Chapter V: Part 5

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe, That hazarded his health, had he at all, But walkt at will, and wandred too and fro, In the pride of his freedome principall*: 380 Litle wist he his fatall future woe, But was secure; the liker he to fall. He likest is to fall into mischaunce, That is regardles of his governaunce. [* _Principall_, princely.]

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight) 385 Lay lurking covertly him to surprise; And all his gins, that him entangle might, Drest in good order as he could devise. At length the foolish flie, without foresight, As he that did all daunger quite despise, 390 Toward those parts came flying careleslie, Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Who, seeing him, with secret ioy therefore Did tickle inwardly in everie vaine; And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store, 395 Was fil’d with hope his purpose to obtaine: Himselfe he close upgathered more and more Into his den, that his deceiptfull traine By his there being might not be bewraid, Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made. 400

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spide Where on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play, Full closely creeping by the hinder side, Lyes in ambushment of his hoped pray, Ne stirreth limbe, till, seeing readie tide*, 405 He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite away One of the litle yonglings unawares; So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares. [* _Tide_, time.]

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyes A well of teares, that all may overflow? 410 Or where shall I finde lamentable cryes, And mournfull tunes enough my griefe to show? Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to devise Notes sad enough, t’expresse this bitter throw: For loe, the drerie stownd* is now arrived, 415 That of all happines hath us deprived. [* _Stownd_, hour.]

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled, Or some ungracious blast out of the gate Of Aeoles raine* perforce him drove on hed**, 420 Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!) With violent swift flight forth caried Into the cursed cobweb, which his foe Had framed for his finall overthroe. [* _Raine_, kingdom.] [** _On hed_, head-foremost.]

There the fond flie, entangled, strugled long, 425 Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine. For, striving more, the more in laces strong Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his wingës twaine In lymie snares the subtill loupes among; That in the ende he breathelesse did remaine, 430 And, all his yongthly* forces idly spent, Him to the mercie of th’avenger lent. [* _Yongthly_, youthful.]

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie, Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce might Out of his den, he seized greedelie 435 On the resistles pray, and, with fell spight, Under the left wing stroke his weapon slie Into his heart, that his deepe-groning spright In bloodie streames foorth fled into the aire, His bodie left the spectacle of care. 440

FOOTNOTES

Ver. 365.—_And Arte, with her contendlng._ Compare the description of Aerasia’s garden, Faerie Queene, II. xii. 59; and also v. 29. TODD.

Ver. 273.—_Minerva did_, &c. Much of what follows is taken from the fable of Arachne in Ovid. JORTIN.

VISIONS OF THE WORLDS VANITIE.

I.

One day, whiles that my daylie cares did sleepe, My spirit, shaking off her earthly prison, Began to enter into meditation deepe Of things exceeding reach of common reason; Such as this age, in which all good is geason*, And all that humble is and meane** debaced, Hath brought forth in her last declining season, Griefe of good mindes, to see goodnesse disgraced! On which when as my thought was throghly@ placed, Unto my eyes strange showes presented were, Picturing that which I in minde embraced, That yet those sights empassion$ me full nere. Such as they were, faire Ladie%, take in worth, That when time serves may bring things better forth.

[* _Geason_, rare.] [** _Meane_, lowly.] [@ _Throghly_, thoroughly.] [$ _Empassion_, move.] [% _Faire Ladie._ The names of the ladies to whom these Visions and those of Petrarch (see p. 210, VII. 9) were inscribed have not been preserved. C.]

II.

In summers day, when Phoebus fairly shone, I saw a Bull as white as driven snowe, With gilden hornes embowed like the moone, In a fresh flowring meadow lying lowe: Up to his eares the verdant grasse did growe, And the gay floures did offer to be eaten; But he with fatnes so did overflows, That he all wallowed in the weedes downe beaten, Ne car’d with them his daintie lips to sweeten: Till that a Brize*, a scorned little creature, Through his faire hide his angrie sting did threaten, And vext so sore, that all his goodly feature And all his plenteous pasture nought him pleased: So by the small the great is oft diseased**.

III.

Beside the fruitfull shore of muddie Nile, Upon a sunnie banke outstretched lay, In monstrous length, a mightie Crocodile, That, cram’d with guiltles blood and greedie pray Of wretched people travailing that way, Thought all things lesse than his disdainfull pride. I saw a little Bird, cal’d Tedula, The least of thousands which on earth abide, That forst this hideous beast to open wide The greisly gates of his devouring hell, And let him feede, as Nature doth provide, Upon his iawes, that with blacke venime swell. Why then should greatest things the least disdaine, Sith that so small so mightie can constraine?

[* _Brize_, a gadfly.] [** _Diseased_, deprived of ease.]

III. 7.—Tedula. Spenser appears to mean the bird Trochilos, which, according to Aristotle, enters the mouth of the crocodile, and picks her meat out of the monster’s teeth. C.

IV.

The kingly bird that beares Ioves thunder-clap One day did scorne the simple Scarabee*, Proud of his highest service and good hap, That made all other foules his thralls to bee. The silly flie, that no redresse did see, Spide where the Eagle built his towring nest, And, kindling fire within the hollow tree, Burnt up his yong ones, and himselfe distrest; Ne suffred him in anie place to rest, But drove in Ioves owne lap his egs to lay; Where gathering also filth him to infest, Forst with the filth his egs to fling away: For which, when as the foule was wroth, said Iove, “Lo! how the least the greatest may reprove.”

V.

