OL. Cornell University Library PR 2351.D64 1908a The complete poetical works of Edmund Sp 3 1924 013 124 254 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis bool< is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013124254 THE CAMBRIDGE POETS Student's Edition SPENSER EDITED BY R. E. NEIL DODGE — — — 1 Edited by BROWNING Horace E. Scudder MRS. BROWNING Harriet Waters Preston BURNS W. E. Henley BYRON Paul E. More DRYDEN George R. Noyes ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH ) POPULAR BALLADS J Helen Child Sargent George L. Kittredge HOLMES Horace E. Scudder KEATS Horace E. Scudder LONGFELLOW Horace E. Scudder LOWELL Horace E. Scudder MILTON William Vaughn Moody POPE Henry W. Boynton SCOTT Horace E. Scudder SHAKESPEARE W. A. Neilson SHELLEY George E. Woodberry SPENSER R. E. Neil Dodge TENNYSON William J. Rolfe WHITTIER Horace E. Scudder WORDSWORTH A. J. George In Preparation CHAUCER F. N. Robinson HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston New York Chicago San Francisco »ji^^'?i»«/^^€l^ THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF EDMUND SPENSER JjtuDent'jS CamBcitige oBliition HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO ts;i)e 3&iberei))e ^es6 Cambribge rD6f COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED A^y^^^/ CAMBRIDGE - MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. PREFACE The text of Spenser given in this volume is the result of a double collation. First, the copy to be sent to the printer was collated throughout with the original editions in the British Museum; then the proof-sheets of the greater part, as they came from the press, were collated with other copies of the same editions obtained in this country. The Faery Queen (except for a few pages), Complaints, Colin Clout 's Come Home Again, Astrophel, and the Four Hymns were thus collated a second time, and, in efEect, the Shepherd's Cal- endar, too, though, for that, recourse was had not to the original itself, but to the photo- graphic facsimile of Dr. Sommer. Daphnaida, the Amoretti and Epithalamion, the Pro- thalamion, the four Commendatory Sonnets, and the matter in the Appendix could not be collated twice, because copies of the original editions were not in this country accessible. For most of these separate volumes or single pieces there could be no dispute about the text to be adopted as standard, for they were published but once during the poet's life- time, and the collected folios of 1609 and 1611, issued ten years after his death, could pretend to no superior authoritativeness. For them the standard text was manifestly that of the first edition. Three, however, were published during his lifetime more than once: the Shepherd's Calendar in 1579, 1581, 1586, 1591, and 1597; Daphnaida in 1691 and 1596 ; the first three books of the Faery Queen in 1590 and 1596. Concerning these there might be doubt. As to the Shepherd's Calendar, whoever will study the long list of Vari- ants of all kinds in the successive editions of that volume will probably note (1) that the first edition contains several perfectly obvious misprints or blunders corrected in the later; (2) that of those changes in the later editions which are not the mere correction of obvious blunders in the first, a considerable proportion are changes which mar the style ; (3) that most others are changes which are neither for the better nor for the worse, which are mere changes; (4) that not more than one or two could fairly be called improvements. A poet, for instance, who has written ' Up, then, Melpomene ! thou mouinef ulst Muse of nyne I ' does not deliberately change thou to the ; and if a poet has written of Abel ' So lowted he unto his Lord, Such favour couth he fynd, That sitheus never was abhord The simple shepheards kynd,' he does not take the trouble to change sithens never to never sithens. When one notes, too, that these changes are mostly such as might result from careless reading of copy, and that those which cannot be misreadings merely reduce archaic irregularities to the level of academic evenness, one inclines to attribute them to the printer. When one notes, finally, that the first edition contains fewer obvious blunders and misprints than the later, these later will hardly seem more trustworthy. The same is true of Daphnaida : the two or three changes found in the second edition by no means bear the mark of authenticity. If, indeed,. we had any fair reason to suppose that Spenser, like Ronsard and Tasso, was given to the revision of his work, that after he had once completed a poem and seen it in print, he would study it anew with an eye to perfticting it in detail, we might give more credit to the variants of these later editions. Such revision as we know him to have VI PREFACE undertaken, however, was confined to bringing unpublished manuscript, as the phrase goes, ' up to date,' for printing. We have no reason to suppose that, if the printed poem were reissued, he at all concerned himself with revision of its text. For the Shepherd's Calendar and Daphnaida, therefore, the text adopted is in each case that of the first edition. For the first three books of the Faery Queen the problem is somewhat different. Since these were not an independent poem, but merely the first installment of his magnum opus, Spenser found occasion, when he republished them in 1596 along with the first issue of the second three books, to make certain changes. He altered the original conclusion of Book III, that it might lead up more directly to Book IV. Certain inconsistencies of detail having perhaps been pointed out to him, he got rid of them with as little effort as might suffice — somewhat clumsily. He rewrote a line or two which did not please him. In one place he inserted a new stanza. These changes, not more than a dozen or so in all, are unmistakably his work. Unfortunately, there are many others in this second edition which resemble only too closely the variants in later editions of the Shepherd's Calendar. They bear every mark, that is, of being mere blunders of the printer due to hasty read- ing of copy: they do not spoil the sense, but they are too trivial and purposeless to be ascribed to the poet himself; sometimes they spoil the poetry. Under tliese circum- stances the problem of the editor was not simple. He could not follow the first edition and ignore the authentic changes of the poet; nor did he wish to follow the second into all the changes that were mere printer's blunders; nor, of course, was there any certain test by which the changes of the poet might be distinguished from those of the printer. In the end, it seemed best to adopt the readings of the second edition as generally authori- tative, but occasionally to retain those of the first when they were beyond fair question more characteristic, when, that is, one could not believe that Spenser would deliberately change from the earlier to the later. It is not only in verbal readings, however, that the two editions differ; they differ also in spelling. The spelling of 1590 is somewhat like that of the Shepherd's Calendar^ markedly archaic; that of 1596 is like that of the second three books of the poem, pub- lished at the same time, very much more modern. The difference extends to the forms of words: hether usually becomes hither ; lenger, longer ; then, than, etc. Now, it may be that the poet, having adopted for his second three books more modern spelling, and, in some cases, more modern forms of words, authorized his printer to reprint the first books in that style. Nobody who knows his work will for one minute suppose that he went through the first books himself and made all the changes necessary, together with hun- dreds of others absolutely unnecessary — for a good quarter of the differences in spelling are altogether without significance. In any case, the first edition of these books is printed much more correctly than the second; it represents a definite stage in Spenser's spelling and use of archaic word-forms; and there appears to be no compelling reason why, when an editor adopts the changes in phrasing, not more than two or three to the canto, which appear in the later edition, he should also adopt extensive changes in spelling which are of altogether doubtful authenticity and which serve no other purpose than to give a kind of external uniformity of appearance to the first and the second three books. The spelling of 1590 has therefore been retained. The cantos on Mutability first appeared in the folio of 1609. In general, however, that and the folio of 1611 do no more than emend for the first time (without known authority) certain readings of the earlie.i' texts which are untenable. Some of these emen- dations have been adopted — for want I of better. Another set, adopted or suggested at PREFACE vii random by various modern editors, calls for particular notice. Here and there in the Faery Queen, in perhaps twenty cases, the system of the stanza is shattered by an impossible rhyme, by a rhyme-word which does not even make assonance with its fel- lows. In some instances the blunder is beyond all correction; in most the correction lies open to every eye. Play is set down where the rhyme calls for sport ; enclose where the rhyme calls for contain, spyde for saw, place for stead, etc. Some editors have treated these cases capriciously, now correcting, now leaving uncorrected; some have systemati- cally refrained from correction, on the ground that the carelessness was probably of the poet's own commission. And so it may have been: in copying his manuscript fair he may have set down one word for another of the same meaning, or if he worked his stanza out in his mind before committing it to paper, he may have blundered in the mere writing. To maintain, however, that when he set down play as a rhyme to sur>- port, resort, port, he did not really intend to set down sport, is to credit him with singular obtuseness, and to print play, when there is at least an even chance that the blunder was the printer's, is surely to push fidelity to one's text beyond the boimds of reason. In these cases, therefore, the word demanded by rhyme and declared by sense is in this edition unhesitatingly adopted. All such emendations, and others, are noted, of course, in the List of Rejected Readings. For the spelling, it is that of the original texts, but with three modifications: (1) the old use of capitals is made to conform to modern practice; (2) contractions are com- monly expanded (e. g. Lo. to Lord) ; and (3) in some few cases, when the old division of words might puzzle the reader, it is disregarded — e. g.for thy (therefore) is uniformly printed /orM?/. The punctuation is. modernized -;- with care not to falsify the sense. The Glossary was built up on the principle of recording all words and phrases whicli in modern poetry would be obsolete or markedly archaic. Later, some of this material was transferred to the Notes. The scheme of division is that all words obsolete in form will be found in the Glossary, and such words, modern in form but obsolete in sense, as are of frequent occurrence. ' Rarer examples of modern words in obsolete senses will be found in the Notes, with due machinery of cross references. It is hoped that without much difficulty the ' general reader ' may be able to acquaint himself with the exact meaning of any word or phrase which puzzles him. If he is annoyed by the inclusion of much that he could understand unaided, he is begged to remember that one purpose of Notes and Glossary is to furnish an approximately complete list of Spenser archaisms. The debt of the editor of any classic to his predecessors must necessarily be great. That of the present editor was too great to be acknowledged in detail. To indicate in the Notes and elsewhere the source of every explanation or idea would have been to load them with the names of most who have labored in this field: all that could be done was to mark direct quotations. For some of the matter here offered for the first time he is further- more indebted to various learned colleagues and friends, who helped him to what he could not find unaided; to others he owes much in the way of criticism and direct assist- ance. His thanks are particularly due to the Principal Librarian of the British Museum and to the Librarian of Harvard College for the use of those early editions of Spenser without which he could never have undertaken the most important part of his work. R. E. N. D. Madison, 'Wiscomsih, March 1, 1908. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH When we read, toward the close of Hesperides, ' A wearied pilgrrim, I have wandered here Twice fiye-and-twenty, bate me but one year,' we are sure that at the time of so writing Robert Herriek was forty-nine years old. If we could put equal trust in the similar record of sonnet LX of the Amoretli, we should know the exact year of the birth of Edmund Spenser, for beyond reasonable doubt that sonnet dates from the closing months of 1593. The record is, that ' since the winged god hia planet cleare Began in me to move, one yeare is spent : The which doth longer unto me appeare, Then al those fourty which my life outwent.' In prose: it is now a year since I fell in love; that twelvemonth seems longer to me than all the forty of my previous life. To deduct 41 from 1593 is to get 1552, which has accordingly found general acceptance as the poet's birth-year, and indeed is not in any respect improbable. One need only note that ' al those fourty ' is a phrase somewhat too conveniently round to inspire confidence, that it might serve equally well for thirty-nine or forty-one, and thereby spoil the foregoing calculation. The place of his birth is recorded in the classic passage of the Protlialamion : — ' At length they all to mery London came, To mery London, my most kyndly nurse, That to me gave this lifes first native sourse ; Though from another place I take my name, An house of auncient fame.' That is, though he was born, and presumably bred, in the capital, his paternal forbears were not Londoners. What was their native seat he nowhere tells us, but his most assidu- ous biographer, Dr. Grosart, has collected sufficient evidence to place them in eastern Lancashire, where, among many families of the name, were the Spensers of Hurstwood, lesser gentry of that region. These might well enough stand for the ' house of auncient fame.' It is litely, though, that this phrase includes a more distinguished family, the Spencers of Althorpe, with whom the poet frequently claims kinship. To the three daughters of that house are dedicated ' The Tears of the Muses,' ' Mother Hubberd's Tale,' and ' Muiopotmos,' and they are the ' Phyllis, Charillis, and sweet Amaryllis ' of Colin Clout 's Come Home Again, ' the sisters three, The honor of the nohle familie Of which I meanest boast my selfe to be, And most that unto them I am so nie.' In any case, it is obvious that Spenser held himself to be of gentle birth. He never felt the need of establishing his gentility after the manner of Shakespeare. That the name of his mother was Elizabeth i is all he tells us about either parent. We know, however, that hia father most probably belonged to the guild of the Merchant > See AmoreUi LXXIV, xii EDMUND SPENSER Tailors, and Dr. Grosart seeks to identify him with a John Spenser mentioned in the guild records, October, 1566, as ' a free journeyman ' in the ' arte or mysterie of eloth- makynge.' Whoever he may have been, the poet's father was not well-to-do, for as late as the early months of 1569, the name of his son is entered among the ' poore scholers m the ' schoUs about London ' who were presented with gowns from the estate of Robert No well; and in the accounts of the same fund, for the same year, is a second charitable item: '28 Aprill. To Edmond Spensore, scholler of the M'chante Tayler Schoole, at his gowinge to Penbrocke Hall in Chambridge, Xs.' At the university, too, in Novem- ber, 1570, and in April, 1571, we find the poet still receiving aid from this fund. Narrowness of means, however, did not harm the boy's education. The school of the Merchant Tailors, founded in 1560, was taught by Richard Mulcaster, and under his charge was becoming as good as any in London. Mulcaster, indeed, was in every way a remarkable teacher — a man of system, strict, even harsh, a believer in the educative powers of the rod, master, too, of wide and thorough learning. He certainly could train efficient scholars and men, and if he did not do well by Edmund Spenser, his pupil's later achievement does not declare the failure. It was while still under his training, that the youthful poet first appeared in print. The verse translations in Van der Noot's Theatre ' cannot claim the dignity of an independent volume of juvenilia; they were quite possibly paid for at the classic rate of a penny a line ; they cannot be said to bear witness to even the most ordinary knowledge of French; yet they do make evident that the boy's school- ing, formal or informal, had brought him a very pretty command of his mother tongue and the faculty of turning out good verse to order. On May 20, 1569, a short while before the Theatre was put on the market, Spenser matriculated at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, as a sizar. There he remained for seven years. In Janiiary, 1573, he proceeded B. A., in June, 1576, he commenced M. A.; then, whether that a fellowship was denied him, or that he did not care for one, he left the university for good. His life there cannot have been always pleasant. As a sizar, or ' poor scholar,' his circumstances, if not painfully narrow, were at any rate far from easy. His health, too, was apparently uncertain, for at intervals we find his name on the sick list, once for seven weeks. On one occasion he seems to have been in trouble with the authorities for neglect of curriculum work or other such offence. That, in his own way, he nevertheless studied and read effectively is obvious from the varied learning which he later made manifest. It was at Cambridge that Spenser first met Gabriel Harvey, the Hobbinol of his pas- toral verse. Harvey was older than he by at least a year or two and much his senior in academic rank, for he came to Pembroke as fellow in November, 1570, when Spenser was still very far from his B. A. How early they became friends we cannot tell; it is sufficiently curious that they ever became friends at all. For Harvey was one of those exorbitantly superior people who make enemies right and left without knowing why, and, in spite of all that can be said for him, a 'ferocious pedant;' about the last man, one would think, to win the regard of Spenser. Yet he seems to have been kindly enough at bottom, and perhaps his serene self-conceit was offensive chiefly to the commonplace. As for his pedantry (which is nowadays being denied), one must bear in mind Spenser's own predilection for learning, which in those early years, before his genius had humanized hb knowledge, may well have been somewhat undiscriminating. The course of their friendship was long. For a period, while Spenser was feeling his way to full self-pos- session, Harvey played the part of counsellor and guide, a part which found half-jesting, 1 See Appendix I. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xiii half-serious acceptance. Then, at about the time when their fundamental differences were becoming too seriously apparent, Spenser went to Ireland, and thereafter there could be no occasion for breach. From Harvey's letters of 1573 we learn of a singular war at Pembroke. It was brought on, to his own wondering dismay, by Harvey himself, who, in the normal and uncon- scious exercise of his self-conceit, had contrived to exasperate some of his colleagues be- yond all measure. When the time came for him to commence M. A., these men suddenly broke out, and for three months succeeded in blocking his path; then, having been dis- comfited, avenged themselves by shabby persecution. Nor did their enmity subside, for when, in 1578, bis tenure of the fellowship expired, not even the influence of Leicester could secure its extension for a year. Such open animosities as these can hardly have failed to involve or affect Spenser. They and liis supposed conflict with the authorities may serve to explain why, instead of taking a fellowship, the natural goal of such a career as his, he left the university on obtaining his second degree. In any case, it was apparently not to a regular occupation that he retired, but to a sojourn of several months among his kinsfolk of eastern Lancashire. In that out-of-the- way and unpromising corner of the country there could of course be no settled career for a man of his gifts ; there could at best be leisure for infinite verse-making, and, as auxil- iary interest, leisure to fall in love. He seems to have found both. Who Rosalind was and what befell him at her hands are topics that belong rather to the history of the Shepherd's Calendar than to the concrete life of the poet : at all events, she furnished him matter for verses a plenty. In the end, ' for speciall occasion of private affayres,' says E. K. in the gloss to ' June,' ' and for his more preferment, removing out of the North- parts, [he] came into the South, as HobbinoU indeede advised him privately.' Hobbinol, that is Harvey, might well think it time that his friend should begin life in earnest. To do that it was not sufficient that he should compose poems and put them on the market. In those days the reading public was almost ludicrously small; even pamphlet- eering and playwriting were not yet recognized occupations, and pure poetry, however popular, would not keep a man in bread. All the poets of that day were first men of another calling, then poets. For any impecunious young bard who could claim gentility and whose tastes were aristocratic, the natural course was to attach himself to the ser- vice of some nobleman, and to use his poetry, as best he might, for the furthering of his personal claims. To barter it for money was moreover in some degree to discredit his gentility. When, therefore, Spenser came south again, perhaps in 1577, it was to obtain prefer- ment with the great. We have evidence, not altogether conclusive, that in that year he was with Sir Henry Sidney in Ireland, acting as one of his secretaries; in any case, by 1578 we get a glimpse of him as secretary to Bishop Young of Rochester (the Roffynn of the September eclogue), who, as Master of Pembroke, had known him from the outset of his imiversity days. Then, in the autumn of 1579, when the first of his extant letters is sent to Cambridge, we find him ' in some use of familiarity ' with ' the twoo worthy gentlemen,' Philip Sidney and Edward Dyer, admitted to audience with the Queen, and employed as confidential emissary by the Earl of Leicester. There is reference in that letter to a coming mission to France; he is on the point of setting out; and in the Epistle of E. K., prefixed to the Shepherd's Calendar and dated in the preceding April, he is said to be 'for long time furre estraunged,' that is, far away from home, or out of the country, and not soon to return. It is evident that he was cultivating aristocratic con- nections to some purpose. EDMUND SPENSER He was also cultivating the Muse, and with assiduity. These years are the period of his most multifarious poetizing. They are marked not only by tlie publication of the Shepherd's Calendar, but by the beginnings of the Faery Queen, by the first two Hymns, by 'Virgil's Gnat,' < Mother Hubberd's Tale,' and the ' Tears of the Muses ' (all five not to be published till long years later), and by a notable array of ' lost works,' recorded here and there in the Harvey letters, in the commentary of E. K., and in Ponsonby's pre- face to Complaints. Many of these last, indeed, presumably belong to other periods or his life, but a number may fairly be set down to the years from 1577 to 1580. Some may possibly have survived under the disguise of other titles; one, at least, the Pageants, of which E. K. quotes a line,' would seem to have been used for the building up of the Faery Queen J' Another, Dreams (of which My Slumber * may be no more than an earlier title), is mentioned in the postscript of the second letter to Harvey as equipped with commen- tary and illustrations, all ready for the press. Then there are Legends and the Court of Cupid,* the latter title suggestive of a well-known episode in the Faery Queen,^ and the Dying Pelican.' A Sennight's Slumber, The Hell of Lovers, and Purgatory, mentioned by Ponsonby,' would seem, by evident subject matter, to belong also to this early period ; the others on Ponsonby's list, except the Dying Pelican, already noted, may be later. Harvey has not a little to say ' about nine comedies named after the Muses, which he likens, some- what ambiguously, to those of Ariosto. Finally, there are Stemmata Dudleiana," which may have been utilized in 1590 for the ' Ruins of Time,' tho)ighitwas probably composed in neo-classical metre ; Epithalamion Thamesis,^" also in that metre, a work projected, but probably cut ofE by the departure, within a brief space, for Ireland ; and a treatise entitled The English Poet,^^ which, together with the nine comedies, may be regarded as the most serious loss of all. Even if we attribute most of these works to an earlier period, it is evident that, once embarked upon his career in London, Spenser plied his various facilities with keen enthusiasm. That with so much poetry on hand he should have given so little to the press, was due apparently to discretion. In the circle to which he was now beginning to be ad- mitted on terms of some familiarity, publication in print would probably be regarded as not quite ' the thing,' if it were made the deliberate means of earning money. A pas- sage in the first letter to Harvey '^ is suggestive. The poet hesitates to publish his Cal- endar because, among other considerations, ' I was minded for a while to have intermitted the uttering [i. e. giving out] of my writings; leaste, by over-much cloying their [his patrons'] noble eares, I should gather a contempt of my self, or else seeme rather for gaine and commoditie to doe it, for some sweetnesse that I have already tasted.' The ' uttering ' referred to is probably not by means of the press, but by more or less public presentation to the patron; yet if such could by too great frequency win a poor gentle- man contempt, much more would the other. Except, then, for the Calendar, Sjwnser contented himself with seeing his poems circulate in manuscript among the literary coteries at court; even Dreams, reported as ready for the press, was apparently, in the end, withheld. The letters to and from Harvey, which tell us so much about Spenser's literary activi- ties, tell us also of a certain club, founded, it would appear, by Philip Sidney and Edward Dyer, and named the Areopagus. Just what it stood for is not altogether clear; perhaps > See p. 31, 1. 77. > Bk. II, c.'iii, st. 22-31, especially Bt. 25, 1. 1. » See p. 769, 1. 76. ' See p. 7, 1. 263. ■> Bk. VI, o. fiii, st. 19 ff. « See p. 772, 1. 99. ' See p. 57. ' See p. 773. " See p. 773, 1. 127. »» See p. 772, 1. 