,
There youth found love, liked love, and love did foster.

Not as ambitious of their[C] own decay,
But curious to equal your fore-deeds,
So tread we now within your wonted way;
We find your fruits of judgments and their seeds;
We know you loved, and loving learn that lore;
You scorn kind love, because you can no more.

Though from this pure refiner of the thought
The gleanings of your learnings have you gathered
Your lives had been abortive, base and naught,
Except by happy love they had been fathered;
Then still the swain, for I will still avow it;
They have no wit nor worth that disallow it.

Then to renew the ruins of my tears
Be thou no hinderer, Demades, I pray thee.
If my love-sighs grow tedious in thine ears,
Fly me, that fly from joy, I list not stay thee.
Mourn sheep, mourn lambs, and Damon will weep by you;
And when I sigh, "Come home, sweet Phillis," cry you.

Come home, sweet Phillis, for thine absence causeth
A flowerless prime-tide in these drooping meadows;
To push his beauties forth each primrose pauseth,
Our lilies and our roses like coy widows
Shut in their buds, their beauties, and bemoan them,
Because my Phillis doth not smile upon them.

The trees by my redoubled sighs long blasted
Call for thy balm-sweet breath and sunny eyes,
To whom all nature's comforts are hand-fasted;
Breathe, look on them, and they to life arise;
They have new liveries with each smile thou lendest,
And droop with me, when thy fair brow thou bendest.

I woo thee, Phillis, with more earnest weeping
Than Niobe for her dead issue spent;
I pray thee, nymph who hast our spring in keeping,
Thou mistress of our flowers and my content,
Come home, and glad our meads of winter weary,
And make thy woeful Damon blithe and merry.

Else will I captive all my hopes again,
And shut them up in prisons of despair,
And weep such tears as shall destroy this plain,
And sigh such sighs as shall eclipse the air,
And cry such cries as love that hears my crying
Shall faint and weep for grief and fall a-dying.

My little world hath vowed no sun shall glad it,
Except thy little world her light discover,
Of which heavens would grow proud if so they had it.
Oh how I fear lest absent Jove should love her!
I fear it, Phillis, for he never saw one
That had more heaven-sweet looks to lure and awe one.

I swear to thee, all-seeing sovereign
Rolling heaven's circles round about our center,
Except my Phillis safe return again,
No joy to heart, no meat to mouth shall enter.
All hope (but future hope to be renowned,
For weeping Phillis) shall in tears be drowned.

DEMADES

How large a scope lends Damon to his moan,
Wafting those treasures of his happy wit
In registering his woeful woe-begone!
Ah bend thy muse to matters far more fit!
For time shall come when Phillis is interred,
That Damon shall confess that he hath erred.

When nature's riches shall, by time dissolved,
Call thee to see with more judicial eye
How Phillis' beauties are to dust resolved,
Thou then shalt ask thyself the reason why
Thou wert so fond, since Phillis was so frail,
To praise her gifts that should so quickly fail.

Have mercy on thyself, cease being idle,
Let reason claim and gain of will his homage;
Rein in these brain-sick thoughts with judgment's bridle,
A short prevention helps a mighty domage.
If Phillis love, love her, yet love her so
That if she fly, thou may'st love's fire forego.

Play with the fire, yet die not in the flame;
Show passions in thy words, but not in heart;
Lest when thou think to bring thy thoughts in frame,
Thou prove thyself a prisoner by thine art.
Play with these babes of love, as apes with glasses,
And put no trust in feathers, wind, or lasses.

DAMON

Did not thine age yield warrantise, old man,
Impatience would enforce me to offend thee;
Me list not now thy forward skill to scan,
Yet will I pray that love may mend or end thee.
Spring flowers, sea-tides, earth, grass, sky, stars shall banish,
Before the thoughts of love or Phillis vanish.

So get thee gone, and fold thy tender sheep,
For lo, the great automaton of day
In Isis stream his golden locks doth steep;
Sad even her dusky mantle doth display;
Light-flying fowls, the posts of night, disport them,
And cheerful-looking vesper doth consort them.