Toward the sea turning my troubled eye, I saw the fish (if fish I may it cleepe**) That makes the sea before his face to flye, And with his flaggie finnes doth seeme to sweepe The fomie waves out of the dreadfull deep; The huge Leviathan, dame Natures wonder, Making his sport, that manie makes to weep. A Sword-fish small him from the rest did sunder That, in his throat him pricking softly under, His wide abysse him forced forth to spewe, That all the sea did roare like heavens thunder, And all the waves were stain’d with filthie hewe. Hereby I learned have not to despise Whatever thing seemes small in common eyes.

[* _Scarabee,_ beetle.] [** _Cleepe,_ call.]

VI.

An hideous Dragon, dreadfull to behold, Whose backe was arm’d against the dint of speare With shields of brasse that shone like burnisht golde, And forkhed sting that death in it did beare, Strove with a Spider, his unequall peare, And bad defiance to his enemie. The subtill vermin, creeping closely* neare, Did in his drinke shed poyson privilie; Which, through his entrailes spredding diversly, Made him to swell, that nigh his bowells brust, And him enforst to yeeld the victorie, That did so much in his owne greatnesse trust. O, how great vainnesse is it then to scorne The weake, that hath the strong so oft forlorne!**

[* _Closely,_ secretly.] [** _Forlorne,_ ruined.]

VII.

High on a hill a goodly Cedar grewe, Of wondrous length and straight proportion, That farre abroad her daintie odours threwe; Mongst all the daughters of proud Libanon, Her match in beautie was not anie one. Shortly within her inmost pith there bred A litle wicked worme, perceiv’d of none, That on her sap and vitall moysture fed: Thenceforth her garland so much honoured Began to die, O great ruth* for the same! And her faire lockes fell from her loftie head, That shortly balde and bared she became. I, which this sight beheld, was much dismayed, To see so goodly thing so soone decayed.

[* _Ruth,_ pity.]

VIII.

Soone after this I saw an Elephant, Adorn’d with bells and bosses gorgeouslie, That on his backe did beare, as batteilant*, A gilden towre, which shone exceedinglie; That he himselfe through foolish vanitie, Both for his rich attire and goodly forme, Was puffed up with passing surquedrie**, And shortly gan all other beasts to scorne, Till that a little Ant, a silly worme, Into his nosthrils creeping, so him pained, That, casting downe his towres, he did deforme Both borrowed pride, and native beautie stained. Let therefore nought that great is therein glorie, Sith so small thing his happines may varie.

[* _As batteilant,_ as if equipped for battle.] [** _Surquedrie,_ presumption.]

IX.

Looking far foorth into the ocean wide, A goodly Ship with banners bravely dight, And flag in her top-gallant, I espide Through the maine sea making her merry flight. Faire blewe the wind into her bosome right, And th’heavens looked lovely all the while, That she did seeme to daunce, as in delight, And at her owne felicitie did smile. All sodainely there clove unto her keele A little fish that men call Remora, Which stopt her course, and held her by the heele, That winde nor tide could move her thence away. Straunge thing me seemeth, that so small a thing Should able be so great an one to wring.

X.

A mighty Lyon, lord of all the wood, Having his hunger throughly satisfide With pray of beasts and spoyle of living blood, Safe in his dreadles den him thought to hide: His sternesse was his prayse, his strength his pride, And all his glory in his cruell clawes. I saw a Wasp, that fiercely him defide, And bad him battaile even to his iawes; Sore he him stong, that it the blood forth drawes, And his proude heart is fild with fretting ire: In vaine he threats his teeth, his tayle, his pawes, And from his bloodie eyes doth sparkle fire; That dead himselfe he wisheth for despight. So weakest may anoy the most of might!

XI.

What time the Romaine Empire bore the raine Of all the world, and florisht most in might, The nations gan their soveraigntie disdaine, And cast to quitt them from their bondage quight. So, when all shrouded were in silent night, The Galles were, by corrupting of a mayde, Possest nigh of the Capitol through slight, Had not a Goose the treachery bewrayde. If then a goose great Rome from ruine stayde, And Iove himselfe, the patron of the place, Preservd from being to his foes betrayde, Why do vaine men mean things so much deface*, And in their might repose their most assurance, Sith nought on earth can chalenge long endurance?

[* _Deface,_ disparage, despise.]

XII.

When these sad sights were overpast and gone, My spright was greatly moved in her rest, With inward ruth and deare affection, To see so great things by so small distrest. Thenceforth I gan in my engrieved brest To scorne all difference of great and small, Sith that the greatest often are opprest, And unawares doe into daunger fall. And ye, that read these ruines tragicall, Learne, by their losse, to love the low degree; And if that Fortune chaunce you up to call To honours seat, forget not what you be: For he that of himselfe is most secure Shall finde his state most fickle and unsure.

THE VISIONS OF BELLAY.*

[* Eleven of these Visions of Bellay (all except the 6th, 8th, 13th, and 14th) differ only by a few changes necessary for rhyme from blank-verse translations found in Van der Noodt’s _Theatre of Worldlings_, printed in 1569; and the six first of the Visions of Petrarch (here said to have been “formerly translated”) occur almost word for word in the same publication, where the authorship appears to be claimed by one Theodore Roest. The Complaints were collected, not by Spenser, but by Ponsonby, his bookseller, and he may have erred in ascribing these Visions to our poet. C.]

I.

It was the time when rest, soft sliding downe From heavens hight into mens heavy eyes, In the forgetfulnes of sleepe doth drowne The carefull thoughts of mortall miseries. Then did a ghost before mine eyes appeare, On that great rivers banck that runnes by Rome; Which, calling me by name, bad me to reare My lookes to heaven whence all good gifts do come, And crying lowd, “Loe! now beholde,” quoth hee, “What under this great temple placed is: Lo, all is nought but flying vanitee!” So I, that know this worlds inconstancies, Sith onely God surmounts all times decay, In God alone my confidence do stay.