77 £E. » See p. 44. 12 gee p. 768, 1. 16 £E. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xv its founders, inspired by the recent work of the Pl^iade in France, aimed at a general reformation of English poetry, then, beyond doubt, in very debatable plight. If so, they soon became involved, to the exclusion of almost all other topics, Lq the problem of prosody. England had produced but one really eminent poet, Chaucer, and his metres could no longer be perfectly understood; the great bulk of contemporary verse was metrically thin or slipshod. Might it not be true, then, as Koger Ascham had maintained in his School- master a few years before, that English poetry could never hope to rival that of Greece and Home till it had discarded barbarous rhyme and equipped itself with genuine quanti- tative measures ? These young men were poets, but they had not yet found themselves in poetry. They were also good scholars. To them, therefore, the doctrine of Ascliam seemed worth putting to the proof. What should determine English quantities, whether, as Archdeacon Draut maintained, the law of Rome, or, as Harvey would have it, the natural accent of words, was matter for excellent debate. In the mean time experiment in various metres went on apace, the results of which now chiefly survive in the pages of Sidney's Arcadia. {"■What may have been the membership of the Areopagus we have now small means of etermuiing. Fulke Greville was probably of the number, and almost all accounts of the club reckon in Spenser, too, perhaps with reason. He was certainly much interested in the proceedings, avowed himself a convert to its main doctrine, composed and projected works in the new style, and discussed quantitative standards with Harvey — all as if he were considerably more than half in earnest. Yet when he refers to this foundation of Sidney and Dyer he speaks of it as ' their ' club; ' and though he writes that they have ' drawen mee to their faction,' ^ he apparently means no more than that they have con- verted him to their views; and the total impression left by the letters is that he was an interested outsider, admitted to a kind of indirect participation in the debates, by favor of the two leaders. They had him, he says, ' in some use of familiarity.' Perhaps, however, in the interval between the first of these epistles and his departure for Ire- land, he may have been received into formal membership. It may be, too, that in the same period his relations with Sidney became more intimate, though to speak, as some biographers do, of ' friendship ' (in the sense in which Fulke Greville styled himself ' the friend of Sir Philip Sidney ') is surely to exaggerate. Sidney was his especial patron in letters, had possibly been the means of his finding employment with Leicester; but if there had been any substantial friendship between them, Spenser would hardly have waited till 1590 to commemorate that chivalric death which in 1586 so stirred all England. At the time of his second letter to Harvey, Spenser might seem, to all appearances, in very prosperous trim. The Shepherd's Calendar, recently given out, had been accorded a veritable triumph, and had moreover brought him in enough money to make Harvey almost jealous. He was under the direct patronage of Sidney, in confidential employ- ment by the powerful Earl of Leicester, on good terms at the court, and able, if we are to trust the gallant messages of Harvey, to live only too agreeably in private. Yet in the later passages of the letters there are signs of disquietude, if not disappointment. His project for an Bpithalamion I'hamesis in neo-olassio measures, ' a worke, beleeve me, of much labour,' ends ' O Tite, siquid ego, Ecquid erit pretij ? ' which might be taken for motto to the melancholy October eclogue of the Calendar ; and in Harvey's reply the note is unmistakable: 'I have little joy to animate and encourage » See p. 709, 1, 61. a See p. 769, 1. 67. XVI EDMUND SPENSER . . . yon ... to goe forward, uulesse ye might make account of some certaine ordi- narie wages, or at the leastwise have your meate and drinke for your dayes workes.' ' Certaine ordiuarie wages ' were just what Spenser lacked. His verse had brought him reputation and some money; but he could not expect to live by it, and it was apparently not helping him to preferment in active service, to a really settled career. Work as con- fidential emissary for Leicester might be very pleasant, but it was precarious, and unless the earl secured for him some regular office, his future would be very doubtful. When next we hear of him, accordingly, he has left England, as secretary to Arthur Lord Grey of Wilton, the Queen's new Deputy to Ireland. Thenceforth his life is one of virtual exile. It was on August 12, 1580, that Grey, with his numerous viceregal suite, landed at Dub- lin. The sword of state was in the south, with his predecessor Pelham, who was ravag- ing Munster in hopes of starving out the great Desmond rebellion; and till Pelham's return there could be no formal investiture. But between them lay the rebel Baltinglas, newly revolted, and Grey was not the man to wait upon a ceremony, when he had the power to act. By virtue of his patent, he at once assumed control, and gathering such forces as were at hand, marched into Wioklaw. There in the savage valley of Glenda- lough, or Glenmalure, he came upon the rebel forces. Against the advice of his oldest captains, he rashly attacked in front. His men, partly raw recruits, were disconcerted by the roughness of the ground and the fire of hidden enemies; in the end, ' through God's appointment,' they were completely routed. The loss of life was not great, but several dis- tinguished officers fell, shot down in the action or captured and killed in cold blood. Re- turning to Dublin, he had barely time to be formally installed in office, when news arrived that a body of Spaniards had landed on the coast of Kerry, for the support of the Des- mond rebels. Here was a danger far more serious than any temporary check by the Irish. In slow and painful marches, impeded by the autumn floods, he made his way across the island toward the southwest, to find, upon arrival, that the foreigners were blockaded by an English fleet in a little fort on the shores of Smerwick Bay, the so-called Fort del Oro. The sequel was short and stern. Two days of regular siege and bombard- ment reduced the garrison to extremities. They surrendered at discretion. Their lead- ers came out and were held for ransom; the remainder, some six hundred in all, mostly Italians (for the expedition had been set afoot by the Pope), were simply massacred. A number of non-combatants, including women, were hanged. Three special victims, a renegade Englishman, an Irishman of some note, and a Catholic friar, before hanging had their arms and legs broken. From the accoimt which Spenser gives of this affair in his treatise on Ireland, it has been inferred that he was present in person. Since he was not the official secretary, who might be expected to remain chiefly at the capital, but secretary by private appoint- ment, he would be likely enough to follow his patron about. If he did, he must have seen rapid and rough service in most quarters of the island, for Grey went to and fro like a shuttle. The hanging of rebels, the pressing of men to death, the cutting ofE of the ears of rascally purveyors, the burning of crops in Munster, and the horrible desola- tion of that region, where those who had escaped the sword were barely able to drag themselves about, for famine, — sights like these must have become as familiar to the poet as the dense forest valleys, the bogs, and the innumerable streams of his new home. His picture of the famine in the south is evidently that of an eyewitness: 'Out of every corner of the woodes and glinnes they came creeping foorthe upon theyr handes, for theyr legges could not beare them; they looked like anatomyes of death; they spake like ghostes crying out of theyr graves; they did eate of the dead carrions; happy were they yf they BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii could iiude them; yea, and one another soone after, insoemuch as the very carcasses they spared not to scrape out of theyr graves ; and yf they f ounde a plotte of water-cresses or sham-rokes, there they flocked as to a feast for the time, yet not able long to continue therewithall; that in shorte space there were none allmost left, and a most populous and plentiful! countrey suddaynly made voyde of man or beast.' At the capital itself he might witness conditions not altogether different, for there the streets were full of Irish ' poor souls,' so famiished that once, when a horse was burned in its stable, a crowd of them set upon the half-roasted carcass and devoured it whole. Barnaby Googe, the eclogue writer, who reports this scene in August, 1582, remarks that Dublin is so changed for the worse (since 1574) that he hardly knows it. This general misery Spenser saw only through the eyes of Grey, whose policy was that there could be no talk of building up ' before force have planed the ground for the foun- dation.' Years later, when he came to elaborate a scheme of his own for the reformation of the island, he could conceive of no other beginning than the absolute and final putting down of rebellion by the sword and by famine. That done, there would be opportunity to reform with some effect, upon a settled and orderly plan. What the Irish thought of Grey there can be no need to ask. Burghley and the Queen called his severity mere vio- lence and his rule ' a gulf of consuming treasure,' — ignorant that, in their day, the gulf was not to be closed, though they sent into it Curtius after Curtius. To the poet, this ' bloudy man ' was one ' whom, who that well knewe, kuewe him to be most gentell, affable, loving, and temperate, but that the neeessitye of that present state of thinges enforced him to that violence, and allmost chaunged his very naturall disposition.' The stern Puritan Deputy, who could not away with the Queen's desire to be lenient in mat- ters of religion, he transfigured, years later, into Arthegall, the champion of Justice, the real, though not the titular, hero of the Faery Queen. When Grey left Ireland in August, 1582, Spenser remained behind. His service liad brought him various grants of lands and houses forfeited by rebels, and he had been ap- pointed, in March, 1581, Registrar or Clerk of the Faculties in the Court of Chancery, a position of honor and profit. In Ireland he might now look to a career: if he returned to England, he could have no serious prospects at all. Much, therefore, as he must have regretted his exile, he found resolution to bear with it for at least some years longer. How he might fare for intellectual companionship may be guessed from the account of the gathering at Lodowick Bryskett's cottage near Dublin, (probably of this same year,) quoted at length in allthe longer biographies. There we see a party of English officers and civilians, among them the poet himself, listening to a three-day discourse on moral philosophy and discussing the same with the zest of amateurs temporarily unoccupied. They are all very respectful to Spenser, who is recognized as a professional. He, one suspects, must have been thinking the while of his former intercourse with Sidney and Dyer. He was, of course, not the only man of letters at the Irish capital, but in that raw and provincial atmosphere he must often have felt himself very much alone. Luckilj"^, he could have the new books sent over to him from London without great difficulty. Spenser was not dependent altogether upon the proceeds of his office: grants had been made him, as aforesaid, from time to time, out of various forfeited estates of rebels, which he must have had opportunity enough to profit by. Finally, in June, 1586, his name appears among those of the English ' undertakers ' who were to colonize the attainted Desmond lands in Munster. Just two years from then, in June, 1588, he resigned his Dublin clerkship, which he had originally obtained by ' purchase ' from his friend Lodo- wick Bryskett, and obtained, again by ' purchase ' from the same friend, the office of xviii EDMUND SPENSER Clerk of the Council of Munster. It is perhaps from this time that he began to reside regularly upon his new estate, at the castle of Kilcolman. It was a ' seignory ' of a little over three thousand acres. To the north stood the western end of the Ballahoura hills, the ' Old Father Mole ' of his verse, from which the river Awbeg, his ' Mulla,' flowed in a great half-circle to the west and south. To the east another stream, the Bregog, ran down from the same hills, to meet the Awbeg, their muted waters then flowing off southeast for a few miles to the great river of the district, the Blackwater. Toward the centre of this rough circle of hills and streams stood the castle, on a rise of ground. Thirty miles to the southeast, near Youghal, lay the twelve- thousand-acre seignory of Sir Walter Raleigh, also an undertaker, and beyond him the eleven thousand acres allotted to Sir Christopher Hatton. Twenty-five miles to the south lay the city of Cork, the fairest of those parts; to the north, at an equal distance, the city of Limerick, the capital of the Munster presidency and therefore the place of his official duties as Clerk of the Council. To the west and northeast lay wilder country. These seignories were held upon a rental proportioned to their size, and upon con- dition that the land be colonized by English households, also in proportion. Great pains were taken that the ' mere Irish ' should not find means to get a fresh foothold. The undertakers were to furnish their quota of armed men to the regular forces, but, in the early years, if need be, they were also to be protected by garrisons. They were to pay no taxes for a time, and were to be allowed, for a time, the free importation of goods from England. Some, of course, like Hatton and Raleigh, were absentees, but the great majority were supposed to be in residence, and perhaps did mainly reside. The situation of the latter was not altogether pleasant. About them on every side were native gentry who, having come through the storm of the late rebellion without attainder, were disposed to defend as they best might what little power was left them. These men saw land to which they had claims, real or imaginary, absorbed into this seignory or that, and when they protested, were asked by the commissioners for their title deeds, or other proof of ownership, as little to be expected in that country as Irish glibs in England. Hence hard words, jealousies, and fears on both sides. The special antagonist of Spenser was Lord Roche. They were at law more than once. Roche accused the poet of trying to steal land from him by false representations of title, of occupying the said land, of threatening his tenants and taking away their cattle, and of beatmg the servants and bailifEs who resisted. On his side, the poet filed countercharges: they are interesting. 'He [Roche] relieved one Kedagh O'Kelley, his foster brother, a proclaimed traitor; has imprisoned men of Mr. Verdons, Mr. Edmund Spenser, and others. He speaks ill of Her Majesty's government and hath uttered words of contempt of Her Majesty's laws, calling them unjust. He killed a fat beef of Teig O'Lyne's, be- cause Mr. Spenser lay in his house one night as he came from the sessions at Limerick. He also killed a beef of his smith's for mending Mr. Piers' plough iron. He has forbid- den his people to have any trade or conference with Mr. Spenser or Mr. Piers or their tenants.' To seek for the right and the wrong in such quarrels is to find a hopeless mixture. Roche, no doubt, was a violent man; yet it was surely hard dealing to bring against him as a crime that he had protected his own foster brother. In any case, with feuds like this on their hands, with outlaws in every recess of that thickly forested region, with native discontent and sense of injury awaiting another chance to rebel, the under- takers can hardly have expected a life of settled peace. It was after a year of this colonizing that, in the summer of 1589, Spenser was visited by Sir Walter Raleigh. The two had probably met before in service under Lord Grey, BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH perhaps at the gloomy Fort del Ore, where Raleigh was one of the two captains ' put in ' for the work of general slaughter. A twelvemonth afterward, the brilliant officer had gone to court, where he had quickly made himself the leading favorite of the Queen. Now, being driven from court, as the gossips said, by the new favorite, Essex, he was back for a time in Ireland, on a visit to the estates recently granted him there as undertaker.^^ He found his old acquaintance at Kilcolman near by, and his old acquaintance showed him the manuscript of the Faery Queen. ' Spenser had begun this poem ten years back, in England; since coming over with Grey he had worked at no other poetry or prose that we know of, except perhaps a casual son- net or two; yet he had been able to complete only three books of the projected twelve. Probably he had found the early years of his service in Ireland too distracting for sus- tained poetical effort. Parts of the work he had shown long before this to various friends of his exile, perhaps even to Kaleigh, but the three books as a whole Raleigh must now have seen for the first time. Their effect upon his imaginative and sanguine mind can easily be guessed. Here was a poet, once famous, with a new magnificent poem, hidden away in a God-forsaken corner among savages. He must be taken to court, he must pre- sent his work to the Queen; she could not fail to fiud room in her service for the author of Gloriana. In any case, he must make himself known again at the capital, where by this time he and the old fame of his Shepherd's Calendar were ' quite forgot.' But Raleigh's visit and the sequel are best read between the lines of Colin Clout 's Come Home ^ A gain. Spenser and his new friend crossed the seas together in the autumn. On December 1 the Faery Qjeen was registered with the Stationers' Company for publication, and about that time, or earlier, the poet was doubtless being accorded those audiences with Eliza- heth of which Colin Clout informs us, audiences for the reading of his poem, which she was graciously pleased to applaud. With her graciousness to cheer him, and with the backing of Raleigh, he is not likely to have missed very much his old patrons, Sidney and Leicester, by this time dead. In their place was the Countess of Pembroke (for whom he now commemorated them in belated panegj'ric, at the suggestion of friends), and besides her, there were his noble relatives, the three daughters of Sir John Spencer of Althorpe — and others. The list of distinguished personages, indeed, whose names appear in his verse, or in the inscriptions of his longer poems and sonnets, makes clear that he was now at the very centre of courtly life. Meanwhile he was working with a will. There was his Faery Queen to see through the press, and he was also revising old poems and composing new, as means of commending himself. He probably hoped for a substantial reward. What he hoped for chiefly was perhaps some place in the government service at the capital. For this, however, he had to reckon with Burghley, andBurghley did not believe in poets. The great lord treasurer might recollect him, too, as a former protege of his old enemy, Leicester; possibly he had, ten years earlier, set a precedent for deny- ing him office — when the poet had been obliged to content himself with a private secretaryship in Ireland. An uncompromising biographer might also note the later com- plaint of Bacon (himself a disappointed suitor for office) that ' in the times of the Cecils able men were, of purpose, suppressed.' In any case, whatever the cause, there can be no doubt that Burghley showed himself unfavorable to Spenser. An apocryphal story relates that when the Queen ordered the payment of a hundred pounds, in recognition of the poet's genius, the treasurer objected to the amount; whereupon she replied, 'Then give him what is reason; ' whereupon the treasurer let the matter rest altogether, till the XX EDMUND SPENSER poet, by a rhymed appeal to his sovereign, secured the hundred pounds and a censure for his enemy. The truth, as far as we know it, is, that in February, 1591, some sixteen months after his arrival in London and nearly, if not quite, a year after the appearance of his poem, Spenser received the grant of a pension of £50, and that he received no other substantial recognition of his genius. Fifty pounds a year and the doubtful profits of a small Munster seignory would not support him suitably in London. He was no more inclined than he had been ten years earlier to attempt literature as a profession. If he had hoped to get footing at the capital, therefore, he bore the disappointment as he might, and set out for home. His opinion of Burghley he left behind him in ' Mother Hubberd's Tale.' This poem appeared in the volume entitled Complaints, which was entered upon the Stationers' register, as approved by the official censors, December 29, 1590. Since Pon- sonby, in his opening address, speaks of the poet's ' departure over sea,' and since the volume bears the date of 1591, which would not be given it till the ofdcial beginning of the new year on March 25, it may be supposed that Spenser went home in the late winter or early spring, before the volume was ready for sale. On the preceding New Year's ^ he had signed the dedication of Daphnaida at London ; on the following 27th of December, he signed the dedication of Colin Clout 's Come Home Again at KUcolman. This poetic acknowledgment of Raleigh's patronage was presumably sent over to his friend in manuscript at once, though it was not to be published tUl 1595. Back at Kilcolman again, Spenser fell into the old round of official duties (executed in part, no doubt, by deputy) and of seignorial cares. By this time he could probably com- mand more leisure, much of which he would give to pushing on with his Faery Queen. But a new adventure now befell him: he met the woman whom he was to marry. She was a certain gentlewoman, Elizabeth Boyle, of kin to that Richard Boyle who later he- came the first Earl of Cork. Her home seems to have been at Kilcoran, near Youghal, on the coast to the southeast of Spenser's domain. If we are to believe the story of the Amorelti, which is altogether consistent, he began his wooing late in 1592; the mar- riage was of June 11, 1594. These are the bare facts. Those who wish the romance, which rests upon well-documented facts of its own, must turn to the Amoretti and Epitha- lamion themselves and read with the inward eye. Before his marriage Spenser had contrived, with commendable foresight, to finish the second three books of his Faery Queen. These he kept by him till he could take them to London himself. The Amoretti and Epitlialamion he sent over to Ponsonby withoxit delay, and Ponsonby published them in the spring of 1595. In the same year, or early in 1596 (for according to the old style the computation was from March 25 to March 24), Pon- sonby also brought out Colin Clout 's Come Home Again and Astrophel. By January 20 (old style 1595, new style 1596) the poet himself was in London, for on that date there was registered with the Stationers' Company the second part of the Faery Queen. Since one of the maiti objects of his coming over would be the publication of this work, it is not likely that he had arrived much earlier. Another object was undoubtedly the furtherance of his material welfare. Not content with what had been done for him in 1591, he was set upon urging his claims a second time. On that former occasion he had appeared under the patronage of Raleigh, which not only had not helped him to full success, but had prevented his wooing the apparently greater influence of Essex; for the two favorites were bitter rivals. Except, then, for a very flattering sonnet to the young earl, he seems at that time to have paid him no court. ^ For this date see the introduction to J?aphnaida. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxi Perhaps it is to exaggerate to say that he paid him court now, or that Essex was the patron of his second venture. In the Prothalamion, his first thought concerning Essex House is that it was once the abode of Leicester, ' Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case ; ' and his following panegyric upon Leicester's successor contains no hint of patronage. Yet it was Essex who, a little over two years later, was to pay his funeral expenses. In any case, Spenser gained no further reward. The second part of the Faery Queen did not heighten the wonder of the first, and therefore did not move Elizabeth to fresh boraity. As for her lord treasurer, the poet could hope for nothing from him after ' Mother Hubberd's Tale.' The references to his iU humor, set at the beginning and the end of this part, read, in fact, like a challenge. Spenser was not a lucky courtier. One could wish, indeed, that he had never tried courting, for its influence upon his spirit was malign. Naturally high-minded, he reveals here and there in his verse, under the sting of disappointment, a petulance, somewhat un- manly, that his most radical admirers would fain argue away. Others would fain forget the adulation, sometimes offensive, into which the pursuit of reward too often tempted him. Loitering about the court, in hopes of preferment, was surely no fit business for the poet of the Faery Queen. Happily, his experiences there stirred him less often to petu- lance or gross ilattery than to manly disdain. The dedication of the Four Hymns is dated from Greenwich (where the court often lay), September 1, 1596; the Prothalamion is probably of the early autumn. Not long afterward Spenser may be thought to have given up his suit and gone home. If he had written less poetry dviring this second visit than in 1590, one cause may have been that he was busied in prose, for it is probably to 1596 that one must assign his View of the Present State of Ireland.