Come you, my careful flock, forego you master,
I'll fold you up and after fall a-sighing;
Words have no worth my secret wounds to plaster;
Naught may refresh my joys but Phillis nighing.
Farewell, old Demades.

DEMADES

Damon, farewell.
How 'gainst advice doth headlong youth rebel!

[Footnote C: Our?]

AN ELEGY

Ah cruel winds, why call you hence away?
Why make you breach betwixt my soul and me?
Ye traitorous floods, why nil your floats delay
Until my latest moans discoursèd be?
For though ye salt sea-gods withhold the rain
Of all your floats and gentle winds be still,
While I have wept such tears as might restrain
The rage of tides and winds against their will.
Ah shall I love your sight, bright shining eyes?
And must my soul his life and glory leave?
Must I forsake the bower where solace lives,
To trust to tickle fates that still deceive?
Alas, so wills the wanton queen of change,
That each man tract this labyrinth of life
With slippery steps, now wronged by fortune strange,
Now drawn by counsel from the maze of strife!
Ah joy! No joy because so soon thou fleetest,
Hours, days, and times inconstant in your being!
Oh life! No life, since with such chance thou meetest!
Oh eyes! No eyes, since you must lose your seeing!
Soul, be thou sad, dissolve thy living powers
To crystal tears, and by their pores express
The grief that my distressèd soul devours!
Clothe thou my body all in heaviness;
My suns appeared fair smiling full of pleasure,
But now the vale of absence overclouds them;
They fed my heart with joys exceeding measure
Which now shall die, since absence needs must shroud them.
Yea, die! Oh death, sweet death, vouchsafe that blessing,
That I may die the death whilst she regardeth!
For sweet were death, and sweet were death's oppressing,
If she look on who all my life awardeth.
Oh thou that art the portion of my joy,
Yet not the portion, for thou art the prime;
Suppose my griefs, conceive the deep annoy
That wounds my soul upon this sorry time!
Pale is my face, and in my pale confesses
The pain I suffer, since I needs must leave thee.
Red are mine eyes through tears that them oppresses,
Dulled are my sp'rits since fates do now bereave thee.
And now, ah now, my plaints are quite prevented!
The winds are fair the sails are hoisèd high,
The anchors weighed, and now quite discontented,
Grief so subdues my heart as it should die.
A faint farewell with trembling hand I tender,
And with my tears my papers are distained.
Which closèd up, my heart in them I render,
To tell thee how at parting I complained.
Vouchsafe his message that doth bring farewell,
And for my sake let him with beauty dwell.

THIRSIS EGLOGA SECUNDA

Muses help me, sorrow swarmeth,
Eyes are fraught with seas of languish;
Heavy hope my solace harmeth,
Mind's repast is bitter anguish.

Eye of day regarded never
Certain trust in world untrusty;
Flattering hope beguileth ever
Weary, old, and wanton lusty.

Dawn of day beholds enthronèd
Fortune's darling, proud and dreadless;
Darksome night doth hear him moanèd,
Who before was rich and needless.

Rob the sphere of lines united,
Make a sudden void in nature;
Force the day to be benighted,
Reave the cause of time and creature;

Ere the world will cease to vary,
This I weep for, this I sorrow.
Muses, if you please to tarry,
Further helps I mean to borrow.

Courted once by fortune's favour,
Compassed now with envy's curses,
All my thoughts of sorrow savour,
Hopes run fleeting like the sources.

Ay me! Wanton scorn hath maimèd
All the joy my heart enjoyèd;
Thoughts their thinking have disclaimèd,
Hate my hopes hath quite annoyèd.

Scant regard my weal hath scanted,
Looking coy hath forced my lowering;
Nothing liked where nothing wanted
Weds mine eyes to ceaseless showering.

Former love was once admirèd,
Present favour is estrangèd,
Loath the pleasure long desirèd;
Thus both men and thoughts are changèd.