II.

On high hills top I saw a stately frame, An hundred cubits high by iust assize*, With hundreth pillours fronting faire the same, All wrought with diamond after Dorick wize. Nor brick nor marble was the wall in view, But shining christall, which from top to base Out of her womb a thousand rayons** threw On hundred steps of Afrike golds enchase.@ Golde was the parget,$ and the seeling bright Did shine all scaly with great plates of golde; The floore of iasp and emeraude was dight.% O worlds vainesse! Whiles thus I did behold, An earthquake shooke the hill from lowest seat, And overthrew this frame with ruine great.

[* _Assize_, measure.] [** _Rayons_, beams, rays.] [@ I.e. enchased with gold.] [$ _Parget_, varnish, plaster.] [% _Dight_, composed.]

III.

Then did a sharped spyre of diamond bright, Ten feete each way in square, appeare to mee, Iustly proportion’d up unto his hight, So far as archer might his level see. The top thereof a pot did seeme to beare, Made of the mettall which we most do honour; And in this golden vessel couched weare The ashes of a mightie emperour: Upon foure corners of the base were pight*, To beare the frame, foure great lyons of gold; A worthy tombe for such a worthy wight. Alas! this world doth nought but grievance hold: I saw a tempest from the heaven descend, Which this brave monument with flash did rend. [* _Pight_, placed.]

IV.

I saw raysde up on yvorie pillowes tall, Whose bases were of richest mettalls warke, The chapters* alablaster, the fryses christall, The double front of a triumphall arke. On each side purtraid was a Victorie, Clad like a nimph, that wings of silver weares, And in triumphant chayre was set on hie, The auncient glory of the Romaine peares. No worke it seem’d of earthly craftsmans wit, But rather wrought by his owne industry That thunder-dartes for Iove his syre doth fit. Let me no more see faire thing under sky, Sith that mine eyes have seene so faire a sight With sodain fall to dust consumed quight. [* _Chapters_, capitals.]

V.

Then was the faire Dodonian tree far seene Upon seaven hills to spread his gladsome gleame, And conquerours bedecked with his greene, Along the bancks of the Ausonian streame. There many an auncient trophee was addrest*, And many a spoyle, and many a goodly show, Which that brave races greatnes did attest, That whilome from the Troyan blood did flow. Ravisht I was so rare a thing to vew; When lo! a barbarous troupe of clownish fone** The honour of these noble boughs down threw: Under the wedge I heard the tronck to grone; And since, I saw the roote in great disdaine A twinne of forked trees send forth againe.

[* _Addrest_, hung on, arranged.] [** _Fone_, foes.]

VI.

I saw a wolfe under a rockie cave Noursing two whelpes; I saw her litle ones In wanton dalliance the teate to crave, While she her neck wreath’d from them for the nones*. I saw her raunge abroad to seeke her food, And roming through the field with greedie rage T’embrew her teeth and clawes with lukewarm blood Of the small heards, her thirst for to asswage. I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended Downe from the mountaines bordring Lombardie, That with an hundred speares her flank wide rened: I saw her on the plaine outstretched lie, Throwing out thousand throbs in her owne soyle**: Soone on a tree uphang’d I saw her spoyle.

[* _Nones_, nonce.] [** I.e. the mire made by her blood.]

VII.

I saw the bird that can the sun endure With feeble wings assay to mount on hight; By more and more she gan her wings t’assure, Following th’ensample of her mothers sight. I saw her rise, and with a larger flight To pierce the cloudes, and with wide pinneons To measure the most haughtie* mountaines hight, Untill she raught** the gods owne mansions. There was she lost; when suddaine I behelde, Where, tumbling through the ayre in firie fold, All flaming downe she on the plaine was felde, And soone her bodie turn’d to ashes colde. I saw the foule that doth the light dispise Out of her dust like to a worme arise. [* _Haughtie_, lofty.] [** _Raught_, reached.] [VII. 1-14.— “A falcon, tow’ring in her pride of place, Was by a mousing owl hawk’d at and kill’d.” C.]

VIII.

I saw a river swift, whose fomy billowes Did wash the ground-work of an old great wall; I saw it cover’d all with griesly shadowes, That with black horror did the ayre appall: Thereout a strange beast with seven heads arose, That townes and castles under her brest did coure*, And seem’d both milder beasts and fiercer foes Alike with equall ravine to devoure. Much was I mazde to see this monsters kinde In hundred formes to change his fearefull hew; When as at length I saw the wrathfull winde, Which blows cold storms, burst out of Scithian mew, That sperst these cloudes; and, in so short as thought, This dreadfull shape was vanished to nought. [* _Coure_, cover.]

IX.

Then all astonied with this mighty ghoast, An hideous bodie, big and strong, I sawe, With side* long beard, and locks down hanging loast**, Sterne face, and front full of Satúrnlike awe; Who, leaning on the belly of a pot, Pourd foorth a water, whose out gushing flood Ran bathing all the creakie@ shore aflot, Whereon the Troyan prince spilt Turnus blood; And at his feete a bitch wolfe suck did yeeld To two young babes: his left the palme tree stout, His right hand did the peacefull olive wield. And head with lawrell garnisht was about. Sudden both palme and olive fell away, And faire green lawrell branch did quite decay. [* _Side_, long, trailing.] [** _Loast_, loosed.] [@ _Creakie_, indented with creeks.]

X.

