THE FIRST SESTIAD.

• Hero's description and her love's;
• The fane of Venus, where he moves
• His worthy love-suit, and attains;
• Whose bliss the wrath of Fates restrains
• For Cupid's grace to Mercury:
• Which tale the author doth imply.

• On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
• In view and opposite two cities stood,
• Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
• The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
• At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
• Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
• And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
• Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon.
• Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
• And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
• But this is true; so like was one the other,
• As he imagin'd Hero was his mother;

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• And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
• About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
• And laid his childish head upon her breast,
• And, with still panting rock, there took his rest.
• So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus’ nun,
• As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
• Because she took more from her than she left,
• And of such wondrous beauty her bereft:
• Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,
• Since Hero's time hath half the world been black.

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• Amorous Leander, beautiful and young
• (Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung),
• Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
• For whom succeeding times make greater moan.
• His dangling tresses, that were never shorn,
• Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,
• Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece
• To hazard more than for the golden fleece.
• Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her Sphere;
• Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.

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• His body was as straight as Circe's wand;
• Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
• Even as delicious meat is to the tast,
• So was his neck in touching, and surpast
• The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye,
• How smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;
• And whose immortal fingers did imprint
• That heavenly path with many a curious dint
• That runs along his back; but my rude pen
• Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men,

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• Much less of powerful gods: let it suffice
• That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;
• Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
• That leapt into the water for a kiss
• Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
• Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
• Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
• Enamour'd of his beauty had he been:
• His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
• That in the vast uplandish country dwelt;

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• The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought,
• Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.
• Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,
• For in his looks were all that men desire,—
• A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
• A brow for love to banquet royally;
• And such as knew he was a man, would say,
• “Leander, thou art made for amorous play:
• Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?
• Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.”

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• The men of wealthy Sestos every year,
• For his sake whom their goddess held so dear,
• Rose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast:
• Thither resorted many a wandering guest
• To meet their loves: such as had none at all
• Came lovers home from this great festival;
• For every street, like to a firmament,
• Glister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went,
• Frighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd
• Eternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd,

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• As if another Phaëton had got
• The guidance of the sun's rich chariot.
• But, far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd,
• And stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind;
• For like sea-nymphs' inveigling harmony,
• So was her beauty to the standers by;
• Nor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star
• (When yawning dragons draw her thirling car
• From Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky,
• Where, crown'd with blazing light and majesty,

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• She proudly sits) more over-rules the flood
• Than she the hearts of those that near her stood.
• Even as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,
• Wretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race,
• Incens'd with savage heat, gallop amain
• From steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,
• So ran the people forth to gaze upon her,
• And all that view'd her were enamour'd on her:
• And as in fury of a dreadful fight,
• Their fellows being slain or put to flight,

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• Poor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,
• So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken,
• Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;
• He whom she favours lives; the other dies:
• There might you see one sigh; another rage;
• And some, their violent passions to assuage,
• Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late!
• For faithful love will never turn to hate;
• And many, seeing great princes were denied,
• Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died.

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• On this feast-day—O cursèd day and hour!—
• Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
• To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
• As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
• So fair a church as this had Venus none:
• The walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone,
• Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head
• A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
• Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,
• And with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.

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• Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;
• The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass:
• There might you see the gods, in sundry shapes,
• Committing heady riots, incests, rapes;
• For know, that underneath this radiant flour
• Was Danäe's statue in a brazen tower:
• Jove slily stealing from his sister's bed,
• To dally with Idalian Ganymed,
• And for his love Europa bellowing loud,
• And tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud;

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• Blood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net
• Which limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;
• Love kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy;
• Silvanus weeping for the lovely boy
• That now is turned into a cypress-tree,
• Under whose shade the wood-gods love to be.
• And in the midst a silver altar stood:
• There Hero, sacrificing turtles' blood,
• Vailed to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
• And modestly they opened as she rose:

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• Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
• And thus Leander was enamourèd.
• Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd,
• Till with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd,
• Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:
• Such force and virtue hath an amorous look.

• It lies not in our power to love or hate,
• For will in us is over-rul'd by fate.
• When two are stript long ere the course begin,
• We wish that one should lose, the other win;

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• And one especially do we affect
• Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
• The reason no man knows, let it suffice,
• What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
• Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
• Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

• He kneel'd; but unto her devoutly prayed:
• Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
• “Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;”
• And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.

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• He started up; she blushed as one asham'd;
• Wherewith Leander much more was inflam'd.
• He touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled:
• Love deeply grounded hardly is dissembled.
• These lovers parled by the touch of hands:
• True love is mute, and oft amazèd stands.
• Thus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,
• The air with sparks of living fire was spangled;
• And Night, deep-drenched in misty Acheron,
• Heav'd up her head, and half the world upon

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• Breath'd darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day):
• And now begins Leander to display
• Love's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears;
• Which, like sweet music, enter'd Hero's ears;
• And yet at every word she turn'd aside
• And always cut him off, as he replied
• At last, like to a bold sharp sophister,
• With cheerful hope thus he accosted her.
• “Fair creature, let me speak without offence:
• I would my rude words had the influence

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• To lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine!
• Then shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.
• Be not unkind and fair; mis-shapen stuff
• Are of behaviour boisterous and rough.
• O, shun me not, but hear me ere you go!
• God knows, I cannot force love as you do:
• My words shall be as spotless as my youth,
• Full of simplicity and naked truth.
• This sacrifice, whose sweet perfume descending
• From Venus' altar, to your footsteps bending,

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• Doth testify that you exceed her far,
• To whom you offer, and whose nun you are.
• Why should you worship her? her you surpass
• As much as sparkling diamonds flaring glass.
• A diamond set in lead his worth retains;
• A heavenly nymph, belov'd of human swains,
• Receives no blemish, but ofttimes more grace;
• Which makes me hope, although I am but base,
• Base in respect of thee divine and pure,
• Dutiful service may thy love procure;

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• And I in duty will excel all other,
• As thou in beauty dost exceed Love's mother.
• Nor heaven nor thou were made to gaze upon:
• As heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.
• A stately-builded ship, well rigg'd and tall,
• The ocean maketh more majestical;
• Why vow'st thou, then, to live in Sestos here,
• Who on Love's seas more glorious wouldst appear?
• Like untun'd golden strings all women are,
• Which long time lie untouch'd, will harshly jar.

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• Vessels of brass, oft handled, brightly shine:
• What difference betwixt the richest mine
• And basest mould, but use? for both, not us'd,
• Are of like worth. Then treasure is abus'd,
• When misers keep it: being put to loan,
• In time it will return us two for one.
• Rich robes themselves and others do adorn;
• Neither themselves nor others, if not worn.
• Who builds a palace, and rams up the gate,
• Shall see it ruinous and desolate:

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• Ah, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish!
• Lone women, like to empty houses, perish.
• Less sins the poor rich man, that starves himself
• In heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,
• Than such as you: his golden earth remains,
• Which, after his decease, some other gains;
• But this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,
• When you fleet hence, can be bequeath'd to none;
• Or, if it could, down from th' enamell'd sky
• All heaven would come to claim this legacy,

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• And with intestine broils the world destroy,
• And quite confound Nature's sweet harmony.
• Well therefore by the gods decreed it is,
• We human creatures should enjoy that bliss.
• One is no number; maids are nothing, then,
• Without the sweet society of men.
• Wilt thou live single still? one shalt thou be,
• Though never-singling Hymen couple thee.
• Wild savages, that drink of running springs
• Think water far excels all earthly things;

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• But they, that daily taste neat wine, despise it:
• Virginity, albeit some highly prize it,
• Compar'd with marriage, had you tried them both,
• Differs as much as wine and water doth.
• Base bullion for the stamp's sake we allow:
• Even so for men's impression do we you;
• By which alone, our reverend fathers say,
• Women receive perfection every way.
• This idol, which you term virginity,
• Is neither essence subject to the eye,

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• No, nor to any one exterior sense,
• Nor hath it any place of residence,
• Nor is't of earth or mould celestial,
• Or capable of any form at all.
• Of that which hath no being, do not boast;
• Things that are not at all, are never lost.
• Men foolishly do call it virtuous:
• What virtue is it, that is born with us?
• Much less can honour be ascrib'd thereto:
• Honour is purchas'd by the deeds we do;

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• Believe me, Hero, honour is not won,
• Until some honourable deed be done.
• Seek you, for chastity, immortal fame,
• And know that some have wrong'd Diana's name?
• Whose name is it, if she be false or not,
• So she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?
• But you are fair, ay me! so wondrous fair,
• So young, so gentle, and so debonair,
• As Greece will think, if thus you live alone,
• Some one or other keeps you as his own.

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• Then, Hero, hate me not, nor from me fly,
• To follow swiftly-blasting infamy.
• Perhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath:
• Tell me to whom mad'st thou that heedless oath?”
• “To Venus,” answer'd she; and, as she spake,
• Forth from those two tralucent cisterns brake
• A stream of liquid pearl, which down her face
• Made milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace
• To Jove's high court. He thus replied: “The rites
• In which Love's beauteous empress most delights,

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• Are banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,
• Plays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.
• Thee as a holy idiot doth she scorn;
• For thou, in vowing chastity, hast sworn
• To rob her name and honour, and thereby
• Committ'st a sin far worse than perjury,
• Even sacrilege against her deity,
• Through regular and formal purity.
• To expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands:
• Such sacrifice as this Venus demands.”

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• Thereat she smil'd, and did deny him so,
• As put thereby, yet might he hope for mo;
• Which makes him quickly reinforce his speech,
• And her in humble manner thus beseech:
• “Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,
• Yet for her sake, whom you have vow'd to serve,
• Abandon fruitless cold virginity,
• The gentle queen of Love's sole enemy.
• Then shall you most resemble Venus' nun,
• When Venus' sweet rites are performed and done.

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• Flint-breasted Pallas joys in single life;
• But Pallas and your mistress are at strife.
• Love, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous;
• But heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus;
• Nor stain thy youthful years with avarice:
• Fair fools delight to be accounted nice.
• The richest corn dies, if it be not reapt;
• Beauty alone is lost, too warily kept.”
• These arguments he us'd, and many more;
• Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.

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• Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war:
• Women are won when they begin to jar.
• Thus, having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook,
• The more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook:
• Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,
• And would be thought to grant against her will.
• So having paus'd a while, at last she said,
• “Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
• Ay me! such words as these should I abhor,
• And yet I like them for the orator.”

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• With that, Leander stooped to have embrac'd her,
• But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
• And thus bespake him: “Gentle youth, forbear
• To touch the sacred garments which I wear.
• Upon a rock, and underneath a hill,
• Far from the town (where all is whist and still,
• Save that the sea, playing on yellow sand,
• Sends forth a rattling murmur to the land,
• Whose sound allures the golden Morpheus
• In silence of the night to visit us),

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• My turret stands; and there, God knows, I play
• With Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.
• A dwarfish beldam bears me company,
• That hops about the chamber where I lie,
• And spends the night, that might be better spent,
• In vain discourse and apish merriment:—
• Come thither.” As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd,
• For unawares “Come thither” from her slipp'd;
• And suddenly her former colour chang'd,
• And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd;

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• And, like a planet moving several ways
• At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,
• Loving, not to love at all, and every part
• Strove to resist the motions of her heart:
• And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
• As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,
• Did she uphold to Venus, and again
• Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain;
• Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings;
• Her vows above the empty air he flings:

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• All deep enrag'd, his sinewy bow be bent,
• And shot a shaft that burning from him went;
• Wherewith she strooken, look'd so dolefully,
• As made Love sigh to see his tyranny;
• And, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turn'd,
• And wound them on his arm, and for her mourn'd.
• Then towards the palace of the Destinies,
• Laden with languishment and grief, he flies,
• And to those stern nymphs humbly made request,
• Both might enjoy each other, and be blest.

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• But with a ghastly dreadful countenance,
• Threatening a thousand deaths at every glance,
• They answer'd Love, nor would vouchsafe so much
• As one poor word, their hate to him was such:
• Hearken awhile, and I will tell you why.
• Heaven's wingèd herald, Jove-born Mercury,
• The self-same day that he asleep had laid
• Enchanted Argus, spied a country maid,
• Whose careless hair, instead of pearl t'adorn it,
• Glister'd with dew, as one that seemed to scorn it;

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• Her breath as fragrant as the morning rose;
• Her mind pure, and her tongue untaught to glose:
• Yet proud she was (for lofty Pride that dwells
• In tower'd courts, is oft in shepherds' cells),
• And too-too well the fair vermilion knew
• And silver tincture of her cheeks that drew
• The love of every swain. On her this god
• Enamour'd was, and with his snaky rod
• Did charm her nimble feet, and made her stay,
• The while upon a hillock down he lay,

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• And sweetly on his pipe began to play,
• And with smooth speech her fancy to assay,
• Till in his twining arms he lock'd her fast,
• And then he woo'd with kisses; and at last,
• As shepherds do, her on the ground he laid,
• And, tumbling in the grass, he often stray'd
• Beyond the bounds of shame, in being bold
• To eye those parts which no eye should behold;
• And, like an insolent commanding lover,
• Boasting his parentage, would needs discover

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• The way to new Elysium. But she,
• Whose only dower was her chastity,
• Having striven in vain, was now about to cry,
• And crave the help of shepherds that were nigh.
• Herewith he stay'd his fury, and began
• To give her leave to rise: away she ran;
• After went Mercury, who used such cunning,
• As she, to hear his tale, let off her running
• (Maids are not won by brutish force and might,
• But speeches full of pleasures and delight);

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• And, knowing Hermes courted her, was glad
• That she such loveliness and beauty had
• As could provoke his liking; yet was mute,
• And neither would deny nor grant his suit.
• Still vow'd he love: she, wanting no excuse
• To feed him with delays, as women use,
• Or thirsting after immortality,
• (All women are ambitious naturally,)
• Impos'd upon her lover such a task,
• As he ought not perform, nor yet she ask;

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• A draught of flowing nectar she requested,
• Wherewith the king of gods and men is feasted.
• He, ready to accomplish what she will'd,
• Stole some from Hebe (Hebe Jove's cup fill'd),
• And gave it to his simple rustic love:
• Which being known,—as what is hid from Jove?—
• He inly storm'd, and wax'd more furious
• Than for the fire filch'd by Prometheus;
• And thrusts him down from heaven. He, wandering here,
• In mournful terms, with sad and heavy cheer,

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• Complain'd to Cupid: Cupid, for his sake,
• To be reveng'd on Jove did undertake;
• And those on whom heaven, earth, and hell relies,
• I mean the Adamantine Destinies,
• He wounds with love, and forc'd them equally
• To dote upon deceitful Mercury.
• They offer'd him the deadly fatal knife
• That shears the slender threads of human life;
• At his fair-feather'd feet the engines laid,
• Which th' earth from ugly Chaos' den upweigh'd.

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• These he regarded not; but did entreat
• That Jove, usurper of his father's seat,
• Might presently be banish'd into hell,
• And agèd Saturn in Olympus dwell.
• They granted what he crav'd; and once again
• Saturn and Ops began their golden reign:
• Murder, rape, war, and lust, and treachery,
• Were with Jove clos'd in Stygian empery.
• But long this blessèd time continu'd not:
• As soon as he his wishèd purpose got,

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• He, reckless of his promise, did despise
• The love of th' everlasting Destinies.
• They, seeing it, both Love and him abhorr'd,
• And Jupiter unto his place restor'd:
• And, but that Learning, in despite of Fate,
• Will mount aloft, and enter heaven-gate,
• And to the seat of Jove itself advance,
• Hermes had slept in hell with Ignorance.
• Yet, as a punishment, they added this,
• That he and Poverty should always kiss;

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• And to this day is every scholar poor:
• Gross gold from them runs headlong to the boor.
• Likewise the angry Sisters, thus deluded,
• To venge themselves on Hermes, have concluded
• That Midas' brood shall sit in Honour's chair,
• To which the Muses' sons are only heir;
• And fruitful wits, that inaspiring are,
• Shall, discontent, run into regions far;
• And few great lords in virtuous deeds shall joy
• But be surpris'd with every garish toy,

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• And still enrich the lofty servile clown,
• Who with encroaching guile keeps learning down.
• Then muse not Cupid's suit no better sped,
• Seeing in their loves the Fates were injurèd.

THE SECOND SESTIAD.

• Hero of love takes deeper sense,
• And doth her love more recompense:
• Their first night's meeting, where sweet kisses
• Are th' only crowns of both their blisses:
• He swims t' Abydos, and returns:
• Cold Neptune with his beauty burns;
• Whose suit he shuns, and doth aspire
• Hero's fair tower and his desire.

• By this, sad Hero, with love unacquainted,
• Viewing Leander's face, fell down and fainted.
• He kiss'd her, and breath'd life into her lips;
• Wherewith, as one displeas'd, away she trips;
• Yet, as she went, full often look'd behind,
• And many poor excuses did she find
• To linger by the way, and once she stay'd,
• And would have turn'd again, but was afraid,
• In offering parley, to be counted light:
• So on she goes, and, in her idle flight,

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• Her painted fan of curled plumes let fall,
• Thinking to train Leander therewithal.
• He, being a novice, knew not what she meant,
• But stay'd, and after her a letter sent;
• Which joyful Hero answer'd in such sort,
• As he had hope to scale the beauteous fort
• Wherein the liberal Graces locked their wealth;
• And therefore to her tower he got by stealth.
• Wide open stood the door; he need not climb;
• And she herself, before the pointed time,

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• Had spread the board, with roses strew'd the room,
• And oft looked out, and mused he did not come.
• At last he came: O, who can tell the greeting
• These greedy lovers had at their first meeting?
• He asked; she gave; and nothing was denied;
• Both to each other quickly were affied:
• Look how their hands, so were their hearts united,
• And what he did, she willingly requited.
• (Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet,
• When like desires and like affections meet;

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• For from the earth to heaven is Cupid raised,
• Where fancy is in equal balance paised. )
• Yet she this rashness suddenly repented,
• And turn'd aside, and to herself lamented,
• As if her name and honour had been wronged
• By being possessed of him for whom she longed;
• Ay, and she wished, albeit not from her heart,
• That he would leave her turret and depart.
• The mirthful god of amorous pleasure smiled
• To see how he this captive nymph beguiled;

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• For hitherto he did but fan the fire,
• And kept it down, that it might mount the higher.
• Now wax'd she jealous lest his love abated,
• Fearing her own thoughts made her to be hated.
• Therefore unto him hastily she goes,
• And, like light Salmacis, her body throws
• Upon his bosom, where with yielding eyes
• She offers up herself a sacrifice
• To slake his anger, if he were displeased:
• O, what god would not therewith be appeased?

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• Like Æsop's cock, this jewel he enjoyed,
• And as a brother with his sister toyed,
• Supposing nothing else was to be done,
• Now he her favour and goodwill had won.
• But know you not that creatures wanting sense,
• By nature have a mutual appetence,
• And, wanting organs to advance a step,
• Mov'd by love's force, unto each other lep?
• Much more in subjects having intellect
• Some hidden influence breeds like effect.