Lovely swain with lucky guiding,
Once (but now no more so friended)
Thou my flocks hast had in minding,
From the morn till day was ended.

Drink and fodder, food and folding,
Had my lambs and ewes together;
I with them was still beholding,
Both in warmth and winter weather.

Now they languish since refusèd,
Ewes and lambs are pained with pining;
I with ewes and lambs confusèd,
All unto our deaths declining.

Silence, leave thy cave obscurèd;
Deign a doleful swain to tender;
Though disdains I have endurèd,
Yet I am no deep offender.

Phillis' son can with his finger
Hide his scar, it is so little;
Little sin a day to linger,
Wise men wander in a tittle.

Thriftless yet my swain have turnèd,
Though my sun he never showeth:
Though I weep, I am not mournèd;
Though I want, no pity groweth.

Yet for pity love my muses;
Gentle silence be their cover;
They must leave their wonted uses,
Since I leave to be a lover.

They shall live with thee inclosèd,
I will loathe my pen and paper
Art shall never be supposèd,
Sloth shall quench the watching taper.

Kiss them, silence, kiss them kindly
Though I leave them, yet I love them;
Though my wit have led them blindly,
Yet my swain did once approve them.

I will travel soils removèd,
Night and morrow never merry;
Thou shalt harbour that I lovèd,
I will love that makes me weary.

If perchance the sheep estrayeth,
In thy walks and shades unhaunted,
Tell the teen my heart betrayeth,
How neglect my joys hath daunted.

XXI

Ye heralds of my heart, mine ardent groans,
O tears which gladly would burst out to brooks,
Oh spent on fruitless sand my surging moans,
Oh thoughts enthralled unto care-boding looks!
Ah just laments of my unjust distress,
Ah fond desires whom reason could not guide!
Oh hopes of love that intimate redress,
Yet prove the load-stars unto bad betide!
When will you cease? Or shall pain never-ceasing,
Seize oh my heart? Oh mollify your rage,
Lest your assaults with over-swift increasing,
Procure my death, or call on timeless age.
What if they do? They shall but feed the fire,
Which I have kindled by my fond desire.

XXII

Fair art thou, Phillis, ay, so fair, sweet maid,
As nor the sun, nor I have seen more fair;
For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed,
And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair.
Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue,
And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath;
About thy neck do all the graces throng,
And lay such baits as might entangle death.
In such a breast what heart would not be thrall?
From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces?
At thy fair hands who wonders not at all,
Wonder itself through ignorance embases?
Yet natheless though wondrous gifts you call these,
My faith is far more wonderful than all these.

XXIII

Burst, burst, poor heart! Thou hast no longer hope;
Captive mine eyes unto eternal sleep;
Let all my senses have no further scope;
Let death be lord of me and all my sheep!
For Phillis hath betrothèd fierce disdain,
That makes his mortal mansion in her heart;
And though my tongue have long time taken pain
To sue divorce and wed her to desert,
She will not yield, my words can have no power;
She scorns my faith, she laughs at my sad lays,
She fills my soul with never ceasing sour,
Who filled the world with volumes of her praise.
In such extremes what wretch can cease to crave
His peace from death, who can no mercy have!

XXIV

No glory makes me glorious or glad,
Nor pleasure may to pleasure me dispose,
No comfort can revive my senses sad,
Nor hope enfranchise me with one repose.
Nor in her absence taste I one delight,
Nor in her presence am I well content;
Was never time gave term to my despite,
Nor joy that dried the tears of my lament.
Nor hold I hope of weal in memory,
Nor have I thought to change my restless grief,
Nor doth my conquest yield me sovereignty,
Nor hope repose, nor confidence relief.
For why? She sorts her frowns and favours so,
As when I gain or lose I cannot know.

XXV

I wage the combat with two mighty foes,
Which are more strong than I ten thousand fold;
The one is when thy pleasure I do lose,
The other, when thy person I behold.
In seeing thee a swarm of loves confound me,
And cause my death in spite of my resist,
And if I see thee not, thy want doth wound me,
For in thy sight my comfort doth consist.
The one in me continual care createth,
The other doth occasion my desire;
The one the edge of all my joy rebateth,
The other makes me a phoenix in love's fire.
So that I grieve when I enjoy your presence,
And die for grief by reason of your absence.