Hard by a rivers side a virgin faire, Folding her armes to heaven with thousand throbs, And outraging her cheekes and golden haire, To falling rivers sound thus tun’d her sobs. “Where is,” quoth she, “this whilom honoured face? Where the great glorie and the auncient praise, In which all worlds felicitie had place, When gods and men my honour up did raise? Suffisd’ it not that civill warres me made The whole worlds spoile, but that this Hydra new, Of hundred Hercules to be assaide, With seven heads, budding monstrous crimes anew, So many Neroes and Caligulaes Out of these crooked shores must dayly rayse?”

XI.

Upon an hill a bright flame I did see, Waving aloft with triple point to skie, Which, like incense of precious cedar tree, With balmie odours fil’d th’ayre farre and nie. A bird all white, well feathered on each wing, Hereout up to the throne of gods did flie, And all the way most pleasant notes did sing, Whilst in the smoake she unto heaven did stie*. Of this faire fire the scattered rayes forth threw On everie side a thousand shining beames: When sudden dropping of a silver dew (O grievous chance!) gan quench those precious flames; That it, which earst** so pleasant sent did yeld, Of nothing now but noyous sulphure smeld. [* _Stie_, mount.] [** _Earst_, at first.]

XII.

I saw a spring out of a rocke forth rayle*, As cleare as christall gainst the sunnie beames; The bottome yeallow, like the golden grayle* That bright Pactolus washeth with his streames. It seem’d that Art and Nature had assembled All pleasure there for which mans hart could long; And there a noyse alluring sleepe soft trembled, Of manie accords, more sweete than mermaids song, The seates and benches shone as yvorie, And hundred nymphes sate side by side about; When from nigh hills, with hideous outcrie, A troupe of satyres in the place did rout,@ Which with their villeine feete the streame did ray,$ Threw down the seats, and drove the nymphs away. [* _Rayle_, flow.] [** _Grayle_, gravel.] [@ _Rout_, burst.] [$ _Ray_, defile.]

XIII.

Much richer then that vessell seem’d to bee Which did to that sad Florentine appeare, Casting mine eyes farre off, I chaunst to see Upon the Latine coast herselfe to reare. But suddenly arose a tempest great, Bearing close envie to these riches rare, Which gan assaile this ship with dreadfull threat, This ship, to which none other might compare: And finally the storme impetuous Sunke up these riches, second unto none, Within the gulfe of greedie Nereus. I saw both ship and mariners each one, And all that treasure, drowned in the maine: But I the ship saw after raisd’ againe. [XIII. 1.—_That vessell_. See the second canto of the Purgatorio. C.]

XIV.

Long having deeply gron’d these visions sad, I saw a citie like unto that same Which saw the messenger of tidings glad, But that on sand was built the goodly frame: It seem’d her top the firmament did rayse, And, no lesse rich than faire, right worthie sure (If ought here worthie) of immortall dayes, Or if ought under heaven might firme endure. Much wondred I to see so faire a wall: When from the Northerns coast a storme arose, Which, breathing furie from his inward gall On all which did against his course oppose, Into a clowde of dust sperst in the aire The weake foundations of this citie faire.

XV.

At length, even at the time when Morpheus Most trulie doth unto our eyes appeare, Wearie to see the heavens still wavering thus, I saw Typhaeus sister* comming neare; Whose head, full bravely with a morion** hidd, Did seeme to match the gods in maiestie. She, by a rivers bancke that swift downe slidd, Over all the world did raise a trophee hie; An hundred vanquisht kings under her lay, With armes bound at their backs in shamefull wize. Whilst I thus mazed was with great affray, I saw the heavens in warre against her rize: Then downe she stricken fell with clap of thonder, That with great noyse I wakte in sudden wonder. [* I.e. (apparently) Change or Mutability. See the two cantos of the Seventh Book of the Faerie Queene.] [** _Morion_, steel cap.]

THE VISIONS OF PETRARCH:

FORMERLY TRANSLATED.

[Footnote: The first six of these sonnets are translated (not directly, but through the French of Clement Marot) from Petrarch’s third Canzone in Morte di Laura. The seventh is by the translator. The circumstance that the version is made from Marot renders it probable that these sonnets are really by Spenser. C.]

I.

Being one day at my window all alone, So manie strange things happened me to see, As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon. At my right hand a hynde appear’d to mee. So faire as mote the greatest god delite; Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace, Of which the one was blacke, the other white. With deadly force so in their cruell race They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast, That at the last, and in short time, I spide, Under a rocke, where she, alas! opprest, Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide. Cruell death vanquishing so noble beautie, Oft makes me wayle so hard a destenie.

II.

After, at sea a tall ship did appeare, Made all of heben* and white yvorie; The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were. Milde was the winde, calme seem’d the sea to bee, The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire: With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was: But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire, And tumbled up the sea, that she, alas! Strake on a rock, that under water lay, And perished past all recoverie. O! how great ruth, and sorrow-full assay**, Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie, Thus in a moment to see lost and drown’d So great riches as like cannot be found. [* _Heben_, ebony.] [** _Assay_, trial.]

III.

The heavenly branches did I see arise Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree, Amidst the yong greene wood: of Paradise Some noble plant I thought my selfe to see. Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, Chaunting in shade their sundrie melodie, That with their sweetnes I was ravish’t nere. While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie, The skie gan everie where to overcast, And darkned was the welkin all about, When sudden flash of heavens fire out brast*, And rent this royall tree quite by the roote; Which makes me much and ever to complaine, For no such shadow shalbe had againe. [* _Brast_, burst.]

IV.

Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise A spring of water, mildly rumbling downe, Whereto approched not in anie wise The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne; But manie Muses, and the Nymphes withall, That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce To the soft sounding of the waters fall; That my glad hart thereat did much reioyce. But, while herein I tooke my chiefe delight, I saw, alas! the gaping earth devoure The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight; Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this houre, And wounds my soule with rufull memorie, To see such pleasures gon so suddenly.

V.

I saw a Phoenix in the wood alone, With purple wings and crest of golden hewe; Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone That of some heavenly wight I had the vewe; Untill he came unto the broken tree, And to the spring that late devoured was. What say I more? Each thing at last we see Doth passe away: the Phoenix there, alas! Spying the tree destroid, the water dride, Himselfe smote with his beake, as in disdaine, And so foorthwith in great despight he dide; That yet my heart burnes in exceeding paine For ruth and pitie of so haples plight. O, let mine eyes no more see such a sight!

VI.

At last, so faire a ladie did I spie, That thinking yet on her I burne and quake: On hearbs and flowres she walked pensively; Milde, but yet love she proudly did forsake: White seem’d her robes, yet woven so they were As snow and golde together had been wrought: Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her. A stinging serpent by the heele her caught; Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure, And, well assur’d, she mounted up to ioy. Alas! on earth so nothing doth endure, But bitter griefe and sorrowfull annoy: Which make this life wretched and miserable. Tossed with stormes of fortune variable.

VII.

When I behold this tickle* trustles state Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro, And mortall men tossed by troublous fate In restles seas of wretchednes and woe, I wish I might this wearie life forgoe, And shortly turne unto my happie rest, Where my free spirite might not anie moe Be vest with sights that doo her peace molest. And ye, faire Ladie, in whose bounteous brest All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is, When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the rest, Loath this base world, and thinke of heavens blis: And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures, Yet thinke that death shall spoyle your goodly features. [* _Tickle_, uncertain.]

DAPHNAIDA:

AN ELEGIE

UPON THE DEATH OF THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS

DOUGLAS HOWARD,

DAUGHTER AND HEIRE OF HENRY LORD HOWARD, VISCOUNT BYNDON, AND WIFE OF ARTHUR GORGES, ESQUIER.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE

THE LADIE HELENA,

MARQUESSE OF NORTHAMPTON.

BY ED. SP.

(1591.)

TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE AND VERTUOUS LADY,

HELENA,

MARQUESSE OF NORTH HAMPTON.[*]

I have the rather presumed humbly to offer unto your Honour the dedication of this little poeme, for that the noble and vertuous gentlewoman of whom it is written was by match neere alied, and in affection greatly devoted, unto your Ladiship. The occasion why I wrote the same was as well the great good fame which I heard of her deceassed, as the particular goodwill which I bear unto her husband, Master Arthur Gorges, a lover of learning and vertue, whose house, as your Ladiship by marriage hath honoured, so doe I find the name of them, by many notable records, to be of great antiquitie in this realme, and such as have ever borne themselves with honourable reputation to the world, and unspotted loyaltie to their prince and countrey: besides, so lineally are they descended from the Howards, as that the Lady Anne Howard; eldest daughter to John Duke of Norfolke, was wife to Sir Edmund, mother to Sir Edward, and grandmother to Sir William and Sir Thomas Gorges, Knightes: and therefore I doe assure my selfe that no due honour done to the White Lyon, but will be most gratefull to your Ladiship, whose husband and children do so neerely participate with the bloud of that noble family. So in all dutie I recommend this pamphlet, and the good acceptance thereof, to your honourable favour and protection. London, this first of Ianuarie, 1591.

Your Honours humbly ever.

[* This lady, when widow of William Parr, the only person who was ever Marquis of Northampton, had married Sir Thomas Gorges, uncle of Lady Douglas Howard, the subject of this elegy. Mr. (afterwards Sir) Arthur Gorges was himself a poet, and the author of the English translation of Bacon’s tract _De Sapientia Veterum_, published in 1619. See Craik’s Spenser and his Poetry, Vol. III. p. 187. C.]

DAPHNAIDA.

Whatever man he be whose heavie mynd, With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest, Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd, Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest, Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive, Even sad Alcyon*, whose empierced brest Sharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive. [* I.e. Sir Arthur Gorges.]

But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense, Or in this wretched life doeth take delight, Let him he banisht farre away from hence; 10 Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight*, Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing, For even their heavie song would breede delight; But here no tunes save sobs and grones shall ring. [* _Hight_, summoned.]

In stead of them and their sweet harmonie, 15 Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad hands Doe weave the direfull threeds of destinie, And in their wrath break off the vitall bands, Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull Queene Of Darknes deepe come from the Stygian strands, 20 And grisly ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene*, [* _Teene_, sorrow]

In gloomy evening, when the wearie sun After his dayes long labour drew to rest, And sweatie steedes, now having overrun The compast skie, gan water in the west, 25 I walkt abroad to breath the freshing ayre In open fields, whose flowring pride, opprest With early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.

There came unto my mind a troublous thought, Which dayly doth my weaker wit possesse, 30 Ne lets it rest untill it forth have brought Her long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse, Which she conceived hath through meditation Of this worlds vainnesse and life’s wretchednesse, That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion*. 35 [* _Empassion_, move]

So as I muzed on the miserie In which men live, and I of many most, Most miserable man, I did espie Where towards me a sory wight did cost*, Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray, 40 And Iacob staffe ** in hand devoutly crost, Like to some pilgrim come from farre away. [* _Cost_, approach] [** _Iacob staffe_, a pilgrim’s staff, in the form of a cross]

His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne, Hong long adowne, and bearde all overgrowne, That well he seemd to be some wight forlorne: 45 Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne, As loathing light, and ever as he went He sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone, As if his heart in peeces would have rent.

