THE

RUINS OF TIME.

BY ED. SP.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT NOBLE AND BEAUTIFUL LADY,

THE LADY MARY,

COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT NOBLE AND BEAUTIFUL LADY,

THE LADY MARY,

COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE.

Most honourable and bountiful Lady, there be long since deep sowed in my breast the seeds of most entire love and humble affection unto that most brave knight, your noble brother* deceased; which, taking root, began in his lifetime somewhat to bud forth, and to shew themselves to him, as then in the weakness of their first spring; and would in their riper strength (had it pleased High God till then to draw out his days) spired forth+ fruit of more perfection. But since God hath disdeigned the world of that most noble spirit, which was the hope of all learned men, and the patron of my young Muses; together with him both their hope of any further fruit was cut off, and also the tender delight of those their first blossoms nipped and quite dead. Yet, since my late coming into England, some friends of mine, (which might much prevail with me, and indeed command me,) knowing with how strait bands of duty I was tied to him, as also bound unto that noble house, (of which the chief hope then rested in him,) have sought to revive them by upbraiding me, for that I have not shewed any thankful remembrance towards him or any of them; but suffer their names to sleep in silence and forgetfulness. Whom chiefly to satisfy, or else to avoid that foul blot of unthankfulness, I have conceived this small poem, intituled by a general name of The World's Ruins; yet specially intended to the renowning of that noble race, from which both you and he sprung, and to the eternising of some of the chief of them late deceased. The which I dedicate unto your Ladyship, as whom it most specially concerneth; and to whom I acknowledge myself bounden by many singular favours and great graces. I pray for your honourable happiness: and so humbly kiss your hands.

Your Ladyship's ever humbly at command,

* Sir Philip Sidney.

+ Produced.

E. S.

Counted unworthy.

SPENSER'S POETICAL WORKS.

THE

RUINS OF TIME.

Ir chanced me one day beside the shore
Of silver streaming Thamesis to be,

Nigh where the goodly Verlame* stood of yore,
Of which there now remains no memory,

Nor any little monument to see,

By which the traveller, that fares that way,
This once was she, may warned be to say.

There, on the other side, I did behold
A woman sitting sorrowfully wailing,
Rending her yellow locks, like wiry gold
About her shoulders carelessly down trailing,
And streams of tears from her fair eyes forth
railing: 1

In her right hand a broken rod she held,

Which towards heaven she seem'd on high to weld.

10

*Verlame:' Verolamium, or Verulam, was a Roman town, near St Albans, in Hertfordshire, some remains of which are still visible.

1 Rolling.

1 Burnt.

2 Since

Whether she were one of that river's nymphs,
Which did the loss of some dear love lament,
I doubt; or one of those three fatal Imps,
Which draw the days of men forth in extent;
Or th' ancient Genius of that city brent: 1
But, seeing her so piteously perplexed,

I (to her calling) ask'd what her so vexed.

Ah! what delight (quoth she) in earthly thing,
Or comfort can I, wretched creature, have?
Whose happiness the heavens envying,
From highest stair to lowest step me drave,
And have in mine own bowels made my grave,
That of all nations now I am forlorn,
The world's sad spectacle, and fortune's scorn.'

Much was I moved at her piteous plaint,
And felt my heart nigh riven in my breast
With tender ruth to see her sore constraint;
That, shedding tears a while, I still did rest,
And, after, did her name of her request.

Name have I none (quoth she) nor any being,
Bereft of both by Fate's unjust decreeing.

I was that city, which the garland wore
Of Britain's pride, delivered unto me
By Roman victors, which it won of yore;
Though nought at all but ruins now I be,
And lie in mine own ashes, as ye see:
Verlame I was; what boots it that I was,
Sith2 now I am but weeds and wasteful grass?

O vain world's glory, and unsteadfast state
Of all that lives on face of sinful earth!
Which, from their first until their utmost date,

Taste no one hour of happiness or mirth;
But like as at the ingate1 of their birth
They crying creep out of their mother's womb,
So wailing back go to their woful tomb.

'Why then doth flesh, a bubble-glass of breath,
Hunt after honour and advancement vain,
And rear a trophy for devouring death,
With so great labour and long-lasting pain,
As if his days for ever should remain?
Sith 2 all, that in this world is great or gay,
Doth as a vapour vanish, and decay.

'Look back, who list, unto the former ages,
And call to count, what is of them become:
Where be those learned wits and antique sages,
Which of all wisdom knew the perfect sum?
Where those great warriors, which did overcome
The world with conquest of their might and main,

3

And made one meer3 of th' earth and of their reign? Bound

'What now is of th' Assyrian lioness,

Of whom no footing now on earth appears?
What of the Persian bear's outrageousness,
Whose memory is quite worn out with years?
Who of the Grecian leopard now ought hears,
That over-ran the East with greedy power,
And left his whelps their kingdoms to devour?

'And where is that same great seven-headed Beast, That made all nations vassals of her pride,

To fall before her feet at her beheast,

And on the neck of all the world did ride?

70

Where doth she all that wondrous wealth now hide?

ary.