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• Albeit Leander, rude in love and raw,
• Long dallying with Hero, nothing saw
• That might delight him more, yet he suspected
• Some amorous rites or other were neglected.
• Therefore unto his body hers he clung:
• She, fearing on the rushes to be flung,
• Strived with redoubled strength; the more she strived,
• The more a gentle pleasing heat revived,
• Which taught him all that elder lovers know;
• And now the same gan so to scorch and glow,

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• As in plain terms, yet cunningly, he crave it:
• Love always makes those eloquent that have it.
• She, with a kind of granting, put him by it,
• And ever, as he thought himself most nigh it,
• Like to the tree of Tantalus, she fled,
• And, seeming lavish, saved her maidenhead.
• Ne'er king more sought to keep his diadem,
• Than Hero this inestimable gem:
• Above our life we love a steadfast friend;
• Yet when a token of great worth we send,

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• We often kiss it, often look thereon,
• And stay the messenger that would be gone;
• No marvel, then, though Hero would not yield
• So soon to part from that she dearly held:
• Jewels being lost are found again; this never;
• 'Tis lost but once, and once lost, lost for ever.

• Now had the Morn espied her lover's steeds;
• Whereat she starts, puts on her purple weeds,
• And, red for anger that he stayed so long,
• All headlong throws herself the clouds among.

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• And now Leander, fearing to be missed,
• Embraced her suddenly, took leave, and kissed:
• Long was he taking leave, and loath to go,
• And kissed again, as lovers use to do.
• Sad Hero wrung him by the hand, and wept,
• Saying, “Let your vows and promises be kept:”
• Then standing at the door, she turned about,
• As loath to see Leander going out.
• And now the sun, that through th' horizon peeps,
• As pitying these lovers, downward creeps;

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• So that in silence of the cloudy night,
• Though it was morning, did he take his flight.
• But what the secret trusty night concealed,
• Leander's amorous habit soon revealed:
• With Cupid's myrtle was his bonnet crowned,
• About his arms the purple riband wound,
• Wherewith she wreath'd her largely-spreading hair;
• Nor could the youth abstain, but he must wear
• The sacred ring wherewith she was endowed,
• When first religious chastity she vowed;

  110

• Which made his love through Sestos to be known,
• And thence unto Abydos sooner blown
• Than he could sail; for incorporeal Fame,
• Whose weight consists in nothing but her name,
• Is swifter than the wind, whose tardy plumes
• Are reeking water and dull earthly fumes.

• Home when he came, he seemed not to be there,
• But, like exilèd air thrust from his sphere,
• Set in a foreign place; and straight from thence,
• Alcides-like, by mighty violence,

  120

• He would have chas'd away the swelling main,
• That him from her unjustly did detain.
• Like as the sun in a diameter
• Fires and inflames objects removèd far,
• And heateth kindly, shining laterally;
• So beauty sweetly quickens when'tis nigh,
• But being separated and removed,
• Burns where it cherished, murders where it loved.
• Therefore even as an index to a book,
• So to his mind was young Leander's look.

  130

• O, none but gods have power their love to hide!
• Affection by the countenance is descried;
• The light of hidden fire itself discovers,
• And love that is concealed betrays poor lovers.
• His secret flame apparently was seen:
• Leander's father knew where he had been,
• And for the same mildly rebuk'd his son,
• Thinking to quench the sparkles new-begun.
• But love, resisted once, grows passionate,
• And nothing more than counsel lovers hate;

  140

• For as a hot proud horse highly disdains
• To have his head controlled, but breaks the reins,
• Spits forth the ringled bit, and with his hoves
• Checks the submissive ground; so he that loves,
• The more he is restrain'd, the worse he fares:
• What is it now but mad Leander dares?
• “O Hero, Hero!” thus he cried full oft;
• And then he got him to a rock aloft,
• Where having spied her tower, long star'd he on't,
• And pray'd the narrow toiling Hellespont

  150

• To part in twain, that he might come and go;
• But still the rising billows answer'd, “No.”
• With that, he stripp'd him to the ivory skin,
• And, crying, “Love, I come,” leap'd lively in:
• Whereat the sapphire-visaged god grew proud,
• And made his capering Triton sound aloud,
• Imagining that Ganymed, displeas'd,
• Had left the heavens; therefore on him he seiz'd.
• Leander strived; the waves about him wound,
• And pull'd him to the bottom, where the ground

  160

• Was strewed with pearl, and in low coral groves
• Sweet-singing mermaids sported with their loves
• On heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure
• To spurn in careless sort the shipwreck treasure;
• For here the stately azure palace stood,
• Where kingly Neptune and his train abode.
• The lusty god embrac'd him, called him “Love,”
• And swore he never should return to Jove:
• But when he knew it was not Ganymed,
• For under water he was almost dead,

  170

• He heav'd him up, and, looking on his face,
• Beat down the bold waves with his triple mace,
• Which mounted up, intending to have kiss'd him,
• And fell in drops like tears because they miss'd him.
• Leander, being up, began to swim,
• And, looking back, saw Neptune follow him:
• Whereat aghast, the poor soul gan to cry,
• “O, let me visit Hero ere I die!”
• The god put Helle's bracelet on his arm,
• And swore the sea should never do him harm.

  180

• He clapped his plump cheeks, with his tresses played,
• And, smiling wantonly, his love bewrayed;
• He watched his arms, and, as they open'd wide
• At every stroke, betwixt them would he slide,
• And steal a kiss, and then run out and dance,
• And, as he turn'd, cast many a lustful glance,
• And throw him gaudy toys to please his eye,
• And dive into the water, and there pry
• Upon his breast, his thighs, and every limb,
• And up again, and close beside him swim,

  190

• And talk of love. Leander made reply,
• “You are deceiv'd; I am no woman, I.”
• Thereat smil'd Neptune, and then told a tale,
• How that a shepherd, sitting in a vale,
• Play'd with a boy so lovely-fair and kind,
• As for his love both earth and heaven pin'd;
• That of the cooling river durst not drink,
• Lest water-nymphs should pull him from the brink;
• And when he sported in the fragrant lawns,
• Goat-footed Satyrs and up-staring Fauns

  200

• Would steal him thence. Ere half this tale was done,
• “Ay me,” Leander cried, “th' enamoured sun,
• That now should shine on Thetis' glassy bower,
• Descends upon my radiant Hero's tower:
• O, that these tardy arms of mine were wings!”
• And, as he spake, upon the waves he springs.
• Neptune was angry that he gave no ear,
• And in his heart revenging malice bare:
• He flung at him his mace; but, as it went,
• He call'd it in, for love made him repent:

  210

• The mace, returning back, his own hand hit,
• As meaning to be venged for darting it.
• When this fresh-bleeding wound Leander viewed,
• His colour went and came, as if he rued
• The grief which Neptune felt: in gentle breasts
• Relenting thoughts, remorse, and pity rests;
• And who have hard hearts and obdurate minds,
• But vicious, hare-brained, and illiterate hinds?
• The god, seeing him with pity to be moved,
• Thereon concluded that he was beloved.

  220

• (Love is too full of faith, too credulous,
• With folly and false hope deluding us;)
• Wherefore, Leander's fancy to surprise,
• To the rich ocean for gifts he flies:
• 'Tis wisdom to give much; a gift prevails
• When deep persuading oratory fails.

• By this, Leander, being near the land,
• Cast down his weary feet, and felt the sand.
• Breathless albeit he were, he rested not
• Till to the solitary tower he got;

  230

• And knocked and called: at which celestial noise
• The longing heart of Hero much more joys,
• Than nymphs and shepherds when the timbrel rings,
• Or crookèd dolphin when the sailor sings.
• She stayed not for her robes, but straight arose,
• And, drunk with gladness, to the door she goes;
• Where seeing a naked man, she screeched for fear
• (Such sights as this to tender maids are rare),
• And ran into the dark herself to hide
• (Rich jewels in the dark are soonest spied).

  240

• Unto her was he led, or rather drawn,
• By those white limbs which sparkled through the lawn.
• The nearer that he came, the more she fled,
• And, seeking refuge, slipt into her bed;
• Whereon Leander sitting, thus began,
• Through numbing cold, all feeble, faint, and wan.
• “If not for love, yet, love, for pity-sake,
• Me in thy bed and maiden bosom take;
• At least vouchsafe these arms some little room,
• Who, hoping to embrace thee, cheerly swoom:

  250

• This head was heat with many a churlish billow,
• And therefore let it rest upon thy pillow.”
• Herewith affrighted, Hero shrunk away,
• And in her lukewarm place Leander lay;
• Whose lively heat, like fire from heaven fet,
• Would animate gross clay, and higher set
• The drooping thoughts of base-declining souls,
• Than dreary-Mars-carousing nectar bowls.
• His hands he cast upon her like a snare:
• She, overcome with shame and sallow fear,

  260

• Like chaste Diana when Actæon spied her,
• Being suddenly betray'd, div'd down to hide her;
• And, as her silver body downward went,
• With both her hands she made the bed a tent,
• And in her own mind thought herself secure,
• O'ercast with dim and darksome coverture.
• And now she lets him whisper in her ear,
• Flatter, entreat, promise, protest, and swear:
• Yet ever, as he greedily assay'd
• To touch those dainties, she the harpy play'd,

  270

• And every limb did, as a soldier stout,
• Defend the fort, and keep the foeman out;
• For though the rising ivory mount he scal'd,
• Which is with azure circling lines empal'd,
• Much like a globe (a globe may I term this,
• By which Love sails to regions full of bliss),
• Yet there with Sisyphus he toil'd in vain,
• Till gentle parley did the truce obtain.
• Even as a bird, which in our hands we wring,
• Forth plungeth, and oft flutters with her wing,

  280

• She trembling strove: this strife of hers, like that
• Which made the world, another world begat
• Of unknown joy. Treason was in her thought,
• And cunningly to yield herself she sought.
• Seeming not won, yet won she was at length:
• In such wars women use but half their strength.
• Leander now, like Theban Hercules,
• Enter'd the orchard of th' Hesperides;
• Whose fruit none rightly can describe, but he
• That pulls or shakes it from the golden tree.

  290

• Wherein Leander, on her quivering breast,
• Breathless spoke something, and sigh'd out the rest;
• Which so prevail'd, as he with small ado,
• Enclos'd her in his arms, and kiss'd her too:
• And every kiss to her was as a charm,
• And to Leander as a fresh alarm:
• So that the truce was broke, and she, alas,
• Poor silly maiden, at his mercy was.
• Love is not full of pity, as men say,
• But deaf and cruel where he means to prey.

  300

• And now she wish'd this night were never done,
• And sigh'd to think upon th' approaching sun;
• For much it griev'd her that the bright day-light
• Should know the pleasure of this blessèd night,
• And them, like Mars and Erycine, display
• Both in each other's arms chain'd as they lay.
• Again, she knew not how to frame her look,
• Or speak to him, who in a moment took
• That which so long, so charily she kept;
• And fain by stealth away she would have crept,

  310

• And to some corner secretly have gone,
• Leaving Leander in the bed alone.
• But as her naked feet were whipping out,
• He on the sudden cling'd her so about,
• That, mermaid-like, unto the floor she slid;
• One half appear'd, the other half was hid.
• Thus near the bed she blushing stood upright,
• And from her countenance behold ye might
• A kind of twilight break, which through the air,
• As from an orient cloud, glimps'd here and there;

  320

• And round about the chamber this false morn
• Brought forth the day before the day was born.
• So Hero's ruddy cheek Hero betray'd,
• And her all naked to his sight display'd:
• Whence his admiring eyes more pleasure took
• Than Dis, on heaps of gold fixing his look.
• By this, Apollo's golden harp began
• To sound forth music to the ocean;
• Which watchful Hesperus no sooner heard,
• But he the bright Day-bearing car prepar'd,

  330

• And ran before, as harbinger of light,
• And with his flaring beams mock'd ugly Night,
• Till she, o'ercome with anguish, shame, and rage,
• Dang'd down to hell her loathsome carriage.

THE EPISTLE DEDICATORY
to my
best esteemed and worthily honoured lady the
LADY WALSINGHAM,
one of the ladies of her majesty's bed-chamber.

I present your ladyship with the last affections of the first two Lovers that ever Muse shrined in the Temple of Memory, being drawn by strange instigation to employ some of my serious time in so trifling a subject, which yet made the first Author, divine Musaeus eternal. And were it not that we must subject our accounts of these common received conceits to servile custom, it goes much against my hand to sign that for a trifling subject on which more worthiness of soul hath been shewed, and weight of divine wit, than can vouchsafe residence in the leaden gravity of any money-monger; in whose profession all serious subjects are concluded. But he that shuns trifles must shun the world; out of whose reverend heaps of substance and austerity I can and will ere long single or tumble out as brainless and passionate fooleries as ever panted in the bosom of the most ridiculous lover. Accept it, therefore, good Madam, though as a trifle, yet as a serious argument of my affection; for to be thought thankful for all free and honourable favours is a great sum of that riches my whole thrift intendeth.

Such uncourtly and silly dispositions as mine, whose contentment hath other objects than profit or glory, are as glad, simply for the naked merit of virtue, to honour such as advance her, as others that are hard to commend with deepliest politique bounty.

It hath therefore adjoined much contentment to my desire of your true honour to hear men of desert in court add to mine own knowledge of your noble disposition how gladly you do your best to prefer their desires, and have as absolute respect to their mere good parts as if they came perfumed and charmed with golden incitements. And this most sweet inclination, that flows from the truth and eternity of Nobles[se], assure your Ladyship doth more suit your other ornaments, and makes more to the advancement of your name and happiness of your proceedings, than if like others you displayed ensigns of state and sourness in your forehead, made smooth with nothing but sensuality and presents.

This poor Dedication (in figure of the other unity betwixt Sir Thomas and yourself) hath rejoined you with him, my honoured best friend; whose continuance of ancient kindness to my still-obscured estate, though it cannot increase my love to him which hath been entirely circular; yet shall it encourage my deserts to their utmost requital, and make my hearty gratitude speak; to which the unhappiness of my life hath hitherto been uncomfortable and painful dumbness.

By your Ladyship's vowed in
most wished service.

GEORGE CHAPMAN.

THE THIRD SESTIAD.

• Leander to the envious light
• Resigns his night-sports with the night,
• And swims the Hellespont again.
• Thesme, the deity sovereign
• Of customs and religious rites,
• Appears, reproving his delights,
• Since nuptial honours he neglected;
• Which straight he vows shall be effected.
• Fair Hero, left devirginate,
• Weighs, and with fury wails her state;

  10

• But with her love and woman's wit
• She argues and approveth it.

• New light gives new directions, fortunes new.
• To fashion our endeavours that ensue.
• More harsh, at least more hard, more grave and high
• Our subject runs, and our stern Muse must fly.
• Love's edge is taken off, and that light flame,
• Those thoughts, joys, longings, that before became
• High unexperienc'd blood, and maids' sharp plights,
• Must now grow staid, and censure the delights,
• That, being enjoy'd, ask judgment; now we praise,
• As having parted: evenings crown the days.

  10

• And now, ye wanton Loves, and young Desires,
• Pied Vanity, the mint of strange attires,
• Ye lisping Flatteries, and obsequious Glances,
• Relentful Musics, and attractive Dances,
• And you detested Charms constraining love!
• Shun love's stoln sports by that these lovers prove.

• By this, the sovereign of heaven's golden fires,
• And young Leander, lord of his desires,
• Together from their lovers' arms arose:
• Leander into Hellespontus throws

  20

• His Hero-handled body, whose delight
• Made him disdain each other epithite.
• And as amidst th' enamour'd waves he swims,
• The god of gold of purpose gilt his limbs,
• That, this word gilt including double sense,
• The double guilt of his incontinence
• Might be express'd, that had no stay t' employ
• The treasure which the love-god let him joy
• In his dear Hero, with such sacred thrift
• As had beseem'd so sanctified a gift;

  30

• But, like a greedy vulgar prodigal,
• Would on the stock dispend, and rudely fall,
• Before his time, to that unblessèd blessing
• Which, for lust's plague, doth perish with possessing:
• Joy graven in sense, like snow in water, wasts:
• Without preserve of virtue, nothing lasts.
• What man is he, that with a wealthy eye
• Enjoys a beauty richer than the sky,
• Through whose white skin, softer than soundest sleep,
• With damask eyes the ruby blood doth peep,

  40

• And runs in branches through her azure veins,
• Whose mixture and first fire his love attains;
• Whose both hands limit both love's deities,
• And sweeten human thoughts like Paradise;
• Whose disposition silken is and kind,
• Directed with an earth-exempted mind;—
• Who thinks not heaven with such a love is given?
• And who, like earth, would spend that dower of heaven.
• With rank desire to joy it all at first?
• What simply kills our hunger, quencheth thirst,

  50

• Clothes but our nakedness, and makes us live,
• Praise doth not any of her favours give:
• But what doth plentifully minister
• Beauteous apparel and delicious cheer,
• So orde'd that it still excites desire,
• And still gives pleasure freeness to aspire,
• The palm of Bounty ever moist preserving;
• To Love's sweet life this is the courtly carving.
• Thus Time and all-states-ordering Ceremony
• Had banish'd all offence: Time's golden thigh

  60

• Upholds the flowery body of the earth
• In sacred harmony, and every birth
• Of men and actions makes legitimate;
• Being us'd aright, the use of time is fate.

• Yet did the gentle flood transfer once more
• This prize of love home to his father's shore;
• Where he unlades himself of that false wealth
• That makes few rich,—treasures compos'd by stealth.
• And to his sister, kind Hermione
• (Who on the shore kneel'd, praying to the sea

  70

• For his return), he all love's goods did show,
• In Hero seis'd for him, in him for Hero.

• His most kind sister all his secrets knew,
• And to her, singing, like a shower, he flew,
• Sprinkling the earth, that to their tombs took in
• Streams dead for love, to leave his ivory skin,
• Which yet a snowy foam did leave above.
• As soul to the dead water that did love;
• And from hence did the first white roses spring
• (For love is sweet and fair in everything),

  80

• And all the sweeten'd shore, as he did go,
• Was crown'd with odorous roses, white as snow.
• Love-blest Leander was with love so fill'd,
• That love to all that touch'd him he instill'd;
• And as the colours of all things we see,
• To our sight's powers communicated be,
• So to all objects that in compass came
• Of any sense he had, his senses' flame
• Flow'd from his parts with force so virtual,
• It fir'd with sense things mere insensual.

  90

• Now, with warm baths and odours comforted,
• When he lay down, he kindly kiss'd his bed,
• As consecrating it to Hero's right,
• And vow'd thereafter, that whatever sight
• Put him in mind of Hero or her bliss,
• Should be her altar to prefer a kiss.