Approaching nigh his face I vewed nere, 50 And by the semblant of his countenaunce Me seemd I had his person seene elsewhere, Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce; Alcyon he, the iollie shepheard swaine, That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce, 55 And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.

Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disguize, I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-withall He lookt aside as in disdainefull wise, Yet stayed not, till I againe did call: 60 Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow sound, “Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall, The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?”

“One whom like wofulnesse, impressed deepe, Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare, 65 And given like cause with thee to waile and wepe; Griefe finds some ease by him that like does beare. Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard! stay,” Quoth I, “till thou have to my trustie eare Committed what thee dooth so ill apay*.” 70 [* _Ill apay _, discontent, distress.]

“Cease, foolish man!” saide he halfe wrothfully, “To seeke to heare that which cannot be told; For the huge anguish, which doeth multiply My dying paines, no tongue can well unfold; Ne doo I care that any should bemone 75 My hard mishap, or any weepe that would, But seeke alone to weepe, and dye alone.”

“Then be it so,” quoth I, “that thou are bent To die alone, unpitied, unplained; Yet, ere thou die, it were convenient 80 To tell the cause which thee thereto constrained, Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt, And say, when thou of none shall be maintained, That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt.”

“Who life does loath, and longs to be unbound 85 From the strong shackles of fraile flesh,” quoth he, “Nought cares at all what they that live on ground Deem the occasion of his death to bee; Rather desires to be forgotten quight, Than question made of his calamitie; 90 For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light.

“Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe, And car’st for one that for himselfe cares nought, (Sign of thy love, though nought for my reliefe, For my reliefe exceedeth living thought,) 95 I will to thee this heavie case relate: Then harken well till it to end be brought, For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate.

“Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know) My little flocke on westerns downes to keep, 100 Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth flow, And flowrie bancks with silver liquor steepe; Nought carde I then for worldly change or chaunce, For all my ioy was on my gentle sheepe, And to my pype to caroll and to daunce. 105

“It there befell, as I the fields did range Fearlesse and free, a faire young Lionesse, White as the native rose before the chaunge Which Venus blood did in her leaves impresse, I spied playing on the grassie plaine 110 Her youthfull sports and kindlie wantonnesse, That did all other beasts in beawtie staine. [Ver. 107.—_A fair young Lionesse,_ So called from the white lion in the arms of the Duke of Norfolk, the head of the family to which Lady Douglas Howard belonged. H.]

“Much was I moved at so goodly sight, Whose like before mine eye had seldome seene, And gan to cast how I her compasse might, 115 And bring to hand that yet had never beene: So well I wrought with mildnes and with paine, That I her caught disporting on the greene, And brought away fast bound with silver chaine.

“And afterwardes I handled her so fayre, 120 That though by kind shee stout and salvage were, For being borne an auncient lions hayre, And of the race that all wild beastes do feare, Yet I her fram’d, and wan so to my bent, That shee became so meeke and milde of cheare 125 As the least lamb in all my flock that went.

“For shee in field, where-ever I did wend, Would wend with me, and waite by me all day; And all the night that I in watch did spend, If cause requir’d, or els in sleepe, if nay, 130 Shee would all night by me or watch or sleepe; And evermore when I did sleepe or play, She of my flock would take full warie keepe*. [* _Keepe_, care.]

“Safe then, and safest, were my sillie sheepe, Ne fear’d the wolfe, ne fear’d the wildest beast, 135 All* were I drown’d in carelesse quiet deepe: My lovely Lionesse without beheast So careful was for them and for my good, That when I waked, neither most nor least I found miscarried, or in plaine or wood. 140 [* _All_, although.]

“Oft did the shepheards which my hap did heare, And oft their lasses, which my luck envyde, Daylie resort to me from farre and neare, To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wyde Were spred abroad; and when her worthinesse 145 Much greater than the rude report they tryde*, They her did praise, and my good fortune blesse. [* _Tryde_, proved, found.]

“Long thus I ioyed in my happinesse, And well did hope my ioy would have no end; But oh! fond man! that in worlds ficklenesse 150 Reposedst hope, or weenedst Her thy frend That glories most in mortall miseries, And daylie doth her changefull counsels bend To make new matter fit for tragedies.

“For whilest I was thus without dread or dout, 155 A cruel Satyre with his murdrous dart, Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about, Gave her the fatall wound of deadly smart, And reft from me my sweete companion, And reft from me my love, my life, my hart: 160 My Lyonesse, ah woe is me! is gon!

“Out of the world thus was she reft away, Out of the world, unworthy such a spoyle, And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray; Much fitter then the lyon which with toyle 165 Alcides slew, and fixt in firmament; Her now I seeke throughout this earthly soyle, And seeking misse, and missing doe lament.”

Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe, That I for pittie of his heavie plight 170 Could not abstain mine eyes with teares to steepe; But when I saw the anguish of his spright Some deale alaid, I him bespake againe: “Certes, Alcyon, painfull is thy plight, That it in me breeds almost equall paine, 175

“Yet doth not my dull wit well understand The riddle of thy loved Lionesse; For rare it seemes in reason to be skand, That man, who doth the whole worlds rule possesse, Should to a beast his noble hart embase, 180 And be the vassall of his vassalesse; Therefore more plain areade* this doubtfull case.” [* _Areade_, explain.]

Then sighing sore, “Daphne thou knew’st,” quoth he; “She now is dead”: no more endur’d to say, But fell to ground for great extremitie; 185 That I, beholding it, with deepe dismay Was much apald, and, lightly him uprearing, Revoked life, that would have fled away, All were my selfe through grief in deadly drearing*. [* _Drearing_, sorrowing.]