XXVI

I'll teach thee, lovely Phillis, what love is.
It is a vision seeming such as thou,
That flies as fast as it assaults mine eyes;
It is affection that doth reason miss;
It is a shape of pleasure like to you,
Which meets the eye, and seen on sudden dies;
It is a doubled grief, a spark of pleasure
Begot by vain desire. And this is love,
Whom in our youth we count our chiefest treasure,
In age for want of power we do reprove.
Yea, such a power is love, whose loss is pain,
And having got him we repent our gain.

XXVII

Fair eyes, whilst fearful I your fair admire,
By unexpressèd sweetness that I gain,
My memory of sorrow doth expire,
And falcon-like, I tower joy's heavens amain.
But when your suns in oceans of their glory
Shut up their day-bright shine, I die for thought;
So pass my joys as doth a new-played story,
And one poor sigh breathes all delight to naught.
So to myself I live not, but for you;
For you I live, and you I love, but none else,
Oh then, fair eyes, whose light I live to view,
Or poor forlorn despised to live alone else,
Look sweet, since from the pith of contemplation
Love gathereth life, and living, breedeth passion.

XXVIII

Not causeless were you christened, gentle flowers,
The one of faith, the other fancy's pride;
For she who guides both faith and fancy's power,
In your fair colors wraps her ivory side.
As one of you hath whiteness without stain,
So spotless is my love and never tainted;
And as the other shadoweth faith again,
Such is my lass, with no fond change acquainted.
And as nor tyrant sun nor winter weather
May ever change sweet amaranthus' hue,
So she though love and fortune join together,
Will never leave to be both fair and true.
And should I leave thee then, thou pretty elf?
Nay, first let Damon quite forget himself.

XXIX

I feel myself endangered beyond reason,
My death already 'twixt the cup and lip,
Because my proud desire through cursèd treason,
Would make my hopes mount heaven, which cannot skip;
My fancy still requireth at my hands
Such things as are not, cannot, may not be,
And my desire although my power withstands,
Will give me wings, who never yet could flee.
What then remains except my maimèd soul
Extort compassion from love-flying age,
Or if naught else their fury may control,
To call on death that quells affection's rage;
Which death shall dwell with me and never fly,
Since vain desire seeks that hope doth deny.

XXX

I do compare unto thy youthly clear,
Which always bides within thy flow'ring prime,
The month of April, that bedews our clime
With pleasant flowers, when as his showers appear.
Before thy face shall fly false cruelty,
Before his face the doly season fleets;
Mild been his looks, thine eyes are full of sweets;
Firm is his course, firm is thy loyalty.
He paints the fields through liquid crystal showers,
Thou paint'st my verse with Pallas, learnèd flowers;
With Zephirus' sweet, breath he fills the plains,
And thou my heart with weeping sighs dost wring;
His brows are dewed with morning's crystal spring,
Thou mak'st my eyes with tears bemoan my pains.

XXXI

Devoid of reason, thrall to foolish ire,
I walk and chase a savage fairy still,
Now near the flood, straight on the mounting hill,
Now midst the woods of youth, and vain desire.
For leash I bear a cord of careful grief;
For brach I lead an over-forward mind;
My hounds are thoughts, and rage despairing blind,
Pain, cruelty, and care without relief.
But they perceiving that my swift pursuit
My flying fairy cannot overtake,
With open mouths their prey on me do make,
Like hungry hounds that lately lost their suit.
And full of fury on their master feed,
To hasten on my hapless death with speed.

XXXII

A thousand times to think and think the same,
To two fair eyes to show a naked heart,
Great thirst with bitter liquor to restrain,
To take repast of care and crooked smart;
To sigh full oft without relent of ire,
To die for grief and yet conceal the tale,
To others' will to fashion my desire,
To pine in looks disguised through pensive-pale;
A short dispite, a faith unfeignèd true,
To love my foe, and set my life at naught,
With heedless eyes mine endless harms to view,
A will to speak, a fear to tell the thought;
To hope for all, yet for despair to die,
Is of my life the certain destiny.