• Then laid he forth his late-enrichèd arms,
• In whose white circle Love writ all his charms,
• And made his characters sweet Hero's limbs,
• When on his breast's warm sea she sideling swims;

  100

• And as those arms, held up in circle, met,
• He said, “See, sister, Hero's carquenet!
• Which she had rather wear about her neck,
• Than all the jewels that do Juno deck.”

• But, as he shook with passionate desire
• To put in flame his other secret fire,
• A music so divine did pierce his ear,
• As never yet his ravish'd sense did hear;
• When suddenly a light of twenty hues
• Brake through the roof, and, like the rainbow, views.

  100

• Amaz'd Leander: in whose beams came down
• The goddess Ceremony, with a crown
• Of all the stars; and Heaven with her descended:
• Her flaming hair to her bright feet extended,
• By which hung all the bench of deities;
• And in a chain, compact of ears and eyes,
• She led Religion: all her body was
• Clear and transparent as the purest glass,
• For she was all presented to the sense:
• Devotion, Order, State, and Reverence,

  120

• Her shadows were; Society, Memory;
• All which her sight made live, her absence die.
• A rich disparent pentacle she wears,
• Drawn full of circles and strange characters.
• Her face was changeable to every eye;
• One way look'd ill, another graciously;
• Which while men view'd, they cheerful were and holy,
• But looking off, vicious and melancholy.
• The snaky paths to each observèd law
• Did Policy in her broad bosom draw.

  130

• One hand a mathematic crystal sways,
• Which, gathering in one line a thousand rays
• From her bright eyes, Confusion burns to death,
• And all estates of men distinguisheth:
• By it Morality and Comeliness
• Themselves in all their sightly figures dress.
• Her other hand a laurel rod applies,
• To beat back Barbarism and Avarice,
• That follow'd, eating earth and excrement
• And human limbs; and would make proud ascent

  140

• To seats of gods, were Ceremony slain.
• The Hours and Graces bore her glorious train;
• And all the sweets of our society
• Were spher'd and treasur'd in her bounteous eye.
• Thus she appear'd, and sharply did reprove
• Leander's bluntness in his violent love;
• Told him how poor was substance without rites,
• Like bills unsign'd; desires without delights;
• Like meats unseason'd; like rank corn that grows
• On cottages, that none or reaps or sows;

  150

• Not being with civil forms confirm'd and bounded,
• For human dignities and comforts founded;
• But loose and secret all their glories hide;
• Fear fills the chamber, Darkness decks the bride.
• She vanish'd, leaving pierc'd Leander's heart
• With sense of his unceremonious part,
• In which, with plain neglect of nuptial rites,
• He close and flatly fell to his delights
• And instantly he vow'd to celebrate
• All rites pertaining to his married state.

  160

• So up he gets, and to his father goes,
• To whose glad ears he doth his vows disclose.
• The nuptials are resolv'd with utmost power;
• And he at night would swim to Hero's tower,
• From whence he meant to Sestos' forkèd bay
• To bring her covertly, where ships must stay,
• Sent by his father, throughly rigg'd and mann'd,
• To waft her safely to Abydos' strand.
• There leave we him; and with fresh wing pursue
• Astonish'd Hero, whose most wishèd view

  170

• I thus long have foreborne, because I left her
• So out of countenance, and her spirits bereft her
• To look on one abash'd is impudence,
• When of slight faults he hath too deep a sense.
• Her blushing het her chamber; she look'd out,
• And all the air she purpled round about;
• And after it a foul black day befell,
• Which ever since a red morn doth foretell,
• And still renews our woes for Hero's woe;
• And foul it prov'd because it figur'd so

  180

• The next night's horror; which prepare to hear;
• I fail, if it profane your daintiest ear.

• Then, ho, most strangely intellectual fire,
• That, proper to my soul, hast power t' inspire
• Her burning faculties, and with the wings
• Of thy unspherèd flame visit'st the springs
• Of spirits immortal! Now (as swift as Time
• Doth follow Motion) find th' eternal clime
• Of his free soul, whose living subject stood
• Up to the chin in the Pierian flood,

  190

• And drunk to me half this Musæan story,
• Inscribing it to deathless memory:
• Confer with it, and make my pledge as deep,
• That neither's draught be consecrate to sleep;
• Tell it how much his late desires I tender
• (If yet it know not), and to light surrender
• My soul's dark offspring, willing it should die
• To loves, to passions, and society.

• Sweet Hero, left upon her bed alone,
• Her maidenhead, her vows, Leander gone,

  200

• And nothing with her but a violent crew
• Of new-come thoughts, that yet she never knew,
• Even to herself a stranger, was much like
• Th' Iberian city that War's hand did strike
• By English force in princely Essex' guide,
• When Peace assur'd her towers had fortified,
• And golden-finger'd India had bestow'd
• Such wealth on her, that strength and empire flow'd
• Into her turrets, and her virgin waist
• The wealthy girdle of the sea embraced;

  210

• Till our Leander, that made Mars his Cupid,
• For soft love-suits, with iron thunders chid;
• Swum to her towers, dissolv'd her virgin zone;
• Led in his power, and made Confusion
• Run through her streets amaz'd, that she suppos'd
• She had not been in her own walls enclos'd,
• But rapt by wonder to some foreign state,
• Seeing all her issue so disconsolate,
• And all her peaceful mansions possess'd
• With war's just spoil, and many a foreign guest

  220

• From every corner driving an enjoyer,
• Supplying it with power of a destroyer.
• So far'd fair Hero in th' expugnèd fort
• Of her chaste bosom; and of every sort
• Strange thoughts possess'd her, ransacking her breast
• For that that was not there, her wonted rest.
• She was a mother straight, and bore with pain
• Thoughts that spake straight, and wish'd their mother slain;
• She hates their lives, and they their own and hers:
• Such strife still grows where sin the race prefers:

  230

• Love is a golden bubble, full of dreams,
• That waking breaks, and fills us with extremes.
• She mus'd how she could look upon her sire,
• And not shew that without, that was intire;
• For as a glass is an inanimate eye,
• And outward forms embraceth inwardly,
• So is the eye an animate glass, that shows
• In-forms without us; and as Phœbus throws
• His beams abroad, though he in clouds be clos'd,
• Still glancing by them till he find oppos'd

  240

• A loose and rorid vapour that is fit
• T' event his searching beams, and useth it
• To form a tender twenty-colour'd eye,
• Cast in a circle round about the sky;
• So when our fiery soul, our body's star,
• (That ever is in motion circular,)
• Conceives a form, in seeking to display it
• Through all our cloudy parts, it doth convey it
• Forth at the eye, as the most pregnant place,
• And that reflects it round about the face.

  250

• And this event, uncourtly Hero thought,
• Her inward guilt would in her looks have wrought;
• For yet the world's stale cunning she resisted,
• To bear foul thoughts, yet forge what looks she listed,
• And held it for a very silly sleight,
• To make a perfect metal counterfeit,
• Glad to disclaim herself, proud of an art
• That makes the face a pandar to the heart.
• Those be the painted moons, whose lights profane
• Beauty's true Heaven, at full still in their wane;

  260

• Those be the lapwing-faces that still cry,
• “Here'tis!” when that they vow is nothing nigh:
• Base fools! when every moorish fool can teach
• That which men think the height of human reach.
• But custom, that the apoplexy is
• Of bed-rid nature and lives led amiss,
• And takes away all feeling of offence,
• Yet braz'd not Hero's brow with impudence;
• And this she thought most hard to bring to pass,
• To seem in countenance other than she was,

  270

• As if she had two souls, one for the face,
• One for the heart, and that they shifted place
• As either list to utter or conceal
• What they conceiv'd, or as one soul did deal
• With both affairs at once, keeps and ejects
• Both at an instant contrary effects;
• Retention and ejection in her powers
• Being acts alike; for this one vice of ours,
• That forms the thought, and sways the countenance,
• Rules both our motion and our utterance.

  280

• These and more grave conceits toil'd Hero's spirits;
• For, though the light of her discoursive wits
• Perhaps might find some little hole to pass
• Through all these worldly cinctures, yet, alas!
• There was a heavenly flame encompass'd her,—
• Her goddess, in whose fane she did prefer
• Her virgin vows, from whose impulsive sight
• She knew the black shield of the darkest night
• Could not defend her, nor wit's subtlest art:
• This was the point pierc'd Hero to the heart;

  290

• Who, heavy to the death, with a deep sigh,
• And hand that languished, took a robe was nigh,
• Exceeding large, and of black cypres made,
• In which she sate, hid from the day in shade,
• Even over head and face, down to her feet;
• Her left hand made it at her bosom meet,
• Her right hand lean'd on her heart-bowing knee,
• Wrapp'd in unshapeful folds, 'twas death to see;
• Her knee stay'd that, and that her falling face;
• Each limb help'd other to put on disgrace:

  300

• No form was seen, where form held all her sight;
• But like an embryon that saw never light,
• Or like a scorchèd statue made a coal
• With three-wing'd lightning, or a wretched soul
• Muffled with endless darkness, she did sit:
• The night had never such a heavy spirit.
• Yet might a penetrating eye well see
• How fast her clear tears melted on her knee
• Through her black veil, and turn'd as black as it,
• Mourning to be her tears. Then wrought her wit

  310

• With her broke vow, her goddess' wrath, her fame,—
• All tools that enginous despair could frame:
• Which made her strew the floor with her torn hair,
• And spread her mantle piece-meal in the air.
• Like Jove's son's club, strong passion struck her down,
• And with a piteous shriek enforc'd her swoun:
• Her shriek made with another shriek ascend
• The frighted matron that on her did tend;
• And as with her own cry her sense was slain,
• So with the other it was called again.

  320

• She rose, and to her bed made forcèd way,
• And laid her down even where Leander lay;
• And all this while the red sea of her blood
• Ebb'd with Leander: but now turn'd the flood,
• And all her fleet of spirits came swelling in,
• With child of sail, and did hot fight begin
• With those severe conceits she too much marked:
• And here Leander's beauties were embarked.
• He came in swimming, painted all with joys,
• Such as might sweeten hell: his thought destroys

  330

• All her destroying thoughts; she thought she felt
• His heart in hers, with her contentions melt,
• And chide her soul that it could so much err,
• To check the true joys he deserved in her.
• Her fresh-heat blood cast figures in her eyes,
• And she suppos'd she saw in Neptune's skies
• How her star wander'd, wash'd in smarting brine,
• For her love's sake, that with immortal wine
• Should be embath'd, and swim in more heart's-ease
• Than there was water in the Sestian seas.

  340

• Then said her Cupid-prompted spirit, “Shall I
• Sing moans to such delightsome harmony?
• Shall slick-tongu'd Fame, patch'd up with voices rude,
• The drunken bastard of the multitude
• (Begot when father Judgment is away,
• And, gossip-like, says because others say,
• Takes news as if it were too hot to eat,
• And spits it slavering forth for dog-fees meat),
• Make me, for forging a fantastic vow,
• Presume to bear what makes grave matrons bow?

  350

• Good vows are never broken with good deeds,
• For then good deeds were bad: vows are but seeds,
• And good deeds fruits; even those good deeds that grow
• From other stocks than from th' observèd vow.
• That is a good deed that prevents a bad:
• Had I not yielded, slain myself I had.
• Hero Leander is, Leander Hero;
• Such virtue love hath to make one of two.
• If, then, Leander did my maidenhead git,
• Leander being myself, I still retain it:

  360

• We break chaste vows when we live loosely ever,
• But bound as we are, we live loosely never:
• Two constant lovers being join'd in one,
• Yielding to one another, yield to none.
• We know not how to vow till love unblind us,
• And vows made ignorantly never bind us.
• Too true it is, that, when 'tis gone, men hate
• The joy as vain they took in love's estate:
• But that's since they have lost the heavenly light
• Should show them way to judge of all things right.

  370

• When life is gone, death must implant his terror:
• As death is foe to life, so love to error.
• Before we love, how range we through this sphere,
• Searching the sundry fancies hunted here:
• Now with desire of wealth transported quite
• Beyond our free humanity's delight;
• Now with ambition climbing falling towers,
• Whose hope to scale, our fear to fall devours;
• Now rapt with pastimes, pomp, all joys impure:
• In things without us no delight is sure.

  380

• But love, with all joys crowned, within doth sit:
• O goddess, pity love, and pardon it!”
• Thus spake she weeping: but her goddess' ear
• Burn'd with too stern a heat, and would not hear.
• Ay me! hath heaven's strait fingers no more graces
• For such as Hero than for homeliest faces?
• Yet she hoped well, and in her sweet conceit
• Weighing her arguments, she thought them weight,
• And that the logic of Leander's beauty,
• And them together, would bring proofs of duty;

  390

• And if her soul, that was a skilful glance
• Of heaven's great essence, found such imperance
• In her love's beauties, she had confidence
• Jove loved him too, and pardoned her offence:
• Beauty in heaven and earth this grace doth win,
• It supples rigour, and it lessens sin.
• Thus, her sharp wit, her love, her secrecy,
• Trooping together, made her wonder why
• She should not leave her bed, and to the temple;
• Her health said she must live; her sex, dissemble.

  400

• She viewed Leander's place, and wished he were
• Turned to his place, so his place were Leander.
• “Ay me,” said she, “that love's sweet life and sense
• Should do it harm! my love had not gone hence
• Had he been like his place: O blessèd place,
• Image of constancy! Thus my love's grace
• Parts nowhere, but it leaves something behind
• Worth observation: he renowns his kind:
• His motion is, like heaven's, orbicular,
• For where he once is, he is ever there.

  410

• This place was mine; Leander, now 'tis thine;
• Thou being myself, then it is double mine,
• Mine, and Leander's mine, Leander's mine.
• O, see what wealth it yields me, nay, yields him!
• For I am in it, he for me doth swim.
• Rich, fruitful love, that, doubling self estates,
• Elixir-like contracts, though separates!
• Dear place, I kiss thee, and do welcome thee,
• As from Leander ever sent to me.”

THE FOURTH SESTIAD.

• Hero, in sacred habit deckt,
• Doth private sacrifice effect.
• Her scarf's description, wrought by Fate;
• Ostents that threaten her estate;
• The strange, yet physical, events,
• Leander's counterfeit presents.
• In thunder Cyprides descends,
• Presaging both the lovers' ends:
• Ecte, the goddess of remorse,
• With vocal and articulate force

  10

• Inspires Leucote, Venus' swan,
• T' excuse the beauteous Sestian.
• Venus, to wreak her rites' abuses,
• Creates the monster Eronusis,
• Inflaming Hero's sacrifice
• With lightning darted from her eyes;
• And thereof springs the painted beast
• That ever since taints every breast.

• Now from Leander's place she rose, and found
• Her hair and rent robe scatter'd on the ground;
• Which taking up, she every piece did lay
• Upon an altar, where in youth of day
• She us'd t' exhibit private sacrifice:
• Those would she offer to the deities
• Of her fair goddess and her powerful son,
• As relics of her late-felt passion;
• And in that holy sort she vow'd to end them,
• In hope her violent fancies, that did rend them,

  10

• Would as quite fade in her love's holy fire,
• As they should in the flames she meant t' inspire.
• Then put she on all her religious weeds,
• That decked her in her secret sacred deeds;
• A crown of icicles, that sun nor fire
• Could ever melt, and figur'd chaste desire;
• A golden star shined in her naked breast,
• In honour of the queen-light of the east.
• In her right hand she held a silver wand,
• On whose bright top Peristera did stand,

  20

• Who was a nymph, but now transformed a dove,
• And in her life was dear in Venus' love;
• And for her sake she ever since that time
• Choosed doves to draw her coach through heaven's blue clime.
• Her plenteous hair in curlèd billows swims
• On her bright shoulder; her harmonious limbs
• Sustained no more but a most subtile veil,
• That hung on them, as it durst not assail
• Their different concord; for the weakest air
• Could raise it swelling from her beauties fair;

  30

• Nor did it cover, but adumbrate only
• Her most heart-piercing parts, that a blest eye
• Might see, as it did shadow, fearfully,
• All that all-love-deserving paradise:
• It was as blue as the most freezing skies;
• Near the sea's hue, for thence her goddess came:
• On it a scarf she wore of wondrous frame;
• In midst whereof she wrought a virgin's face,
• From whose each cheek a fiery blush did chase
• Two crimson flames, that did two ways extend,

  40

• Spreading the ample scarf to either end;
• Which figur'd the division of her mind,
• Whiles yet she rested bashfully inclin'd,
• And stood not resolute to wed Leander;
• This serv'd her white neck for a purple sphere,
• And cast itself at full breadth down her back:
• There, since the first breath that begun the wrack
• Of her free quiet from Leander's lips,
• She wrought a sea, in one flame, full of ships;
• But that one ship where all her wealth did pass,

  50

• Like simple merchants' goods, Leander was;
• For in that sea she naked figured him;
• Her diving needle taught him how to swim,
• And to each thread did such resemblance give,
• For joy to be so like him it did live:
• Things senseless live by art, and rational die
• By rude contempt of art and industry.
• Scarce could she work, but, in her strength of thought,
• She fear'd she prick'd Leander as she wrought,
• And oft would shriek so, that her guardian, frighted,

  60

• Would startling haste, as with some mischief cited:
• They double life that dead things' griefs sustain;
• They kill that feel not their friends' living pain.
• Sometimes she fear'd he sought her infamy;
• And then, as she was working of his eye,
• She thought to prick it out to quench her ill;
• But, as she prick'd, it grew more perfect still:
• Trifling attempts no serious acts advance;
• The fire of love is blown by dalliance.
• In working his fair neck she did so grace it,

  70

• She still was working her own arms t' embrace it:
• That, and his shoulders, and his hands were seen
• Above the stream; and with a pure sea-green
• She did so quaintly shadow every limb,
• All might be seen beneath the waves to swim.

• In this conceited scarf she wrought beside
• A moon in change, and shooting stars did glide
• In number after her with bloody beams;
• Which figur'd her affects in their extremes,
• Pursuing nature in her Cynthian body,

  80

• And did her thoughts running on change imply;
• For maids take more delight, when they prepare,
• And think of wives' states, than when wives they are.
• Beneath all these she wrought a fisherman,
• Drawing his nets from forth the ocean;
• Who drew so hard, ye might discover well
• The toughen'd sinews in his neck did swell:
• His inward strains drave out his blood-shot eyes,
• And springs of sweat did in his forehead rise;
• Yet was of naught but of a serpent sped,

  90

• That in his bosom flew and stung him dead:
• And this by Fate into her mind was sent,
• Not wrought by mere instinct of her intent.
• At the scarfs other end her hand did frame,
• Near the fork'd point of the divided flame,
• A country virgin keeping of a vine,
• Who did of hollow bulrushes combine
• Snares for the stubble-loving grasshopper,
• And by her lay her scrip that nourish'd her.
• Within a myrtle shade she sate and sung

  100

• And tufts of waving reeds above her sprung,
• Where lurked two foxes, that, while she applied
• Her trifling snares, their thieveries did divide,
• One to the vine, another to her scrip,
• That she did negligently overslip;
• By which her fruitful vine and wholesome fare
• She suffered spoiled to make a childish snare.
• These ominous fancies did her soul express,
• And every finger made a prophetess,
• To show what death was hid in love's disguise,
• And make her judgment conquer Destinie.
• O, what sweet forms fair ladies' souls do shroud,
• Were they made seen and forced through their blood;
• If through their beauties, like rich work through lawn,
• They would set forth their minds with virtues drawn,
• In letting graces from their fingers fly,
• To still their eyas thoughts with industry;
• That their plied wits in numbered silks might sing
• Passion's huge conquest, and their needles leading
• Affection prisoner through their own-built cities,

  120

• Pinioned with stories and Arachnean ditties.