Then gan I him to comfort all my best, 190 And with milde counsaile strove to mitigate The stormie passion of his troubled brest; But he thereby was more empassionate, As stubborne steed that is with curb restrained Becomes more fierce and fervent in his gate, 195 And, breaking foorth at last, thus dearnely* plained: [* _Dearnely_, sadly.]

I.

“What man henceforth that breatheth vitall aire Will honour Heaven, or heavenly powers adore, Which so uniustly doth their iudgements share Mongst earthly wights, as to afflict so sore 200 The innocent as those which do transgresse, And doe not spare the best or fairest more Than worst or foulest, but doe both oppresse?

“If this be right, why did they then create The world so faire, sith fairenesse is neglected? 205 Or why be they themselves immaculate, If purest things be not by them respected? She faire, she pure, most faire, most pure she was, Yet was by them as thing impure reiected; Yet she in purenesse heaven it self did pas. 210

“In purenesse, and in all celestiall grace That men admire in goodly womankind, She did excell, and seem’d of angels race, Living on earth like angell new divinde*, Adorn’d with wisedome and with chastitie, 215 And all the dowries of a noble mind, Which did her beautie much more beautifie. [* _Divinde_, deified.]

“No age hath bred (since faire Astræa left The sinfull world) more vertue in a wight; And, when she parted hence, with her she reft 220 Great hope, and robd her race of bounty* quight. Well may the shepheard lasses now lament; For doubble losse by her hath on them light, To loose both her and bounties ornament. [* _Bounty_, goodness.]

“Ne let Elisa, royall shepheardesse, 225 The praises of my parted* love envy, For she hath praises in all plenteousnesse Powr’d upon her, like showers of Castaly, By her owne shepheard, Colin, her own shepheard, That her with heavenly hymnes doth deifie, 230 Of rusticke Muse full hardly to be betterd. [* _Parted_, departed.]

“She is the rose, the glory of the day, And mine the primrose in the lowly shade: Mine? ah, not mine! amisse I mine did say: Not mine, but His which mine awhile her made; 235 Mine to be-his, with him to live for ay. O that so faire a flowre so soon should fade, And through untimely tempest fall away!

“She fell away in her first ages spring, Whilst yet her leafe was greene, and fresh her rinde; And whilst her braunch faire blossomes foorth did bring, 241 She fell away against all course of kinde*. For age to dye is right, but youth is wrong; She fell away like fruit blowne down with winde. Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong**. [* _Kinde_, nature.] [** _Undersong_, accompaniment.]

II.

“What hart so stonie hard but that would weepe. And poure forth fountaines of incessant teares? What Timon but would let compassion creepe Into his breast, and pierce his frosen eares? In stead of teares, whose brackish bitter well 250 I wasted have, my heart bloud dropping weares, To think to ground how that faire blossome fell.

“Yet fell she not as one enforst to dye, Ne dyde with dread and grudging discontent, But as one toyld with travell downe doth lye, 255 So lay she downe, as if to sleepe she went, And closde her eyes with carelesse quietriesse; The whiles soft death away her spirit hent*, And soule assoyld** from sinfull fleshlinesse. [* _Hent_, took] [** _Assoyld_, absolved.]

“Yet ere that life her lodging did forsake, 260 She, all resolv’d, and readie to remove, Calling to me (ay me!) this wise bespake; ‘Alcyon! ah, my first and latest love! Ah! why does my Alcyon weepe and mourne, And grieve my ghost, that ill mote him behove, 265 As if to me had chaunst some evill tourne!

“‘I, since the messenger is come for mee That summons soules unto the bridale feast Of his great Lord, must needs depart from thee, And straight obay his soveraine beheast; 270 Why should Alcyon then so sore lament That I from miserie shall be releast, And freed from wretched long imprisonment!

“‘Our daies are full of dolour and disease. Our life afflicted with incessant paine, 275 That nought on earth may lessen or appease; Why then should I desire here to remaine! Or why should he that loves me sorrie bee For my deliverance, or at all complaine My good to heare, and toward* ioyes to see! 280 [* _Toward,_ preparing, near at hand.]

“‘I goe, and long desired have to goe; I goe with gladnesse to my wished rest, Whereas* no worlds sad care nor wasting woe May come, their happie quiet to molest; But saints and angels in celestiall thrones 285 Eternally Him praise that hath them blest; There shall I be amongst those blessed ones. [* _Whereas,_ where.]

“‘Yet, ere I goe, a pledge I leave with thee Of the late love the which betwixt us past; My young Ambrosia; in lieu of mee, 290 Love her; so shall our love for ever last. Thus, deare! adieu, whom I expect ere long.’— So having said, away she softly past; Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make mine undersong.

III.

“So oft as I record those piercing words, 295 Which yet are deepe engraven in my brest, And those last deadly accents, which like swords Did wound my heart and rend my bleeding chest, With those sweet sugred speeches doe compare The which my soul first conquerd and possest, 300 The first beginners of my endlesse care,

“And when those pallid cheekes and ashe hew, In which sad Death his pourtraiture had writ, And when those hollow eyes and deadly view, On which the cloud of ghastly night did sit, 305 I match, with that sweete smile and chearful brow, Which all the world subdued unto it, How happie was I then, and wretched now!

“How happie was I when I saw her leade The shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd! 310 How trimly would she trace* and softly tread The tender grasse, with rosye garland crownd! And when she list advaunce her heavenly voyce, Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd, And flocks and shepheards caused to reioyce. 315 [* _Trace_, step]

“But now, ye shepheard lasses! who shall lead Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes*? Or who shall dight** your bowres, sith she is dead That was the lady of your holy-dayes? Let now your blisse be turned into bale, 320 And into plaints convert your ioyous playes, And with the same fill every hill and dale. [* _Virelayes_, roundelays.] [** _Dight_, deck.]