XXXIII

When first sweet Phillis, whom I must adore,
Gan with her beauties bless our wond'ring sky,
The son of Rhea, from their fatal store
Made all the gods to grace her majesty.
Apollo first his golden rays among,
Did form the beauty of her bounteous eyes;
He graced her with his sweet melodious song,
And made her subject of his poesies.
The warrior Mars bequeathed her fierce disdain,
Venus her smile, and Phoebe all her fair,
Python his voice, and Ceres all her grain,
The morn her locks and fingers did repair.
Young Love, his bow, and Thetis gave her feet;
Clio her praise, Pallas her science sweet.

XXXIV

I would in rich and golden-coloured rain,
With tempting showers in pleasant sort descend
Into fair Phillis' lap, my lovely friend,
When sleep her sense with slumber doth restrain.
I would be changèd to a milk-white bull,
When midst the gladsome fields she should appear,
By pleasant fineness to surprise my dear,
Whilst from their stalks, she pleasant flowers did pull.
I were content to weary out my pain,
To be Narsissus so she were a spring,
To drown in her those woes my heart do wring.
And more; I wish transformèd to remain,
That whilst I thus in pleasure's lap did lie,
I might refresh desire, which else would die.

XXXV

I hope and fear, I pray and hold my peace,
Now freeze my thoughts and straight they fry again,
I now admire and straight my wonders cease,
I loose my bonds and yet myself restrain;
This likes me most that leaves me discontent,
My courage serves and yet my heart doth fail,
My will doth climb whereas my hopes are spent,
I laugh at love, yet when he comes I quail;
The more I strive, the duller bide I still.
I would be thralled, and yet I freedom love,
I would redress, yet hourly feed mine ill,
I would repine, and dare not once reprove;
And for my love I am bereft of power,
And strengthless strive my weakness to devour.

XXXVI

If so I seek the shades, I presently do see
The god of love forsakes his bow and sit me by;
If that I think to write, his Muses pliant be
If so I plain my grief, the wanton boy will cry,
If I lament his pride, he doth increase my pain;
If tears my cheeks attaint, his cheeks are moist with moan;
If I disclose the wounds the which my heart hath slain,
He takes his fascia off, and wipes them dry anon.
If so I walk the woods, the woods are his delight;
If I myself torment, he bathes him in my blood;
He will my soldier be if once I wend to fight,
If seas delight, he steers my bark amidst the hood.
In brief, the cruel god doth never from me go,
But makes my lasting love eternal with my woe.

XXXVII

These fierce incessant waves that stream along my face,
Which show the certain proof of my ne'er-ceasing pains,
Fair Phillis, are no tears that trickle from my brains;
For why? Such streams of ruth within me find no place.
These floods that wet my cheeks are gathered from thy grace
And thy perfections, and from hundred thousand flowers
Which from thy beauties spring; whereto I medley showers
Of rose and lilies too, the colours of thy face.
My love doth serve for fire, my heart the furnace is,
The aperries of my sighs augment the burning flame,
The limbec is mine eye that doth distil the same;
And by how much my fire is violent and sly,
By so much doth it cause the waters mount on high,
That shower from out mine eyes, for to assuage my miss.

XXXVIII

Who lives enthralled to Cupid and his flame,
From day to day is changed in sundry sort;
The proof whereof myself may well report,
Who oft transformed by him may teach the same.
I first was turned into a wounded hart,
That bare the bloody arrow in my side;
Then to a swan that midst the waters glide,
With piteous voice presaged my deadly smart;
Eftsoons I waxed a faint and fading flower;
Then was I made a fountain sudden dry,
Distilling all my tears from troubled eye;
Now am I salamander by his power,
Living in flames, but hope ere long to be
A voice, to talk my mistress' majesty.