^ This elaborate survey and plan of reform would explain, if fur- ther explanation were needed, why the poet was so ill content with his lot. Fifteen years of life in Ireland had not reconciled him in the slightest to Irish manners and customs, or taught him the smallest sympathy with the Irish temperament. Not to speak of his plan for the systematic starving out and strangling of rebellion and for systematic colonizing, he would carry reform even to the point of cutting off the glibs of the natives and taking away their long mantles, because both were convenient to thieves. Even their easy-minded laziness was offence to him. In his general contempt for the Irish and in his advocacy of the sternest measures of repression, he was, of course, not alone among the English of his day; but one judges that he also lacked that faculty of compromise which might liave moved him to make the most of disagreeable neighbors. In 1593, or thereabouts, Spenser had disposed of his clerkship of the Munster Council. On September 30, 1598, not quite two years after his return from England, he was appointed Sheriff of Cork. Within a week the revolt broke out which was to ruin the undertakers of Munster. The original grants had provided that every undertaker should people his estate with English. A seignory of twelve thousand acres called for the establishment of ninety-two families; smaller seignories, of a number proportionately less. Whether by negligence or sheer inability, however, the undertakers had failed to observe this condition of their ten- ure. After bringing over a few families, often anything but respectable and sober, they had commonly let their remaining land to natives, just the folk whom the government aimed to supplant, or had allowed it to lie idle. Most of them, perhaps, had not the means • Not included in this volume. It was first printed, long after his death, in 1633. xxii EDMUND SPENSER of financing their venture properly. They had almost all counted on peace and neglected to make provision against attack. When, therefore, the victory of Tyrone in the north inflamed the Irish of Munster to rebellion, the undertakers, who lived far apart, were Jielpless. The Lord President, Sir Thomas Norris, might have organized them for de- fence, but the storm came on so rapidly that he lost heart, they thought of nothing but escape to Cork and Waterford with their families, and the whole province, outside the walled towns, was left open to pillage. Here and there an undertaker defended him- self as he best might, but the majority simply ran away, if they could. The Irish tenants whom they had admitted upon their estates commonly joined the rebels in the general work of pillage, burning, mutilation, and murder. With his wife and four children Spenser escaped to Cork. Whether or not he attempted to defend his castle we do not know; we hear only of a certain Edmund M Shee ' killed by an Englishman at the spoil of Kilcolman.' The story told by Ben Jonson, that an infant child of the poet perished in the flames, is probably apocryphal. At Cork he f omid time and composure to prepare a review of the situation, for the Queen ; then he was sent to London with despatches, which he delivered the day before Christmas. On the 16th of the following January (in modem style, 1599) he died at Westminster. The Earl of Essex took charge of his funeral. Poets attended him to his grave in the Abbey, near Chancer, and threw in elegies, with the pens that had written them. Queen Elizabeth ordered him a monument — which was never erected. Spenser's reputation among his contemporaries was of the highest. No other English poet ever won more immediate and abiding recognition than he. The Shepherd's Calendar was at once accepted as a masterpiece, and when the Faery Queen appeared, there was no one to dispute his right to the heritage of Chaucer. Between 1590 and his death he was held, by general consent, the supreme poet of his time in England. This unanimity of acceptance was due, perhaps, in some measure, to the fact that he was not of that quarrelsome community which praised him, the tvirbulent literary world of London, but an exile. He had left England at a time when most of the men now seekuig fame for themselves were mere youths, and when he returned to their world, at intervals, with fresh poetry, their feeling was in part enthusiasm for its magic, and in part reverence for their senior, who had no share in their quarrels, and whose art was not of their schools, though it instantly made disciples. To speculate how far his remoteness from the grow- ing world of letters may have been favorable to his originality would be futile: it most certainly was favorable to his immediate fame. What his fame may be to-day is a topic more engaging, but less tangible, and not to be discussed in extenso here. One aspect of it, however, may be glanced at. There are some who go to him, as they go to Keats, for the ' life of sensations ' which they prefer to the 'life of ideas,' who appreciate nothing but his sensuous delightsomeness. Others, who feel also his grave moral charm, are, like Lowell, impatient of his too overt moral- izing. Others yet, like Dowden, accept the moralizing and all. In the main, the trend of unofficial contemporary opinion seems to be against that element in Spenser's poetry which he himself took for the chief of all. He had run the length of the full university curriculum of his day. If one had talked to him of the cultivation of the sensibilities, he would have stared: he had been feeding his brain. To be able to think in poetry, that, he would have said, was the chief end of the poet; and it would grieve him now in Elysium, could he know what modems have thought about his thinking. Perhaps these moderns are, after all, wrong. It is well enough to say that his thinking too often pro- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii trudes through his art, like ill-covered wire framework, — but why then, in Dante, call the same phenomenon ' a residuum of prose in the depths of his poetry ' ? The failing is all but inevitable to poetic dogmatists. In Spenser, too, as in others, it is merely one manifestation of the faculty that directs his noblest work, that informs the superb energy of the conflict between the Kedcross Knight and Despair, and the serenities of the Hymn in Honor of Beauty. THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER CONTEYNING TWELVE iEGLOGUES PROPORTIONABLE TO THE TWELVE MONETHES ENTITLED TO THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS GENTLEMAN MOST WORTHY OF ALL TITLES BOTH OF LEARNING AND CHEVALRIE MAISTER PHILIP SIDNEY AT LONDON PRINTED BY HUGH SINGLETON, DWELLING IN CREEDE LANE NEERE UNTO LUDGATE AT THE SIGNE OF THE GYLDEN TUNNE, AND ARE THERE TO BE SOLDE 1 579 [TAe Shepherd^ s Calendar was entered on the books of the Stationers' Company Decem- ber 5, 1579, and was probably published before the end of the following March, when the old year officially expired. The little volume must have had a. certain attraction of mysterious- ness. It was full of veiled allusions and the secret of its authorship was entieing;ly dangled before the eyes of readers. The author of the eclogues signed himself ' Immerito ' and was styled by the author of the commentary ' the new poet.' This other signed himself E. K. Yet though the book thus challenged curiosity, the secret seems to have been well enough kept. At court, perhaps, or at Cambridge, it would be penetrated in time by a few, but generally, and at least as a matter of form, the anonymity was acknowledged for a full de- cade to come. Spenser's main share in the work was confessed when the Faery Queen came out in 1590. For E. K., his initials seem to have been left, even then, to explain themselves — or perhaps real explanation was not greatly heeded. In either case, who he may have been is now beyond absolute proof. Some recent scholars, arguing from a few special passages and from the apparent intimacy of his know- ledge, an intimacy in no way contradicted by occasional rather arch professions of ignorance, have maintained that he was Spenser himself, acting as his own commentator. Their theory is plausible — bnt only at first sight. It cannot meet the fact that B. K. has in several places plainly misunderstood his text, and it implies that Spenser could write about the men he im- itated and about his own work in the tone of such slnra as those, in the beginning of the ' January ' gloss and in the argument of ' No- vember,' on the genial Marot. Most critics, therefore, abide by the older opinion that E. K. was Edward Kirke, a contemporary of Spenser and Harvey at Cambridge (sizar, for a time, in their own hall, Pembroke) and of kin, perhaps, to the ' Mistresse Kerke ' of Spenser's first letter. This opinion, though but conjectural, clashes with neither fact nor sentiment. The main riddle of the eclogues themselves is, of course, Rosalinde. Who she was, and how seriously the tale of which she is the faithless heroine must be taken, have busied, it may be thought, onlytoo many minds. For her identity, the evidence comprises three points : that, ac- cording to the gloss on 'January,' her poetic name is an anagram of her real ; that, accord- ing to the gloss on ' April,' she was ' a gentle- woman of no meane house ; ' and that, to judge by the general tenor of the narrative, her home was in that northeast corner of Lancashire which is unmistakably the scene of the love- eclogues. Yet after much patient work, the most recent of investigators has produced no one but a quite supposititious Rose Dineley, of a surname common in those parts, — and there the matter may rest. Nor need the love-story itself be discussed, or the depth of the poet's passion. Concerning this last, however, one point may be noted. That Rosalinde is cele- brated as late as Colin Clout 's Come Home Again, in 1591, need mean no more than that she was then still, in a sense, the poet's official mistress, remembered with kindly appreciation and not yet displaced by the woman whom shortly afterwards he wooed to good purpose. Though we do not know her name or the real facts of her story, and though the pastoral THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER dis^ise of the eclogues is quite baffling, Rosa- linde is none the less a curiously distinct per- sonage. E. K. and Harvey have both recorded her qualities. ' Shee is a gentlewoman of no meaue house,' says E. K. in his gloss for 'April,' 'nor endewed with anye vulgare and common gifts both of nature and mauners.' Harvey speaks more intimately — in a letter to Spenser of April, 1580. In one part of this, ex- tolling the charms of that mysterious beauty with whom the poet was then solacing his Avounded heart, he declares her to be ' another little Rosalinde ' (altera Bosalindula — the diminutive suggests that the true Kosalinde was of more native dignity) ; and in another part, upon a matter of literary interest, he ap- peals to * his conceite whom gentle Mistresse Rosalinde once reported to have all the intelli- gences at commaundement, and at another time christened her Segnior Pegaso.' That last frag- ment tells us more about the real qualities of this * gentlewoman of no meane house,' and suggests more about her probable dealings with the poet, than all the tnneful lamentations of the eclogues. The love-story of Rosalinde and Colin Clout is the central theme of the Calendar. It gives to what might else have been a collection of independent eclogues the appearance of dramatic continuity, and at the end, in ' De- cember,' it broadens into a kind of tragic alle- gory of life which closes the round of the months with philosophic dignity. For purposes of artistic centralization, indeed, it was un- doubtedly the fittest theme that Spenser could have selected, and it had the special appeal to him of a fresh and perhaps poignant experience. It is not the only theme, however, to be de- veloped with recurrent emphasis. That of the central eclogues, *May,' 'July,' and 'Septem- ber,' is elaborated with almost equal ampli- tude, and with such apparent earnestness that these eclogues have very generally been held to express sincere personal convictions. If that opinion he true (and there is certainly some truth in it), Spenser was, at this stage of his life, more or less a Puritan. Nothing, indeed, would be more natural than that, in 1579, when the Elizabethan Church was but just emerging from its earlier days of uncertainty, a young man of generous moral instincts, a seeker of the ideal, should sympa- thize with the main attitude of the Puritans. Among the several parties of the composite and still rather incoherent Anglican communion, they stood most typically for moral earnest- ness. This temper might sometimes run to extremes ; the more violent of them. Cart- wright and such, might be root and branch re- formers, hewers of Agag in pieces before the Lord; but the greater part were men whose zeal showed itself chiefly in diligent preachmg and urging of their convictions — the need of simplicity in the worship and of earnestness m the service of God. Compared with these men, those higher ecclesiastics who had the difficult task of maintaining the Queen's policy of com- promise, and of preserving what could be pre- served of the older ceremonies and dignities of religion, might conceivably seem lukewarm and worldly-minded. And among the lower clergy, especially in the rural districts, there werestiU but too many like the priest in ' Mother Hub- herd's Tale,' who had been Catholic and were now half Protestant, ignorant, lazy, worthless. The energy of vital religion might at this time seem to be with the Puritans. The objects of their denunciation were, moreover, not all mere matters of ritual and form, hut, many of them, very real abuses. To what extent Spenser may have held with the Puritans is nevertheless a somewhat per- plexed question. One could wish that the allegory of the three eclogues were clearer. A few specific allusions, to be sure, give it an air of actuality, but they do not carry us very far. ' Old Algrind,' the type of the pious and ven- erable shepherd, is beyond fair question Grin- dal, Archbishop of Canterbury, then in utter disgrace with the Queen for having refused to put down Puritan ' prophesyings.' Morrell, the ' goteheard prowde,' is quite probably Aylmer, Bishop of London, one of those who helped to do the work that Grindal declined. When we look for definite ideas, however, we find ourselves continually at a balance between the Puritan and the more broadly Protestant. If the sentiment of the first part of ' May ' is distinctly Puritan, the remainder of that ec- logue, which inveighs against the wiles of the Papists, conveys little more than the general sentiment of the English Reformation. As for the ra.iin burden of the eclogues, against the pride, luxury, and corruption of a worldly priesthood, one is perpetually in doubt whether it be directed against the orthodox clergy of the Church of England or against the clergy of the Church of Rome. This ambiguity, to he sure, may be the poet's safeguard against possible ill-consequences : it suggests, however, that he was not a thorough-going partisan. With those who held Anglicanism to be mere Popery he of course had no ties at all, or he would not have admitted E. K.'s comment in ' May ' upon Some gan, etc. On the whole, then, beyond strong disapproval of abuses in church patronage, such as those described in ' Mother Huhherd's Tale,' and of high living and laziness and spiritual dullness among the clergy, Spen- ser's Puritan sympathies do not seem t-o have THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER extended far. Except for a brief paasag-e upon tlie intercession of saints, the thoug-ht of -which is broadly Protestant, there is hardly a glance at dogma. lu two out of the three eclogues, in ' July ' and "September," Spenser borrows themes and even whole passages from his pastoral forerun-. ner, Mantuan, tlie satirist of the Roman clergy. How far this borrowing may make against his sincerity is matter for individual judgment. In any case, it exemplifies one of the funda- mental characteristics of the Calendar. When young Alexander Pope, in the days of his ar- dent reading among the classics, undertook to compose a set of pastorals, he first fixed his attention on ' the only undisputed authors ' of that genre, Theocritus and Virgil, then, from a study of their eclogues, derived four absolute types, comprehensive of ' all the subjects which the critieks upon Theocritus and Virgil wUl allow to be fit for pastoral.' Young Spenser, equally ardent with his books and living in a less formally critical age, proceeded on quite another principle. Since the days of the Greek and Latin fathers of the pastoral there had been a goodly line of successors, under whom the genre had developed in many directions. Petrarch, Mantuan, Sannazaro, Marot, to men- tion but a few of the chief, had each contributed his share of themes and methods. The main development had been in allegory, the use of the pastoral form, that is, for the discussion of contemporary or personal affairs and the introduction of real people. By the time Spen- ser came to write, then, the literature of the pastoral was immense and surpassingly diverse ; it had, moreover, quite lost the peculiar quality of its earliest days, when an idyll was a direct poetic rendering of real life, and had crystal- lized into a system of conventional symbols, which might still be used by a master with liv- ing imaginative effect, but which, without a radical reversion, could hardly again render real life. Out of this literature Spenser adopted types and definite themes, and imitated special passages, with studied care for variety. The types need not here be particularized, but of definite themes, elaborated in part by direct translation or paraphrase, we have, for instance, the religious satire of ' July ' and ' Septem- ber,' out of Mantuan, the complaint of the hard lot of poets, in ' October,' also out of Mantuan, the dirge in ' November ' and parts of ' December, ' in imitation of Marot, ' Marcli ' after Bion. For the general scheme of string- ing the loose eclogues on a slight thread of romance, that, too, though perhaps mainly ori- ginal, had been, in a way, anticipated by Boc- caccio and Sannazaro. Of real contributions to the genre we find few beyond the use of the fable and tlie idea of making an eclogue-series a calendar. This imitativeness, the eagerness to appro- priate interesting or otherwise attractive themes by which to give his work variety, to experiment in various acknowledged styles, is, indeed, the most distinguishing characteristic of the Calendar. It is one manifestation of what may be called the voracity of taste in youth. Spenser was doing what Stevenson, in a well-known essay, has told us that he, in his time, did, and that every active young follower of letters must inevitably do, what, in the vari- ous performances of his early period. Pope did himself. And as imitation goes hand in hand with experiment, the impulse toward variety in his work shows itself not merely in themes and styles appropriated from eai-lier pastoral poets, but in the very measures and stanzu- forms of his verse. These are strikingly vari- ous. There is the irregular accentual verse uf ' February ' and other eclogues, side by side with the even, finely modulated teu-syllablo iambic. There is the ballad measure and stanza of * July,' side by side with the elabo- rate and musical eight-line stanza of ' June.' Formal quatrains, now separate, now linked by rhyme ; the stanzas, equal in length but vitally different in harmonic effect, of ' January ' and ' October ; ' a lively roundelay, a starched ses- tina — one could hardly be more varied. Then there are the hymn-strophes of 'AprU' and ' November.' The strophe of this last, open- ing sonorously with an alexandrine, sinking through melodious decasyllabics to the plain- tive shorter verses, and rising at the close into another decasyllabic, to fall away in a brief refrain, is as noble a prophecy of the larger stanzaic art of the Epithalamion as a young poet could conceivably give. Spenser, indeed, won his supreme mastery of the stanza by long and honest experiment. The youthf uluess of the art is finally evident in the mere arrangement of the colognes. This reminds one of nothing so much as of that almost mathematical balance with which, as Professor Norton has pointed out, Dante dis- posed the poems of his Vita Nuova. Formality of structure is of course one of the most com- mon characteristics of youthful art. In the Calendar, this formality, though less exact than in the Vita Nuova, is rather more obvious. The series of eclogues, being in number twelve, has naturally, if one may use the phrase, two centres, ' June ' and ' July : ' Spenser's plan of arrangement is to place, approximately at a balance on either of these centres, such eclogues as stand in contrast or are supplemen- tary to each other. The eclogues, for instance, in which Colin Clout laments his wretched THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER case are three : two must roxiiid out the series in ' January ' and ' December ; ' the third is placed at one of the centres, ' June.' The two at the extremes are monologues and both in the crude six-line stanza of even iambics that is used nowhere else : the third, at the centre, is a dialogue in an elaborate eight-line stanza that is also used only here. The three religious eclogues, two in accentual couplets, one in ballad measure, balance in like manner upon ' July.' One may note, too, the hymn of praise in ' April ' over against the dirge in ' Novem- ber,' and may feel, perhaps, a balance in the complaint for poets, of ' October,' and the two main tributes, in ' February ' and ' Jane,' to Chaucer. But one might easily push the analysis too far. It is with Chaucer, the Tityrns of the ec- logues, that any survey of them most natu- rally concludes. Barring a certain mysterious Wrenock, he is the one master whom Colin Clout acknowledges. ' The god of Bhepheards, Tityrus, is dead. Who taught me, homely as I can, to make.' So says Colin in ' June,' and in ' December ' it is said of him that ' he of TitjTus his songs did lere.' How far, then, we inevitably ask ourselves, is Spenser really the disciple of his one great English forerunner ? In two pro- minent characteristics, more or less external, Chaucer's influence upon the Calendar is, of course, generally admitted. The irregular ac- centual verse, which is managed so well in ' February ' and often so poorly in other ec- logues and incidental passages, though in gen- eral of the decadent Chaucerian school, seems to owe much to direct study of the master himself. And for the diction, in its varying degrees of strangeness, if Spenser, to the dis- content of Sidney, ' framed his style to an old rustic language,' it was in the main by author- ity of Chaucer, whose English, now rustic to the modern Elizabethans, was yet their great- est literary tradition. So much can hardly be disputed, and so much does not carry us very far : those who stop there, indeed, must view ' the professed discipleship as more or less a sentiment. Yet one may fairly believe that TO HIS BOOKE GoE, little booke: thy selfe present, As child, whose parent is unkent, To him that is the president Of noblesse and of chevalree: And if that Envie barke at thee, As sure it will, for succoure flee Under the shadow of his wing; And asked, who thee forth did bring. Chaucer's influence is wider and deeper than that. We doubt its extent, perhaps, chiefly when we consider the Calendar too much by itself. As, in the Faery Queen, the strongest immediate influence might be thought to be that of Ariosto, so, in the Calendar, it is un- questionably that of the great pastoral school. If, however, we look, not to themes and meth- ods and merely occasional characteristics oi style in this one poem, but to the persistent characteristics of style in Spenser's total achievement, may we not fairly see the influ- ence of Chaucer dominating all others ? That archaism which is held to be the chief note of his influence on the Calendar is not a garb as- sumed for the time as appropriate : it is the very body of Spenser's speech. E. K., early in the epistle to Harvey, has suggested its natu- ral growth, which indeed is clear. Beading and rereading the ' auncient poetes ' of his own tongue, in chief the master of them all, Spen- ser's imagination and native sense for language were so saturated with the charm of that older speech that to him it became in the end more real than the speech of his contemporaries, and attracting to itself, by force of sympathetic likeness, provincialisms from a dozen sources, grew to be the living language of his genius. To this, the largest artistic contribution would be Chaucer's. And for that other element of poetry, verse, we can hardly think that Spenser derived from his great forerunner nothing but models for the measures of 'February' and 'August.' It is frequently said that, when the final e died out and was forgotten, Chaucer's verse could be read only by accent and with a kind of popular lilt. Yet there were long pas- sages that would still preserve almost their full metrical flow and beauty. If Spenser, then, became master of a verse ideally flowing and musical, he assuredly learned the art of it in no small measure from the golden cadences of Chaucer. From foreign poets, in brief, he might learn and borrow much in a hundred ways, hut the one master who can teach a na^ tive style is a native artist, and the one great artist of England, prior to ' the new poet,' was Chaucer.] A shepheards swaine, saye, did thee sing, All as his straying flocke he fedde: And when his honor has thee redde, Crave pardon for my hardyhedde. But if that any aske thy name, Say thou wert base begot with blame: Forthy thereof thou takest shame. And when thou art past jeopardee. Come tell me what was sayd of mee: And I will send more after thee. Immerit6. EPISTLE S TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED BOTH ORATOR AND POETE, MAYSTER GABRIELL HARVEY, HIS VERIE SPECIAL AND SINGULAR GOOD . FREND E. K. COMMENDETH THE GOOD LYKING OF THIS HIS LABOUR, AND THE PATRONAGE OF THE NEW POETE Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde fsu- mous poete Chaucer: whom for his exeel- leneie and wonderful! skil in making, his sohoUer Lidgate, a worthy sohoUer of so excellent a maister, calleth the loadestarre of our language : and whom our Colin Clout in h^Eeglogue calleth Tityrus the god of sEepheardsj comparing hym to the worthi- nes of the RomanTityrus, Virgile. Which proverUe, myne o wne good friend Maister lo Harvey, as in that good old poete it served well Pandares purpose, for the bolstering of his baudy brocage, so very well taketh place in this our new poete, who for that he is uncouthe (as said Chaucer) is unkist, and unknown to most men, is regarded but of few. But I dout not, so soone as his name shall come into the knowledg of men, and his worthines be sounded in the tromp of Fame, but that he shall be not 20 onely kiste, but also beloved of all, em- braced of the most, and wondred at of the best. No lesse, 1 thinke, deserveth his wit- tiuesse in devising, his pithinesse in uttering, his complaints of love so lovely, his dis- courses of pleasure so pleasantly, his pas- torall rudenesse, his morall wisenesse, his dewe observing of decorum everye where, in personages, in seasons, in matter, in speach, and generally in al seemely sim- 30 plycitie of handeling his matter, and fram- ing his words: the which, of many thinges which in him. be straimge, I know will seeme the straungest, the words them selves being so auncient, the knitting of them so short and intricate, and the whole periode and compasse of speache so delightsome for the roundnesse, and so grave for the straungenesse. And flrste of the wordes to speake, I graimt they be something hard, 40 and of most men unused, yet both English, and also used of most excellent authors and most famous pofetes. In whom whenas this our poet hath bene much travelled and throughly redd, how