Chapter XXXVI: Book IV: {523} (4)

It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of the Arcadians, astonished before with the exceedingness of sorrow. For he had scarcely ended when divers of them offered to follow his example in bewailing the general loss of that country which had been as well a nurse to strangers as a mother to Arcadians. Among the rest one accounted good in that kind, and made the better by the true feeling of sorrow, roared out a song of lamentation, which, as well as might be, was gathered up in this form:

{572}

Since that to death is gone the shepherd high,
Who most the silly shepherd’s pipe did prize,
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.
And you O trees, if any life there lies
In trees, now through your porous barks receive
The strange resound of these my causeful cries:
And let my breath upon your branches cleave,
My breath distinguished into words of woe,
That so I may signs of my sorrow leave.
But if among yourselves some one tree grow,
That aptest is to figure misery,
Let it embassage bear your griefs to show,
The weeping myrrh I think will not deny
Her help to this, this justest cause of plaint.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And thou, poor earth, whom fortune doth attaint, In nature’s name to suffer such a harm, As for to lose thy gem, and such a saint, Upon thy face let coaly ravens swarm: Let all the sea thy tears accounted be; Thy bowels will all killing metals arm. Let gold now rust, let diamonds waste in thee: Let pearls be wan with woe their dam doth bear! Thyself henceforth the light do never see, And you, O flowers, which sometimes princes wear, Tell these strange alt’rings you did hap to try, Of princes’ loss yourselves for tokens rear. Lily in mourning black thy whiteness die: O Hyacinth let “Ai” be on thee still, Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill, And do not only mark the accents last, But all, for all reach out my wailful will: One Echo to another Echo cast Sound of my griefs, and let it never end, Till that it hath all words and waters passed, Nay to the heav’ns your just complaining send, And stay the stars’ inconstant constant race, Till that they do unto our dolours bend: And ask the reason of that special grace, That they which have no lives should live so long, And virtuous souls so soon should lose their place? Ask, if in great men good men do so throng, That he for want of elbow-room must die? Or if that they be scant, if this be wrong? {573} Did Wisdom this our wretched time espy In one true chest to rob all virtue’s treasure? Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

And if that any counsel you to measure
Your doleful tunes, to them still plaining say,
“To well felt grief plaint is the only pleasure.”
O light of sun, which is entitled day:
O well thou dost that thou no longer bidest;
For mourning night her black weeds may display,
O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather than have thy all-beholding eye
Fouled with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest,
And well methinks becomes this vaulty sky
A stately tomb to cover him deceased.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

O Philomela with thy breast oppressed
By shame and grief, help, help me to lament
Such cursed harms as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then give a quiet ear unto my plaining:
For I to teach the world complaint am bent.
You dimmy clouds, which well employ your staining.
This cheerful air with your obscured cheer,
Witness your woeful tears with daily raining.
And if, O sun, thou ever didst appear,
In shape, which by man’s eye might be perceived:
Virtue is dead, now set thy triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaved
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie:
And by the pomp our loss will be conceived,
O notes of mine yourselves together tie:
With too much grief methinks you are dissolved.
Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Time ever old, and young is still revolved Within itself, and never tasteth end: But mankind is for aye to nought resolved, The filthy snake her aged coat can mend, And getting youth again, in youth doth flourish: But unto man age ever death doth send, The very trees with grafting we can cherish, So that we can long time produce their time: But man which helpeth them, helpless must perish. Thus, thus the minds which over all do climb, When they by years’ experience get best graces, Must finish then by death’s detested crime. {574} We last short while, and build long lasting places: Ah let us all against foul nature cry: We nature’s works do help, she us defaces; For how can nature unto this reply: That she her child, I say, her best child killeth? Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Alas methinks my weakened voice but spilleth The vehement course of his just lamentation: Methinks, my sound no place with sorrow filleth. I know not I, but once in detestation I have myself, and all what life containeth, Since death on virtue’s fort hath made invasion One word of woe another after traineth: Nor do I care how rude by my invention, So it be seen what sorrow in me reigneth. O elements, by whose, men say, contention, Our bodies be in living power maintained, Was this man’s death the fruit of your dissention? O physic’s power, which some say, hath restrained Approach of death, alas, thou helpest meagrely, When once one is for Atropos distrained, Great be physicians’ brags, but aid is beggarly, When rooted moisture fails or groweth dry, They leave off all, and say, death comes too eagerly. They are but words therefore that men do buy Of any, since god Aesculapius ceased, Your doleful tunes sweet Muses now apply.

Justice, justice is now, alas, oppressed: Bountifulness hath made his last conclusion: Goodness for best attire in dust is dressed. Shepherds bewail your uttermost confusion; And see by this picture to you presented, Death is our home, life is but a delusion, For see, alas, who is from you absented, Absented? nay I say for ever banished For such as were to die for him contented? Out of her sight in turn of hand is vanished Shepherd of shepherds, whose well settled order Private with wealth, public with quiet garnished While he did live, far, far was all disorder, Example more prevailing than direction, Far was home-strife, and far was foe from border, His life a law, his look a full correction: As in his health we healthful were preserved, So in his sickness grew our sure infection. His death our death. But ah, my muse hath swerved, {575} For such deep plaint as should such woes descry, Which he of us for ever hath deserved. The style of heavy heart can never fly So high, as should make such a pain notorious: Cease Muse therefore: thy dart O death apply, And farewell prince, whom goodness hath made glorious.

Many were ready to have followed this course, but the day was so wasted, that only this rhyming Sestine delivered by one of great account among them, could obtain favour to be heard.

Farewell, O sun, Arcadia’s clearest light:
Farewell, O pearl, the poor man’s plenteous treasure.
Farewell, O golden staff, the weak man’s might:
Farewell, O joy, the joyful’s only pleasure.
Wisdom, farewell, the skill-less man’s direction:
Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection.

For what place now is left for our affection,
Now that of purest lamp is quench’d the light.
Which to our darkened minds was best direction?
Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?
Now death hath swallowed up our worldly pleasure,
We orphans made, void of all public might?

Orphans indeed, depriv’d of father’s might:
For he our father was in all affection,
In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,
Still studying how to us to be a light.
As well he was in peace a safest treasure:
In war his wit and word was our direction.

Whence, whence, alas, shall we seek our direction?
When that we fear our hateful neighbours’ might,
Who long have gap’d to get Arcadian’s treasure.
Shall we now find a guide of such affection,
Who for our sakes will think all travel light,
And make his pain to keep us safe, his pleasure?

No, no, for ever gone is all our pleasure;
For ever wand’ring from all good direction;
For ever blinded of our clearest light;
For ever lamed of our sured might;
For ever banish’d from well-plac’d affection;
For ever robb’d of all our royal treasure.

Let tears for him therefore be all our treasure, And in our wailing naming him our pleasure: {576} Let hating of ourselves be our affection, And unto death bend still our thoughts’ direction: Let us against ourselves employ our might, And putting out our eyes seek we our light.

Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure: Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure: Farewell direction, farewell all affection.

The night began to cast her dark canopy over them, and they, even weary with their woes, bended homewards, hoping by sleep, forgetting themselves, to ease their present dolours, when they were met with a troop of twenty horse, the chief of which asking them for the king, and understanding the hard news, thereupon stayed among them expecting the return of a messenger, whom with speed he dispatched to Philanax.

[End of Book IV]

ARCADIA