"And ye, poore pilgrims! that with restlesse toyle
Wearie your selves in wandring desart wayes,
Till that you come where ye your vowes assoyle,
When passing by ye reade these wofull layes, 536
On my grave written, rue my Daphnes wrong,
And mourne for me that languish out my dayes.
Cease, shepheard! cease, and end thy undersong.'-
Thus when he ended had his heavie plaint,
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheekes wext pale, and sprights began to fair.t,
As if againe he would have fallen to ground;
Which when I saw, I, stepping to him light,
Amooved him out of his stonie swound,
And gan him to recomfort as I might.
But he no waie recomforted would be,
Nor suffer solace to approach him nie,
But casting up a sdeinfull eie at me,
That in his traunce I would not let him lie,
Did rend his haire, and beat his blubbred face,
As one disposed wilfullie to die,
That I sore griev'd to see his wretched case.
Tho when the pang was somewhat overpast,
And the outragious passion nigh appeased,
I him desyrde sith daie was overcast,
And darke night fast approached, to be pleased
To turne aside unto my cabinet,
And staie with me, till he were better eased
Of that strong stownd which him so sore beset. 360
But by no meanes I could him win thereto,
Ne longer him intreate with me to staie,
But without taking leave he foorth did goe
With staggring pace and dismall looks dismay,
As if that death he in the face had seene,
Or hellish hags had met upon the way;
But what of him became I cannot weene.
UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE AND VALOROUS KNIGHT,
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
DEDICATED TO THE MOST BEAUTIFULL AND VERTUOUS LADIE,
So as he rag'd emongst that beastly rout,
A cruell beast of most accursed brood
Upon him turnd, (despeyre makes cowards stout,)
And, with fell tooth accustomed to blood,
Launched his thigh with so mischievous might,
That it both bone and muscles ryved quight.
So deadly was the dint and deep the wound,
And so huge streames of blood thereout did flow,
That he endured not the direfull stound,
But on the cold deare earth himselfe did throw;
The whiles the captive heard his nets did rend, 195
And, having none to let, to wood did wend.
Ah! where were ye this while his shepheard peares
To whom alive was nought so deare as hee:
And ye fayre mayds, the matches of his yeares,
Which in his grace did boast you most to bee! 13
Ah! where were ye, when be of you had need,
To stop his wound that wondrously did bleed!
Ah! wretched boy, the shape of dreryhead,
And sad ensample of mans suddein end:
Full litle faileth but thou shalt be dead,
Unpitied, unplaynd, of foe or friend!
Whilest none is nigh, thine eylids up to close,
And kisse thy lips like faded leaves of rose.
A sort of shepheards sewing of the chace,
As they the forest raunged on a day,
By fate or fortune came unto the place,
Where as the lucklesse boy yet bleeding lay;
Yet bleeding lay, and yet would still have bled,
Had not good hap those shepheards thether led.
They stopt his wound, (too late to stop it was!)
And in their armes then softly did him reare:
Tho (as he wild) unto his loved lasse,
His dearest love, him dolefully did beare.
The delefulst biere that ever man did see,
Was Astrophel, but dearest unto mee!
She, when she saw her love in such a plight,
With crudled blood and filthie gore deformed,
That wont to be with flowers and gyrlonds dight,
And her deare favours dearly well adorned;
Her face, the fairest face that eye mote see,
She likewise did deforme like him to bee.
That hearbe of some starlight is cald by name,
Of others Penthia, though not so well:
But thou, where ever thou doest finde the same, 195
From this day forth do call it Astrophel:
And, when so ever thou it up doest take,
Do pluck it softly for that shepheards sake.
Hereof when tydings far abroad did passe,
The shepheards all which loved him full deare, 200
And sure full deare of all he loved was,
Did thether flock to see what they did heare.
And when that pitteous spectacle they vewed,
The same with bitter teares they all bedewed.
THE DOLEFULL LAY OF CLORINDA,
These verses are supposed to have been written by Mary Countess of Pembroke, sister to Sir Philip Sidney.
Death, the devourer of all worlds delight,
Hath robbed you, and reft me fro my ioy:
Both and me,
and all the world he quight
you
Hath robd of ioyance, and left sad annoy.
Joy of the world, and shepheards pride was hee!
Shepheards, hope never like againe to see!
Oh Death! that hast us of such riches reft,
Tell us at least, what hast thou with it done?
What is become of him whose flowre here left
Is but the shadow of his likenesse gone?
Scarse like the shadow of that which he was,
Nought like, but that he like a shade did
The which I here in order will rehearse,
As fittest flowres to deck his mournfull hearse. 12
But that immortall spirit, which was deckt
With all the dowries of celestiall grace,
By soveraine choyce from th' hevenly quires select,
And lineally deriv'd from angels race,
O! what is now of it become aread.
Ay me, can so divine a thing be dead?
THE MOURNING MUSE OF THESTYLIS.
This and the succeeding Poem are supposed to have been written by Lodowick Bryskett.
Thy name, thy truth, then spare me (Lord) if thou think best;
Forbeare these unripe yeares. But if thy will be bent, If that prefixed time be come which thou hast set; Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be plast
In th' everlasting blis, which with thy precious blood Thou purchase didst for us." With that a sigh he set, And straight a cloudie mist his sences overcast; 72 His lips waxt pale and wan, like damaske roses bud Cast from the stalke, or like in field to purple flowre Which languisheth being shred by culter as it past. 75 A trembling chilly cold ran throgh their veines, which were
With eies brimfull of teares to see his fatall howre, Whose blustring sighes at first their sorrow did declare,
Next, murmuring ensude; at last they not forbeare
Plaine outcries, all against the heav'ns that enviously
Depriv'd us of a spright so perfect and so rare.
The sun his lightsom beames did shrowd, and hide
his face
Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteeme As tokens of mishap, and so have done of old.
Ah! that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella plaine
Her greevous losse, or seene her heavie mourning cheere,
While she, with woe opprest, her sorrowes did unfold. Her haire hung lose, neglect, about her shoulders twaine; 96
And from those two bright starres to him sometime so deere,
Her heart sent drops of pearle, which fell in foyson downe
Twixt lilly and the rose. She wroong her hands
And piteously gan say: "My true and faithfull pheere,
Alas, and woe is me, why should my fortune frowne
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