could it be, (as that wor- thy oratour sayde,) but that walking in the Sonne, although for other cause he walked, yet needes he mought be sunburnt ;_and, haviiig~the sound Tjf those auncient poetes, still ringing in his eares, he mought needes ^o ill singing hit out some of theyr tunes. But whether he useth them by such casualtye and custome, or of set purpose and choyse, as thinking them fittest for such rusticall rudenesse of shepheards, eyther for that theyr rough sounde would make his rymes more ragged and rustical, or els because such olde and obsolete wordes are most used of country folke, sure I think, and think I think not amisse, that they bring great 60 grace and, as one would say, auctoritie to the verse. For albe amongst many other faultes it specially be objected of Valla against Livie, and of other against Saluste, that with over much studie they affect an- tiquitie, as coveting thereby credence and honor of elder yeeres, yet I am of opinion, and eke the best learned are of the lyke, that those auncient solemne wordes are a great ornament both in the one and in the 70 other; the one labouring to set forth in hys worke an eternall image of antiquitie, and the other carefully discoursing matters of gravitie and importaimce. For if my mem- ory fayle not, Tullie, in that booke wherein he endevoureth to set forth the pateme of a perfect oratour, sayth that ofttimes an auncient worde maketh the style seeme grave, and as it were reverend: no other- wise then we honour and reverence gray 80 heares, for a certein religious regard which we have of old age. Yet nether every where must old words be stuffed in, nor the corn- men dialecte and maiier of speaking so cor- rupted therby, that, as in old buildings, it seme disorderly and ruinous. But all as in most exquisite pictures they use~to blaze ^nd portraict noF~6iielyThe' daintie linea- JSSSiS-SL beautye,Jbut also rounde about it to shadow Jhe_rude thickets and craggy 90 blifts, that, by the basenesse of such parts, niore excellency may accrew to the princi- pall (for oftimes we fynde our selves, I knowe not_how,, singularly delighted with the sEewe of such naturall rudenesse, and take great pleasure in that disorderly order) even so doe those rough and harsh termes enlumin^ and.jnake._mj)re_j3leartLj'° ^P" peareThe^rigbtnesse of brave~andglorious THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER words. So ofentimes a disehorde in loo nTnSick uiaketh a comely concordaunce: so great delight tooke the worthy poete Alceus to behold a blemish in the joynt of a wel shaped body. But if any will rashly blame such his purpose in ehoyse of old and un- wonted words, him may I more justly blame and condemne, or of witlesse headi- nesse in judging, or of heedelesse hardi- nesse in condemning; for not marking the compasse of hys bent, he wil judge of the no length of his cast; for in my opinion it is one special prayse, of many whych are dew to this poete, that he hath laboured to re- store, as to tlieyr rightfull heritage, such good and natm-all English words as have ben long time out of use and almost cleare disherited. Which is the onely cause that our mother tonge, which truely of it self is both f ul enough for prose and stately enough for verse, hath long time ben counted 120 most bare and barrein of both. Which de- fault when as some endevoured to salve and recure, they patched up the holes with peees and rags of other languages, borrowing here of the French, there of the Italian, every where of the Latine; not weighing how il those tongues accorde with themselves, but much worse with ours: so now they have made our English tongue a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speches. Other 130 some, not so wel seene in the English tonge as perhaps in other languages, if they hap- pen to here an olde word, albeit very natu- rall and significant, crye out streight way that we speak no English, but gibbrish, or rather such as in old time Evanders mother spake. Whose first shame is, that they are not ashamed, in their own mother tonge straungers to be counted and alienes. The second shame no lesse then the first, that 140 what so they understand not, they streight way deeme to be sencelesse, and not at al to be understode. Much like to the mole in .Slsopes fable, that, being blynd her selfe, would in no wise be perswaded that any beast could see. The last more shameful then both, that of their owne ooimtry and natural speach, which together with their nources milk they sucked, they have so base regard and bastard judgement, that j 50 they will not onely themselves not labor to garnish and beautifle it, but also repine that of other it shold be embellished. Like to the dogge in the maunger, that him selfe can eate no hay, and yet barketh at the hungry bullock, that so faine would feede: whose currish kinde, though it can- not be kept from barking, yet I conne them thanke that they refrain from byt- ing. ^^ Now, for the knitting of sentences, whych they call the joynts and members therof, and for al the compasse of the speach, it is round without roughnesse,and learned wyth- out hardnes, such indeede as may be per- ceivedof theleaste,understoode of the moste, but judged onely of the learned. For what in most English wryters useth to be loose, and as it were ungyrt, in this authour is well groimded, finely framed, and strongly 170 trussed up together. In regard whereof, I scorne and spue out the rakehellye route of our ragged rymers (for so themselves use to hunt the letter) which without learnmg boste, without judgement jangle, without reason rage and f ome, as if some instinct of poeticall spirite had newly ravished them above the meanenesse of commen capacitie. And being in the middest of all theyr brav- ery, sodenly eyther for want of matter, 180 or of ryme, or having forgotten theyr former conceipt, they seeme to be so pained and travelled in theyr remembrance as it were a woman in childebirth, or as that same Pythia, when the traunce came upon her : ' Os rabidumfera corda damans' &c. Nethe- lesse, let them a Gods name feede on theyr owne folly, so they seeke not to darken the beames of others glory. As for Colin, imder whose person the Authour selfe is igo shadowed, how f urre he is from such vaunted titles and glorious showes, both him selfe sheweth, where he sayth, ' Of Muses, Hobbin, I conne no skill,' and * Enough is me to paint out my unrest,* &c., and also appeareth by the baseuesse of the name, wherein, it semeth, he chose rather to unfold great matter of argument covertly then, professing it, not suffice thereto 200 accordingly. Which moved him rather in seglogues then other wise to write, doubt- ing perhaps his habilitie, which he little needed, or myuding to furnish our tongue with this kinde, wherein it faulteth, or fol- lowing the example of the best and most auncient poetes, which devised this kind of wryting, being both so base for the matter, and homely for 'the manner, at the first to EPISTLE trye theyr habilities, and, as young bixdes 2 lo that be newly crept out of the nest, by little first to prove theyr tender wyngs, before they make a greater flyght. So flew The- ocritus, as you may perceive he was all ready full fledged. So flew Virgile, as not yet well feeling his winges. So flew Mantuane, as being not full somd. So Petrarque. So Boccace. So Marot, Sanazarus, and also di- vers other excellent both Italian and French poetes, whose foting this author every 220 where foUoweth, yet so as few, but they be wel sented, can trace him out. So finally flyeth this our new poete, as a bird whose principals be scarce growen out, but yet as that in time shall be hable to keepe wing with the best. Now, as touching the generall dryft and purpose of his ^glogues, I mind not to say much, him selfe labouring to conceale it. Onely this appeareth, that his mistayed 230 yougth had long wandred in the common labyrinth of Love; in which time, to miti-' gate and allay the heate of his passion, or els to warne (as he sayth) the yoimg shep- heards, sc. his equalls and companions, of his imfortunate folly, he compiled these xij .iEglogues, which, for that they be propor- tioned to the state of the xij monethes, he termeth the Shepheards Calendar, applying an olde name toanew worke. Hereunto 240 have I added a certain glosse or scholion, for thexposition of old wordes and harder phrases: which maner of glosing and com- menting, well I wote, wil seeme straunge and rare in our tongue : yet for somuch as I knew many excellent and proper devises, both in wordes and matter, would passe in the speedy course of reading, either as un- knowen, or as not marked, and that in this kind, as in other, we might be equal to the 250 learned of other nations, I thought good to take the paines upon me, the rather for that, by meanes of some familiar acquaintaunoe, I was made privie to his coimsell and secret meaning in them, as also in sundry other works of his : which albeit I know he nothing so niuch hateth as to promulgate, yet thus much have I adventured upon his frend- ship, him selfe being for long time furre es- traunged ; hoping that this will the rather 260 occasion him to put forth divers other ex- cellent works of his, which slepe in silence, as his Dreames, his Legendes, his Court of Cupide, and sondry others ; whose commen- dations to set out were verye vayne, the thinges, though worthy of many, yet being knowen to few. These my present paynes if to any they be pleasurable or profitable, be you judge, mine own good Maister Har- vey, to whom I have, both in respect of 270 your worthinesse generally, and otherwyse upon some particular and special consider- ations, voued this my labour, and the may- denhead of this our commen frends poetrie, himselfe having already in the beginumg dedicated it to the noble and worthy gentle- man, the right worshipfuU Maister Philip Sidney, a special favourer and maintaiuer of all kind of learning. Whose cause, I pray you sir, yf envie shall stur up any wrongful 280 accusasion, defend with your mighty rhe- torick and other your rare gifts of learning, as you can, and shield with your good wil, as you ought, against the malice and outrage of so many enemies as I know wilbe set on fire with the sparks of his kindled glory. And thus recommending the Author unto you, as unto his most special good frend, and my selfe unto you both, as one making singuler account of two so very good and 290 so choise frends, I bid you both most hartely farwel, and commit you and your most commendable studies to the tuicion of the Greatest. Your owne assuredly to be commaunded, E. K. POST SCR. Now I trust, Maister Harvey, that upon sight of your speciall frends and fellow poets doings, or els for envie of so many 300 unworthy quidams, which catch at the gar- lond which to you alone is dewe, you will be perswaded to pluck out of the hateful! darknesse those so many excellent English poemes of yours which lye hid, and bring them forth to eternall light. Trust me, you doe both them great wrong, in depriving them of the desired sonne, and also your selfe, in smoothering your deserved prayses; and all men generally, in withholding 310 from them so divine pleasures which they might conceive of your gallant English verses, as they have already doen of your Latine poemes, which, in my opinion, both for invention and elocution are very delicate and superexcellent. And thus agame I take my leave of my good Mayster Harvey. From my lodging at London, thys 10 of ApriU, 1579. THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER THE GENERALL ARGUMENT OF THE WHOLE BOOKE Little, I hope, needeth me at large to discourse the first originall of JEglogues, having alreadie touched the same. But, for the word JEglogues, I know, is unknowen to most, and also mistaken of some the best learned (as they think) I wyll say some- what thereof, being not at all impertinent to my present purpose. They were first of the Greekes, the inven- tours of them, called uEglogai, as it were lo atyi>v, or aiyoy6jjLaip, \6yot, that is, Gote- heards tales. For although in Virgile and others the speakers be more shepherds then goatheards, yet Theocritus, in whom is more ground of authoritie then in Virgile, this specially from that deriving, as from the first head and welspring, the whole in- vencion of his JEglogues, maketh gote- heards the persons and authors of his tales. This being, who seeth not the grossenesse 20 of such as by colour of learning would make us beleeve that they are more rightly termed Eclogai; as they would say, extraor- dinary discourses of unnecessarie matter ? whiohdifinition,albe in substaunce andmean- ing it agree with the nature of the thing, yet no whit answereth with the &.vi.\vai.^ and interpretation of the word. For they be not termed Eclogues, but JEglogues : which sentence this authour very well observ- 30 ing, upon good judgement, though indeede few goteheards have to doe herein, nethe- lesse doubteth not to cal them by the used and best knowen name. Other curious dis- courses hereof I reserve to greater occasion. These xij .31glogues, every where answer- ing to the seasons of the twelve monthes, may be well devided into three formes or /-ranckes. For eyther theyrbe: plaintive, as ~TEe"first7The sixt, the eleventh, and the 40 /■.twelfth; or recreative, such as al those be • " whieli containe matter of love, or commen- dation of special personages; or moral, J which for the most part be mixed with sorne satyrical bittemesse: namely the sec- ond, of reverence dewe to old age, the fift, of coloured deoeipt,the seventh and ninth, of dissolute shepheards and pastours, the tenth, of contempt of poetrie and pleasaunt wits. And to this division may every thing 50 herein be reasonably applyed: a few onely except, whose speciall purpose and meanmg I am not privie to. And thus much gener- ally of these xij .Slglogues. Now will we speake particularly of all, and first of the first, which he calleth by the first monethes name, Januarie : wherein to some he may seeme fowly to have faulted, in that he erroniously beginneth with that moneth which beginneth not the yeare. For it 60 is wel known, and stoutely mainteyned ^vwith stronge reasons of the learned, that the yeare beginneth in March; for then the Sonne reneweth his finished course, and the seasonable spring refresheth the earth, and the plesaunce thereof, being buried in the sadnesse of the dead winter now worne away, reliveth. This opinion maynteine the olde astrologers and philosophers, namely the reverend Andalo, and Maerobius in 70 his holydayes of Saturne; which aceoumpt also was generally observed both of Grecians and Romans. But s aving the le ave of such learned heads, we mayntame a enstoHretSf ctrumpting~^he seasons "from the monelh Jannary, uponrarmofe speciall caiise"'tlien the heathen'-philosophers ever coulde cou- iEeive, that is, for the inxjarnation of our mighty SayiSur "and eternall Redeemer, the Lord Christ, who, as then renewing the 80 state of the decayed world, and returning the eompasse of expired yeres to theyr for- mer date and first commencement, left to us his heires a memoriall of his birth, in the ende of the last yeere and beginning of the^ next: which reckoning, beside that eternall monument of our salvation, leaneth also up- pon good proofe of special judgement. For albeit that in elder times, when as yet the coumpt of the yere was not perfected, 90 as afterwarde it was by Julius Csesar, they began to tel the monethes from Marches beginning, and according to the same, God (as is sayd in Scripture) comaunded the people of the Jewes to count the moneth Abib, that which we call March, for the first moneth, in remembraunce that in that moneth he brought them out of the land of .SIgipt, yet according to tradition of latter times it hath bene otherwise observed, 100 both in government of the Church and rule of mightiest realmes. For from Julius Csesar, who first observed the leape yeere, which he called Bissextilem Annum, and brought into a more certain course the odde wandring dayes which of the Greekes were called JANUARYE irepPalvovres, of the Romanes intercalares (f oriu such matter of learning I am forced to use the termes of the learned) the monethes have bene nombred xij, which in the first no ordinaunce of Romulus were but tenne, counting but ceciiij dayes in every yeare, and beginning with March. But Numa Pompilius, who was the father of al the Romain ceremonies and religion, seeing that reckoning to agree neither with the course of the Sonne, nor of the moone, thereunto added two monethes, January and February : wherin it seemeth, that wise king minded upon good reason to begin the yeare at 120 Januarie, of him therefore so called tan- quam janua anni, the gate and entraunce of the yere, or of the name of the god Janus, to which god for that the old Paynims at- tributed the byrth and beginning of all crea- tures new comming into the worlde, it seem- eth that he therfore to him assigned the beginning and first entraunce of the yeare. Which account for the most part hath heth- erto continued: notwithstanding that 130 the ^giptians beginne theyr yeare at Sep- tember, for that, according to the opinion of the best rabbins and very purpose of the Scripture selfe, God made the worlde in that moneth, that is called of them Tisri. And therefore he commaunded them to keepe the feast of Pavilions in the end of the yeare, in the xv. day of the seventh moneth, which before that time was the first. But our authour, respecting nether the 140 subtUtie of thone parte, nor the antiquitie of thother, thinketh it fittest, according to the simplicitie of commen understanding, to begin with Januarie, wening it perhaps no decorum that shepheard should be seene in matter of so deepe insight, or canvase a case of so doubtful judgment. So therefore beginneth he, and so continueth he through- out. •: JANUARYE ' jegloga prima abgument In this f yrst iEglogne Colin Clonte, a shep- heardes boy, coraplaineth him of his unfortu- nate love, being but newly (as semeth) enam- oured of a countrie laase called Rosalinda : with -which strong affection being very sore traveled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to liis owne winter- beaten flooke. And lastlye, fyiiding hiraselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his pipe in peeces, and oasteth him selfe to the ground. COLDSr CLOUTE. A SHEPEHEARD8 boye (no better doe him call) When winters wastful spight was almost spent. All in a suuneshine day, as did befall, Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent. So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde, That now unnethes their f eete could them uphold. All as the sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke. For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while !) May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke : Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile. Id Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde. ' Ye gods of love, that pitie lovers payne, (If any gods the paine of lovers pitie,) Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine. And bowe your eares unto my dolefull dittie . ~»_— — And Pan, tLou shepheards god, that once didst love, Pitie the paines that thou thy selfe didst prove. ' Thoubarrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted. Art made a myrrhour to behold my plight: Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted 21 Thy sommer prowde with daffadillies dight. And now is come thy wynters stormy state, Thy mantle mard wherein thou maskedst late. ' Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart. My life bloud friesing with unkindly cold: 10 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER Such stormy stoures do breede my baleful! smart, As if my yeare were wast and woxen old. And yet, alas ! but now my spring be- gonne. And yet, alas ! yt is already donue. 30 ' You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost. Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre. And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost, Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre: I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine. Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine. ' All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere, My timely buds with way ling all are wasted ; The blossome which my brauuch of youth did beare With breathed sighes is blowne away and blasted; 40 And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, As on your boughes the ysicles depend. ' Thou feeble^tec^, whose fleece is rough andTent,^"" Whose knees^are weake through fast and esill' fare, MaffCwitnesae w ell by thy iU gove rnement , Thy may sters^ mind_ _ia__ pyere,ains__with 'earg. Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite f orlorne : With mourning pyne I; you with pyning mourne. ' A thousand sithes I curse that earefull hower Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see ; 50 And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee. Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane. Ah, God ! that love should breede both joy and payne ! ' It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine, Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit: His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdame. His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. Ah, fooUsh Hobbinol! thy gyfts bene vayne : Colin them gives to Rosalind againe. 60 ' I love thilke lasse, (alas! why doe I love ?) And am forlorne, (alas ! why am I lorne ?) Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove. And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne. Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake. And laughes the songes that Colin Clout doth make. ' Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou please, Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would: And thou, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease My musing mynd, yet canst not, when thou should: 70 Both pype and Muse shall sore the while abye.' So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lye. By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe His weary waine, and nowe the frosty Night Her mantle black through heaven gan over- haile. Which scene, the pensife boy, halfe in des- pight, Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe, ! Whose hanging heads did seeme his care- ' full case to weepe. COLINS EMBLEME. Anchora speme. GLOSSE Colin Claute is a name not greatly used, and yet have I sene a poesie of Maister Skeltons under that title. But indeede the word Colin is Frenche, and used of the French poete Marot (if he be worthy of the name of a poete) in a certein seglogue. Under which name this poete secretly shadoweth himself, as sometime did Virgil under the name of Tityrus, thinking it FEBRUARIE II much fitter then such Latine names, for the great iinlikelyhoode of the language. lo Unnethes^ scarcely. Couthe commeth of the verbe Conne, that is, to know or to have skill. As well interpreteth the same the worthy Sir Tho. Smitth, in his hooke of government : wherof I have a perfect copie in wryting, lent me by his kinseman, and my verye singular good freeiid, Maister Gabriel Harvey ; as also of some other his most grave and excellent wrytings. Sythe, time. 20 Neighbour totvne, the next towne : expressing the Latine vicina. Stoure, a fitt. Sere, withered. His clownish gyfts imitateth Virgils verse, * Rusticus 68 Corydon, nee munera curat Alexia.' Hobbinol is a fained country name, whereby, it being so commune and usuall, seemeth to be hidden the person of some his very speciall and most familiar freend, whom he entirely and 30 extraordinarily beloved, as peradventure shall be more largely declared hereafter. In thys place seemeth to be some savour of disorderly love, which tKe'Ieafheli call^)053iraiKce7~But it" is gathered beside his meaning. For who that hath red Plato his dialogue called Alcybiades, Xenophon, and Maximus Tyrius, of Socrates o pinions, may easily perceive that such lo ve is mnch e _to be alo wed and liked of, specially so meant as Socrates used it : who sayth, that 40 in" deede he loved Alcybiades extremely^ yet not Alcybiades person, biit hys soule, wETcE is Alcybiades owne selfe. And" so is pcederasiice fiiuch to 'he prseferred before gi/nemstice, that ig;'"the~"lgve'^'hiche enfla meth men~"wi^ liiat. towariJiSaflilJsmd... But yet let no man thinke, that "herein I stand with Lucian, or his develish disciple Unico Aretino, in defence of execrable and horrible sinnes of forbidden and unlawful fieshlinesse. Whose abominable errour is 5° fully confuted of Perionius, and others. I love, a prety epanorthosis in these two verses, and withall a paronomasia or plaving with the word, where he sayth, I love thilke lasse {alas, &c. Eosalinde is also a feigned name, which, being wel ordered, wil bewray the very name of hys love and mistresse, whom by that name he coloureth. So as Ovide shadowetb hys love under the name of Corynna, which of some 60 is supposed to be Julia, themperor Augustus his daughter, and wyfe to Agryppa. So doth Aruntius Stella every where call his lady Asteris and lanthis, albe it is wel knowen that her right name was "Violantilla : as witnesseth Statius in his Epithalamium. And so the fa- mous paragone of Italy, Madonna Coelia, in her letters envelopeth her selfe under the name of Zima : and Petrona under the name of Bell- ochia. And this generally hath bene a com- 7° mon cnstome of counterfeictiug the names of secret personages. Avail, bring downe. Overhaile, drawe over. ZMBI.EME. His Embleme oxpoesye is here under added in Italian, Anchora speme : the meaning wheiof is, tliat notwithstandeing his extreme passion and luoklesse love, yet, leaning on hope, he is some what recomforted. FEBRUARIE jEgloga secunda ARGUMENT This jEglogue is rather morall and generall then bent to any secrete or particular purpose. It specially conteyneth a discourse of old aj;e, in the persone of Thenot, an olde shepheard, who, for his crookednesse and unlustinesse, is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy heardtiians boye. The matter very well aecordeth with the season of the moneth, the yeare now droupiiig, and, as it were, drawing to his last age. For as in this time of yeare, so then in onr bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the crudled blood, and frieseth the wether- beaten flesh, with stormes of fortune and hoare frosts of care. To which purpose the olde man telleth a tale of the Oake and the Bryer, so lively and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appeare. CUDDIE. THENOT. Cud. Ah for pittie ! wil rancke winters rage These bitter blasts never ginne tasswage ? The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde. My ragged rentes all shiver and shake, As doen high towers in an earthquake : They wont in the wind wagge their "wrigle tailes, Perke as peacock: but nowe it avales. The. Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde, Of winters wracke, for making thee saddeX Must not the world wend in his commun eoTirse, 1 1 From good to badd, and from badde to worse, THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER From worse unto that is worst of all, And then returns to his former fall ? Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where wUl he live tyll the lusty prime ? Selfe have 1 worne out thrise threttie yeares. Some in much joy, many in many teares; Yet never complained of cold nor heate. Of sommers flame, nor of winters threat; 20 Ne ever was to fortune foeman. But gently tooke that migently came: And ever my flocke was my chief e care; Winter or sommer they mought well fare. Cud. No marveile, Thenot, if thou can beare CherefuUy the winters wrathfuU cheare: For age and winter accord full nie, This chill, that cold, this crooked, that wrye; And as the lowriug wether lookes downe, So semest thou like Good Fryday to frowne. 30 But my flo wring youth is foe to frost. My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost. The. The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine, That, once seabeate, will to sea againe. So loytring live you little heardgroomes. Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes : And when the shining sunne laugheth once. You deemen the spring is come attonce. Tho gynne you, fond flyes, the cold to scorne, And, crowing in pypes made of greene come, 40 You thinken to be lords of the yeare. But eft, when ye count you freed from f care. Comes the breme winter with chamfred browes. Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes, Drerily shooting his stormy darte. Which cruddles the blood, and pricks the harte. Then is your carelesse corage accoied. Your careftdl beards with cold bene an- noied: Then paye you the price of your surquedrie. With weeping, and wayling, and misery. 50 Cud. Ah, foolish old man ! I scorne thy skill. That wonldest me my springing youngth to spil. I deeme thy braine emperished bee Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee: Or sicker thy head veray tottie is, So on thy corbe shoulder it leanes amisse. INow thy selfe hast lost both loppand topp, Als my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp: But were thy yeares greene, as now bene myne, To other delights they would encline. 60 Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of love, And hery with hymnes thy lasses glove: Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse: But Phyllis is myne for many dayes: I wonne her with a gyrdle of gelt, Embost with buegle about the belt: Such an one shepeheards woulde make full faine. Such an one would make thee younge againe. The. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boste; All that is lent to love wyll be lost. 70 Cud. Seest howe brag yond buUoeke beares. So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares ? jHis homes bene as broade as rainebowe bent. His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent. See howe he venteth into the wynd. Weeuest of love is not his mynd ? Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can, So lustlesse bene they, so weake, so wan. Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. Thy flocks father his corage hath lost : 80 Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags. Like wailef uU widdowes hangen their crags : The rather lambes bene starved with cold, All for their maister is lustlesse and old. The. Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good. So vainely tadvaunce thy headlessehood. For youngth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death, Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne penaunce. And stoopegallaunt age, the hoste of gree- vaunee. 90 But shall I tel thee a tale of truth. Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth. Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent ? Cud. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent. Then to beare novells of his devise: They bene so well thewed, and so wise, What ever that good old man bespake. FEBRUARI 13 The. Many meete tales of youth did he make, And some of love, and some of chevalrie : But none fitter then this to applie. loo Now listen a while, and hearken the end. There grewe an aged tree on the greene, A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, With armes full strong and largely dis- playd. But of their leaves they were disarayde : The bodie bigge, and mightely pight, Thronghly rooted, and of wonderous hight: Whilome had bene the king of the field. And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine. 1 10 Bvit now the gray mosse marred his rine. His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes. His honor decayed, his braunches sere. Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere, Which proudly thrust into thelement, And seemed to threat the firmament. Yt was embellisht with blossomes fayre. And thereto aye wonned to repayre 119 The shepheardi daughters, to gather flowres. To peinct their girlonds with liis colowres: And in his small bushes used to shrowde The sweete nightingale singing so lowde: Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold, That on a time he cast him to scold And snebbe the good Oake, for he was old. 'Why standst there,' quoth he, 'thou brutish blocke ? Nor for fruict nor for shadowe serves thy stocke. Seest how fresh my flowers bene spredde, CPyed in lilly white and cremsin redde, 130 With leaves engrained in lusty greene, Colours meete to clothe a mayden queene ? Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd. And dirks the beauty of my blossomes round. The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth. My sinamon smell too much annoieth. Wneref ore soone, I rede thee, hence remove, Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.' So spake this bold Brere with great dis- daine: Little him answered the Oake againe, 140 But yielded, with shame and greef e adawed, That of a weede he was overawed. Yt chaunced after upon a day. The husbandman selfe to come that way, Of custome for to survewe his grownd. And his trees of state in oompasse rownd. Him when the spitefull Brere had espyed, Causlesse complained, and lowdly eryed Unto his lord, stirring up sterne strife: ' O my liege lord, the god of my life, 150 Pleaseth you ponder your suppliants plaint, Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint. Which I your poore vassall dayly endure : And but your goodnes the same recure. Am like for desperate doole to dye. Through felonous force of mine enemie.' Greatly aghast with this piteous plea. Him rested the goodman on the lea, And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. With painted words tho gan this proude weede 160 (As most usen ambitious folke) His colowred crime with craft to cloke. ' Ah my soveraigne, lord of creatures all. Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, Was not I planted of thine owne hand, To be the primrose of all thy land, With flowring blossomes to furnish tlie prime, And scarlet berries in sommer time ? How falls it then, that this faded Oake, Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke, 170 Whose naked armes stretch unto the fyre. Unto such tyrannie doth aspire; Hindering with his shade my lovely light. And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight ? So beate his old boughes my tender side, That oft the bloud springeth from wounds wyde: Untimely my flowres forced to fall. That bene the honor of your coronall. And oft he lets his cancker wormes light Upon my braunches, to worke me more spight: 180 And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, Where with my fresh flowretts bene def ast. For this, and many more such outrage, Craving your goodlihead to aswage The ranokorous rigour of his might. Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right; Submitting me to your good sufferance. And praying to be garded from greevance.' To this the Oake cast him to replie Well as he couth: but his enemie 190 Had kindled such coles of displeasure. That the good man noulde stay his leasure, 14 THE SHEPHEEARDES CALENDER But home him hasted with furious heate, Encreasing his wrath with many a threate. His harmefuU hatchet he hent in hand, ("Alas, that it so ready should stand !) And to the field alone he speedeth, (Ay little helpe to harme there needeth.) Anger nould let him speake to the tree, Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee ; 200 But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke, And made many wounds in the wast Oake. The axes edge did oft turne againe, As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine: Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare. Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare. For it had bene an«auneient tree. Sacred with many a mysteree. And often crost with the priestes crewe, And often halo wed with holy water dewe. But sike fancies weren foolerie, 211 And broughten this Oake to this miserye. For nought mought they quitten him from decay: For fiercely the goodman at him did laye. The blocke oft groned under the blow, And sighed to see his neare overthrow. In iine, the Steele had pierced his pitth: Tho downe to the earth he fell forthwith: His wonderous weight made the grounde to quake, Thearth shronke under him, and seemed to shake. 220 There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none. Now stands the Brere like a lord alone. Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce: But all this glee had no continuaunce. For eftsones winter gan to approche. The blustring Boreas did encroche. And beate upon the solitarie Brere: For nowe no succoure was seene him nere. Now gan he repent his pryde to late: For naked left and disconsolate, 230 The byting frost nipt his staike dead, The watrie wette weighed downe his head, And heaped snowe burdned him so sore. That nowe upright he can stand no more: And being downe, is troddein the durt Of cattell, and bronzed, and sorely hurt. Such was thend of this ambitious Brere, For scorning eld — Cud. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tel it not forth: Here is a long tale, and little worth. 240 So longe have I listened to thy speohe, That grafted to the ground is my breche: My hartblood is welnigh frorne, I f eele, And my galage growne fast to my heele: But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted. Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted. THENOTS EMBLEME. Iddio, perche e vecchio, Pa suoi al suo essempio. CUDDIES EMBLEME. Niuno vecchio Spaventa Iddio. GLOSSE Kene, sharpe. Gride, pereed : an olde word maoh used of Lidgate, bnt not found (that I know of) in Chaucer. JRorits, young buUockes. Wraclce, ruine or violence, whence oommeth shipwracke : and not wreake, that is vengeaunoe or wrath. Foeman, a foe. Thenot, the name of a shepheard in Marot his .^glogues. n The soveraigne of seas is Neptune the god of the seas. The saying is borowed of Mimus Publianns, which used tliis proverb in a verse, ' Improbfe Ncptunum accusat, qui iterum naufragium facit.' Heardgromes, Chancers verse almost whole. Fond Flyes ; He compareth carelesse slug- gardes, or ill husbandmen, to flyes, that so soone as the sunue shineth, or yt wexeth any tiling warme, begin to flye abroade, when Bodeinly they be overtaken with cold. 21 But eft when, a verye excellent and lively description of winter, so as may bee indiffer- ently taken, eyther for old age, or for winter season. Breme, chill, bitter. Charnfred, chapt, or wrinckled. Accoied, plucked downe and daunted. Surquedrie, pryde. Fide, olde age. 30 Sicker, sure. Tottie, wavering, Corbe, crooked. Herie, worshippe. Phyllis, the name of some mayde unknowen, whom Cuddie, whose person is secrete, loved. The name is usuall in Theocritus, Virgile, and Mantuane. Belte, a girdle or wast baud. A Jon, a foole. 40 Lythe, soft and gentile. Venteth, snuffeth in the wind. Thy flocks father, the ramme. MARCH 17 He was so wimble and so wight, From bough to bough he lepped light, And oft the pumies latched. Therewith affiravd I ranne awav: her the goddesse of all flonres, and doing yerely to her solemne sacrifice. Maias bower, that is, the pleasannt field, or rather the Maye bushes. Maia is a g-oddes and Page Missini in Print! her, calling her, not as she was, nor as some doe think, Andronica, but Flora: making 20 iiuL wiuuont speciall juagement. Jfor I remem- ber that in Hbmer it is sayd of Thetis, that shee tooke her young babe Achilles, being newely 80 14 THE SHEIKEARDES CALENDER But home him hasted with furious heate, Encreasing his wrath with many a threate. His harmefull hatcliet he hent in hand, (Alas, that it so ready should stand \) And my galage growne fast to my heele: But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted. Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh Page »/lissing Printing That graffed to the ground is my breche: My hartblood is welnigh frome, I f eele, Venteth, snuffeth in the wind. Thy flocks father, the ramme. MARCH 17 He was so wimble and so wight, From bough to bough he lapped light, And oft the pumies latched. Therewith affrayd I ranne away: But he, that earst seemd bvit to playe, A shaft in earnest snatched. And hit me running in the heele: For then, I little smart did feele; But soone it sore enereased. And now it ranckleth more and more, 100 And inwardly it festreth sore, Ne wote I how to cease it. Wil. Thomalin, I pittie thy plight. Perdie, with Love thou diddest fight: I know him by a token. For once I heard my father say. How he him caught upon a day, (Whereof he wilbe wroken) Entangled in a fowling net. Which he for carrion crowes had set, no That in our peeretree haunted. Tho sayd, he was a winged lad, But bowe and shafts as then none had, Els had he sore be daunted. But see, the welkin thicks apace, And stouping Phebus steepes his face: Yts time to hast us homeward. WrLLYES EMBLEMB. To be wise and eke to looe. Is graunted scarce to god abobe. THOMAXINS EMBLEME. Of hony and of gaule in love there is store : The honye is much, but the gaule is more. GLOSS This ^glogue seemeth somewhat to resemble that same of Theocritus, wherein the boy like- wise telling the old man, that he had shot at a winged boy in a tree, was by hym warned to beware of mischief e to come. Overwent, overgone. Alegge, to lessen or aswage. To quell, to abate. Welkin, the skie. The swallow, which bird useth to be 10 counted the messenger, and as it were, the fore- runner, of springe. Flora, the goddesse of flowres, but indede (as saith Tacitus) a famous harlot, which, with the abuse of her body having gotten great riches, made the people of Rome her heyre : who, in remembrannce of so great beneficence, appointed a yearely feste for the memoriall of her, calling her, not as she was, nor as some doe think, Andronica, bnt Flora: making 20 her the goddesse of all floures, and doing yerely to her solemne sacrifice. Maias bower, that is, the pleasannt field, or rather the Maye bashes. Maia is a goddes and the mother of Mereurie, in honour of whome the nioneth of Maye is of her name so called, as sayth Macrobius. Lettice, the name of some country lasse. A scaunce, askewe or asquint. Forthy, therefore. 3° Lethe is a lake in hell, which the poetes call the lake of forgetfulnes. For Lethe signifieth f orgetf ulnes. Wherein the soules being dipped, did forget the cares of their former lyfe. So that by Love sleeping in Lethe lake, he meaneth he was almost forgotten, and out of knowledge, by reason of winters hardnesse, when al plea- sures, as it were, sleepe and weare oute of mynde. Assotte, to dote. 4" His slomber: To breake Loves slomber is to exercise the delightes of love and wanton plea- sures. Winges of purple, so is he feyned of the poetes. For als: He imitateth Virgils verse, ' Est mihi namque domi pater, est injusta noverca, &c.' A dell, a hole in the ground. Spell is a kinde of verse or charme, that in elder tymes they used often to say over every 5° thing that they would have preserved, as the nightspel for theeves, and the woodspell. And herehence, I thinke, is named the gospell, as it were Gods spell or worde. And so sayth Chau- cer, ' Listeneth Lordings to my spell.' Gauge, goe. An yvie todde, a thicke bush. Swaine, a boye : for so is he described of the poetes to be a boye, sc. alwayes freshe and lustier blindfolded, because he maketh no 60 difference of personages ; wyth divers coloured winges, sc. f ul of flying fancies : with bowe and arrow, that is, with glaunce of beautye, which prycketh as a forked arrowe. He is sayd also to have shafts, some leaden, some golden : that is, both pleasure for the gracious and loved, and sorow for the lover that is disdayned or forsaken. But who liste more at large to be- hold Cupids colours and furniture, let him reade ether Propertius, or Mosehus his Idyllion 70 of wandring Love, being now most excellently translated into Latine, by the singuler learned man Angelas Politianus : whyeh worke I have scene, amongst other of thys poets doings, very wel translated also into Englishe rymes. Wimble and wighle, quicke and deliver. In the heele is very poetically spoken, and not without speciall judgement. For I remem- ber that in Homer it is sayd of Thetis, that shee tooke her young babe Achilles, being newely 80 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER torne, and, holding- him by the heele, dipped him in the Kiver of Styx. The -vertue whereof is, to defend and keepe the bodjes washed therein from any mortall wound. So Achilles being washed al over, save onely his hele, by which his mother held, was in the rest invulner- able : therfore by Paris was f eyned to bee shotte with a poTsoned arrowe in the heele, whiles he was busie about the raarying of Polyxena in the temple of Apollo : which mysticall 9° fable Etistathius unfolding sayth : that by wounding in the hele is meant lustfuU love. For from the heele (as say the best phisitions) to the previe partes there passe certaine veines and slender synnewes, as also the like come from the head, and are carryed lyke little pypes behynd the eares ; so that (as sayth Hipocrates) yf those veynes there be cut asonder, the partie straighte becometh cold and unfruiteful. Which reason our poete wel weighing, mak- 'oo eth this shepheards boye of purpose to be wounded by Love in the heele. Latchedf caught. Wroken, revenged. For once : In this tale is sette out the sim- plieitye of shepheards opinion of Love. Stouping Phcehus is a periphrasis of the sunne setting. EMBLEME. Hereby is meant, that all the delights of love, wherein wanton youtli walloweth, be but no foUye mixt with bitternesse, and sorow sawced with repentaunce. For besides that the very affection of love it self e tormenteth the mynde, and vexeth the body many wayes, with unrest- fulnesse all night, and wearines all day, seek- ing for that we can not have, and fynding that we would not have ; even the selfe things which best before us lyked, in course of time and channg of ryper yeares, whiche also there- withal! channgeth our wonted lyking and 120 former fantasies, will then seeme lothsome and breede us annoyaunce, when yougthes flowre is withered, and we fynde our bodyes and wits annswere not to suche vayne jollitie and lust- full pleasaunpe. ^" ;'■"'" APRILL iEGLOGA QUARTA ARGUMENT This .^glogue is purposely intended to the honor and prayse of oiir most gracious sover- eigne, Queene Elizabeth. The speakers herein be HobbinoU and Thenott, two shepheardes : the which HobbinoU, being before mentioned greatly to have loved Colin, is here set forth more largely, eomplayning him of that boyes great misadventure in love, whereby h)s mynd was alienate and withdrawen not onely from him, who moste loved him, but also from all former delightes and studies, aswell in pleaaaunt pyping as conning ryraing and sing- ing, and other his laudable exercises. ^^ hereby he taketh occasion, for proofe of his more ex- cellenoie and skill in poetrie, to reoorde a songe which the sayd Colin sometime made in honor of her Majestie, whom abruptely he termeth Elysa. THENOT. HOBBINOLL. The. Tell me, good HobbinoU, what garres thee greete ? What! hath some wolfe thy tender lambes ytorne ? Or is thy bagpype broke, tliat soundes so sweete V Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne ? Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare, Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne ? Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares Adowne thy cheeks, to quenche thy thristye payne. Hob. Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne, But for the ladde whome long I lovd so deare 10 Nowe loves a lasse that all his love doth scorne : He, plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare. Shepheards delights he dooth them all for- sweare, Hys pleasaunt pipe, whych made us nieri- ment. He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeare His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent. The. What is he for a ladde you so lament ? Ys love such pinching payne to them that prove ? And hath he skill to make so excellent. Yet hath so little skill to brydle love ? 20 Hob. Colin thou kenst, the southerne shep- heardes boye: Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte. APRILL 19 Whilome on him was all my care and joye, Forcing witli gyf ts to winne his wanton heart. But now from me hys madding mynd is starte, And woes the widdowes daughter of the glenne : So nowe fayre Rosalind hath bredde hys smart, So now his frend is chaunged for a f renne. The. But if hys ditties bene so trimly dight, I pray thee, HobbinoU, recorde some one, 30 The whiles our flockes doe graze about in sight, And we close shrowded in thys shade alone. Hob. Contented I: then will I singe his laye Of fayre Elisa, queene of shepheardes all ; Which once he made, as by a spring he laye. And tuned it unto the waters fall. ' Ye dayntye Nymphs, that in this blessed brooke Doe bathe your brest, Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke. At my request. 40 And eke you Virgins that on Parnasse dwell, Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well, Helpe me to blaze Her worthy praise Which in her sexe doth all excell. ' Of fayre Elisa be your silver song. That blessed wight: The flowre of virgins, may shee florish long In princely plight. For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte, Which Pan, the shepheards god, of her begot: 51 So sprong her grace Of heavenly race. No mortall blemishe may her blotte. ' See, where she sits upon the grassie greene, (0 seemely sight 1) Yclad in soarlot, like a mayden queene, And ermines white. Upon her head a cremosin coronet. With damaske roses and daft'adillies set: 60 Bayleaves betweeue, And primroses greene. Embellish the sweete violet. ' Tell me, have ye scene her angelick face, Like Phosbe fayre ? Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace. Can you well compare ? The redde rose medled with the white yf ere. In either cheeke depeincten lively chere. Her modest eye, 70 Her majestic, Where have you scene the like, but there ? ' I sa we Phoabus thrust out his golden liedde. Upon her to gaze: But when he sawe how broade her beames did spredde. It did him amaze. He blusht to see another sunne belowe, Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe: Let him, if he dare. His brightnesse compare 80 With hers, to have the overthrowe. ' Shewe thy selfe, Cynthia, with thy silver rayes, And be not abasht: When shee the beames of her beauty dis- playes, O how art thou dasht ! But I will not match her with Latonaes seede; Such f oUie great sorow to Niobe did breede : Now she is a stone, And makes dayly mone. Warning all other to take heede. 90 ' Pan may be proud, that ever he begot Such a bellibone. And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lot To beare such an one. Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam. To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb: Shee is my goddesse plaine. And I her shepherds swayne, Albee forswonck and forswatt I am. ' I see Calliope speede her to the place, 100 Where my goddesse shines. And after her the other Muses trace. With their violines. Bene they not bay braunches which they doe beare, All for Elisa in her hand to weare f 20 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER, So sweetely they play, And sing all the way, That it a heaven is to heare. ' Lo, how finely the Graces can it f oote To the instrument: no They dauucen deffly, and singen soote, In their meriment. Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the daunce even? Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven: She shalbe a Grace, To f yll the fourth place, And reigne with the rest in heaven. ' And whither reunes this bevie of ladies bright, Kaunged in a rowe ? They bene all Ladyes of the Lake behight, That imto her goe. 121 Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of al, Of olive braunches beares a coronall: Olives bene for peace. When wars doe surcease: Such for a princesse bene principall. 'Ye shepheards daughters, that dwell on the greene, Hye you there apace: Let none come there, but that virgins bene, To adorne her grace. 130 And when you come whereas shee is in place, See that your rudenesse doe not you dis- grace: Binde your fillets faste, And gird in your waste. For more finesse, with a tawdrie lace. ' Bring hether the pincke and purple cul- lambine. With gelliflowres; Bring coronations, and sops in wine, Worne of paramoures; Strowe me the ground with dafBadowndil- lies, 140 And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lil- lies: The pretie pawnee. And the chevisaunce. Shall match with the fayre flowre delice. ' Now ryse up, Elisa, decked as thou art, In royall aray ; And now ye daintie damsells may depart Echeone her way. I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe : Let Dame Eliza thanke you for her song : And if you come hether '5' When damsines I gether, I will part them all you among.' The. And was thilk same song of Colins owne making ? Ah, foolish boy, that is with love yblent ! Great pittie is, he be in such taking, For naught caren, that bene so lewdly bent. Hob. Sicker, I hold him for a greater fon, That loves the thing he cannot purchase. But let us homeward, for night draweth on, _ 160 And twincling starres the daylight hence chase. THENOTS EMBLBME. quam te memorem, virgo f HOBBINOL8 EMBLKME. dea certe 1 GLOSSE Gars thee greete, causeth thee weepe and complain. t'orlorne, left and forsaken. Attempred to the yeare, agreeable to the sea- son of the yeare, that is Aprill, which moneth is most bent to shoures and seasonable rayne : to quench, that is, to delaye the drought, caused through drynesse of March wyndes. The Ladde, Colin Clout. The Lasse, Rosalinda. '° Tressed lochs, wrethed and curled. Is he for a ladde ? A straange manner of speaking, so. what maner of ladde is he ? To malce, to rime and versifye. For in this word, making, our olde Englishe poetes were wont to comprehend all the ski! of poetrye, ac- cording to the Greeke woorde iroi^Xv, to make, whence oommeth the name of poetes. Colin thou kenst, knowest. Seemeth hereby that Colin perteyneth to some Southern noble 20 man, and perhaps in Snrrye or Kent, the rather bicause he so oftfen nameth the Kentish downes, and before, As lythe as lasse of Kent. The widowes! He calleth Rosalind the widowes daughter of the glenne, that is, of a country hamlet or borough, which I thinks is rather sayde to ooloure and coneele the person, then simply spoken. For it is well knowen, APRILL even in spighte of Colin and Hobbinoll, that shee is a gentlewoman of no meaue house, nor 30 endewed "with anye vulgare and common gifts both of nature and manners : bnt suehe indeede, as neede nether Colin be ashamed to hare her made knowne by hia verses, nor Hobbinol be greved, that so she should be commended to immortalitie for her rare and singular vertnes : specially deserving it no lesse then eyther Myrto, the most excellent poete Theocritus his dearling, or Lauretta, the divine Petrarches goddesse, or Hiraera, the worthye poete 4° Stesiehorus hys idole : upon whom he is sayd so much to have doted, that, in regard of her exeellencie, he scorned and wrote against the beauty of Helena, For which his prsesumptu- ous and unheedie hardinesse, he is sayde by yengeaunee of the gods, thereat being offended, to have lost both his eyes. Frenne, a, straunger. The word, I thinke, was first poetically put, and afterwarde used in commen custome of speaeh ioi Jbrenne. 