• Proceed we now with Hero's sacrifice:
• She odours burned, and from their smoke did rise
• Unsavoury fumes, that air with plagues inspired;
• And then the consecrated sticks she fired,
• On whose pale flames an angry spirit flew,
• And beat it down still as it upward grew;
• The virgin tapers that on th' altar stood,
• When she inflam'd them, burned as red as blood;
• All sad ostents of that too near success,

  130

• That made such moving beauties motionless.
• Then Hero wept; but her affrighted eyes
• She quickly wrested from the sacrifice,
• Shut them, and inwards for Leander looked,
• Search'd her soft bosom, and from thence she plucked
• His lovely picture; which when she had viewed,
• Her beauties were with all love's joys renewed;
• The odours sweeten'd, and the fires burned clear,
• Leander's form left no ill object there:
• Such was his beauty, that the force of light,

  140

• Whose knowledge teacheth wonders infinite,
• The strength of number and proportion,
• Nature had placed in it to make it known,
• Art was her daughter, and what human wits
• For study lost, entombed in drossy spirits.
• After this accident (which for her glory
• Hero could not but make a history),
• Th' inhabitants of Sestos and Abydos
• Did every year, with feasts propitious,
• To fair Leander's picture sacrifice:

  150

• And they were persons of especial price
• That were allowed it, as an ornament
• T' enrich their houses, for the continent
• Of the strange virtues all approved it held;
• For even the very look of it repelled
• All blastings, witchcrafts, and the strifes of nature
• In those diseases that no herbs could cure;
• The wolfy sting of avarice it would pull,
• And make the rankest miser bountiful;
• It kill'd the fear of thunder and of death;
• The discords that conceit engendereth
• 'Twixt man and wife, it for the time would cease;
• The flames of love it quench'd, and would increase;
• Held in a prince's hand, it woald put out
• The dreadful'st comet; it would ease all doubt
• Of threaten'd mischiefs; it would bring asleep
• Such as were mad; it would enforce to weep
• Most barbarous eyes; and many more effects
• This picture wrought, and sprung Leandrian sects;
• Of which was Hero first; for he whose form,

  170

• Held in her hand, cleard such a fatal storm,
• From hell she thought his person would defend her,
• Which night and Hellespont would quickly send her.
• With this confirm'd, she vow'd to banish quite
• All thought of any check to her delight;
• And, in contempt of silly bashfulness,
• She would the faith of her desires profess,
• Where her religion should be policy,
• To follow love with zeal her piety;
• Her chamber her cathedral-church should be,

  180

• And her Leander her chief deity;
• For in her love these did the gods forego;
• And though her knowledge did not teach her so,
• Yet did it teach her this, that what her heart
• Did greatest hold in her self-greatest part,
• That she did make her god; and 'twas less naught
• To leave gods in profession and in thought
• Than in her love and life; for therein lies
• Most of her duties and their dignities;
• And, rail the brain-bald world at what it will,

  199

• That's the grand atheism that reigns in it stil
• Yet singularity she would use no more,
• For she was singular too much before;
• But she would please the world with fair pretext
• Love would not leave her conscience perplext:
• Great men that will have less do for them, still
• Must bear them out, though th' acts be ne'er so ill,
• Meanness must pander be to Excellence;
• Pleasure atones Falsehood and Conscience:
• Dissembling was the worst, thought Hero then,

  200

• And that was best, now she must live with men.
• O virtuous love, that taught her to do best
• When she did worst, and when she thought it least'
• Thus would she still proceed in works divine,
• And in her sacred state of priesthood shine,
• Handling the holy rites with hands as bold.
• As if therein she did Jove's thunder hold,
• And need not fear those menaces of error.
• Which she at others threw with greatest terror.
• O lovely Hero, nothing is thy sin,

  210

• Weigh'd with those foul faults other priests are in
• That having neither faiths, nor works, nor beauties,
• T' engender any 'scuse for slubbered duties,
• With as much countenance fill their holy chairs,
• And sweat denouncements 'gainst profane affairs,
• As if their lives were cut out by their places,
• And they the only fathers of the graces.

• Now, as with settled mind she did repair
• Her thoughts to sacrifice her ravished hair
• And her torn robe, which on the altar lay,

  220

• And only for religion's fire did stay,
• She heard a thunder by the Cyclops beaten,
• In such a volley as the world did threaten,
• Given Venus as she parted th' airy sphere,
• Descending now to chide with Hero here:
• When suddenly the goddess' waggoners,
• The swans and turtles that, in coupled pheres,
• Through all worlds' bosoms draw her influence,
• Lighted in Hero's window, and from thence
• To her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves,—

  230

• Graceful Ædone that sweet pleasure loves,
• And ruff-foot Chreste with the tufted crown;
• Both which did kiss her, though their goddess frown.
• The swans did in the solid flood, her glass,
• Proin their fair plumes; of which the fairest was
• Jove-lov'd Leucote, that pure brightness is;
• The other bounty-loving Dapsilis.
• All were in heaven, now they with Hero were:
• But Venus' looks brought wrath, and urged fear.
• Her robe was scarlet; black her head's attire:

  240

• And through her naked breast shin'd streams of fire,
• As when the rarifièd air is driven
• In flashing streams, and opes the darken'd heaven.
• In her white hand a wreath of yew she bore;
• And, breaking th' icy wreath sweet Hero wore,
• She forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew,
• And said, “Now, minion, to thy fate be true,
• Though not to me; endure what this portends
• Begin where lightness will, in shame it ends.
• Love makes thee cunning; thou art current now,

  250

• By being counterfeit: thy broken vow
• Deceit with her pied garters must rejoin,
• And with her stamp thou countenances must coin:
• Coyness, and pure deceits, for purities,
• And still a maid wilt seem in cozen'd eyes,
• And have an antic face to laugh within,
• While thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin.
• But since thy lips (least thought forsworn) forswore,
• Be never virgin's vow worth trusting more!”

• When Beauty's dearest did her goddess hear

  260

• Breathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not clear,
• Dumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood,
• That from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood,
• From the sweet conduits of her favour fell.
• The gentle turtles did with moans make swell
• Their shining gorges; the white black-ey'd swans
• Did sing as woful epicedians,
• As they would straightways die: when Pity's queen,
• The goddess Ecte, that had ever been
• Hid in a watery cloud near Hero's cries,

  270

• Since the first instant of her broken eyes,
• Gave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak,
• To ease her anguish, whose swoln breast did break
• With anger at her goddess, that did touch
• Hero so near for that she us'd so much;
• And, thrusting her white neck at Venus, said
• “Why may not amorous Hero seem a maid,
• Though she be none, as well as you suppress
• In modest cheeks your inward wantonness?
• How often have we drawn you from above.

  280

• T' exchange with mortals rites for rites in love!
• Why in your priest, then, call you that offence,
• That shines in you, and is your influence?”
• With this, the Furies stopp'd Leucote's lips,
• Enjoin'd by Venus; who with rosy whips
• Beat the kind bird. Fierce lightning from her eyes
• Did set on fire fair Hero's sacrifice,
• Which was her torn robe and enforcèd hair;
• And the bright flame became a maid most fair
• For her aspèct: her tresses were of wire,

  290

• Knit like a net, where hearts set all on fire,
• Struggled in pants, and could not get releast;
• Her arms were all with golden pincers drest,
• And twenty-fashioned knots, pulleys, and brakes,
• And all her body girt with painted snakes;
• Her down-parts in a scorpion's tail combined,
• Freckled with twenty colours; pied wings shined
• Out of her shoulders; cloth had never dye,
• Nor sweeter colours never viewèd eye,
• In scorching Turkey, Cares, Tartary,

  300

• Than shined about this spirit notorious;
• Nor was Arachne's web so glorious.
• Of lightning and of shreds she was begot;
• More hold in base dissemblers is there not.
• Her name was Eronusis. Venus flew
• From Hero's sight, and at her chariot drew
• This wondrous creature to so steep a height,
• That all the world she might command with sleight
• Of her gay wings; and then she bade her haste,—
• Since Hero had dissembled, and disgraced

  310

• Her rites so much,—and every breast infect
• With her deceits: she made her architect
• Of all dissimulations; and since then
• Never was any trust in maids or men.

• O, it spited
• Fair Venus' heart to see her most delighted,
• And one she choos'd, for temper of her mind
• To be the only ruler of her kind,
• So soon to let her virgin race be ended!
• Not simply for the fault a whit offended,

  320

• But that in strife for chasteness with the Moon,
• Spiteful Diana bade her show but one
• That was her servant vow'd, and liv'd a maid;
• And, now she thought to answer that upbraid,
• Hero had lost her answer: who knows not
• Venus would seem as far from any spot
• Of light demeanour, as the very skin
• 'Twixt Cynthia's brows? sin is asham'd of sin.
• Up Venus flew, and scarce durst up for fear
• Of Phœbe's laughter, when she pass'd her sphere:

  330

• And so most ugly-clouded was the light,
• That day was hid in day; night came ere night;
• And Venus could not through the thick air pierce,
• Till the day's king, god of undaunted verse,
• Because she was so plentiful a theme
• To such as wore his laurel anademe.
• Like to a fiery bullet made descent,
• And from her passage those fat vapours rent,
• That being not throughly rarified to rain,
• Melted like pitch, as blue as any vein;

  340

• And scalding tempests made the earth to shrink
• Under their fervour, and the world did think
• In every drop a torturing spirit flew,
• It pierc'd so deeply, and it burn'd so blue.

• Betwixt all this and Hero, Hero held
• Leander's picture, as a Persian shield;
• And she was free from fear of worst success:
• The more ill threats us, we suspect the less:
• As we grow hapless, violence subtle grows,

  349

• Dumb, deaf, and blind, and comes when no man knows.

THE FIFTH SESTIAD.

• Day doubles his accustom'd date,
• As loath the Night, incens'd by Fate,
• Should wreck our lovers. Hero's plight;
• Longs for Leander and the night:
• Which ere her thirsty wish recovers,
• She sends for two betrothèd lovers,
• And marries them, that, with their crew,
• Their sports, and ceremonies due,
• She covertly might celebrate,
• With secret joy her own estate.

  10

• She makes a feast, at which appears
• The wild nymph Teras, that still bears
• An ivory lute, tells ominous tales,
• And sings at solemn festivals.

• Now was bright Hero weary of the day,
• Thought an Olympiad in Leander's stay.
• Sol and the soft-foot Hours hung on his arms,
• And would not let him swim, foreseeing his harms
• That day Aurora double grace obtain'd
• Of her love Phœbus; she his horses rein'd,
• Set on his golden knee, and, as she list,
• She pull'd him back; and as she pull'd she kiss'd,
• To have him turn to bed: he lov'd her more,
• To see the love Leander Hero bore:

  10

• Examples profit much; ten times in one,
• In persons full of note, good deeds are done.

• Day was so long, men walking fell asleep;
• The heavy humours that their eyes did steep
• Made them fear mischiefs. The hard streets were beds
• For covetous churls and for ambitious heads,
• That, spite of Nature, would their business ply:
• All thought they had the falling epilepsy,
• Men grovell'd so upon the smother'd ground;
• And pity did the heart of Heaven confound.

  20

• The Gods, the Graces, and the Muses came
• Down to the Destinies, to stay the frame
• Of the true lovers' deaths, and all world's tears:
• But Death before had stopp'd their cruel ears.
• All the celestials parted mourning then,
• Pierc'd with our human miseries more than men:
• Ah, nothing doth the world with mischief fill,
• But want of feeling one another's ill!

• With their descent the day grew something fair,
• And cast a brighter robe upon the air.

  30

• Hero, to shorten time with merriment,
• For young Alcmane and bright Mya sent,
• Two lovers that had long crav'd marriage-dues
• At Hero's hands: but she did still refuse;
• For lovely Mya was her consort vow'd
• In her maid state, and therefore not allow'd
• To amorous nuptials: yet fair Hero now
• Intended to dispense with her cold vow,
• Since hers was broken, and to marry her:
• The rites would pleasing matter minister

  40

• To her conceits, and shorten tedious day.
• They came; sweet Music usher'd th' odorous way,
• And wanton Air in twenty sweet forms danced
• After her fingers; Beauty and Love advanced
• Their ensigns in the downless rosy faces
• Of youths and maids led after by the Graces.
• For all these Hero made a friendly feast,
• Welcom'd them kindly, did much love protest,
• Winning their hearts with all the means she might,
• That, when her fault should chance t' abide the light.

  50

• Their loves might cover or extenuate it,
• And high in her worst fate make pity sit.

• She married them; and in the banquet came,
• Borne by the virgins. Hero striv'd to frame
• Her thoughts to mirth: ay me! but hard it is
• To imitate a false and forcèd bliss;
• Ill may a sad mind forge a merry face,
• Nor hath constrainèd laughter any grace.
• Then laid she wine on cares to make them sink:
• Who fears the threats of Fortune, let him drink.

  60

• To these quick nuptials enter'd suddenly
• Admirèd Teras with the ebon thigh;
• A nymph that haunted the green Sestian groves,
• And would consort soft virgins in their loves,
• At gaysome triumphs and on solemn days,
• Singing prophetic elegies and lays,
• And fingering of a silver lute she tied
• With black and purple scarfs by her left side.
• Apollo gave it, and her skill withal,
• And she was term'd his dwarf, she was so small:

  73

• Yet great in virtue, for his beams enclosed
• His virtues in her; never was proposed
• Riddle to her, or augury, strange or new,
• But she resolv'd it; never slight tale flew
• From her charm'd lips without important sense,
• Shown in some grave succeeding consequence.

• This little sylvan, with her songs and tales,
• Gave such estate to feasts and nuptials,
• That though ofttimes she forewent tragedies,
• Yet for her strangeness still she pleas'd their eyes;

  80

• And for her smallness they admir'd her so,
• They thought her perfect born, and could not grow

• All eyes were on her. Hero did command
• An altar decked with sacred state should stand
• At the feast's upper end, close by the bride,
• On which the pretty nymph might sit espied.
• Then all were silent; every one so hears,
• As all their senses chmb'd into their ears:
• And first this amorous tale, that fitted well
• Fair Hero and the nuptials, she did tell.

  50

• The Tale of Teras.
• Hymen, that now is god of nuptial rites,
• And crowns with honour Love and his delights,
• Of Athens was a youth, so sweet of face,
• That many thought him of the female race;
• Such quickening brightness did his clear eyes dart,
• Warm went their beams to his beholder's heart,
• In such pure leagues his beauties were combin'd,
• That there your nuptial contracts first were signed;
• For as proportion, white and crimson, meet
• In beauty's mixture, all right clear and sweet,

  100

• The eye responsible, the golden hair,
• And none is held, without the other, fair;
• All spring together, all together fade;
• Such intermix'd affections should invade
• Two perfect lovers; which being yet unseen,
• Their virtues and their comforts copied been
• In beauty's concord, subject to the eye;
• And that, in Hymen, pleased so matchlessly,
• That lovers were esteemed in their full grace,
• Like form and colour mixed in Hymen's face,

  110

• And such sweet concord was thought worthy then
• Of torches, music, feasts, and greatest men:
• So Hymen look'd that even the chastest mind
• He mov'd to join in joys of sacred kind;
• For only now his chin's first down consorted
• His head's rich fleece in golden curls contorted;
• And as he was so loved, he loved so too:
• So should best beauties bound by nuptials, do.
• Bright Eucharis, who was by all men said
• The noblest, fairest, and the richest maid

  120

• Of all th' Athenian damsels, Hymen lov'd
• With such transmission, that his heart remove'd
• From his white breast to hers: but her estate,
• In passing his, was so interminate
• For wealth and honour, that his love durst feed
• On naught but sight and hearing, nor could breed
• Hope of requital, the grand prize of love;
• Nor could he hear or see, but he must prove
• How his rare beauty's music would agree
• With maids in consort; therefore robbèd he

  130

• His chin of those same few first fruits it bore,
• And, clad in such attire as virgins wore,
• He kept them company, and might right well,
• For he did all but Eucharis excel
• In all the fair of beauty! yet he wanted
• Virtue to make his own desires implanted
• In his dear Eucharis; for women never
• Love beauty in their sex, but envy ever.
• His judgment yet, that durst not suit address,
• Nor, past due means, presume of due success,

  140

• Reason gat Fortune in the end to speed
• To his best prayers: but strange it seemed, indeed,
• That Fortune should a chaste affection bless:
• Preferment seldom graceth bashfulness.
• Nor grac'd it Hymen yet; but many a dart,
• And many an amorous thought, enthralled his heart.
• Ere he obtained her; and he sick became,
• Forced to abstain her sight; and then the flame
• Raged in his bosom. O, what grief did fill him!
• Sight made him sick, and want of sight did kill him.

  150

• The virgins wonder'd where Diætia stay'd,
• For so did Hymen term himself, a maid.
• At length with sickly looks he greeted them
• Tis strange to see 'gainst what an extreme stream
• A lover strives; poor Hymen look'd so ill.
• That as in merit he increasèd still
• By suffering much, so he in grace decreas'd:
• Women are most won, when men merit least.
• If Merit look not well, Love bids stand by;
• Love's special lesson is to please the eye.

  100

• And Hymen soon recovering all he lost,
• Deceiving still these maids, but himself most,
• His love and he with many virgin dames,
• Noble by birth, noble by beauty's flames,
• Leaving the town with songs and hallow'd lights
• To do great Ceres Eleusina rites
• Of zealous sacrifice, were made a prey
• To barbarous rovers, that in ambush lay,
• And with rude hands enforc'd their shining spoil,
• Far from the darkened city, tired with toil:

  170

• And when the yellow issue of the sky
• Came trooping forth, jealous of cruelty
• To their bright fellows of this under-heaven,
• Into a double night they saw them driven,—
• A horrid cave, the thieves' black mansion;
• Where, weary of the journey they had gone,
• Their last night's watch, and drunk with their sweet gains
• Dull Morpheus enter'd, laden with silken chains,
• Stronger than iron, and bound the swelling veins
• And tirèd senses of these lawless swains.