“Let bagpipe never more be heard to shrill, That may allure the senses to delight, Ne ever shepheard sound his oaten quill 325 Unto the many*, that provoke them might To idle pleasance; but let ghastlinesse And drearie horror dim the chearfull light, To make the image of true heavinesse. [* _Many_, company.]

“Let birds be silent on the naked spray, 330 And shady woods resound with dreadfull yells; Let streaming floods their hastie courses stay, And parching drouth drie up the cristall wells; Let th’earth be barren, and bring foorth no flowres, And th’ayre be fild with noyse of dolefull knells, 335 And wandring spirits walke untimely howres.

“And Nature, nurse of every living thing, Let rest her selfe from her long wearinesse, And cease henceforth things kindly forth to bring, But hideous monsters full of uglinesse; 340 For she it is that hath me done this wrong; No nurse, but stepdame cruell, mercilesse. Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

IV.

“My little flock, whom earst I lov’d so well, And wont to feed with finest grasse that grew, 345 Feede ye hencefoorth on bitter astrofell*, And stinking smallage, and unsaverie rew; And when your mawes are with those weeds corrupted, Be ye the pray of wolves; ne will I rew That with your carkasses wild beasts be glutted. 350 [* _Astrofell_, (probably) starwort. See _Astrophel_, v. 184-196.]

“Ne worse to you, my sillie sheepe, I pray, Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall Than to my selfe, for whose confusde decay** To carelesse heavens I doo daylie call; But heavens refuse to heare a wretches cry; 355 And cruell Death doth scorn to come at call, Or graunt his boone that most desires to dye. [* _Decay_, destruction.]

“The good and righteous he away doth take, To plague th’unrighteous which alive remaine; But the ungodly ones he doth forsake, 360 By living long to multiplie their paine; Else surely death should be no punishment, As the Great Iudge at first did it ordaine, But rather riddance from long languishment.

“Therefore, my Daphne they have tane away; 365 For worthie of a better place was she: But me unworthie willed here to stay, That with her lacke I might tormented be. Sith then they so have ordred, I will pay Penance to her, according* their decree, 370 And to her ghost doe service day by day. [* _According_, according to.]

“For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage, Throughout the world from one to other end, And in affliction waste my better age: My bread shall be the anguish of my mynd, 375 My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine, My bed the ground that hardest I may fynd; So will I wilfully increase my paine.

“And she, my love that was, my saint that is, When she beholds from her celestiall throne 380 (In which shee ioyeth in eternall blis) My bitter penance, will my case bemone, And pittie me that living thus doo die; For heavenly spirits have compassion On mortall men, and rue their miserie. 385

“So when I have with sorrow satisfyde Th’importune Fates which vengeance on me seeks, And th’heavens with long languor pacifyde, She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke, Will send for me; for which I daily long, 390 And will till then my painfull penance eeke, Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

V.

“Hencefoorth I hate whatever Nature made, And in her workmanship no pleasure finde, For they be all but vaine, and quickly fade 395 So soone as on them blowes the northern winde; They tarrie not, but flit and fall away, Leaving behind them nought but griefe of minde, And mocking such as thinke they long will stay.

“I hate the heaven, because it doth withhould 400 Me from my love, and eke my love from me; I hate the earth, because it is the mould Of fleshly slime and fraile mortalitie; I hate the fire, because to nought it flyes; I hate the ayre, because sighes of it be; 405 I hate the sea, because it teares supplyes.

“I hate the day, because it lendeth light To see all things, and not my love to see; I hate the darknesse and the dreary night, Because they breed sad balefulnesse in mee; 410 I hate all times, because all times doo fly So fast away, and may not stayed bee, But as a speedie post that passeth by.

“I hate to speake, my voyce is spent with crying; I hate to heare, lowd plaints have duld mine eares; I hate to tast, for food withholds my dying; 416 I hate to see, mine eyes are dimd with teares; I hate to smell, no sweet on earth is left; I hate to feele, my flesh is numbd with feares: So all my senses from me are bereft. 420

“I hate all men, and shun all womankinde; The one, because as I they wretched are; The other, for because I doo not finde My love with them, that wont to be their starre. And life I hate, because it will not last; 425 And death I hate, because it life doth marre; And all I hate that is to come or past.

“So all the world, and all in it I hate, Because it changeth ever to and fro, And never standeth in one certaine state, 430 But, still unstedfast, round about doth goe Like a mill-wheele in midst of miserie, Driven with streames of wretchednesse and woe, That dying lives, and living still does dye.

“So doo I live, so doo I daylie die, 435 And pine away in selfe-consuming paine! Sith she that did my vitall powres supplie, And feeble spirits in their force maintaine, Is fetcht fro me, why seeke I to prolong My wearie daies in dolour and disdalne! 440 Weepe, Shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

IV.

“Why doo I longer live in lifes despight, And doo not dye then in despight of death! Why doo I longer see this loathsome light, And doo in darknesse not abridge my breath, 445 Sith all my sorrow should have end thereby, And cares finde quiet! Is it so uneath* To leave this life, or dolorous to dye? [* _Uneath_, difficult.]

“To live I finde it deadly dolorous, For life drawes care, and care continuall woe; 450 Therefore to dye must needes be ioyeous, And wishfull thing this sad life to forgoe. But I must stay; I may it not amend; My Daphne hence departing bad me so; She bad me stay, till she for me did send. 455