5° Dight adorned. Laye, a songe, as roundelayes and virelayes. In all this songe is not to be respected, what the worthiuesse of her Majestic deserveth, nor what to the highnes of a prince is agreeable, but what is raoste comely for the meanesse of a shepheards witte, or to conceive, or to utter. And therefore he calleth her Elysa, as through rudenesse tripping in her name : and a shep- heards daughter, it being very unfit that a 60 shepheards boy, brought up in the shepefold, should know, or ever seme to have heard of a queenes roialty. Ye daintie is, as it were, an exordium ad preparandos animos. Virgins, the nine Muses, daughters of Apollo and Memorie, whose abode the poets faine to be on Parnassus, a hill in Greee, for that in that countrye specially florished the honor of all excellent studies. 7° Helicon is both the name of a fountaine at the foote of Parnassus, and also of a moimteine in Bseotia, out of which floweth the famous spring Castalius, dedicate also to the Muses : of which spring it is sayd, that, when Pegasus, the winged horse of Perseus, (whereby is meant fame and flying renowrae) strooke the grownde with his hoofe, sodenly thereout sprange a wel of moste cleare and pleasaunte water, which fro thence forth was consecrate to the 80 Muses and ladies of learning. Your silver song seemeth to imitate the lyke in Hesiodus apyipeov /ifhos. Syrinx is the name of a nymphe of Arcadie, whom when Pan being in love pursued, she, flying from him, of the gods was turned into a reede. So that Pan, catching at the reedes in stede of the damoaell, and puffing hard, (for he was almost out of wind) with hys breath made the reedes to pype : which he seeing, tooke of 90 them, and, in remembraunce of his lost love, made him a pype thereof. But here by Pan and Syrinx is not to bee thoughte, that the shephearde siraplye meante those poeticall gods: but rather supposing (as seemeth) her graces progenie to be divine and immortal! (so as the paynims were wont to judge of all kinges and princes, according to Homeres saying, ' ©Ujub? Se jueya; earl 6ioTpe0eo9 fSacrtA^o; Ti/XTj 6' CK Aids €(TTtf ■ My fancye eke from former follies move To stayed steps : for time in passing weares, (As garments doen, which wexen old above) And draweth newe delightes with hoary heares. 40 The couth I sing of love, and tune my Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made ; Tho would I seeke for qvieene apples un- rype. To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade Dight gaudy girlonds was my comen trade, To crowne her golden locks; but yeeres more rype. And losse of her, whose love as lyf e I wayd. Those weary wanton toyes away dyd wype. Hob. Colin, to hears thy rymes and roundelayes, Which thou were wont on wastfuU hylls to singe, _ 50 I more delight then larke in sommer dayes; / Whose echo made the neyghbour groves to ring, 30 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER And taught the byrds, which in the lower spring Did shroude in shady leaves from sonny rayes, Frame to thy songe their chereful cherip- ing. Or hold theyr peace, for shame of thy swete layes. I sawe Calliope wyth Muses moe, Soone as thy oaten pype began to sound, Theyr yvory luyts and tamburins forgoe, And from the fomitaine, where they sat around, 60 Renne after hastely thy silver sound. But when they came where thou thy skill didst showe, They drewe abacke, as halfe with shame confound, Shepheard to see, them in theyr art outgoe. Col. Of Muses, Hobbinol, I conne no skill: For they bene daughters of the hyghest Jove, And holden seorne of homely shepheards quill. For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove. Which him to much rebuke and daunger drove, I never lyst presume to Parnasse hyll, 70 But, pyping lowe in shade of lowly grove, 1 play to please my selfe, all be it ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth prayse or blame, Ne strive to winne renowne, or passe the rest: With shepheard sittes not followe flying fame, But feede his flooke in fields where falls hem best. I wote my rymes bene rough, and rudely drest: The fytter they my carefuU case to frame: Enough is me to paint out my unrest. And poore my piteous plaints out in the same. 80 The god of shepheards, Tityrus, is dead. Who taught me, homely as I can, to make. He, whilst he lived, was the soveraigne head Of shepheards all that bene with love ytake: Well couth he wayle his woes, and lightly slake The flames which love within his heart had bredd, And tell us mery tales, to keepe us wake, The whUe our sheepe about us safely f edde. Nowe dead he is, and lyeth wrapt in lead, (O why should Death on hym such outrage showe ?_) 90 And all hys passing skil with him is fledde, The fame whereof doth dayly greater growe. But if on me some little drops would flowe Of that the spring was in his learned hedde, I soone would learne these woods to wayla my woe. And teache the trees their trickling teares to shedde. Then should my plaints, causd of discurte- see. As messengers of all my painfull plight, Flye to my love, where ever that she bee, And pierce her heart with poynt of worthy wight, 100 As shee deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by trecheree Didst underfong my lasse to wexe so light, Shouldest well be knowne for such thy vil- lanee. But since I am not as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepheards, which your flocks do feede. Whether on hylls, or dales, or other where, Beare witnesse all of thys so wicked deede ; And tell the lasse, whose flowie is woxe a weede, And faultlesse fayth is turned to faithlesse fere, no That she the truest shepheards hart made bleede That lyves on earth, and loved her most dere. Hoh. O carefuU Colin I I lament thy case: Thy teares would make the hardest flint to flowe. Ah, faithlesse Rosalind, and voide of grace. That art the roote of all this ruthf uU woe 1 But now is time, I gesse, homeward to goe: Then ryse, ye blessed flocks, and home apace, JUNE 31 Least night with stealing steppes doe you forsloe, And wett your tender lambes that by you trace. ,20 COLINS EMBLEME. Gia speme spenta. GLOSSE Syte, situation and place. Paradise. A Paradise in Greeke signifieth a garden of pleasure, or place of delig-hts. So he compareth the soile wherin Hobbiuoll made his abode, to that earthly Paradise, in Scrip- ture called Eden, wherein Adam in liis first creation was placed: which, of the most learned, is thought to be in Mesopotamia, the most fertile and pleasaunte country in the world (as may appeare by Diodorus Sycu- 10 lus description of it, in the hystorie of Alexan- ders conquest thereof :) lying betweene the two famous ryvers, (which are sayd in Scripture to flowe out of Paradise) Tygris and Euphrates, whereof it is so denominate. Forsake the soyle. This is no poetical fiction, but unfeynedly spoken of the poete selfe, who for speciall occasion of private affayres, (as I have bene partly of himselfe informed) and for his more preferment, removing out of the 20 Northparts, came into the South, as HobbinoU indeede advised him privately. Those hylles, tliat is the North countrye, •where he dwelt. Nis^ is not. The dales, the Sonthpartes, where he nowe ahydeth, which thoughe they be full of hylles and woodes (for Kent is very hyllye and woodye ; and therefore so called : for Kantsh in the Saxons tongue signifieth woodie,) yet 30 in respecte of the Nortbpai-tes they be called dales. For indede the North is counted the higher countrye. Night ravens, &o. By such hatefuU hyrdes, hee meaneth all misfortunes (whereof they be tokens) flying every where. Frendly faeries. The opinion of faeries and elfes is vei'y old, and yet stieketh very reli- giously in the myndes of some. But to roote that rancke opinion of elfes oute of mens 4° hearts, the truth is, that there be no such thinges. nor yet the shadowes of the things, but onely by a sort of bald friers ami knavish shavelings so feigned ; which, as in all other things, so in that, soughte to nousell the comen people in ignoraunee, least, being once ac- quainted with the truth of things, they woulde in tyme smell out the untruth of theyr packed pelfe and massepenie religion. But the sooth is, that when all Italy was distraicte into the 5° factions of the Guelfes and theGibelins, being two famous houses in Florence, the name be- gan, through their great mischiefes and many outrages, to be so odious, or rather dreadful!, in the peoples eares, that if theyr children at any time were frowarde and wanton, they would say to them that the Gnelfe or the Gibe- line came. Which words nowe from them (as many thinge els) be come into our usage, and, for Guelfes and Gihelines, we say elfes and 60 goblins. No otherwise then the Frenchmen used to say of that valiaunt captain, the very scourge of Fraunce, the Lord Thalbot, after- ward Erie of Shrewsbury ; whose noblesse bred such a terronr in the hearts of the French, that oft times even great armies were defaieted and put to flyght at the onely hearing of hys name. In somuch that the French wemen, to aifray theyr ehyldren, would tell them that the Talbot commeth. 70 Many Graces. Though there be indeede but three Graces or Charites (as afore is sayd) or at the utmost but f oure, yet in respect of many gyftes of bounty, there may be sayde more. And so MusEeus sayth, that in Heroes eyther eye there satte a hundred Graces. And by that authoritye, thys same poete, in his Pa- geaunts, saith ' An hundred Graces on her eye- ledde satte,' &c. Haydeguies, a country daunce or rownd. 80 The conceipt is, that the Graces and NympJies doe daunce unto the Muses and Pan his mu- sioke all night by raoonelight. To signifie the pleasauntnesse of the soyle. Peeres, eqnalles and felow shepheards. Queneapples unripe, imitating Virgils verse, * Ipse ego cana legam tenera lanugiue mala.' Neighbour groves, a straunge phrase in Eng- lish, but word for word expressing the Latino vicina nemora. 90 Sping, not of water, but of young trees springing. Calliope, afforesayde. Thys stafBe is full of verie poetical invention. Tamburines, an olde kind of instrument, which of some is supposed to be the clarion. Pan with Phcebus. The tale is well knowne, howe that Pan and Apollo, striving for excel- lencye in mnsicke, chose Midas for their judge. Who, being corrupted wyth partiall afEec- 100 tion, gave the victorye to Pan undeserved ; for which Phoabus sette a payre of asses eares upon hys head, &e. Tityrus. That by Tityrns is meant Chaucer, hath bene already sufficiently sayde, and by thys more playne appeareth, that he sayth, he tolde merye tales. Such as be hys Canterburie Tales. Whom he calleth the god of poetes for hys excellencie, so as Tullie calleth Len- tulns, Deum vitce suw, sc. the god of hys lyf e. 1 10 32 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER To make, to versifie. O whi/, a pretye epanorthosis or correction. Discurtesie. He tneanetli the falsenesse of his lover Kosalinde, who, forsaking hym, hadde chosen another. Poynte of worthy wite, the pricke of deserved tlame. Menalcas, the name of a shephearde in Vir- gile ; but here is meant a person unknowne and secrete, agayust "whome he often bit- 120 terly invayeth. Vnder/onge, undermynde and deceive by false suggestion. EMBLEMS. You remember that in the fyrst j3Eglogne, Colins poesie was Anchora speme : for that as then there was hope of favour to be found in tyme. But nowe being cleane forlorue and rejected of her, as whose hope, that was, is cleane extinguished and turned into despeyre, ] he renouneeth all comfort, and hope of 130 goodnesse to come : which is all the meaning of thys embleme. JULYE ^GLOGA SEPTIMA AKGUMENT This jEglogne is made in the honour and commendation of good shepeheardes, and to the shame and disprayse of proude and ambitious pastours ; such as Morrell is here imagined to bee. THOMALIN. MORRELL. Thorn. Is not thilke same a goteheard prowde, That sittes on yonder bancke, Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde Emong the bnshes rancke ? Mor. What ho ! thou joUye shepheards swayne, Come up the hyll to me: Better is then the lowly playne, Als for thy flocke and thee. Thorn. Ah, God shield, man, that I should clime, And leame to looke alof te ; 10 This reede is ryfe, that oftentime Great clymbers fall unsoft. In humble dales is footing fast, The trode is not so tickle. And though one fall through heedlesse hast. Yet is his misse not mickle. And now the Sonne hath reared up His fyriefooted teme. Making his way betweene the Cuppe And golden Diademe: ^° The rampant Lyon hunts he fast. With Dogge of noysome breath, Whose balefull barking bringes in hast Pyne, plagues, and dreery death. Agaynst his cruell scortching heate Where hast thou coverture ? The wastefuU hylls unto his threate Is a playne overture. But if thee lust to holden chat With seely shepherds swayne, 30 Come downe, and learne the little what That Thomalin can sayne. Mor. Syker, thous but a laesie loord, And rekes much of thy swinck. That with fond termes,and weetlesse words. To blere myne eyes doest thinke. In evill houre thou hentest in bond Thus holy hylles to blame. For sacred unto saints they stond, And of them ban theyr name. 40 St. Michels Mount who does not know, That wardes the westerne coste ? And of St. Brigets Bowre, I trow, All Kent can rightly boaste : And they that con of Muses skill Sayne most-what, that they dwell (As goteheards wont) upon a hill, ^^Beside a learned well. /And wonned not the great god Pan I Upon Mount Olivet, 50 IFeeding the blessed flocke of Dan, \__Which dyd himselfe beget ? Tlwm. O blessed sheepe ! O shepheard great. That bought his flocke so deare. And them did save with bloudy sweat From wolves, that would them teare ! Mor. Besyde, as holy fathers sayne. There is a hyllye place. Where Titan ryseth from the mayne, To renne hy s dayly race ; 60 Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed. And all the skie doth leane; There is the cave where Phebe layed The shepheard long to dreame. Whilome there used shepheards all To feede theyr flocks at will, Till by his foly one did fall. That all the rest did spill. And sithens shepheardes bene foresayd From places of delight: -jc JULYE 33 Forthy I weene thou be affrayd To clime this hilles height. Of Synah can I tell thee more, And of Our Ladyes Bowie: But little needes to strow my store, Suffice this hill of our. Here han the holy Faimes recourse, And Sylvanes haunten ratlie ; Here has the salt Medway his sourse. Wherein the Nymphes doe bathe; 80 The salt Medway, that trickling stremis Adowne the dales of Kent, Till with his elder brother Themis His brackish waves be meynt. Here growes melampode every where, And teribinth, good for gotes: The one, my madding kiddes to smere, The next, to heale theyr throtes. Hereto, the hills bene nigher heven, And thence the passage ethe : 90 As well can prove the piercing levin, That seeldome falls bynethe. Thorn. Syker, thou speakes lyke a lewde lorrell. Of heaven to demen so: How be I am but rude and borrell. Yet nearer wayes I knowe. To kerke the narre, from God more farre. Has bene an old sayd sawe. And he that strives to touch the starres Oft stombles at a strawe. 100 Alsoone may shepheard clymbe to skye. That leades in lowly dales, As goteherd prowd, that, sitting hye, Upon the mountaine sayles. My seely sheepe like well belowe, They neede not melampode : For they bene hale enough, I trowe, And liken theyr abode. But, if they with thy gotes should yede, They soone myght be corrupted, no Or like not of the frowie fede, Or with the weedes be glutted. T£e hylls where dwelled holy saints I reverence and adore: Not for themselfe, but for the sayncts L_Which han be dead of yore. And nowe they bene to heaven forewent, Theyr good is with them goe, Theyr sample onely to us lent, That als we mought doe soe. izo Shepheards they weren of the best, And lived in lowlye leas: And sith theyr soules bene now at rest, > Why done we them disease ? Such one he was (as I have heard Old Algrind often sayne) That whilome was the first shepheard, And lived with little gayne: As meeke he was as meeke mought be. Simple as simple sheepe, 130 Humble, and like in eche degree The flocke which he did keepe. Often he used of hys keepe A sacrifice to bring, Nowe with a kidde, now with a sheepe The altars hallowing. So lowted he unto hys Lord, Such favour couth he fynd. That sithens never was abhord The simple shepheards kynd. 140 And such, I weene, the brethren were That came from Canaan, The brethren twelve, that kept yfere __Uie flockes of mighty Pan. But nothing such thilk shephearde was Whom Ida hyll dyd beare. That left hys flocke to fetch a lasse. Whose love he bought to deare. For he was proude, that ill was payd, (No such mought shepheards bee) 15c And with lewde lust was overlayd: Tway things doen Ul agree. But shepheard mought be meeke and mylde. Well eyed as Argus was, With fleshly f oUyes undefyled. And stoute as steede of brasse. Sike one (sayd Algrin) Moses was. That sawe hys Makers face. His face, more cleare then christall glasse, ^^ And spake to him in place. 160 This had a brother, (his name I knewe) The first of all his cote, A shepheard trewe, yet not so true As he that earst I hote. Wmlome all these were lowe and lief, And loved their flocks to feede. They never stroven to be chiefe. Aid simple was theyr weede. But now (thanked be God therefore) The world is well amend, 170 Their weedes bene not so nighly wore ; Such simplesse mought them shend: They bene yolad in purple and pall, So hath theyr God them blist. They reigne and rulen over all. And lord it as they list: Ygyrt with belts of glitterand gold, (Mought they good shieepeheards bene) 34 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER Theyr Pan theyr sheepe to them has sold; I saye as some have seene. iSo For Palinode (if thou him ken) Yode late on pilgrimage To Rome, (if such be Rome) and then He sawe thilke misusage. For shepeheards, sayd he, there doen leade, As lordes done other where; Theyr sheepe hau crustes, and they the bread; The chippes, and they the chere: They han the fleece, and eke the flesh; (O seely sheepe the while !) 190 The corne is theyrs, let other thresh, Their hands they may not file. They han great stores and thriftye stockes, G-reat freendes and feeble foes: What neede hem caren for their flocks ? Theyr boyes can looke to those. These wisards weltre in welths waves, Pampred in pleasures deepe; They han fatte kernes, and leany knaves, Their fasting flockes to keepe. 200 Sike mister men bene all misgone, They heapen hylles of wrath: Sike syrlye shepheards han we none, They keepen all the path. Mor. Here is a great deale of good mat- ter Lost for lacke of telling. Now sicker I see, thou doest but clatter: Harme may come of melling. Thou medlest more then shall have thanke, To wyten shepheards welth: 210 When folke bene fat, and riches rancke. It is a signe of helth. But say me, what is Algrin, he That is so oft bynempt ? Thorn. He is a shepheard great in gree, But hath bene long ypent. One daye he sat upon a hyll, As now thou wouldest me : But I am taught, by Algrins ill, To love the lowe degree. 220 For sitting so with bared scalpe. An eagle sored hye. That, weening hys whyte head was chalke, A shell fish downe let flye: She weend the shell flshe to have broake, But therewith bruzd his brayne; So now, astonied with the stroke. He lyea in lingring payne. J/or. Ah, good Algrin ! his hap was ill. But shall be bett in time. 23a Now farwell, shepheard, sith thys hyll Thou hast such doubt to cUmbe. THOMALINS EMBLEME. In medio virtus. MOREELLS EMBLEME. In summo fcelicitas, GLOSSE A goteheard. By gotes, in scrypture, he re- presented the wicked and reprobate, whoso pastour also must needes be such. Banck is the seate of honor. Straying heard, which wander out of the wave of truth. Ah, for also. Clymbe, spoken of ambition. Great clymbers, according to Seneca his verse. ' Decidunt celsa, graviore lapau.' 10 Mickle, much. The Sonne, a reason why he refuseth to dwell on mountaiues, because there is no shel- ter against the scortching sunne, according to the time of the yeare, whiohe is the whotest moneth of all. The Cupp and Diademe he two signes in the firmament, through which the Sonne maketh his course in the moneth of July. Lion. Thys is poetically spoken, as if the 20 Sunne did hunt a Lion with one dogge. The meaning whereof is, that in July the Sonne is in Leo. At which tyme the Dogge starre, which is called Syrius, or Caiiioula, reigneth with immoderate heate, causing pestilence, drougth, and many diseases. Overture, an open place. The word is bor- rowed of the French, .nnd used in good writers. To hotden chatt, to talke and prate. A loorde was wont among the old Britons 3° to signifie a lorde. And therefore the Danes, that long time usurped theyr tyrannie here in Brytanie, were called, for more dread and dig- nitie, Lurdanes, sc. Lord Danes. At which time it is sayd, that the insolencie and pryde of that nation was so outTagious in thys realme, that if it fortuned a Briton to be going over a bridge, and sawe a Dane set foote upon the same, he muste retorne back, till the Dane were cleane over, or els abyde the pryce of 40 his displeasure, which was no lesse then present death. But being afterwarde expelled, that name of Lurdane became so odious unto the people, whom they had long oppressed, that even at this daye they use, for more reproche, to call the quartane ague the Fever Lurdane. Recks much of thy swinck, counts much of thy paynes. JULYE 3S Weetelesse, not understoode. St. Michels Mount is a promontorie in the west part of England. 51 A hill, Parnassus afforesayd. Pan, Christ. Dan. One tryhe is put for the whole nation per synecdochen. Where Titan, the sonne. Which story is to he redde in Diodorus Syculus of the hyl Ida ; from whence he sayth, all night time is to bee seene a mightye fire, as if the skye burned, which toward morning beginneth to gather into a 60 rownd forme, and thereof ryseth the sonne, whome the poetes call Titan. The shepkeard is Endymion, whom the poets fayne to have bene so beloved of Phoebe, se. the moonBj that he was by her kept a sleepe in a cave by the space of xxx yeares, for to en- joye his corapanye. There, that is, in Paradise, where, through errour of shepheards understanding, he sayth, that all shepheards did use to feede theyr 70 flocks, till one, (that is Adam) by hys foUye and disobedience, made all the rest of hjs ofspring be debarred and shutte out from thence. Synah, a hill in Arabia, where God ap- peared. Our Ladyes Bowre, a place of pleasure so called. Faunes or Sylvanes be of poetes feigned to be gods of the woode. 80 Medway, the name of a ryver in Kent, which, running by Rochester, meeteth with Thames ; whom he calleth his elder brother, both be- cause he is greater, and also f alleth sooner into the sea. Meynt, mingled. Metampode and terebinth be hearbes good to cure diseased gotes : of thone speaketh Man- tuane, and of thother Theocritus. TepfiCvBov Tpdyttiv eax^TOv axpefunfa. 90 Nigher heaven. Note the shepheards sim- plenesse, which supposeth that from the hyUs is nearer waye to heaven. Levin, lightning ; which he taketh for an argument to prove the nighnes to heaven, be- cause the lightning doth comenly light on hygh mountaynes, according to the saying of the poete : ^Feriuutque summos fulmina montes,* Lorrell, a losell. '°° A borrell, a playne fellowe. Narre, nearer. Hale, for hole. Yede, goe. Frowye, mustye or mo88ie> Of yore, long agoe. Forewente, gone afore. Thejirsie shepheard was Abell the righteous, who (as Scripture sayth) bent hys mind to keeping of sheepe, as did hys brother Cain no to tilling the grownde. His heepe, hys charge, sc. his flocke, Lowted, did honour and reverence. The brethren, the twelve sonnes of Jacob, which were shepemaisters, and lyved onelye thereupon. Whom Ida, Paris, which being the sonne of Priamus king of Troy, for his mother Hecn- bas dreame, which, being with child of hym, dreamed shee broughte forth a firebrand, 120 that set all the towre of Ilium on fire, was cast forth on the hyll Ida ; where being fostered of shepheards, he eke in time became a shep- heard, and lastly came to knowledge of his parentage. A lasse. Helena, the wyfe of Menelaug king of Lacedemonia, was by Venus, for the golden aple to her geven, then promised to Paris, who thereupon with a aorte of lustye Troyanes, stole her out of Lacedemonia, and kept her in 130 Troye : which was the cause of the tenne yeares warre in Troye, and the moste famous citye of all Asia most lamentably sacked and defaced. Argus was of the poets devised to be full of eyes, and therefore to hym was committed the keeping of the transformed cow, lo; so called, because that, in the print of a cowes foote, there is figured an I in the middest of an O. His name: he meaneth Aaron : whose name, for more decorum, the shephearde sayth he 140 hath forgot, lest his remembraunoe and skill in antiquities of holy writ should seeme to exeeede the meanenesse of the person. Not so true, for Aaron, in the absence of Moses, started aside, and committed idolatry. In purple, spoken of the popes and cardi- nalles, which use such tyrannical colours and pompous paynting. Belts, girdles. 