  180

• But when the virgin lights thus dimly burn'd,
• O, what a hell was heaven in! how they mourn'd
• And wrung their hands, and wound their gentle forms
• Into the shapes of sorrow! golden storms
• Fell from their eyes; as when the sun appears,
• And yet it rains, so show'd their eyes their tears:
• And, as when funeral dames watch a dead corse,
• Weeping about it, telling with remorse
• What pains he felt, how long in pain he lay,
• How little food he ate, what he would say;

  190

• And then mix mournful tales of others' deaths,
• Smothering themselves in clouds of their own breaths,
• At length, one cheering other, call for wine;
• The golden bowl drinks tears out of their eyne,
• As they drink wine from it; and round it goes,
• Each helping other to relieve their woes;
• So cast these virgins' beauties mutual rays,
• One lights another, face the face displays;
• Lips by reflection kissed, and hands hands shook.
• Even by the whiteness each of other took.

  200

• But Hymen now used friendly Morpheus' aid,
• Slew every thief, and rescued every maid:
• And now did his enamour'd passion take
• Heart from his hearty deed, whose worth did make
• His hope of bounteous Eucharis more strong;
• And now came Love with Proteus, who had long
• Juggled the little god with prayers and gifts,
• Ran through all shapes and varied all his shifts,
• To win Love's stay with him, and make him love him.
• And when he saw no strength of sleight could move him.
• To make him love or stay, he nimbly turned

  211

• Into Love's self, he so extremely burned.
• And thus came Love, with Proteus and his power,
• T' encounter Eucharis: first, like the flower
• That Juno's milk did spring, the silver lily,
• He fell on Hymen's hand, who straight did spy
• The bounteous godhead, and with wondrous joy
• Offer'd it Eucharis. She, wondrous coy,
• Drew back her hand: the subtle flower did woo it,
• And, drawing it near, mixed so you could not know it

  220

• As two clear tapers mix in one their light,
• So did the lily and the hand their white.
• She viewed it; and her view the form bestows
• Amongst her spirits; for, as colour flows
• From superficies of each thing we see,
• Even so with colours forms emitted be;
• And where Love's form is, Love is; Love is form:
• He entered at the eye; his sacred storm
• Rose from the hand, Love's sweetest instrument:
• It stirred her blood's sea so, that high it went,

  230

• And beat in bashful waves 'gainst the white shore
• Of her divided cheeks; it raged the more,
• Because the tide went 'gainst the haughty wind
• Of her estate and birth: and, as we find,
• In fainting ebbs, the flowery Zephyr hurls
• The green-haired Hellespont, broke in silver curls,
• 'Gainst Hero's tower; but in his blast's retreat,
• The waves obeying him, they after beat,
• Leaving the chalky shore a great way pale,
• Then moist it freshly with another gale;

  240

• So ebbed and flowed the blood in Eucharis' face,
• Coyness and Love strived which had greatest grace;
• Virginity did fight on Coyness' side,
• Fear of her parents' frowns and female pride
• Loathing the lower place, more than it loves
• The high contents desert and virtue moves.
• With Love fought Hymen's beauty and his valure,
• Which scarce could so much favour yet allure
• To come to strike, but fameless idle stood:
• Action is fiery valour's sovereign good.

  250

• But Love, once entered, wished no greater aid
• Than he could find within; thought thought betray'd;
• The bribed, but incorrupted, garrison
• Sung “Io Hymen;” there those songs begun,
• And Love was grown so rich with such a gain,
• And wanton with the ease of his free reign,
• That he would turn into her roughest frowns
• To turn them out; and thus he Hymen crowns
• King of his thoughts, man's greatest empery:
• This was his first brave step to deity.

  260

• Home to the mourning city they repair,
• With news as wholesome as the morning air,
• To the sad parents of each savèd maid:
• But Hymen and his Eucharis had laid
• This plat to make the flame of their delight
• Round as the moon at full, and full as bright.

• Because the parents of chaste Eucharis
• Exceeding Hymen's so, might cross their bliss;
• And as the world rewards deserts, that law
• Cannot assist with force; so when they saw

  270

• Their daughter safe, take vantage of their own,
• Praise Hymen's valour much, nothing bestown;
• Hymen must leave the virgins in a grove
• Far off from Athens, and go first to prove,
• If to restore them all with fame and life,
• He should enjoy his dearest as his wife.
• This told to all the maids, the most agree:
• The riper sort, knowing what 'tis to be
• The first mouth of a news so far derived,
• And that to hear and bear news brave folks lived.

  280

• As being a carriage special hard to bear
• Occurrents, these occurrents being so dear,
• They did with grace protest, they were content
• T' accost their friends with all their compliment,
• For Hymen's good; but to incur their harm,
• There he must pardon them. This wit went warm
• To Adolesche's brain, a nymph born high,
• Made all of voice and fire, that upwards fly:
• Her heart and all her forces' nether train
• Cimb'd to her tongue, and thither fell her brain,

  290

• Since it could go no higher; and it must go;
• All powers she had, even her tongue, did so:
• In spirit and quickness she much joy did take,
• And loved her tongue, only for quickness' sake;
• And she would haste and tell. The rest all stay:
• Hymen goes one, the nymph another way;
• And what became of her I'll tell at last:
• Yet take her visage now;—moist-lipped, long-faced,
• Thin like an iron wedge, so sharp and tart,
• As 'twere of purpose made to cleave Love's heart:

  300

• Well were this lovely beauty rid of her.
• And Hymen did at Athens now prefer
• His welcome suit, which he with joy aspired:
• A hundred princely youths with him retired
• To fetch the nymphs; chariots and music went;
• And home they came: heaven with applauses rent.
• The nuptials straight proceed, whiles all the town,
• Fresh in their joys, might do them most renown.
• First, gold-locked Hymen did to church repair,
• Like a quick offering burned in flames of hair;

  310

• And after, with a virgin firmament
• The godhead-proving bride attended went
• Before them all: she looked in her command,
• As if form-giving Cypria's silver hand
• Gripped all their beauties, and crushed out one flame;
• She blushed to see how beauty, overcame
• The thoughts of all men. Next, before her went
• Five lovely children, decked with ornament
• Of her sweet colours, bearing torches by;
• For light was held a happy augury

  320

• Of generation, whose efficient right
• Is nothing else but to produce to light.
• The odd disparent number they did choose,
• To show the union married loves should use,
• Since in two equal parts it will not sever,
• But the midst holds one to rejoin it ever,
• As common to both parts: men therefore deem
• That equal number gods do not esteem,
• Being authors of sweet peace and unity,
• But pleasing to th' infernal empery,

  330

• Under whose ensigns Wars and Discords fight,
• Since an even number you may disunite
• In two parts equal, naught in middle left
• To reunite each part from other reft;
• And five they hold in most especial prize,
• Since 'tis the first odd number that doth rise
• From the two foremost numbers' unity,
• That odd and even are; which are two and three;
• For one no number is; but thence doth flow
• The powerful race of number. Next, did go

  340

• A noble matron, that did spinning bear
• A huswife's rock and spindle, and did wear
• A wether's skin, with all the snowy fleece,
• To intimate that even the daintiest piece
• And noblest-born dame should industrious be:
• That which does good disgraceth no degree.

• And now to Juno's temple they are come,
• Where her grave priest stood in the marriage-room:
• On his right arm did hang a scarlet veil,
• And from his shoulders to the ground did trail,

  350

• On either side, ribands of white and blue:
• With the red veil he hid the bashful hue
• Of the chaste bride, to show the modest shame,
• In coupling with a man, should grace a dame.
• Then took he the disparent silks, and tied
• The lovers by the waists, and side to side,
• In token that thereafter they must bind
• In one self-sacred knot each other's mind.
• Before them on an altar he presented
• Both fire and water, which was first invented,

  360

• Since to ingenerate every human creature
• And every other birth produc'd by Nature,
• Moisture and heat must mix; so man and wife
• For human race must join in nuptial life.
• Then one of Juno's birds, the painted jay,
• He sacrific'd and took the gall away;
• All which he did behind the altar throw,
• In sign no bitterness of hate should grow,
• 'Twixt married loves, nor any least disdain.
• Nothing they spake, for 'twas esteem'd too plain

  370

• For the most silken mildness of a maid,
• To let a public audience hear it said,
• She boldly took the man; and so respected
• Was bashfulness in Athens, it erected
• To chaste Agneia, which is Shamefacedness,
• A sacred temple, holding her a goddess.
• And now to feasts, masks, and triumphant shows,
• The shining troops returned, even till earth-throes
• Brought forth with joy the thickest part of night,
• When the sweet nuptial song, that used to cite

  380

• All to their rest, was by Phemonoe sung,
• First Delphian prophetess, whose graces sprung
• Out of the Muses' well: she sung before
• The bride into her chamber; at which door
• A matron and a torch-bearer did stand:
• A painted box of confits in her hand
• The matron held, and so did other some
• That compassed round the honour'd nuptial room.
• The custom was, that every maid did wear,
• During her maidenhead, a silken sphere

  390

• About her waist, above her inmost weed,
• Knit with Minerva's knot, and that was freed
• By the fair bridegroom on the marriage-night,
• With many ceremonies of delight:
• And yet eternized Hymen's tender bride,
• To suffer it dissolved so, sweetly cried.
• The maids that heard, so loved and did adore her,
• They wished with all their hearts to suffer for her.
• So had the matrons, that with confits stood
• About the chamber, such affectionate blood,

  400

• And so true feeling of her harmless pains,
• That every one a shower of confits rains;
• For which the bride-youths scrambling on the ground,
• In noise of that sweet hail her cries were drown'd,
• And thus blest Hymen joyed his gracious bride,
• And for his joy was after deified.
• The saffron mirror by which Phœbus' love,
• Green Tellus, decks her, now he held above
• The cloudy mountains: and the noble maid,
• Sharp-visaged Adolesche, that was stray'd

  410

• Out of her way, in hasting with her news,
• Not till this hour th' Athenian turrets views;
• And now brought home by guides, she heard by all,
• That her long kept occurrents would be stale,
• And how fair Hymen's honours did excel
• For those rare news which she came short to tell.
• To hear her dear tongue robbed of such a joy,
• Made the well-spoken nymph take such a toy,
• That down she sunk: when lightning from above
• Shrunk her lean body, and, for mere free love,

  420

• Turn'd her into the pied-plum'd Psittacus,
• That now the Parrot is surnam'd by us,
• Who still with counterfeit confusion prates
• Naught but news common to the common'st mates.—
• This told, strange Teras touch'd her lute, and sung
• This ditty, that the torchy evening sprung.

• Epithalamion Teratos.
• Come, come, dear Night! Love's mart of kisses, Sweet close to his ambitious line,
• The fruitful summer of his blisses! Love's glory doth in darkness shine.

  430

• O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night! Come, naked Virtue's only tire,
• The reapèd harvest of the light, Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire!

• Love calls to war;
• Sighs his alarms,
• Lips his swords are,
• The field his arms.

• Come, Night, and lay thy velvet hand On glorious Day's outfacing face;

  440

• And all thy crownèd flames command, For torches to our nuptial grace!

• Love calls to war;
• Sighs his alarms,
• Lips his swords are,
• The field his arms.

• No need have we of factious Day, To cast, in envy of thy peace,
• Her balls of discord in thy way: Here Beauty's day doth never cease;

  450

• Day is abstracted here,
• And varied in a triple sphere.
• Hero, Alcmane, Mya, so outshine thee,
• Ere thou come here, let Thetis thrice refine thee.

• Love calls to war;
• Sighs his alarms,
• Lips his swords are,
• The field his arms.
• The evening star I see:
• Rise, youths! the evening star

  460

• Helps Love to summon war;
• Both now embracing be.

• Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!
• Now the bright marigolds, that deck the skies,
• Phœbus' celestial flowers, that, contrary
• To his flowers here, ope when he shuts his eye,
• And shuts when he doth open, crown your sports:
• Now Love in Night, and Night in Love exhorts
• Courtship and dances: all your parts employ,
• And suit Night's rich expansure with your joy.

  470

• Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes:
• Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!
• Rise, virgins! let fair nuptial loves enfold
• Your fruitless breasts: the maidenheads ye hold
• Are not your own alone, but parted are;
• Part in disposing them your parents share,
• And that a third part is; so must ye save
• Your loves a third, and you your thirds must have.
• Love paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes:
• Rise, youths! Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!

  480

• Herewith the amorous spirit, that was so kind
• To Teras' hair, and comb'd it down with wind,
• Still as it, comet-like, brake from her brain,
• Would needs have Teras gone, and did refrain
• To blow it down: which, staring up, dismay'd
• The timorous feast; and she no longer stay'd;
• But, bowing to the bridegroom and the bride,
• Did, like a shooting exhalation, glide
• Out of their sights: the turning of her back
• Made them all shriek, it look'd so ghastly black.

  490

• O hapless Hero! that most hapless cloud
• Thy soon-succeeding tragedy foreshow'd.
• Thus all the nuptial crew to joys depart;
• But much-wronged Hero stood Hell's blackest dart:
• Whose wound because I grieve so to display,
• I use digressions thus t' increase the day.

THE SIXTH SESTIAD.

• Leucote flies to all the Winds,
• And from the Fates their outrage blinds,
• That Hero and her love may meet.
• Leander, with Love's complete fleet
• Manned in himself, puts forth to seas;
• When straight the ruthless Destinies,
• With Até, stir the winds to war
• Upon the Hellespont: their jar
• Drowns poor Leander. Hero's eyes,
• Wet witnesses of his surprise,

  10

• Her torch blown out, grief casts her down
• Upon her love, and both doth drown:
• In whose just ruth the god of seas
• Transforms them to th' Acanthides.

• No longer could the Day nor Destinies
• Delay the Night, who now did frowning rise
• Into her throne; and at her humorous breasts
• Visions and Dreams lay sucking: all men's rests
• Fell like the mists of death upon their eyes,
• Day's too-long darts so kill'd their faculties.
• The Winds yet, like the flowers, to cease began;
• For bright Leucote, Venus' whitest swan,
• That held sweet Hero dear, spread her fair wings,
• Like to a field of snow, and message brings

  10

• From Venus to the Fates, t' entreat them lay
• Their charge upon the Winds their rage to stay,
• That the stern battle of the seas might cease,
• And guard Leander to his love in peace.
• The Fates consent;—ay me, dissembling Fates!
• They showed their favours to conceal their hates,
• And draw Leander on, lest seas too high
• Should stay his too obsequious destiny:
• Who like a fleering slavish parasite,
• In warping profit or a traitorous sleight,

  20

• Hoops round his rotten body with devotes,
• And pricks his descant face full of false notes;
• Praising with open throat, and oaths as foul
• As his false heart, the beauty of an owl;
• Kissing his skipping hand with charmèd skips,
• That cannot leave, but leaps upon his lips
• Like a cock-sparrow, or a shameless quean
• Sharp at a red-lipp'd youth, and naught doth mean
• Of all his antic shows, but doth repair
• More tender fawns, and takes a scatter'd hair

  30

• From his tame subject's shoulder; whips and calls
• For everything he lacks; creeps 'gainst the walls
• With backward humbless, to give needless way:
• Thus his false fate did with Leander play.

• First to black Eurus flies the white Leucote
• (Born 'mongst the negroes in the Levant sea,
• On whose curl'd head[s] the glowing sun doth rise),
• And shows the sovereign will of Destinies,
• To have him cease his blasts; and down he lies.
• Next, to the fenny Notus course she holds,

  40

• And found him leaning, with his arms in folds,
• Upon a rock, his white hair full of showers;
• And him she chargeth by the fatal powers,
• To hold in his wet cheeks his cloudy voice.
• To Zephyr then that doth in flowers rejoice:
• To snake-foot Boreas next she did remove,
• And found him tossing of his ravished love,
• To heat his frosty bosom hid in snow;
• Who with Leucote's sight did cease to blow.
• Thus all were still to Hero's heart's desire;

  50

• Who with all speed did consecrate a fire
• Of flaming gums and comfortable spice,
• To light her torch, which in such curious price
• She held, being object to Leander's sight,
• That naught but fires perfumed must give it light.
• She loved it so, she griev'd to see it burn,
• Since it would waste, and soon to ashes turn:
• Yet, if it burned not, 'twere not worth her eyes;
• What made it nothing, gave it all the prize.
• Sweet torch, true glass of our society!

  60

• What man does good, but he consumes thereby?
• But thou wert loved for good, held high, given show;
• Poor virtue loathed for good, obscured, held low:
• Do good, be pined,—be deedless good, disgraced;
• Unless we feed on men, we let them fast.
• Yet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend:
• When bees make wax, Nature doth not intend
• It should be made a torch; but we, that know
• The proper virtue of it, make it so,
• And, when 'tis made, we light it: nor did Nature

  70

• Propose one life to maids; but each such creature
• Makes by her soul the best of her free state,
• Which without love is rude, disconsolate,
• And wants love's fire to make it mild and bright,
• Till when, maids are but torches wanting light.
• Thus 'gainst our grief, not cause of grief, we fight:
• The right of naught is glean'd, but the delight.
• Up went she: but to tell how she descended,
• Would God she were dead, or my verse ended!
• She was the rule of wishes, sum, and end,

  80

• For all the parts that did on love depend:
• Yet cast the torch his brightness further forth;
• But what shines nearest best, holds truest worth.
• Leander did not through such tempests swim
• To kiss the torch, although it lighted him:
• But all his powers in her desires awakèd,
• Her love and virtues clothed him richly naked.
• Men kiss but fire that only shows pursue;
• Her torch and Hero, figure show and virtue.

• Now at opposed Abydos naught was heard

  90

• But bleating flocks, and many a bellowing herd,
• Slain for the nuptials; cracks of falling woods;
• Blows of broad axes; pourings out of floods.
• The guilty Hellespont was mix'd and stained
• With bloody torrents that the shambles rained;
• Not arguments of feast, but shows that bled,
• Foretelling that red night that followèd.
• More blood was spilt, more honours were addrest,
• Than could have gracèd any happy feast;
• Rich banquets, triumphs, every pomp employs

  100

• His sumptuous hand; no miser's nuptial joys.
• Air felt continual thunder with the noise
• Made in the general marriage-violence;
• And no man knew the cause of this expense,
• But the two hapless lords, Leander's sire,
• And poor Leander, poorest where the fire
• Of credulous love made him most rich surmis'd:
• As short was he of that himself he prized,
• As is an empty gallant full of form,
• That thinks each look an act, each drop a storm,

  110

• That falls from his brave breathings; most brought up
• In our metropolis, and hath his cup
• Brought after him to feasts; and much palm bears
• For his rare judgment in th' attire he wears;
• Hath seen the hot Low-Countries, not their heat,
• Observes their rampires and their buildings yet;
• And, for your sweet discourse with mouths, is heard
• Giving instructions with his very beard;
• Hath gone with an ambassador, and been
• A great man's mate in travelling, even to Rhene;

  120

• And then puts all his worth in such a face
• As he saw brave men make, and strives for grace
• To get his news forth: as when you descry
• A ship, with all her sail contends to fly
• Out of the narrow Thames with winds unapt,
• Now crosseth here, then there, then this way rapt,
• And then hath one point reach'd, then alters all,
• And to another crookèd reach doth fall
• Of half a bird-bolt's shoot, keeping more coil
• Than if she danc'd upon the ocean's toil;

  130

• So serious is his trifling company,
• In all his swelling ship of vacantry;
• And so short of himself in his high thought
• Was our Leander in his fortunes brought,
• And in his fort of love that he thought won;
• But otherwise he scorns comparison.

• O sweet Leander, thy large worth I hide
• In a short grave! Ill-favour'd storms must chide
• Thy sacred favour; I in floods of ink
• Must drown thy graces, which white papers drink,

  140

• Even as thy beauties did the foul black seas;
• I must describe the hell of thy decease,
• That heaven did merit: yet I needs must see
• Our painted fools and cockhorse peasantry
• Still, still usurp, with long lives, loves, and lust,
• The seats of Virtue, cutting short as dust
• Her dear-bought issue: ill to worse converts,
• And tramples in the blood of all deserts.

• Night close and silent now goes fast before
• The captains and the soldiers to the shore,

  150

• On whom attended the appointed fleet
• At Sestos' bay, that should Leander meet,
• Who feigned he in another ship would pass:
• Which must not be, for no one mean there was
• To get his love home, but the course he took.
• Forth did his beauty for his beauty look,
• And saw her through her torch, as you behold
• Sometimes within the sun a face of gold,
• Formed in strong thoughts, by that tradition's force
• That says a god sits there and guides his course.

  160

• His sister was with him; to whom he show'd
• His guide by sea, and said, “Oft have you view'd
• In one heaven many stars, but never yet
• In one star many heavens till now were met.
• See, lovely sister! see, now Hero shines,
• No heaven but her appears; each star repines,
• And all are clad in clouds, as if they mourned
• To be by influence of earth out-burned.
• Yet doth she shine, and teacheth Virtue's train
• Still to be constant in hell's blackest reign,

  170

• Though even the gods themselves do so entreat them
• As they did hate, and earth as she would eat them.”

• Off went his silken robe, and in he leapt,
• Whom the kind waves so licorously cleapt,
• Thickening for haste, one in another, so,
• To kiss his skin, that he might almost go
• To Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted.
• But now the cruel Fates with Até hasted
• To all the winds, and made them battle fight
• Upon the Hellespont, for either's right

  180

• Pretended to the windy monarchy;
• And forth they brake, the seas mixed with the sky,
• And tossed distressed Leander, being in hell,
• As high as heaven: bliss not in height doth dwell.
• The Destinies sate dancing on the waves,
• To see the glorious Winds with mutual braves
• Consume each other: O, true glass, to see
• How ruinous ambitious statists be
• To their own glories! Poor Leander cried
• For help to sea-born Venus she denied;

  190

• To Boreas, that, for his Atthæa's sake
• He would some pity on his Hero take,
• And for his own love's sake, on his desires;
• But Glory never blows cold Pity's fires.
• Then call'd he Neptune, who, through all the noise,
• Knew with affright his wreck'd Leander's voice,
• And up he rose; for haste his forehead hit
• 'Gainst heaven's hard crystal; his proud waves he smil
• With his forked sceptre, that could not obey;
• Much greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway.

  200

• They loved Leander so, in groans they brake
• When they came near him; and such space did take
• 'Twixt one another, loath to issue on,
• That in their shallow furrows earth was shown,
• And the poor lover took a little breath:
• But the curst Fates sate spinning of his death
• On every wave, and with the servile Winds
• Tumbled them on him. And now Hero finds,
• By that she felt, her dear Leander's state:
• She wept, and prayed for him to every Fate;

  210

• And every Wind that whipped her with her hair
• About the face, she kissed and spake it fair,
• Kneeled to it, gave it drink out of her eyes
• To quench his thirst: but still their cruelties
• Even her poor torch envied, and rudely beat
• The baiting flame from that dear food it eat;
• Dear, for it nourish'd her Leander's life;
• Which with her robe she rescued from their strife;
• But silk too soft was such hard hearts to break;
• And she, dear soul, even as her silk, faint, weak,

  220

• Could not preserve it; out, O, out it went!
• Leander still call'd Neptune, that now rent
• His brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face,
• Where tears in billows did each other chase;
• And, burst with ruth, he hurl'd his marble mace
• At the stern Fates: it wounded Lachesis
• That drew Leander's thread, and could not miss
• The thread itself, as it her hand did hit,
• But smote it full, and quite did sunder it.
• The more kind Neptune raged, the more he razed

  230

• His love's life's fort, and kill'd as he embraced:
• Anger doth still his own mishap increase;
• If any comfort live, it is in peace.
• O thievish Fates, to let blood, flesh, and sense,
• Build two fair temples for their excellence,
• To rob it with a poisoned influence!
• Though souls' gifts starve, the bodies are held dear
• In ugliest things; sense-sport preserves a bear:
• But here naught serves our turns: O heaven and earth.
• How most-most wretched is our human birth!

  240

• And now did all the tyrannous crew depart,
• Knowing there was a storm in Hero's heart,
• Greater than they could make, and scorn'd their smart.
• She bow'd herself so low out of her tower,
• That wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour,
• With searching the lamenting waves for him:
• Like a poor snail, her gentle supple limb
• Hung on her turret's top, so most downright,
• As she would dive beneath the darkness quite,
• To find her jewel;—jewel!—her Leander,

  250

• A name of all earth's jewels pleas'd not her
• Like his dear name: “Leander, still my choice,
• Come naught but my Leander! O my voice,
• Turn to Leander! henceforth be all sounds,
• Accents and phrases, that show all griefs' wounds,
• Analyzed in Leander! O black change!
• Trumpets, do you, with thunder of your clange,
• Drive out this change's horror! My voice faints:
• Where all joy was, now shriek out all complaints!”
• Thus cried she; for her mixèd soul could tell

  260

• Her love was dead: and when the Morning fell
• Prostrate upon the weeping earth for woe,
• Blushes, that bled out of her cheeks, did show
• Leander brought by Neptune, bruis'd and torn
• With cities' ruins he to rocks had worn,
• To filthy usuring rocks, that would have blood,
• Though they could get of him no other good.
• She saw him, and the sight was much-much more
• Than might have serv'd to kill her: should her store
• Of giant sorrows speak?—Burst,—die,—bleed,

  270

• And leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed.
• She fell on her love's bosom, hugged it fast,
• And with Leander's name she breathed her last.

• Neptune for pity in his arms did take them,
• Flung them into the air, and did awake them
• Like two sweet birds, surnam'd th' Acanthides,
• Which we call Thistle-warps, that near no seas
• Dare ever come, but still in couples fly,
• And feed on thistle-tops, to testify
• The hardness of their first life in their last;

  280

• The first, in thorns of love, that sorrows past:
• And so most beautiful their colours show,
• As none (so little) like them; her sad brow
• A sable velvet feather covers quite,
• Even like the forehead-cloth that, in the night,
• Or when they sorrow, ladies use to wear:
• Their wings, blue, red, and yellow, mixed appear:
• Colours that, as we construe colours, paint
• Their states to life;—the yellow shows their saint,
• The dainty Venus, left them; blue their truth;

  290

• The red and black, ensigns of death and ruth.
• And this true honour from their love-death sprung,—
• They were the first that ever poet sung.

OVID'S ELEGIES.

All the old editions of Marlowe's translation of the Amores are undated, and bear the imprint Middleburgh (in various spellings). It is probable that the copy which Mr. Charles Edmonds discovered at Lamport Hall, Northamptonshire (the seat of Sir Charles Isham, Bart.), is the earliest of extant editions. The title-page of this edition is—Epigrammes and Elegies. By I. D. and C. M. At Middleborugh 12mo. After the title-page come the Epigrammata, which are signed at the end “I. D.” (the initials of Sir John Davies). Following the Epigrammata is a copy of verses headed Ignoto, and then comes a second title-page—Certaine of Ovid's Elegies. By C. Marlowe. At Middleborough. In his preface to a facsimile reprint of the little volume, Mr. Edmonds states his conviction that this edition, not withstanding the imprint Middleborough, was issued at London from the press of W. Jaggard, who in 1599 printed the Passionate Pilgrime. He grounds his opinion not only on the character of the type and of the misprints, but on the fact that there would be no need for the book to be printed abroad in the first instance. It was not (he thinks) until after June 1599—when (with other books) it was condemned by Archbishop Whitgift to be burnt—that recourse was had to the expedient of reprinting it at Middleburgh. In the notes I refer to this edition as the Isham copy.

The next edition, which has the same title-pages as the Isham copy—Epigrammes and Elegies by I. D. and C. M. at Middleborugh, 12mo.—was certainly, to judge from its general appearance, printed abroad, and by foreigners. The text agrees in the main with that of the Isham copy, but the corruptions are more numerous. I have followed Dyce in referring to this edition as Ed. A.

The Isham copy and Ed. A contain only a portion of the Elegies. The complete translation appeared in All Ovid's Elegies: 3 Bookes. By C. M. Epigrams by I. D. At Middleborugh, 12mo. (Ed. B); and in another edition with the same title-page (Ed. C). The readings of Ed. C I have occasionally borrowed from Dyce. It is supposed that the book “continued to be printed with Middleburgh on the title, and without date, as late as 1640” (Hazlitt).

OVID'S ELEGIES

P. OVIDII NASONIS AMORUM.
liber secundus.

P. OVIDII MASONIS AMORUM.
liber tertius.

EPIGRAMS BY J[ohn] D[avies].

EPIGRAMS BY J[ohn] D[avies].

IGNOTO.

• Ilove thee not for sacred chastity,—
• Who loves for that?—nor for thy sprightly wit;
• I love thee not for thy sweet modesty,
• Which makes thee in perfection's throne to sit;
• I love thee not for thy enchanting eye,
• Thy beauty['s] ravishing perfection;
• I love thee not for unchaste luxury,
• Nor for thy body's fair proportion;
• I love thee not for that my soul doth dance
• And leap with pleasure, when those lips of thine
• Give musical and graceful utterance
• To some (by thee made happy) poet's line;
• I love thee not for voice or slender small:
• But wilt thou know wherefore? fair sweet, for all.

• Faith, wench, I cannot court thy sprightly eyes,
• With the base-viol plac'd between my thighs;
• I cannot lisp, nor to some fiddle sing,
• Nor run upon a high-stretch'd minikin;
• I cannot whine in puling elegies,
• Entombing Cupid with sad obsequies;
• I am not fashion'd for these amorous times,
• To court thy beauty with lascivious rhymes;
• I cannot dally, caper, dance, and sing,
• Oiling my saint with supple sonneting;
• I cannot cross my arms, or sigh “Ay me,
• Ay me, forlorn!” egregious foppery!
• I cannot buss thy fist, play with thy hair,
• Swearing by Jove, “thou art most debonair!”
• Not I, by cock! but shall [I] tell thee roundly?—
• Hark in thine ear,—zounds, I can () thee soundly.

• Sweet wench, I love thee: yet I will not sue,
• Or show my love as musky courtiers do;
• I'll not carouse a health to honour thee,
• In this same bezzling drunken courtesy,
• And, when all's quaff'd, eat up my bousing-glass
• In glory that I am thy servile ass;
• Nor will I wear a rotten Bourbon lock,
• As some sworn peasant to a female smock.
• Well-featur'd lass, thou know'st I love thee dear:
• Yet for thy sake I will not bore mine ear,
• To hang thy dirty silken shoe-tires there;
• Nor for thy love will I once gnash a brick,
• Or some pied colours in my bonnet stick:
• But, by the chaps of hell, to do thee good,
• I'll freely spend my thrice-decocted blood.

THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN.

Lucans First Booke Translated Line for Line, By Chr. Marlow. At London, Printed by P. Short, and are to be sold by Walter Burre at the Signe of the Flower de Luce in Paules Churchyard, 1600, 4to.

This is the only early edition. The title-page of the 1600 4to. of Hero and Leander has the words, “Whereunto is added the first booke of Lucan;” but the two pieces are not found in conjunction.

TO HIS KIND AND TRUE FRIEND, EDWARD BLUNT.

Blunt, I propose to be blunt with you, and, out of my dulness, to encounter you with a Dedication in memory of that pure elemental wit, Chr. Marlowe, whose ghost or genius is to be seen walk the Churchyard, in, at the least, three or four sheets. Methinks you should presently look wild now, and grow humorously frantic upon the taste of it. Well, lest you should, let me tell you, this spirit was sometime a familiar of your own, Lucan's First Book translated; which, in regard of your old right in it, I have raised in the circle of your patronage. But stay now, Edward: if I mistake not, you are to accommodate yourself with some few instructions, touching the property of a patron, that you are not yet possessed of; and to study them for your better grace, as our gallants do fashions. First, you must be proud, and think you have merit enough in you, though you are ne'er so empty; then, when I bring you the book, take physic, and keep state; assign me a time by your man to come again; and, afore the day, be sure to have changed your lodging; in the meantime sleep little, and sweat with the invention of some pitiful dry jest or two, which you may happen to utter with some little, or not at all, marking of your friends, when you have found a place for them to come in at; or, if by chance something has dropped from you worth the taking up, weary all that come to you with the often repetition of it; censure, scornfully enough, and somewhat like a traveller; commend nothing, lest you discredit your (that which you would seem to have) judgment. These things, if you can mould yourself to them, Ned, I make no question that they will not become you. One special virtue in our patrons of these days I have promised myself you shall fit excellently, which is, to give nothing; yes, thy love I will challenge as my peculiar object, both in this, and, I hope, many more succeeding offices. Farewell: I affect not the world should measure my thoughts to thee by a scale of this nature: leave to think good of me when I fall from thee.

Thine in all rights of perfect friendship,

THOMAS THORPE.

THE FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN.

• Wars worse than civil on Thessalian plains,
• And outrage strangling law, and people strong,
• We sing, whose conquering swords their own breasts lancht,
• Armies allied, the kingdom's league uprooted,
• Th' affrighted world's force bent on public spoil,
• Trumpets and drums, like deadly, threatening other,
• Eagles alike display'd, darts answering darts,
• Romans, what madness, what huge lust of war,
• Hath made barbarians drunk with Latin blood?
• Now Babylon, proud through our spoil, should stoop,

  10

• While slaughter'd Crassus' ghost walks unreveng'd,
• Will ye wage war, for which you shall not triumph?
• Ay me! O, what a world of land and sea
• Might they have won whom civil broils have slain!
• As far as Titan springs, where night dims heaven,
• Ay, to the torrid zone where mid-day burns,
• And where stiff winter, whom no spring resolves,
• Fetters the Euxine Sea with chains of ice;
• Scythia and wild Armenia had been yok'd,
• And they of Nilus' mouth, if there live any.

  20

• Rome, if thou take delight in impious war,
• First conquer all the earth, then turn thy force
• Against thyself: as yet thou wants not foes.
• That now the walls of houses half-reared totter,
• That, rampires fallen down, huge heaps of stone
• Lie in our towns, that houses are abandon'd,
• And few live that behold their ancient seats;
• Italy many years hath lien untill'd
• And chok'd with thorns; that greedy earth wants hinds,—
• Fierce Pyrrhus, neither thou nor Hannibal

  30

• Art cause; no foreign foe could so afflict us:
• These plagues arise from wreak of civil power.
• But if for Nero, then unborn, the Fates
• Would find no other means, and gods not slightly
• Purchase immortal thrones, nor Jove joy'd heaven
• Until the cruel giants' war was done;
• We plain not, heavens, but gladly bear these evils
• For Nero's sake: Pnarsalia groan with slaughter,
• And Carthage souls be glutted with our bloods!
• At Munda let the dreadful battles join;

  40

• Add, Cæsar, to these ills, Perusian famine,
• The Mutin toils, the fleet at Luca[s] sunk,
• And cruel field near burning Ætna fought!
• Yet Rome is much bound to these civil arms,
• Which made thee emperor. Thee (seeing thou, being old,
• Must shine a star) shall heaven (whom thou lovest)
• Receive with shouts; where thou wilt reign as king,
• Or mount the Sun's flame-bearing chariot,
• And with bright restless fire compass the earth,
• Undaunted though her former guide be chang'd;

  50

• Nature and every power shall give thee place,
• What god it please thee be, or where to sway.
• But neither choose the north t'erect thy seat,
• Nor yet the adverse reeking southern pole,
• Whence thou shouldst view thy Rome with squinting beams.
• If any one part of vast heaven thou swayest,
• The burden'd axes with thy force will bend:
• The midst is best; that place is pure and bright:
• There, Cæsar, mayst thou shine, and no cloud dim thee.
• Then men from war shall bide in league and ease,

  60

• Peace through the world from Janus' fane shall fly.
• And bolt the brazen gates with bars of iron.
• Thou, Cæsar, at this instant art my god;
• Thee if I invocate, I shall not need
• To crave Apollo's aid or Bacchus' help;
• Thy power inspires the Muse that sings this war.

• The causes first I purpose to unfold
• Of these garboils, whence springs a long discourse:
• And what made madding people shake off peace.
• The Fates are envious, high seats quickly perish,

  70

• Under great burdens falls are ever grievous;
• Rome was so great it could not bear itself.
• So when this world's compounded union breaks,
• Time ends, and to old Chaos all things turn,
• Confusèd stars shall meet, celestial fire
• Fleet on the floods, the earth shoulder the sea,
• Affording it no shore, and Phœbus wain
• Chase Phœbus, and enrag'd affect his place,
• And strive to shine by day and full of strife
• Dissolve the engines of the broken world.

  80

• All great things crush themselves; such end the gods
• Allot the height of honour; men so strong
• By land and sea, no foreign force could ruin.
• O Rome, thyself art cause of all these evils,
• Thyself thus shiver'd out to three men's shares!
• Dire league of partners in a kingdom last not.
• O faintly-join'd friends, with ambition blind,
• Why join you force to share the world betwixt you?
• While th' earth the sea, and air the earth sustains,
• While Titan strives against the world's swift course,

  90

• Or Cynthia, night's queen, waits upon the day,
• Shall never faith be found in fellow kings:
• Dominion cannot suffer partnership.
• This need[s] no foreign proof nor far-fet story:
• Rome's infant walls were steep'd in brother's blood,
• Nor then was land or sea, to breed such hate;
• A town with one poor church set them at odds.