149 Glitterand, glittering, a participle used some- time in Chaucer, but altogether in J. Goore. Theyr Pan, that is, the Pope, whom they count theyr god and greatest shepheard. Palinode, a shephearde, of whose report he seemeth to speake all thys. Wisards, greate learned heads. Welter, wallowe. Kerne, a churl or farmer. Slke mister men, suohe kinde of men. Surly, stately and prowde. i6« Melling, medling. liett, better. Bynempte, named. Gree, for degree. Algrin, the name of a shepheard afforesayde, whose myshap he alludeth to the channce that 36 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER happened to the poet ^schylus, that was hrayned with a sheUfishe. By thys poesye Thomalin oonfirmeth that whiuh in hys former speach by sondrye rea- 170 sons he had proved. For being both hymselfe sequestred from all ambition, and also abhor- ring it in others of hys cote, he taketh occasion to prayse the meane and lowly state, as that wherein is safetie without feare, and quiet without danger ; "according to the saying of olde philosophers, that vertue dwelleth in the middest, being enTii'oned with two contrary vices: whereto Morrell replieth with contin- uaunce of the same philosophers opinion, 180 that albeit all bountye dwelleth in medioeritie, yet perfect felicitye dwelleth in supreraacie. For they say, and most true it is, that happi- nesse is placed in the highest degree, so as if any thing be higher or better, then that streight way ceaseth to be perfect happines. Much like to that which once I heard alleaged in defence of humilitye, out of a great doctonr, ' Suorum Christus humillimua : ' which saying a gentle man in the company taking at the rebownd, 190 beate backe again with lyke saying of another doctouie, as he sayde, ' Suorum Dens altissi- mus.' AUGUST ' iEGLOGA OCTAVA AEGUMENT In this JEglogue is set forth a delectable controversie, made in imitation of that in Theocritus : whereto also Virgile fashioned his third and seventh -Slglogne. They choose for ampere of their strife, Cnddie, a neatheards boye, who, having ended their cause, reciteth also himselfe a proper song, whereof Colin, he sayth, was authour. WILLYE. PERIGOT. CUDDIE. Wil. Tell me, Perigot, what shalbe the game, Wherefore with myne thou dare thy mu- siok matche ? Or bene thy bagpypes renne farre out of frame ? Or hath the orampe thy joynts benomd with ache ? Per. Ah 1 Willye, when the hart is ill assayde, How can bagpipe or joynts be well apayd ? Wil. What the foule evill hath thee so bestadde ? Whilom thou was peregall to the best, And wont to make the jolly shepeheards gladde With pyping and dauncing, didst passe the rest. 10 Per. Ah ! Willye, now I have learnd a newe daunce: My old musick mard by a newe mischaunee. Wil. Misohiefe mought to that newe mis- chaunee befall. That so hath raft us of our meriment ! But reede me, what payne doth thee so appall ? Or lovest thou, or bene thy younglings miswent ? Per. Love hath misled both my younglings and mee: I pyne for payne, and they my payne to see. Wil. Perdie and wellawaye ! ill may they thrive : Never knewe I lovers sheepe in good plight. 20 But and if in rymes with me thou dare strive, Such fond fantsies shall soone be put to flight. Per. That shall I doe, though mochell worse I fared: Never shall be sayde that Perigot was dared. Wil. Then loe, Perigot, the pledge which I plight ! A mazer y wrought of the maple warre: Wherein is enchased many a fayre sight Of beres and tygres, that maken iiers warre ; And over them spred a goodly wild vine, Entrailed with a wanton yvie-twine. 30 Thereby is a lambe in the wolves jawes: But see, how fast renneth the shepheaid swayne. To save the innocent from the beastes pawes; And here with his shepehooke hath him slayne. Tell me, such a cup hast thou ever sene ? Well mought it beseme any harvest queeue. AUGUST 37 Per. Thereto will I pawne yonder spotted lambe ; Of all my flocke there nis silce another; For I brought him up without the dambe. But Colin Clout rafte me of his brother, 40 That he purchast of me in the playne field: Sore against my will was I f orst to yield. WU. Sicker, make like accoimt of his brother. But who shall judg'e the wager wonne or lost? Per. That shall yonder heardgrome, and none other. Which over the pousse hetherward doth post. Wil. But, for the sunnebeame so sore doth us beate, Were not better to shimne the scortchiug heate ? Per. Well agreed, Willy: then sitte thee downe, swayne: Sike a song never heardest thou but Colin sing. _ 50 Cud. Gynue when ye lyst, ye jolly shep- heards twayne: Sike a judge as Cuddie were for a king. Per. It fell upon a holly eve, Wil. Hey ho, hoUidaye ! Per. When holly fathers wont to shrieve: Wil. Now gynneth this roundelay. Per. Sitting upon a hill so hye, Wil. Hey ho, the high hyll ! Per. The while my flocke did feede thereby, Wil. The while the shepheard seKe did spill ; 60 Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone, WU. Hey ho, bonibell ! Per. Tripping over the dale alone; WU. She can trippe it very well: Per. Well decked in a frocke of gray, Wil. Hey ho, gray is greete ! Per. And in a kirtle of greene saye ; Wil. The greene is for maydens meete. Per. A chapelet on her head she wore, Wil. Hey ho, chapelet ! 70 Per. Of sweete violets therein was store, Wil. She sweeter then the violet. Per. My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode, Wil. Hey ho, seely sheepe ! Per. And gazd on her, as they were wood, Wil. Woode as he that did them keepe. Per. As the bouilasse passed bye, Wil. Hey ho, bouilasse ! Per. She rovde at me with glauncing eye, Wil. As cleare as the christall glasse: go Per. All as the sunnye beame so bright, Wil. Hey ho, the sunne beame ! Per. Glaunceth from Phoebus face forth- right, Wil. So love into thy hart did streame: Per. Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes, Wil. Hey ho, the thonder ! Per. Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes, WU. So cleaves thy soule a sender: Per. Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye, Wil. Hey ho, the moonelight ! 90 Per. Upon the glyttering wave doth playe: WU. Such play is a pitteous plight. Per. The glaunce into my heart did glide, Wil. Hey ho, the glyder ! Per. Therewith my soule was sharply gry de : Wil. Such woundes sooue wexen wider. Per. Hasting to raimch the arrow out, Wil. Hey ho, Perigot ! Per. I left the head in my hart roote: Wil. It was a desperate shot. 100 Per. There it ranckleth ay more and more, Wil. Hey ho, the arrowe ! Per. Ne can I find salve for my sore: Wil. Love is a curelesse sorrowe. Per. And though my bale with death I bought, WU. Hey ho, heavie cheere ! Per. Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought: Wil. So you may buye gold to deare. Per. But whether in paynefuU love I pyne, Wil. Hey ho, pinching payne ! no Per. Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine : Wil. But if thou can her obteine. Per. And if fdr gracelesse greefe I dye, Wil. Hey ho, gracelesse grief e! Per. Witnessfe, shee slewe me with her eye: Wil. Let lihy follye be the priefe. Per. And yoVi, that sawe it, simple shepe, Wil. Hey ho, the fayre flocke! Per. For priefe thereof, my death shall weepfj, Wil. Andjmone with many a mocke. 120 Per. So lear)|>d I love on a hoUye eve, Wil. Heyiho, holidaye! Per. That ever since my hart did greve. Wil, Now sndeth our roundelay. / 38 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER Cud. Sicker, site a roundle never heard I none. Little laeketh Perigot of the best, And Willye is not greatly overgone. So weren his undersongs well addrest. Wil. Herdgrome, 1 fear me thou have a squint eye: Areede uprightly, who has the victorye ? 130 Cud. Fayth of my soule, I deeme eoh have gayned. Forthy let the lambe be Willye his owne ; And for Perigot so well hath hym payned, To him be the wroughteu mazer alone. Per. Perigot is well pleased with the doome, Ne can Willye wite the witelesse herd- groome. Wil. Never dempt more right of beautye, I weene, The shepheard of Ida that judged beauties quceue. Cud. But tell me, shepherds, should it not ysheud Your roundels fresh to heare a doolefull verse 140 Of Rosalend, (who knowes not Rosalend?) That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse. Per. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a ladde: With mery thing its good to medle sadde. Wil. Fayth of my soule, thou shalt ycrouned be In Colins stede, if thou this song areede : For never thing on earth so pleaseth me As him to heare, or matter of his deede. Cud. Then listneth ech unjo my heavy laye, \ And tune your pypes as ruthrul as ye may. ' Ye wastef uU woodes beare witnesse of my woe, . 151 Wherein my plaints did ofijfentimes re- sound: ' Ye earelesse byrds are privie tki ^ny cryes. Which in your songs were woM to make a part: ] Thou pleasaunt spring hast tuld me oft a sleepe. Whose streames my tricklingfe teares did ofte augment. ' Resort of people doth my greefs augment, The walled townes do worke my greater woe: The forest wide is fitter to resound The hollow echo of my careful! cryes: 160 I hate the house, since thence my love did part, Whose waylefuU want debarres myne eyes from sleepe. ' Let stremes of teares supply the place of Let all, that sweete is, voyd: and all that may augment My doole drawe neare. More meete to wayle my woe Bene the wild woddes, my sorrowes to re- sound. Then bedde, or bowre, both which I fill with cryes, When I them see so waist, and f ynd no part ' Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart In gastfuU grove therefore, till my last sleepe 170 Doe close mine eyes: so shall I not aug- ment. With sight of such a, chaunge, my rest- lesse woe. Helpe me, ye banefuU byrds, whose shriek- ing sound Ys signe of dreery death, my deadly cryes ' Most ruthfuUy to tune. And as my cryes (Which of my woe cannot bewray least part) You heare all night, when nature craveth sleepe, Increase, so let your yrksome yells aug- ment. Thus all the night in plaints, the daye in woe I vowed have to wayst, till safe and sound ' She home returne, whose voyces silver sound 181 To cheerefull songs can chaunge my chere- lesse cryes. Hence with the nightingale will I take part, That blessed byrd, that spends her time of sleepe In songs and plaintive pleas, the more taugi ment The memory of hys misdeede, that bred her woe. SEPTEMBER 39 ' And you that f eele no woe, / when as the sound Of these my nightly cryes / ye heare apart, Let breake your sounder sleepe / and pitie augment.' 189 Per. Colin, Colin, the shepheards joye. How I admire ech turning of thy verse ! And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boye. How dolefully his doole thou didst re- hearse ! Cud. Then blowe your pypes, shepheards, til you be at home: The night nigheth fast, y ts time to be gone. PERIGOT HIS EMBLEME. Vincenti gloria vicii. WILLYES EMBLEME. Vinto non vitto. CUDDIES EMBLEME. Felice chi pub. GLOSSE Bestadde, disposed, ordered. Feregall, equall. W/iilome, once. Rafte, bereft, deprived. Miswentj gon a straye. Ill may, according to Virgile. * Inf elix o semper ovis pecuB.' A mazer. So also do Theocritus and Virgile feigne pledges of their strife. 9 Enchased, engraven. Such pretie descriptions every where useth Theocritus to bring in his Idyllia. For which speciall cause, indede, he by that name termeth his JEglogues : for Idyl- lion in Greke signifieth the shape or picture of any thyng, wherof his booke is ful. And not, as I have heard some fondly guesse, that they be called not Idyllia, but HEedilia, of the gote- heards in them. JEntrailed, wrought betwene. '9 Harvest queene, the manner of country folke in harvest tyme. Pousse, pease. It fell upon. Perigot maketh hys song in prayse of his love, to whom Willy answereth every under verse. By Perigot who is meant, I can not uprightly say : but if it be who is supposed, his love deserveth no lesse prayse then he giveth her. Greete, weeping and complaint. Ghaplet, a kind of garlond lyke a crowne. 3o Leven, lightning. Cynthia was sayd to be the moone. Gryde, pereed. Bui if, not unlesse. Squint eye, partiall judgement. Ech have, so saith Virgile, ' Et vitula tu dignus, et hie,' &c. So by enterchaunge of gyfta Cuddie pleaseth both partes. Doome, judgement. 4° Dempt, for deemed, judged. Wife the witelesse, blame the blamelesse. The shepherd of Ida was sayd to be Paris. Beauties queene, Venus, to whome Paris ad- judged the goldden apple, as the pryoe of her beautie. BMELEMB. The meaning hereof is very ambiguous ; for Perigot by his poesie claming the conquest, and Willye not yeelding, Cuddie the arbiter of theyr cause, and patron of bis own, semeth 5^^ to chalenge it, as his dew, saying, that he is happy which can, — so abruptly ending; but bee meaneth eyther him that can win the beste, or moderate him selfe being best, and leave of with the best. .- SEPTEMBER iEGLOGA NONA AKGUMENT Heeeiv Diggon Davie is devised to be a, shepheard that, in hope of more gayne, drove his sheepe into a farre countrye. The abuses whereof, and loose living of popish prelates, by occasion of Hobbinols demaund, he dis- courseth at large. HOBBINOL. DIGGON DAVIE. Hob. Diggon Davie, I bidde her god Or Diggon her is, or I missaye. Dig. Her was her while it was daye light. But now her is a most wretched wight. For day, that was, is wightly past, And now at earst the dirke night doth hast. Hoh. Diggon, areede, who has thee so dight ? Never I wist thee in so poore a plight. Where is the fayre flocke thou was wont to leade ? Or bene they chafEred ? or at misohiefe dead ? 10 40 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER Dig. Ah ! for love of that is to thee moste leefe, Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old gri'^f e : Sike question ripeth up cause of newe woe, For one opened mote unfolde many moe. Hob. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in hart, I know, to kepe is a burdenous smart. Eche thing imparted is more eath tobeare: When the rayne is fain, the cloudes wexen cleare. And nowe, sithence I sawe thy head last, Thrise three mooues bene fully spent and past: 20 Since when thou hast measvired much grownd. And wandred, I wene, about the world rounde. So as thou can many thinges relate : But tell me first of thy flocks astate. Dig. My sheepe bene wasted, (wae is me therefore !) The jolly shepheard that was of yore Is nowe nor joUye, nor shepehearde more. In forrein costes, men sayd, was plenty e: And so there is, but all of miserye. I dempt there much to have eeked my store, 30 But such e eking hath made my hart sore. In tho countryes whereas I have bene. No being for those that truely mene, Biit for such as of guile maken gayne, No such countrye as there to remaine. They setten to sale their shops of shame, And maken a mart of theyr good name. The shepheards there robben one another. And layen baytes to beguile her brother. Or they will buy his sheepe out of the cote, 40 Or they will carven the shepheards throte. The shepheards swayne you cannot wel ken. But it be by his pryde, from other men: They looken bigge as bulls that bene bate. And bearen the cragge so stiffe and so state As cocke on his dunghill crowing cranck. Hoh. Diggon, I am so stiffe and so stauck, That uneth may I stand any more : And nowe the westerne wind bloweth sore. That nowe is in his chiefe sovereigntee, 50 Beating the withered leafe from the tree. Sitte we downe here under the hill: Tho may we talke and tellen our fill, And make a mooke at the blustring blast. Now say on, Diggon, what ever thou hast. Dig. Hobbin, ah, Bobbin ! I curse the stounde That ever I cast to have lorne this grounde. Wel-away the while I was so fonde To leave the good that I had in hande. In hope of better, that was uncouth: 60 So lost the dogge the flesh in his mouth. My seely sheepe (ah, seely sheepe !) That here by there I whilome usd to keepe. All were they lustye, as thou didst see. Bene all sterved with pyne and penuree. Hardly my selfe escaped thilke payne. Driven for neede to come home agayne. Hob. Ah, fon! now by thy Iqsse art taught That seeldome chaunge the better BxQugJit. Content who lives with tryed state 70 Neede f eare no chaunge of frowning fate ; But who will seeke for unknowne gayne. Oft lives by losse, and leaves witlT payne. Dig. Fwote ne, Hobbin, how T~w^~l)e- witcht With vayne desyre and hope to be enricht; But, sicker, «o it is as the bright starre Seemeth ay greater when it is farre. I thought the soyle would have made me rich; But nowe I wote it is nothing sieh. For eyther the shepeheards bene ydle and still, 80 And ledde of theyr sheepe what way they wyll, Or they bene false, and full of covetise. And casten to compasse many wrong em- prise. But the more bene fraight with fraud and spight, Ne in good nor goodnes taken delight, Bjit kindle coales of conteck and yre. Wherewith they sette all the world on fire : Which when they thinken agayne to quench, iWith holy water they doen hem all drench. They saye they con to heaven the high way, 90 But, by my soule, I dare undersaye They never sette foote in that same troade. But balk the right way and strayen abroad. They boast they ban the devill at cpm- maund, But aske hem therefore what they ban paund : Marrie ! that great Pan bought with deare borrow, To quite it from the blacke bowre of sor- rowe. But they ban sold thilk same long agoe: SEPTEMBER 41 Forthy wouldeu drawe with hem many moe. But let hem gange alone a Gods name; 100 As they han brewed, so let hem beare blame. Hob. Diggon, I praye thee speake not so dirke. Such myster saying me seemeth to mirke. Dig. Then, playnely to speake of shep- heards most what, Badde is the best (this English is flatt.) Their ill haviour garres men missay Both of their doctrine, and of their faye. They sayne the world is much war then it wont, All for her shepheards bene beastly and blont: Other sayne, but how truely I note, no All for they holden shame of theyr cote. Some stieke not to say, (whote cole on her tongue !) That sike mischiefe graseth hem emong, All for they easten too much of worlds care, To deck her dame, and enrich her heyre: For such eneheason, if you goe nye, Fewe chymneis reeking you shall espye: The fatte oxe, that wont ligge in the stal, Is nowe fast stalled m her crumenall. Thus chatten the people in theyr steads, 120 Ylike as a monster of many heads: But they that shooten neerest the pricke Sayne, other the fat from their beards doen lick: For bigge buUes of Basan brace hem about. That with theyr homes butten the more stoute ; But the leane soules treaden under foote. And to seeke redresse mought little boote ; For liker bene they to pluck away more, Then ought of the gotten good to restore: For they bene like foule wagmoires over- grast, 130 That if thy galage once sticketh fast, The more to wind it out thou doest swinck. Thou mought ay deeper and deeper sinck. Yet better leave of with a little losse, Then by much wrestling to leese the grosse. Hob. Nowe, Diggon, I see thou speakest to plaine: Better it were a little to feyne. And cleanly cover that cannot be cured: Such il as is forced mought nedes be en- dured. But of sike pastoures howe done the flocks creepe ? 14° Dig. Sike as the shepheards, sike bene her sheepe: For they nill listen to the shepheards voyoe, But if he call hem at theyr good choyce : They wander at wil and stray at pleasure. And to theyr foldes yeed at their owne lea- sure. But they had be better come at their cal; For many han into mischiefe fall. And bene of ravenous wolves yrent. All for they nould be buxome and bent. Hob. Fye on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leasing ! 150 Well is knowne that sith the Saxon king. Never was woolfe seene, many nor some, Nor in all Kent, nor in Cliristendome : But the fewer woolves (the soth to sayne,) The more bene the foxes that here remaine. Dig. Yes, but they gang in more secrete ' wise. And with sheepes clothing doen hem dis- guise : They walke not widely as they were wont. For feare of raungers and the great hmit. But prively prolliug to and froe, 160 Enaunter they mought be inly knowe. Hob. Or prive or pert yf any bene, We han great bandogs will teare their skinne. Dig. Indeede, thy Ball is a bold bigge cm-re. And could make a jolly hole in theyr furre. But not good dogges hem needeth to chace, But heedy shepheards to discerne their face: For all their craft is in their countenaunce. They bene so grave and full of maynte- naunce. But shall I tell thee what my selfe knowe 170 Chaunced to Roffynn not long ygoe? Hob. Say it out, Diggon, what ever it hight, For not but well mought him betight: He is so meeke, wise, and merciable. And with his word his worke is convenable. Colin Clout, I wene, be his selfe boye, (Ah for Colin, he whilome my joye!) Shepheards sich, God mought us many send, That doen so carefully theyr flocks tend. Dig. Thilk same shepheard mought I well marke: 180 He has a dogge to byte or to barke ; Never had shepheard so kene a kurre. That waketh and if but a leafe sturre. Whilome there wonned a wicked wolfe, That with many a lambe had glutted his gulf e. 42 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER And ever at night wont to repayre Unto the flocke, when the welkin shone faire, Ycladde in clothing of seely sheepe, When the good old man used to sleepe. Tho at midnight he would barke and ball, 190 (For he had eft learned a curres call,) As if a woolfe were emong the sheepe. With that the shepheard would breake his sleepe. And send out Lowder (for so his dog bote) To raunge the fields with wide open throte. Tho, when as Lowder was farre awaye. This wolvish sheepe would catchen his pray, A lambe, or a kidde, or a weanell wast: With that to the wood would he speede him fast. Long time he used this slippery pranck, 200 Ere Roffiy could for his laboure him thanck. At end, the shepheard his practise spyed, (For Eoffy is wise, and as Argus eyed) And when at even he came to the flocke, Fast in theyr folds he did them locke. And tooke out the woolfe in his counterfect cote. And let out the sheepes bloud at his throte. Hob. Marry, Diggon, what should him afEraye To take his owne where ever it laye ? For had his wesarid bene a little widder, 210 He would have devoured both bidder and shidder. Dig. Mischiefe light on him, and Gods great curse ! Too good for him had bene a great deale worse : For it was a perilous beast above all. And eke had he cond the shepherds call, And oft in the night came to the shepecote. And called Lowder, with a hollow throte, As if it the old man selfe had bene. The dog his maisters voice did it weene, Yet halfe in doubt he opened the dore, 220 And ranne out, as he was wont of yore. No sooner was out, but, swifter then thought. Fast by the hyde the wolfe Lowder caught: And had not Eoffy renne to the steven, Lowder had be slaine thilke same even. Hob. God shield, man, he should so ill have thrive. All for he did his devoyre belive. If sike bene wolves as thou hast told. How mought we, Diggon, hem behold ? Dig. How, but with heede and watch- fulnesse 230 Forstallen hem of their wilinesse ? Forthy with shepheard sittes not playe. Or sleepe, as some doen, all the long day: But ever liggen in watch and ward, From soddein force theyr flocks for to gard. Hob. Ah, Diggon ! thilke same rule were too straight. All the cold season to wach and waite: ("We bene of fleshe, men as other bee: Why should we be bound to such miseree ? What ever thing lacketh chaungeable rest, _ 240 (Mought needes decay, when it is at best. Dig. Ah ! but Hobbinol, all this long tale Nought easeth the care that doth me for- haile. What shall I doe ? what way shall I wend, My piteous plight and losse to amend ? Ah, good Hobbinol ! mought I thee praye Of ayde or comisell in my decaye. Hob. Now by my soule, Diggon, I lament The haplesse mischief that has thee hent. Nethelesse thou seest my lowly saHe, 250 That fro ward fortune doth ever availe. But were HobbinoU as God mought please, Diggon should soone find favour and ease. But if to my cotage thou wilt resort, So as I can I wil thee comfort: There mayst thou ligge in a vetchy bed. Till fayrer fortune shewe forth her head. Dig. Ah, Hobbinol, God mought it thee requite ! Diggon on fewe such freendes did ever lite. DIGGONS EMBLEME. Inopem me copia fecit. GLOSSE The dialeote and phrase of speache, in this dialogue, seemeth somewhat to differ from the coraen. The cause "whereof is supposed to be, by occasion of the party herein meant, wlio, being very freend to the author hereof, had bene long in f orraine oountryes, and there seene many disorders, which he here recounteth to Hobbinoll. Bidde her, bidde good morrow. For to bidde, is to praye, whereof commeth beades 10 for prayers, and so they say, to bidde his beades, so. to saye his prayers. Wightli/, qaioklye, or sodenlye. Chaffred, solde. Dead at mischiefe, an nnusuall speache, but SEPTEMBER 43 much usurped of Lidgate, and sometime of Chaaeer. Leefe, deare. JSthe, easie. Thrise thre moones, nine monetlies. 20 Measured, for traveled. Wae, woe, Northernly. Eeked, encreased. Carven, cutte. Kenne, know. Cragge, neck. State, stoutely. Stanch, wearie or fainte. And nowe. He applieth it to the tyme of the yeare, which is in thend of harvest, which 30 they call the fall of the leafe : at which tyme the westerne wynde beareth most swaye. A mocke, imitating Horace, ^ Debes ludibrium veniis.' Lome, lefte. Soote, swete. Unconthe, unknowen. Here by there, here and there. .ids the brighte, translated out of Mantuane. Emprise, for enterprise. "Per syncopen. 4° Contek, strife. Trade, path. Marrie that, that is, their soules, which hy popish exorcismes and practices they daiune to hell. Blacke, hell. Gange, g'oe. Mister, maner. Mirke, obscure. Warre, worse. 5° Crumenail, purae, Brace, compasse. Enckeson, occasion. Overgrast, overgrowen with grasse. Galage, shoe. The grosse, the whole. Huxome and bent, raeeke and obedient. Saxon king. King Edgare that reigned here in Brytanye in the yeare of our Lord [957-975] which king caused all the wolves, whereof 60 then was store in thys countrye, by a proper policie to he destroyed. So as never since that time there have ben wolves here f ounde, unlesse they were brought from other countryes. And therefore HobbinoU rebuketh him of untruth, for saying there be wolves in England. Nor in Christendonte. This saying seemeth to he strange and unreasonable : but indede it was wont to be an olde proverbe and comen phrase. The original whereof was, for that 70 most part of England in the reigne of King Ethelbert was christened, Kent ouely except, which remayned long after in mysbeliefe and unehristened ; so that Kent was counted no part of Christendome. Great hunt, executing of lawes and justice. Enaunter, least that. Irdy, inwardly : afEoresayde. Prevely or pert, openly, sayth Chaucer. Eoffy, the name of a shepehearde in 80 Marot his jEglogue of Robin and the Kinge. Whonie he here commendeth for greate care and wise governance of his flock. Culin Chute. Nowe I tliinke no man doubteth but by Colin is ever meante the authour selfe : whose especiall good freend HobbinoU sayth he is, or more rightly Mayster Gabriel Harvey : of whose speciall commendation, aswell in poetrye as rhetorike and other choyce learning, we have lately had a sufficient tryall in di- ^o verse his workes, but specially iu his Musarum Lachrymoe, and his late GratulationumValdinen- slum, which boke, in the progresse at Audley in Essex, he dedicated in writiug to her Majestie, afterward presenting the same in print unto her Highnesse at the worshipfull Maister Capells in Hertfordshire. Beside other his sundrye most rare and very notable writings, partely under unknown tytles, and partly under counterfayt names, as hys Tyrannomastix, 100 his Ode Natcdida,'h.\aB,ameidos, and esspecially that parte of Philomusus, his divine Aniicosmo- polita, and divers other of lyke importance. As also, by the names of other shepheardes, he cov- ereth the persons of divers other his familiar freendes and best acquayntaunce. This tale of RofBy seemeth to coloure some particular action of his. But what, I certeinlye know not. Wonned, haunted. i'° We/kin, skie : afforesaid. A weanell waste, a weaned youngling. Hidder and shidder, he and she, male and female. Steven, noyse. Belive, quickly. What ever, Ovids verse translated. ' Quod caret alterna requie durabile non es*"..' Forehaile, drawe or distresse. Vetchie, of pease strawe. 