• Cæsar's and Pompey's jarring love soon ended.
• 'Twas peace against their wills; betwixt them both
• Stepp'd Crassus in. Even as the slender isthmos,

  100

• Betwixt the Ægæan, and the Ionian sea,
• Keeps each from other, but being worn away,
• They both burst out, and each encounter other;
• So whenas Crassus' wretched death, who stay'd them,
• Had fill'd Assyrian Carra's walls with blood,
• His loss made way for Roman outrages.
• Parthians, y'afflict us more than ye suppose;
• Being conquer'd, we are plagu'd with civil war.
• Swords share our empire: Fortune, that made Rome
• Govern the earth, the sea, the world itself,

  110

• Would not admit two lords; for Julia,
• Snatch'd hence by cruel Fates. with ominous howls
• Bare down to hell her son, the pledge of peace,
• And all bands of that death-presaging alliànce.
• Julia, had heaven given thee longer life,
• Thou hadst restrain'd thy headstrong husband's rage,
• Yea, and thy father too, and, swords thrown down,
• Made all shake hands, as once the Sabines did:
• Thy death broke amity, and train'd to war
• These captains emulous of each other's glory.

  120

• Thou fear'd'st, great Pompey, that late deeds would dim
• Old triumphs, and that Cæsar's conquering France
• Would dash the wreath thou war'st for pirates' wreck:
• Thee war's use stirr'd, and thoughts that always scorn'd
• A second place. Pompey could bide no equal,
• Nor Cæsar no superior: which of both
• Had justest cause, unlawful 'tis to judge:
• Each side had great partakers; Cæsar's cause
• The gods abetted, Cato lik'd the other
• Both differ'd much. Pompey was struck in years,

  130

• And by long rest forgot to manage arms
• And, being popular, sought by liberal gifts
• To gain the light unstable commons' love,
• And joy'd to hear his theatre's applause:
• He lived secure, boasting his former deeds,
• And thought his name sufficient to uphold him:
• Like to a tall oak in a fruitful field,
• Bearing old spoils and conquerors' monuments,
• Who, though his root be weak, and his own weight
• Keep him within the ground, his arms all bare,

  140

• His body, not his boughs, send forth a shade;
• Though every blast it nod, and seem to fall,
• When all the woods about stand bolt upright,
• Yet he alone is held in reverence.
• Cæsar's renown for war was less; he restless,
• Shaming to strive but where he did subdue;
• When ire or hope provok'd, heady and bold;
• At all times charging home, and making havoc:
• Urging his fortune, trusting in the gods,
• Destroying what withstood his proud desires,

  150

• And glad when blood and ruin made him way:
• So thunder, which the wind tears from the clouds,
• With crack of riven air and hideous sound
• Filling the world, leaps out and throws forth fire,
• Affrights poor fearful men, and blasts their eyes
• With overthwarting flames, and raging shoots
• Alongst the air, and, not resisting it,
• Falls, and returns, and shivers where it lights.
• Such humours stirr'd them up; but this war's seed
• Was even the same that wrecks all great dominions.

  160

• When Fortune made us lords of all, wealth flow'd,
• And then we grew licentious and rude;
• The soldiers' prey and rapine brought in riot;
• Men took delight in jewels, houses, plate,
• And scorn'd old sparing diet, and ware robes
• Too light for women; Poverty, who hatch'd
• Rome's greatest wits, was loath'd, and all the world
• Ransack'd for gold, which breeds the world['s] decay:
• And then large limits had their butting lands;
• The ground, which Curius and Camillus till'd,

  170

• Was stretched unto the fields of hinds unknown.
• Again, this people could not brook calm peace;
• Them freedom without war might not suffice:
• Quarrels were rife; greedy desire, still poor,
• Did vild deeds; then 'twas worth the price of blood.
• And deem'd renown, to spoil their native town;
• Force mastered right, the strongest govern'd all;
• Hence came it that th' edicts were over-rul'd,
• That laws were broke, tribunes with consuls strove,
• Sale made of offices, and people's voices

  180

• Bought by themselves and sold, and every year
• Frauds and corruption in the Field of Mars;
• Hence interest and devouring usury sprang,
• Faith's breach, and hence came war, to most men welcome.
• Now Cæsar overpass'd the snowy Alps;
• His mind was troubled, and he aim'd at war:
• And coming to the ford of Rubicon,
• At night in dreadful vision fearful Rome
• Mourning appear'd, whose hoary hairs were torn,
• And on her turret-bearing head dispers'd,

  190

• And arms all naked; who, with broken sighs,
• And staring, thus bespoke: “What mean'st thou, Cæsar?
• Whither goes my standard? Romans if ye be,
• And bear true hearts, stay here!” This spectacle
• Struck Cæsar's heart with fear; his hair stood up,
• And faintness numb'd his steps there on the brink.
• He thus cried out: “Thou thunderer that guard'st
• Rome's mighty walls, built on Tarpeian rock!
• Ye gods of Phrygia and Iülus' line,
• Quirinus' rites, and Latian Jove advanc'd

  200

• On Alba hill! O vestal flames! O Rome,
• My thought's sole goddess, aid mine enterprise!
• I hate thee not, to thee my conquests stoop:
• Cæsar is thine, so please it thee, thy soldier.
• He, he afflicts Rome that made me Rome's foe.”
• This said, he, laying aside all lets of war,
• Approach'd the swelling stream with drum and ensign:
• Like to a lion of scorch'd desert Afric,
• Who, seeing hunters, pauseth till fell wrath
• And kingly rage increase, then, having whisk'd

  210

• His tail athwart his back, and crest heav'd up,
• With jaws wide-open ghastly roaring out,
• Albeit the Moor's light javelin or his spear
• Sticks in his side, yet runs upon the hunter.
• In summer-time the purple Rubicon,
• Which issues from a small spring, is but shallow,
• And creeps along the vales, dividing just
• The bounds of Italy from Cisalpine France.
• But now the winter's wrath, and watery moon
• Being three days old, enforc'd the flood to swell,

  220

• And frozen Alps thaw'd with resolving winds.
• The thunder-hoof'd horse, in a crookèd line,
• To scape the violence of the stream, first waded;
• Which being broke, the foot had easy passage.
• As soon as Cæsar got unto the bank
• And bounds of Italy, “Here, here,” saith he,
• “An end of peace; here end polluted laws!
• Hence leagues and covenants! Fortune, thee I follow!
• War and the Destinies shall try my cause.”
• This said, the restless general through the dark,

  230

• Swifter than bullets thrown from Spanish slings,
• Or darts which Parthians backward shoot, march'd on;
• And then, when Lucifer did shine alone,
• And some dim stars, he Ariminum enter'd.
• Day rose, and view'd these tumults of the war:
• Whether the gods or blustering south were cause
• I know not, but the cloudy air did frown.
• The soldiers having won the market-place,
• There spread the colours with confusèd noise
• Of trumpets' clang, shrill cornets, whistling fifes.

  240

• The people started; young men left their beds,
• And snatch'd arms near their household-gods hung up,
• Such as peace yields; worm-eaten leathern targets,
• Through which the wood peer'd, headless darts, old swords
• With ugly teeth of black rust foully scarr'd.
• But seeing white eagles, and Rome's flags well known,
• And lofty Cæsar in the thickest throng,
• They shook for fear, and cold benumb'd their limbs,
• And muttering much, thus to themselves complain'd
• “O walls unfortunate, too near to France!

  250

• Predestinate to ruin! all lands else
• Have stable peace: here war's rage first begins;
• We bide the first brunt. Safer might we dwell
• Under the frosty bear, or parching east,
• Waggons or tents, than in this frontier town.
• We first sustain'd the uproars of the Gauls
• And furious Cimbrians, and of Carthage Moors:
• As oft as Rome was sack'd, here gan the spoil.”
• Thus sighing whisper'd they, and none durst speak,
• And show their fear or grief; but as the fields

  260

• When birds are silent thorough winter's rage,
• Or sea far from the land, so all were whist.
• Now light had quite dissolv'd the misty night,
• And Cæsar's mind unsettled musing stood;
• But gods and fortune pricked him to this war,
• Infringing all excuse of modest shame,
• And labouring to approve his quarrel good.
• The angry senate, urging Gracchus' deeds,
• From doubtful Rome wrongly expell'd the tribunes
• That cross'd them: both which now approach'd the camp,

  270

• And with them Curio, sometime tribune too.
• One that was fee'd for Cæsar, and whose tongue
• Could tune the people to the nobles' mind.
• “Cæsar,” said he, “while eloquence prevail'd,
• And I might plead and draw the commons' minds
• To favour thee, against the senate's will,
• Five years I lengthen'd thy command in France;
• But law being put to silence by the wars,
• We, from her houses driven, most willingly
• Suffer'd exile: let thy sword bring us home,

  280

• Now, while their part is weak and fears, march hence:
• Where men are ready lingering ever hurts.
• In ten years wonn'st thou France: Rome may be won
• With far less toil, and yet the honour's more;
• Few battles fought with prosperous success
• May bring her down, and with her all the world.
• Nor shalt thou triumph when thou com'st to Rome,
• Nor Capitol be adorn'd with sacred bays;
• Envy denies all; with thy blood must thou
• Aby thy conquest past: the son decrees

  290

• To expel the father: share the world thou canst not;
• Enjoy it all thou mayst.” Thus Curio spake;
• And therewith Cæsar, prone enough to war,
• Was so incens'd as are Elean steeds
• With clamours, who, though lock'd and chain'd in stalls,
• Souse down the walls, and make a passage forth.
• Straight summon'd he his several companies
• Unto the standard: his grave look appeas'd
• The wrestling tumult, and right hand made silence;
• And thus he spake: “You that with me have borne

  300

• A thousand brunts, and tried me full ten years,
• See how they quit our bloodshed in the north,
• Our friends' death, and our wounds, our wintering
• Under the Alps! Rome rageth now in arms
• As if the Carthage Hannibal were near;
• Cornets of horse are muster'd for the field;
• Woods turn'd to ships; both land and sea against us.
• Had foreign wars ill-thriv'd, or wrathful France
• Pursu'd us hither, how were we bested,
• When, coming conqueror, Rome afflicts me thus?

  310

• Let come their leader whom long peace hath quail'd,
• Raw soldiers lately press'd, and troops of gowns,
• Babbling Marcellus, Cato whom fools reverence!
• Must Pompey's followers, with strangers' aid
• (Whom from his youth he brib'd), needs make him king?
• And shall he triumph long before his time,
• And, having once got head, still shall he reign?
• What should I talk of men's corn reap'd by force,
• And by him kept of purpose for a dearth?
• Who sees not war sit by the quivering judge,

  320

• And sentence given in rings of naked swords,
• And laws assail'd, and arm'd men in the senate?
• 'Twas his troop hemm'd in Milo being accus'd;
• And now, lest age might wane his state, he casts
• For civil war, wherein through use he's known
• To exceed his master, that arch-traitor Sylla.
• A[s] brood of barbarous tigers, having lapp'd
• The blood of many a herd, whilst with their dams
• They kennell'd in Hyrcania, evermore
• Will rage and prey; so, Pompey, thou, having lick'd

  330

• Warm gore from Sylla's sword, art yet athirst:
• Jaws flesh[ed] with blood continue murderous.
• Speak, when shall this thy long-usurped power end?
• What end of mischief? Sylla teaching thee,
• At last learn, wretch, to leave thy monarchy!
• What, now Sicilian pirates are suppress'd,
• And jaded king of Pontus poison'd slain,
• Must Pompey as his last foe plume on me,
• Because at his command I wound not up
• My conquering eagles? say I merit naught,

  340

• Yet, for long service done, reward these men,
• And so they triumph, be't with whom ye will.
• Whither now shall these old bloodless souls repair?
• What seats for their deserts? what store of ground
• For servitors to till? what colonies
• To rest their bones? say, Pompey, are these worse
• Than pirates of Sicilia? they had houses.
• Spread, spread these flags that ten years' space have conquer'd!
• Let's use our tried force: they that now thwart right,
• In wars will yield to wrong: the gods are with us;

  350

• Neither spoil nor kingdom seek we by these arms,
• But Rome, at thraldom's feet, to rid from tyrants.”
• This spoke, none answer'd, but a murmuring buzz
• Th' unstable people made: their household-gods
• And love to Rome (though slaughter steel'd their hearts,
• And minds were prone) restrain'd them; but war's love
• And Cæsar's awe dash'd all. Then Lælius
• The chief centurion, crown'd with oaken leaves
• For saving of a Roman citizen,
• Stepp'd forth, and cried: “Chief leader of Rome's force,
• So be I may be bold to speak a truth,

  361

• We grieve at this thy patience and delay.
• What, doubt'st thou us? even now when youthful blood
• Pricks forth our lively bodies, and strong arms
• Can mainly throw the dart. wilt thou endure
• These purple grooms, that senate's tyranny?
• Is conquest got by civil war so heinous?
• Well, lead us, then, to Syrtes' desert shore,
• Or Scythia, or hot Libya's thirsty sands.
• This band, that all behind us might be quail'd,

  370

• Hath with thee pass'd the swelling ocean,
• And swept the foaming breast of Arctic Rhene.
• Love over-rules my will; I must obey thee,
• Cæsar: he whom I hear thy trumpets charge,
• I hold no Roman; by these ten blest ensigns
• And all thy several triumphs, shouldst thou bid me
• Entomb my sword within my brother's bowels,
• Or father's throat, or women's groaning womb,
• This hand, albeit unwilling, should perform it;
• Or rob the gods, or sacred temples fire,

  380

• These troops should soon pull down the church of Jove;
• If to encamp on Tuscan Tiber's streams,
• I'll boldly quarter out the fields of Rome;
• What walls thou wilt be levell'd with the ground,
• These hands shall thrust the ram, and make them fly,
• Albeit the city thou wouldst have so raz'd
• Be Rome itself.” Here every band applauded,
• And, with their hands held up, all jointly cried
• They'll follow where he please. The shouts rent heaver,
• As when against pine-bearing Ossa's rocks

  390

• Beats Thracian Boreas, or when trees bow down
• And rustling swing up as the wind fets breath.
• When Cæsar saw his army prone to war,
• And Fates so bent, lest sloth and long delay
• Might cross him, he withdrew his troops from France,
• And in all quarters musters men for Rome.
• They by Lemannus' nook forsook their tents;
• They whom the Lingones foil'd with painted spears,
• Under the rocks by crookèd Vogesus;
• And many came from shallow Isara,

  400

• Who, running long, falls in a greater flood,
• And, ere he sees the sea, loseth his name;
• The yellow Ruthens left their garrisons;
• Mild Atax glad it bears not Roman boats,
• And frontier Varus that the camp is far,
• Sent aid; so did Alcides' port, whose seas
• Eat hollow rocks, and where the north-west wind
• Nor zephyr rules not, but the north alone
• Turmoils the coast, and enterance forbids;
• And others came from that uncertain shore

  410

• Which is nor sea nor land, but ofttimes both,
• And changeth as the ocean ebbs and flows;
• Whether the sea roll'd always from that point
• Whence the wind blows, still forcèd to and fro;
• Or that the wandering main follow the moon;
• Or flaming Titan, feeding on the deep,
• Pulls them aloft, and makes the surge kiss heaven,
• Philosophers, look you; for unto me,
• Thou cause, whate'er thou be, whom God assigns
• This great effect, art hid. They came that dwell

  420

• By Nemes' fields and banks of Satirus,
• Where Tarbell's winding shores embrace the sea;
• The Santons that rejoice in Cæsar's love;
• Those of Bituriges, and light Axon pikes;
• And they of Rhene and Leuca, cunning darters,
• And Sequana that well could manage steeds;
• The Belgians apt to govern British cars;
• Th' A[r]verni, too, which boldly feign themselves
• The Romans' brethren, sprung of Ilian race;
• The stubborn Nervians stain'd with Cotta's blood;

  430

• And Vangions who, like those of Sarmata,
• Wear open slops; and fierce Batavians,
• Whom trumpet's clang incites; and those that dwell
• By Cinga's stream, and where swift Rhodanus
• Drives Araris to sea; they near the hills,
• Under whose hoary rocks Gebenna hangs;
• And, Trevier, thou being glad that wars are past thee.
• And you, late-shorn Ligurians, who were wont
• In large-spread hair to exceed the rest of France;
• And where to Hesus and fell Mercury

  440

• They offer human flesh, and where Jove seems
• Bloody like Dian, whom the Scythians serve.
• And you, French Bardi, whose immortal pens
• Renown the valiant souls slain in your wars,
• Sit safe at home and chant sweet poesy.
• And, Druides, you now in peace renew
• Your barbarous customs and sinister rites:
• In unfell'd woods and sacred groves you dwell;
• And only gods and heavenly powers you know,
• Or only know you nothing; for you hold

  450

• That souls pass not to silent Erebus
• Or Pluto's bloodless kingdom, but elsewhere
• Resume a body; so (if truth you sing)
• Death brings long life. Doubtless these northern men.
• Whom death, the greatest of all fears, affright not,
• Are blest by such sweet error; this makes them
• Run on the sword's point, and desire to die,
• And shame to spare life which being lost is won.
• You likewise that repuls'd the Caÿc foe,
• March towards Rome; and you, fierce men of
• Rhene,

  460

• Leaving your country open to the spoil.
• These being come, their huge power made him bold
• To manage greater deeds; the bordering towns
• He garrison'd; and Italy he fill'd with soldiers.
• Vain fame increased true fear, and did invade
• The people's minds, and laid before their eyes
• Slaughter to come, and, swiftly bringing news
• Of present war, made many lies and tales:
• One swears his troops of daring horsemen fought
• Upon Mevania's plain, where bulls are graz'd;

  470

• Other that Cæsar's barbarous bands were spread
• Along Nar flood that into Tiber falls,
• And that his own ten ensigns and the rest
• March'd not entirely, and yet hide the ground;
• And that he's much chang'd, looking wild and big,
• And far more barbarous than the French, his vassals;
• And that he lags behind with them, of purpose,
• Borne 'twixt the Alps and Rhene, which he hath brought
• From out their northern parts, and that Rome,
• He looking on, by these men should be sack'd.

  480

• Thus in his fright did each man strengthen fame,
• And, without ground, fear'd what themselves had feign'd.
• Nor were the commons only struck to heart
• With this vain terror; but the court, the senate,
• The fathers selves leap'd from their seats, and, flying,
• Left hateful war decreed to both the consuls.
• Then, with their fear and danger all-distract,
• Their sway of flight carries the heady rout,
• That in chain'd troops break forth at every port:
• You would have thought their houses had been fir'd,

  490

• Or, dropping-ripe, ready to fall with ruin.
• So rush'd the inconsiderate multitude
• Thorough the city, hurried headlong on,
• As if the only hope that did remain
• To their afflictions were t' abandon Rome.
• Look how, when stormy Auster from the breach
• Of Libyan Syrtes rolls a monstrous wave,
• Which makes the main-sail fall with hideous sound,
• The pilot from the helm leaps in the sea,
• And mariners, albeit the keel be sound,

  500

• Shipwreck themselves; even so, the city left,
• All rise in arms; nor could the bed-rid parents
• Keep back their sons, or women's tears their husbands:
• They stayed not either to pray or sacrifice;
• Their household-gods restrain them not; none lingered,
• As loath to leave Rome whom they held so dear:
• Th' irrevocable people fly in troops.
• O gods, that easy grant men great estates,
• But hardly grace to keep them! Rome, that flows
• With citizens and captives, and would hold

  510

• The world, were it together, is by cowards
• Left as a prey, now Cæsar doth approach.
• When Romans are besieged by foreign foes,
• With slender trench they escape night-stratagems,
• And sudden rampire rais'd of turf snatched up,
• Would make them sleep securely in their tents.
• Thou, Rome, at name of war runn'st from thyself,
• And wilt not trust thy city-walls one night:
• Well might these fear, when Pompey feared and fled.
• Now evermore, lest some one hope might ease

  520

• The commons' jangling minds, apparent signs arose,
• Strange sights appeared; the angry threatening gods
• Filled both the earth and seas with prodigies.
• Great store of strange and unknown stars were seen
• Wandering about the north, and rings of fire
• Fly in the air, and dreadful bearded stars,
• And comets that presage the fall of kingdoms;
• The flattering sky glittered in often flames,
• And sundry fiery meteors blazed in heaven,
• Now spear-like long, now like a spreading torch;

  530

• Lightning in silence stole forth without clouds,
• And, from the northern climate snatching fire,
• Blasted the Capitol; the lesser stars,
• Which wont to run their course through empty night,
• At noon-day mustered; Phœbe, having filled
• Her meeting horns to match her brother's light,
• Struck with th' earth's sudden shadow, waxèd pale;
• Titan himself, throned in the midst of heaven,
• His burning chariot plunged in sable clouds,
• And whelmed the world in darkness, making men

  540

• Despair of day; as did Thyestes' town,
• Mycenæ, Phœbus flying through the east.
• Fierce Mulciber unbarrèd Ætna's gate,
• Which flamèd not on high, but headlong pitched
• Her burning head on bending Hespery.
• Coal-black Charybdis whirled a sea of blood.
• Fierce mastives howled. The vestal fires went out;
• The flame in Alba, consecrate to Jove,
• Parted in twain, and with a double point
• Rose, like the Theban brothers' funeral fire.

  550

• The earth went off her hinges; and the Alps
• Shook the old snow from off their trembling laps.
• The ocean swelled as high as Spanish Calpe
• Or Atlas' head. Their saints and household-gods
• Sweat tears, to show the travails of their city:
• Crowns fell from holy statues. Ominous birds
• Defiled the day; and wild beasts were seen,
• Leaving the woods, lodge in the streets of Rome.
• Cattle were seen that muttered human speech;
• Prodigious births with more and ugly joints

  560

• Than nature gives, whose sight appals the mother;
• And dismal prophecies were spread abroad:
• And they, whom fierce Bellona's fury moves
• To wound their arms, sing vengeance; Cybel's priests,
• Curling their bloody locks, howl dreadful things.
• Souls quiet and appeas'd sighed from their graves;
• Clashing of arms was heard; in untrod woods
• Shrill voices schright; and ghosts encounter men.
• Those that inhabited the suburb-fields
• Fled: foul Erinnys stalked about the walls,

  570

• Shaking her snaky hair and crookèd pine
• With flaming top; much like that hellish fiend
• Which made the stern Lycurgus wound his thigh,
• Or fierce Agave mad; or like Megæra
• That scar'd Alcides, when by Juno's task
• He had before look'd Pluto in the face.
• Trumpets were heard to sound; and with what noise
• An armèd battle joins, such and more strange
• Black night brought forth in secret. Sylla's ghost
• Was seen to walk, singing sad oracles;

  580

• And Marius' head above cold Tav'ron peering,
• His grave broke open, did affright the boors.
• To these ostents, as their old custom was,
• They called th' Etrurian augurs: amongst whom
• The gravest, Arruns, dwelt in forsaken Leuca
• Well-skill'd in pyromancy; one that knew
• The hearts of beasts, and flight of wandering fowls.
• First he commands such monsters Nature hatch'd
• Against her kind, the barren mule's loath'd issue,
• To be cut forth and cast in dismal fires;

  590

• Then, that the trembling citizens should walk
• About the city; then, the sacred priests
• That with divine lustration purg'd the walls,
• And went the round, in and without the town;
• Next, an inferior troop, in tuck'd-up vestures,
• After the Gabine manner; then, the nuns
• And their veil'd matron, who alone might view
• Minerva's statue; then, they that kept and read
• Sibylla's secret works, and wash their saint
• In Almo's flood; next learnèd augurs follow;

  600

• Apollo's soothsayers, and Jove's feasting priests;
• The skipping Salii with shields like wedges;
• And Flamens last, with net-work woollen veils.
• While these thus in and out had circled Rome,
• Look, what the lightning blasted, Arruns takes,
• And it inters with murmurs dolorous,
• And calls the place Bidental. On the altar
• He lays a ne'er-yok'd bull, and pours down wine,
• Then crams salt leaven on his crookèd knife:
• The beast long struggled, as being like to prove

  610

• An awkward sacrifice; but by the horns,
• The quick priest pulled him on his knees, and slew him.
• No vein sprung out, but from the yawning gash,
• Instead of red blood, wallow'd venomous gore.
• These direful signs made Arruns stand amazed,
• And searching farther for the gods' displeasure,
• The very colour scared him; a dead blackness
• Ran through the blood, that turned it all to jelly,
• And stained the bowels with dark loathsome spots;
• The liver swelled with filth; and every vein

  620

• Did threaten horror from the host of Cæsar;
• A small thin skin contained the vital parts;
• The heart stirred not; and from the gaping liver
• Squeezed matter through the caul; the entrails peered;
• And which (ay me!) ever pretendeth ill,
• At that bunch where the liver is, appear'd
• A knob of flesh, whereof one half did look
• Dead and discolour'd, th' other lean and thin.
• By these he seeing what mischiefs must ensue,
• Cried out, “O gods, I tremble to unfold

  630

• What you intend! great Jove is now displeas'd;
• And in the breast of this slain bull are crept
• Th' infernal powers. My fear transcends my words;
• Yet more will happen than I can unfold:
• Turn all to good, be augury vain, and Tages,
• Th' art's master, false!” Thus, in ambiguous terms
• Involving all, did Arruns darkly sing.
• But Figulus, more seen in heavenly mysteries,
• Whose like Ægyptian Memphis never had
• For skill in stars and tuneful planeting,

  640

• In this sort spake: “The world's swift course is lawless
• And casual; all the stars at random range;
• Or if fate rule them, Rome, thy citizens
• Are near some plague. What mischief shall ensue?
• Shall towns be swallow'd? shall the thicken'd air
• Become intemperate? shall the earth be barren?
• Shall water be congeal'd and turn'd to ice?
• O gods, what death prepare ye? with what plague
• Mean ye to rage? the death of many men
• Meets in one period. If cold noisome Saturn

  650

• Were now exalted, and with blue beams shin'd,
• Then Ganymede would renew Deucalion's flood,
• And in the fleeting sea the earth be drench'd.
• O Phœbus, shouldst thou with thy rays now singe
• The fell Nemæan beast, th' earth would be fir'd,
• And heaven tormented with thy chafing heat:
• But thy fires hurt not. Mars, 'tis thou inflam'st
• The threatening Scorpion with the burning tail,
• And fir'st his cleys: why art thou thus enrag'd?
• Kind Jupiter hath low declin'd himself;

  660

• Venus is faint; swift Hermes retrograde;
• Mars only rules the heaven. Why do the planets
• Alter their course, and vainly dim their virtue?
• Sword-girt Orion's side glisters too bright:
• War's rage draws near; and to the sword's strong hand
• Let all laws yield, sin bears the name of virtue:
• Many a year these furious broils let last:
• Why should we wish the gods should ever end them?
• War only gives us peace. O Rome, continue
• The course of mischief, and stretch out the date

  670

• Of slaughter! only civil broils make peace.”
• These sad presages were enough to scare
• The quivering Romans; but worse things affright them.
• As Mænas full of wine on Pindus raves,
• So runs a matron through th' amazèd streets,
• Disclosing Phœbus' fury in this sort;
• “Pæan, whither am I haled? where shall I fall,
• Thus borne aloft? I see Pangæus' hill
• With hoary top, and, under Hæmus' mount,
• Philippi plains. Phœbus, what rage is this?

  680

• Why grapples Rome, and makes war, having no foes?
• Whither turn I now? thou lead'st me toward th' east,
• Where Nile augmenteth the Pelusian sea:
• This headless trunk that lies on Nilus' sand
• I know. Now th[o]roughout the air I fly
• To doubtful Syrtes and dry Afric, where
• A Fury leads the Emathian bands. From thence
• To the pine-bearing hills; thence to the mounts
• Pyrene; and so back to Rome again.
• See, impious war defiles the senate-house!

  690

• New factions rise. Now through the world again
• I go. O Phœbus, show me Neptune's shore,
• And other regions! I have seen Philippi.”
• This said, being tir'd with fury, she sunk down.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE.

• Come live with me and be my love,
• And we will all the pleasures prove
• That hills and vallies, dales and fields,
• Woods or steepy mountain yields.

• And we will sit upon the rocks,
• Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
• By shallow rivers to whose falls
• Melodious birds sing madrigals.

• And I will make thee beds of roses
• And a thousand fragrant posies,
• A cup of flowers and a kirtle
• Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.

• A gown made of the finest wool
• Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
• Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,
• With buckles of the purest gold.

• A belt of straw and ivy-buds,
• With coral clasps and amber studs;
• An if these pleasures may thee move,
• Come live with me, and be my love.

• The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
• For thy delight each May-morning:
• If these delights thy mind may move,
• Then live with me, and be my love.

[In England's Helicon Marlowe's song is followed by the “Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd” and “Another of the same Nature made since.” Both are signed Ignoto, but the first of these pieces has been usually ascribed to Sir Walter Raleigh — on no very substantial grounds.]

• THE NYMPH'S REPLY TO THE SHEPHERD.
• If all the world and love were young,
• And truth in every Shepherd's tongue,
• These pretty pleasures might me move
• To live with thee, and be thy love.

• But Time drives flocks from field to fold,
• When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
• And Philomel becometh dumb,
• The rest complains of cares to come.

• The flowers do fade and wanton fields
• To wayward winter reckoning yields;
• A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
• Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

• Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
• Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
• Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten;
• In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

• Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
• Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
• All these to me no means can move
• To come to thee, and be thy love.

• But could youth last and love still breed,
• Had joys no date nor age no need,
• Then these delights my mind might move
• To live with thee, and be thy love.

• ANOTHER OF THE SAME NATURE MADE SINCE.
• Come live with me, and be my dear,
• And we will revel all the year,
• In plains and groves, on hills and dales,
• Where fragrant air breathes sweetest gales.

• There shall you have the beauteous pine,
• The cedar, and the spreading vine;
• And all the woods to be a screen,
• Lest Phœbus kiss my Summer's Queen.

• The seat for your disport shall be
• Over some river in a tree,
• Where silver sands and pebbles sing
• Eternal ditties to the spring.

• There shall you see the nymphs at play,
• And how the satyrs spend the day;
• The fishes gliding on the sands,
• Offering their bellies to your hands.

• The birds with heavenly tunèd throats
• Possess woods' echoes with sweet notes,
• Which to your senses will impart
• A music to enflame the heart.

• Upon the bare and leafless oak
• The ring-doves' wooings will provoke
• A colder blood than you possess
• To play with me and do no less.

• In bowers of laurel trimly dight
• We will out-wear the silent night,
• While Flora busy is to spread
• Her richest treasure on our bed.

• Ten thousand glow-worms shall attend,
• And all these sparkling lights shall spend
• All to adorn and beautify
• Your lodging with most majesty.

• Then in mine arms will I enclose
• Lilies' fair mixture with the rose,
• Whose nice perfection in love's play
• Shall tune me to the highest key.

• Thus as we pass the welcome night
• In sportful pleasures and delight,
• The nimble fairies on the grounds,
• Shall dance and sing melodious sounds.

• If these may serve for to entice
• Your presence to Love's Paradise,
• Then come with me, and be my dear,
• And we will then begin the year.

The following verses in imitation of Marlowe are by Donne:—

• THE BAIT.
• Come live with me, and be my love,
• And we will some new pleasure prove
• Of golden sands and christal brooks
• With silken lines and silver hooks.

• There will the river whispering run,
• Warm'd by thine eyes more than the sun;
• And there th' enamoured fish will stay
• Begging themselves they may betray.

• When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
• Each fish which every channel hath
• Will amorously to thee swim,
• Gladder to catch thee than thou him.

• If thou to be so seen beest loath
• By sun or moon, thou darkenest both;
• And if my self have leave to see,
• I heed not their light, having thee.

• Let others freeze with angling reeds
• And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
• Or treacherously poor fish beset
• With strangling snare or winding net.

• Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
• The bedded fish in banks outwrest,
• Or curious traitors, sleave-silk flies,
• Bewitch poor fishes' wandering eyes.

• For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
• For thou thyself art thine own bait:
• That fish that is not catched thereby,
• Alas, is wiser far than I.

Herrick has a pastoral invitation

• TO PHILLIS TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM.
• Live, live with me, and thou shalt see
• The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;
• What sweets the country can afford
• Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board.

• The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed
• With crawling woodbine overspread:
• By which the silver-shedding streams
• Shall gently melt thee into dreams.

• Thy clothing next shall be a gown
• Made of the fleeces' purest down.
• The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
• Their milk thy drink; and thou shall eat

• The paste of filberts for thy bread,
• With cream of cowslips buttered.
• Thy feasting-table shall be hills
• With daisies spread and daffodils;

• Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by
• For meat shall give thee melody.
• I'll give thee chains and carcanets
• Of primroses and violets.

• A bag and bottle thou shalt have,
• That richly wrought and this as brave,
• So that as either shall express
• The wearer's no mean shepherdess.

• At shearing-times and yearly wakes,
• When Themihs his pastime makes,
• There thou shalt be; and be the wit,
• Nay more, the feast and grace of it.

• On holidays when virgins meet
• To dance the hays with nimble feet,
• Thou shalt come forth and then appear
• The queen of roses for that year;

• And having danced ('bove all the best)
• Carry the garland from the rest.
• In wicker-baskets maids shall bring
• To thee, my dearest shepherdling,

• The blushing apple, bashful pear,
• And shame-faced plum all simp'ring there:
• Walk in the groves and thou shalt find
• The name of Phillis in the rind

• Of every straight and smooth-skin tree,
• Where kissing that I'll twice kiss thee.
• To thee a sheep-hook I will send
• Be-prankt with ribands to this end,

• This, this alluring hook might be
• Less for to catch a sheep than me.
• Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine,
• Not made of ale but spiced wine;

• To make thy maids and self free mirth,
• All sitting near the glittering hearth.
• Thou shalt have ribbands, roses, rings,
• Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes and strings

• Of winning colours that shall move
• Others to lust but me to love.
• These, nay, and more, thine own shall be
• If thou wilt love and live with me.

FRAGMENT.

• I walk'd along a stream, for pureness rare, Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint
• The dullest sight with all the glorious prey
• That in the pebble-pavèd channel lay.

• No molten crystal, but a richer mine, Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran there,—
• Diamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine, Through whose bright-gliding current might appear
• A thousand naked nymphs, whose ivory shine, Enamelling the banks, made them more dear
• Than ever was that glorious palace' gate
• Where the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.

• Upon this brim the eglantine and rose, The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree,
• As kind companions, in one union grows, Folding their twining arms, as oft we see

• Turtle-taught lovers either other close, Lending to dulness feeling sympathy;
• And as a costly valance o'er a bed, So did their garland-tops the brook o'erspread.

• Their leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show, Though all were green, yet difference such in green,
• Like to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow, Prided the running main, as it had been—

DIALOGUE IN VERSE.

JACK.

• Seest thou not yon farmer's son? He hath stoln my love from me, alas!
• What shall I do? I am undone; My heart will ne'er be as it was.
• O, but he gives her gay gold rings, And tufted gloves [for] holiday,
• And many other goodly things, That hath stolen my love away.

FRIEND.

• Let him give her gay gold rings Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay];

  10

• [F]or were her lovers lords or kings, They should not carry the wench away.

[jack.]

• But 'a dances wonders well, And with his dances stole her love from me:
• Yet she wont to say I bore the bell For dancing and for courtesy.

dick.

• Fie, lusty younker, what do you here, Not dancing on the green to-day?
• For Pierce, the farmer's son, I fear, Is like to carry your wench away.

  20

[jack.]

• Good Dick, bid them all come hither, And tell Pierce from me beside,
• That, if he thinks to have the wench, Here he stands shall lie with the bride.

dick.

• Fie, Nan, why use thy old lover so, For any other new-come guest?
• Thou long time his love did know; Why shouldst thou not use him best?

[nan.]

• Bonny Dick, I will not forsake My bonny Rowland for any gold:

  30

• If he can dance as well as Pierce, He shall have my heart in hold.

pierce.

• Why, then, my hearts, let's to this gear; And by dancing I may won
• My Nan, whose love I hold so dear As any realm under the sun.

gentleman.

• Then, gentles, ere I speed from hence I will be so bold to dance
• A turn or two without offence; For, as I was walking along by chance,

  40

  I was told you did agree.

[friend.]

• 'Tis true, good sir; and this is she Hopes your worship comes not to crave her;
• For she hath lovers two or three, And he that dances best must have her.

gentleman.

• How say you, sweet, will you dance with me?
• And you [shall] have both land and [hill];
• My love shall want nor gold nor fee.

[nan.]

• I thank you, sir, for your good will;
• But one of these my love must be:

  50

  I'm but a homely country maid,
• And far unfit for your degree; [To dance with you I am afraid.]

friend.

• Take her, good sir, by the hand, As she is fairest; were she fairer,
• By this dance, you shall understand, He that can win her is like to wear her.

fool.

• And saw you not [my] Nan to-day, My mother's maid have you not seen?
• My pretty Nan is gone away

  60

  To seek her love upon the green.
• [I cannot see her 'mong so many:]
• She shall have me, if she have any.

nan.

• Welcome, sweet-heart, and welcome here. Welcome, my [true] love, now to me.
• This is my love [and my darling dear], And that my husband [soon] must be.
• And, boy, when thou com'st home thou'lt see
• Thou art as welcome home as he.

gentleman.

• Why, how now, sweet Nan! I hope you jest.

  70

nan.

• No, by my troth, I love the fool the best:
• And, if you be jealous, God give you good-night!
• I fear you're a gelding, you caper so light.

gentleman.

• I thought she had jested and meant but a fable,
• But now do I see she hath play'[d] with his bable.
• I wish all my friends by me to take heed,
• That a fool come not near you when you mean to speed.

APPENDICES.

APPENDICES.