120 EMBLESIE. This is the saying of Narcissus in Ovid. For when the f oolishe boye, by beholding hys face in the brooke, fell in love with his owne like- nesse ; and not hable to content him selfe with much looking thereon, he cryed out, that plentye made him poore, meaning that much gazing had bereft him of sence. But our Dig- gon useth it to other purpose, as who that by tryall of many wayes had founde the worst, and through greate plentye was fallen into 130 great penurie. This poesie I knowe to have bene much used of the author, and to suohe like effecte as fyrste Narcissus spake it. 44 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER OCTOBER '^ ') iEGLOGA DECIMA ABGUMENT In Cuddie ia set out the perfects pateme of a poete, whiche, finding no mainteaaunce of his state and studies, complayneth of the con- tempts of Poetrie, and the causes thereof : specially having bene in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, alwayes of singu- lar accounpt and honor, and being indede so ■worthy and commendable an arte : or rather no arte, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct, not to bee gotten by labours and learning, but adorned with both, and poured into the witte by a certain ii/dovtriafffjiSs and celestiall inspira- tion ; as the author hereof els where at large discourse th in his booke called The English Poete, which booke being lately come to my hands, I mynde also by Gods grace, upon further advisement, to publish. PIEBCE. CUDDIE. Piers. Cuddie, for shame ! hold up thy heavye head, And let us cast with what delight to ohace And weary thys long lingriug Phoebus race. Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding tase : Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead. Cud. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne, That all mine oten reedes bene rent and wore: And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much lessie gayne. Such pleasaunce makes the grashopper so poore. And ligge so layd, when winter doth her straine. The dapper ditties that I wont devise. To feede youthes fancie and the flocking fry, Delighten much: what I the bett forthy ? They hanthe pleasure, I a sclender prise: I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye: What good thereof to Cuddie can arise ? Piers. Cuddie, the prayse is better then the price. The glory eke much greater then the gayne : O what an honor is it, to restraine 21 The lust of lawlesse youth with good ad- vice, Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine, Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice t Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame, O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave ! Seemeth thou doest their soule of sense bereave. All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame Prom Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave: His musicks might the hellish hound did tame. 30 Cud. So praysen babes the peacoks spotted traine. And wondren at bright 'Argus blazing eye; But who rewards him ere the more forthy ? Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine ? Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye, Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne. Piers. Abandon then the base and viler clowne : Lyft up thy selfe out of the lowly dust, And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts: Turne thee to those that weld the awful crowne, 40 To doubted knights, whose woundlesse armour rusts. And helmes un^uzed wexen dayly browne. There may thy Muse display her fluttryng wing, And stretch her selfe at large from east to west: Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest, Or if thee please in bigger notes to sing, Advaunee the worthy whome shee loveth best, That first the white beare to the stake did bring. OCTOBER 45 And when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string, 50 Of love and lustihead tho mayst thou sing, And carrol lowde, and leade the myllers rownde. All were Elisa one of thilke same ring. So mought our Cuddies name to heaven sownde. Cud. Indeede the Romish Tityrus, I heare, Through his Mecoenas left his oaten reede, Whereon he earst had taught his flocks to feede, And laboured lands to yield the timely eare. And eft did sing of warres and deadly drede, So as the heavens did quake his verse to here. 60 But ah ! Mecoenas is yclad in claye, And great Augustus long ygoe is dead, And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade, That matter made for poets on to play: For, ever, who in derring doe were dreade. The loftie verse of hem was loved aye. But after vertue gan for age to stoupe. And mighty mauhode brought a bedde of ease, The vaunting poets found nought worth a pease To put in preace emong the learned troupe. Tho gan the streames of flowing wittes to cease, 71 And sonnebright honour pend in shamef uU coupe. And if that any buddes of poesie Tet of the old stocke gan to shoote agayne. Or it mens follies mote be forst to fayne, And roUe with rest in rymes of rybaudrye. Or, as it sprong, it wither must agayne: Tom Piper makes us better melodie. Piers. O pierlesse Poesye, where is then thy place ? If nor in princes pallace thou doe sitt, 80 (And yet is princes pallace the most fltt) Ne brest of baser birth doth thee embrace. Then make thee winges of thine aspyring wit, And, whence thou oamst, flye baoke to heaven apace. Cud. Ah, Percy ! it is all to weake and waune, So high to sore, and make so large a flight; Her peeced pyneons bene not so in plight: For Colin fittes such famous flight to scanne : He, were he not with love so ill bedight, Would mount as high and sing as soote as swaime. 90 Piers. Ah, fon! for love does teach him climbe so hie. And lyftes him up out of the loathsome myre: Such immortall mirrhor as he doth ad- mire Would rayse ones mynd above the starry skie. And cause a caytive corage to aspire ; For lofty love doth loath a lowly eye. Cud. All_ptherwise the state of poet stands; " For lordly Love is such a tyranne fell, That', where he rules, all power he doth ex- pelL, The vaunted verse a vacant head_de- maund es, 100 Ne wont with crabbed Care the Muses dwell: Unwisely weaves, that takes two webbes in hand.. Who ever casts to eompasse weightye prise. And thinks to throwe out thondring words of threate, Let powre in lavish cups and thriftie bitts of meate; For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phcebus wise. And when with wine the braine begins to sweate. The nombers flowe as fast as spring doth ryse. Thou kenst not, Percie, howe the ryme should rage. O if my temples were distaind with wine, And girt in girlonds of wild yvie twine, m How I could reare the Muse on stately And teache her tread aloft in buskin flue, With queint Bellona in her equipage I 46 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER But ah 1 my corage ooolea ere it be warme; Forthy content us in thys humble shade, Where no such troublous tydes han us assayde. Here we our slender pipes may safely charme. Piers. And when my gates shall han their bellies layd, Cuddie shall have a kidde to store his farme. CUDDIES EMBLEME. Agitante calescimus illo, Sfc. GLOSSE This ^glogue is made in imitation of Theo- critus his xvi. Idilion, wherein hee reproved the tyranne Hiero of Syracuse for his nigardise towarde poetes, in "whome is the power to make men immortal for theyr good dedes, or shame- ful for their naughty lyfe. And the lyke also is in Mantuane. The style hereof, as also that in Theocritus, is more loftye then the rest, and applyed to the heighte of poeticall witte. Cuddie. I doubte -whether hy Cuddie he lo specified the authour selfe, or some other. For in the eyght .ffiglogue the same person was brought in, singing a cantion of Colins making, as he sayth. So that some douht that the per- sons be different. Whilome, sometime. Oaten reedes, Avena. Ligge so layde, lye so f aynt and unlustye. Dapper, pretye. Frye is a bold metaphore, forced from the 20 spawning fishes : for the multitude of young fish be called the frye. To restraine. This place seemeth to conspyre with Plato, who in his first booke de Legibus sayth, that the first invention of poetry was of very vertuous intent. For at what time an in- finite number of youth usually came to theyr great solemne f eastes called Panegyrica, which they used every five yeere to hold, some learned man, being more hable then the rest for spe- 30 eiall gyftes of wytte and rausicke, would take upon him to sing fine verses to the people, in prayse eyther of vertue or of victory or of im- mortality, or such like. At whose wonderful gyft al men being astonied and as it were ravished with delight, thinking (as it was in- deed) that he was inspired from above, called him vatem : which kinde of men af terwarde framing their verses to lighter mnsick (as of musick be many kinds, some sadder, some 40 lighter, some martiall, some heroical : and so diversely eke affect the mynds of men) found out lighter matter of poesie also, some playing wyth love, some scorning at mens fashions, some powred out in pleasures: and so were called poetes or makers. Sence bereave. What the secrete working of musick is in the myndes of men, aswell ap- peareth hereby, that some of the auncient philosophers, and those the moste wise, as 50 Plato and Pythagoras, held for opinion, that the mynd was made of a certaine harmonie and musicall nombers, for the great compas- sion and likenes of affection in thone and in the other, as also by that memorable history of Alexander : to whom when as Timotheus the great mnsitian playd the Phrygian melodie, it is said that he was distraught with such un- wonted fury, that streight way rysing from the table in great rage, he caused himselfe to be 60 armed, as ready to goe to warre, (for that mn- sick is very warlike:) and immediatly when as the mnsitian chaunged his stroke into the Lydian and lonique harmony, he was so furr from warring, that he sat as styl, as if he had bene in matters of counsell. Such might is in mu.sick. Wherefore Plato and Aristotle for- bid the Arcadian melodie from children and youth. For that being altogither on the fyft and vii. tone, it is of great force to molifie 70 and quench the kindly courage, which useth to burne in yong hrests. So that it is not incred- ible which the poete here sayth, that musick can bereave the sonle of sence. The shepheard that, Orpheus : of whom is sayd, tliat by his excellent skil in musick and poetry, he recovered his wife Eurydice from hell. Argus eyes. Of Argus is before said, that Juno to him committed hir husband Jupiter 80 his paragon, IS, bicause he had an hundred eyes : but af terwarde Mercury, wyth hys musick lulling Argus aslepe, slew him and brought 13 away, whose eyes it is sayd that Juno, for his eternall memory, placed in her hyrd the peacocks tayle : for those coloured spots in- deede resemble eyes. Woundle.sse armour, unwounded in warre, doe rust through long peace. Display, a poeticall metaphore: whereof 90 the meaning is, that, if the poet list showe his skill in matter of more dignitie then is the homely .^glogue, good occasion is him offered of higher veyne and more heroicall argument in the person of our most gratious soveraign, whom (as before) he calleth Elisa. Or if mater of knighthoode and chevalrie please him better, that there be many noble and valiaunt men, that are both worthy of his payne in theyr de- served prarses, and also favourers of hys 100 skil and faculty. OCTOBER 47 The worthy. He meaneth (as I guesae) the most honorable and renowmed the Erie of Leycester, -whom by his cognisance (although the same be also proper to other) rather then by his name he bewrayeth, being not likely that the names of noble princes be known to country elowne. Slack, that is when thou chaungest thy Terse from stately discourse, to matter of more no pleasaunce and delight. The millers, a kind of daunee. Ming, company of dauncers. The Bomish Titi/rus, wel knowen to be Vir- gile, who by Meceenas means was brought into the favour of the Emperor Augustus, and by him moved to write in loftier kinde then he erst had doen. Whereon. In these three verses are the three severall workes of Virgile intended. For 120 in teaching his flocks to feede, is meant his .^g- logues. In labouring of lands, is hys Bucoliques. In singing of wars and deadly dreade, is his divine JEneis figured. Jn derring doe, in manhoode and chevalrie. For ever. He shewetli the cause why poetes were wont be had in such honor of noble men, that is, that by them their worthines and valor shold throug'li theyr famous posies be com- mended to al posterities. Wherefore it is 130 sayd, that Achilles had never bene so famous, as he is, but for Homeres immortal verses : which is the only advantage which he had of Hector. And also that Alexander the Great, eomming to his tombe in Sigeus, with naturall teares blessed him, that ever was his hap to be honoured with so excellent a poets work, as so renowmed and ennobled onely by hys meanes. Which being declared in a most elo- quent oration of Tallies, is of Petrarch no 140 lesse worthely sette forth in a sonet. ' Giunto Alexandre a la famosa tomba Bel fero Achllle, sospirando disse : fortunato, che Bi chiara tromba Trovasti,' &c. And that such account hath bene alwayes made of poetes, aswell sheweth this, that the worthy Scipio, in all his warres against Carthage and Numantia, had evermore in his company, and that in a most familiar sort, the good olde poet Ennius; as also that Alexander, destroy- '5° ing Thebes, when he was enformed, that the famous lyrick poet Pindarus was borne in that eitie, not onely commaunded streightly, that no man should, upon payne of death, do any violence to that house, by fire or otherwise : but also specially spared most, and some highly rewarded, that were of liys kinne. So favoured he the only name of ■- poete. Whycli prayse otherwise was in the same man no lesse famous, that when he came to ransacking of King 160 DariuB coffers, whom he lately had over- throwen, he founde in a little coffer of silver the two bookes of Homers works, as layd up there for speciall jewels and richesse, which he, taking thence, put one of them dayly in his bosome, and thother every night layde under his pillowe. Such honor have poetes alwayes found in the sight of princes and noble men : which this author here very well sheweth, as els where more notably. ^7° But after. He sheweth the cause of contempt of poetry to be idlenesse and basenesse of mynd. Pent, shut up in slouth, as in a coope or cage. Tom Piper, an ironicall sarcasmus, spoken in derision of these rude wits, whych make more account of a ryming rybaud, then of skill grounded upon learning and judgment. Ne brest, the meaner sort of men. Her peeced pineons, unperfect skil. Spoken wyth humble modestie. ^81 As soote as swanne. The comparison seemeth to be strange : for the swanne hath ever wonne small commendation for her swete singing; but it is sayd of the learned that the swan, a little before hir death, singeth most pleasantly, as prophecying by a secrete instinct her neere destinie. As wel sayth the poete elsewhere in one of his sonetts. ' The silver swanne doth sing before her dying day, As shoe that feeles the deepe delight that is in death,' &e. 191 Immortall myrrhour. Beauty, which is an ex- cellent object of poeticall spirites, as appeareth by the worthy Petrarchs saying, ' Fiorir faceva il mio debile ingegno, A la sua ombra, et crescer ne gli affanni.* A caytive enrage, a base and abject minde. For lofty love. I think this playing with the letter to be rather a fault then a figure, aswel in our English tongue, as it hath bene al- 200 wayes in the Latine, called Cacozelon. A vacant imitateth Mantuanes saying, ' va- cuum curis divina cerebrum Posoit.' Lavish cups resembleth that eomen verse, ' Fsecundi calices quem non fecere disertum ? ' O if my. He seemeth here to be ravished with a poetical furie. For (if one rightly mark) the numbers rise so ful, and the verse groweth so big, that it seemeth he hath forgot the meane- nesse of shepheards state and stile. 210 Wild yvie, for it is dedicated to Bacchus, and therefore it is sayd, that the Msenades (that is, Bacchus franticke priestes) used in theyr sacri- fice to carry thyrsos, which were pointed staves or javelins, wrapped about with yvie. In buskin. It was the maner of poetes and plaiers in tragedies to were buskins, as also in comedies to use stookes and light shoes. So that the buskin in poetry is used for tragical mat- ter, asjs said in Virgile, ' Sola Sophooleo 220 48 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER tua carmina digna cothnrno.' And the like in Horace, ' Magnum loqni, nitique oothurno.' Queint, strange. Bellona ; the goddesse of battaile, that is, Pallas, which may therefore 'wel be called queint, for that (as Luciau saith) when Jupiter hir father was in traveile of her, he caused his Sonne Vuloane with his axe to hew his head. Out of which leaped forth lustely a valiant damsell armed at all poyntes, whom seeing Vulcane so f aire and comely, lightly 230 leaping to her, preferred her some cortesie, ■which the lady disdeigning, shaked her speare at him, and threatned his saucinesse. There- fore such straungenesse is well applyed to her. ^(Equipage, order. Tydes, seasons. Charme, temper and order : for charmes were wont to he made by verses, as Ovid sayth, * Ant si carminibus.' EMBLEMS. Hereby is meant, as also in the whole 240 course of this ..^glogue, that poetry is a divine instinct and unnatural rage passing the reache of comen reason. Whom Piers answereth epi- phonematicos, as admiring the excellency of the skyll, whereof inCuddie hee hadde alreadye hadde a taste. NOVEMBER ;egloga tjndecima AKGUMENT In this xi. ^glogne he bewayleth the death of some mayden of greate blond, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secrete, and to me altogether unknowne, albe of him selfe I often required the same. This ^glogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loys the Frenohe Queene : but farre passing his reache, and in myne opinion all other the Eglogues of this booke. THENOT. COLIN. The. Colin, my deare, when shall it please thee sing, As thou were wont, songs of some joui- saunce ? Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing, Lulled a sleepe through loves misgovern- aunce : Now somewhat sing whose endles sove- navmce Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine, Whether thee list thy loved lasse advaunee, Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaiue. Col. Thenot, now nis the time of meri- make, 9 Nor Pan to herye, nor with love to playe: Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make, Or summer shade, under the cocked haye. But nowe sadde winter welked hath the day, And Phoebus, weary of his yerely taske, Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye, And taken up his ynne in Fishes haske. Thilke soUein season sadder plight doth aske, And loatheth sike delightes as thou doest prayse : The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne maske. As shee was wont in yoimgth and sommer dayes. 20 But if thou algate lust light virelayes, And looser songs of love, to underfong) Who but thy selfe deserves sike Poetes prayse ? Relieve thy oaten pypes that sleepen long. The. The nightingale is sovereigne of song, Before him sits the titmose silent bee: And I, unfitte to thrust in skilfuU thionge, Should Colin make judge of my fooleree. Nay, better learne of hem that learned bee, And han be watered at the Muses well : 30 The kindlye dewe drops from the higher tree. And wets the little plants that lowly dwell. But if sadde winters wrathe, and season chill, Acoorde not with thy Muses meriment, To sadder times thou mayst attime thy quill. And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreeri- ment: For deade is Dido, dead, alas ! and drent, Dido, the greate shepehearde his daughter sheene: The fayrest may she was that ever went, Her like shee has not left behinde I weene. And if thou wilt bewayle my wofuU tene, 41 I shall thee give yond cosset for thy payne: And if thy rymes as rownd and rufuU bene As those that did thy Rosalind complayne, Much greater gyfts for guerdon thou shalt gayne Then kidde or cosset, which I thee bynempt. NOVEMBER 49 Then up, I say, thou jolly shepeheard swayne, Let not my small demaimd be so contempt. Col. Thenot, to that I choose thou doest me tempt: But ah ! to well I wote my humble vaine, And howe my rymes bene rugged and un- kempt: 51 Yet, as I oonne, my conning I will strayne. Up, then, Melpomene, thou mournefulst Muse of nyne ! Such cause of mourning never hadst afore : Up, grieslie ghostes ! and up. my rufull ryme ! Matter of myrth now shalt thou have no more: For dead shee is that myrth thee made of yore. Dido, my deare, alas ! is dead, Dead, and lyeth wrapt in lead: O heavie herse ! 60 Let streaming teares be poured out in store : O carefuU verse ! Shepheards, that by your flocks on Kentish downes abyde, WaUe ye this wofuU waste of Natures warke : Waile we the wight whose presence was our pryde: Waile we the wight whose absence is our carke. The Sonne of all the world is dimme and darke: The earth now lacks her wonted light. And all we dwell in deadly night: O heavie herse ! 70 Breake we our pypes, that shrild as lowde as larke: carefull verse ! Why doe we longer live, (ah, why live we so long ? ) Whose better dayes death hath shut up in woe ? The fayrest floiire our gyrlond all emong Is faded quite, and into dust ygoe. Sing now, ye shepheards daughters, sing no moe The songs that Colin made in her prayse, But into weeping turns your wanton layes: O heavie herse ! 80 Now is time to die. Nay, time was long ygoe: O carefull verse ! Whence is it that the flouret of the field doth fade, And lyeth buiyed long in winters bale : Yet soone as spring his mantle doth dis- playe. It floureth fresh, as it should never fayle ? But thing on earth that is of most availe. As vertues braunch and beauties budde, Reliven not for any good. O heavie herse ! 90 The braunch once dead, the budde eke needes must quaile: O carefull verse ! She, while she was, (that was, a wof ul word to sayne !) For beauties prayse and plesaunee had no pere: So well she couth the shepherds enter- tayne With cakes and cracknells and such country chere. Ne would she scorne the simple shepheards swaine. For she would cal hem often heame, And give hem curds and clouted creame. O heavie herse ! - 100 Als Colin Cloute she would not once dis- dayne. O carefull verse ! But nowe sike happy cheere is turnd to heavie chaunce, Such pleasaunce now displast by dolors dint: All musick sleepes where Death doth leade the daunce, And shepherds wonted solace is extinct. The blew in black, the greene in gray, is tinct; The gaudie girlonds deck her grave. The faded flowres her corse embrave. O heavie herse ! no Mome nowe, my Muse, now morne with teares besprint. carefull verse ! O thou greate shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy griefe ! Where bene the nosegayes that she dight for thee ? 5° THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER The eolourd chaplets, wrought with a chiefe, The knotted rushringes, and gUte rose- maree ? For shee deemed nothing too deere for thee. Ah ! they bene all yclad iu clay, One bitter blast blewe all away. O heavie herse ! izo Thereof nought remaynes but the memoree. O oarefuU verse ! Ay me ! that dreerie Death should strike so mortall stroke, That can undoe Dame Natures kindly course : The faded lockes fall from the loftie oke. The flouds do gaspe, for dryed is theyr sourse, < And flouds of teares flowe in theyr stead perforse. The mantled medowes mourne, Theyr sondry colours tourne. O heavie herse ! 130 The heavens doe melt in teares without re- morse. carefull verse ! The feeble flocks in field refuse their former foode, And hang theyr heads, as they would leame to weepe: The beastes in forest wayle as they were woode. Except the wolves, that chase the wandring sheepe, Now she is gon that safely did hem keepe. The turtle, on the bared brannch. Laments the wound that Death did launch. heavie herse I 140 And Philomele her song with teares doth steepe. carefull verse ! The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and daunce, And for her girlond olive braunehes beare. Now balefuU boughes of cypres doen ad- vaunce : The Muses, that were wont greene bayes to weare, Now bringen bitter eldre braunehes scare: The Fatall Sisters eke repent Her vitall threde so soone was spent. O heavie herse I 150 Morne now, my Muse, now morne with heavie cheare. O carefull verse ! trustlesse state of earthly things, and slipper hope Of mortal men, that swincke and sweate for nought. And shooting wide, doe misse the marked scope : Now have I learnd, (a lesson derely bought) That nys on earth assuraunce to be sought: For what might be in earthlie mould, That did her buried body hould. O heavie herse ! 160 Yet saw I on the beare when it was brought. O cafefull verse ! But maugre Death, and dreaded sisters deadly spight. And gates of Hel, and fyrie furies forse, She hath the bonds broke of eternall night. Her soule unbodied of the burdenous corpse. Why then weepes Lobbin so without re- morse ? O Lobb ! thy losse no longer lament; Dido nis dead, but into heaven hent. O happy e herse ! 170 Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sor- rowes sourse: joyfuU verse ! Why wayle we then ? why weary we the gods with playnts. As if some evill were to her betight ? She raignes a goddesse now emong the saintes. That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light: And is enstalled nowe in heavens hight. 1 see thee, blessed soule, I see, Walke in Elisian fieldes so free. O happy herse ! 180 Might I once come to thee ! that 1 might ! joyfull verse ! Unwise and wretched men, to weete whats good or ill. Wee deeme of death as doome of ill de- sert: But knewe we, fooles, what it us bringes until. Dye would we dayly, once it to expert. NOVEMBER SI No daunger there the shepheard can astert: Fayre fieldes and pleasauut layes there bene, The fieldes ay fresh, the grasse ay greene : O happy herse ! igo Make hast, ye shepheards, thether to revert: O joyfull verse ! Dido is gone afore (whose turne shall be the next ? ) There lives shee with the blessed gods in blisse. There drincks she nectar with ambrosia mixt, And joyes enjoyes that mortall men doe misse. The honor now of highest gods she is. That whUome was poore shepheards pryde. While here on earth she did abyde. happy herae ! 200 Ceasse now, my song, my woe now wasted is. O joyfull verse ! The. Ay, francke shepheard, how bene thy verses meint With doolful pleasaunce, so as I ne wotte Whether rejoyce or weepe for great con- strainte ! Thyne be the cossette, well hast thow it gotte. Up, Colin, up, ynough thou morned hast: Now gynnes to mizzle, hye we homeward fast. COLINS EMBLEME. La mart ny mord. GLOSSE Jouisaunce, myrth. Sovenaunce, remembraunce. Serie, honour. Welked, shortned, or empayred. As the moone being in the waine is sayde of Lidgate to welk. In lowly lay, according to the season of the tnoneth November, when the sonne draweth low in the south toward his tropick or returns. In Fishes haske. The sonne reigneth, that 10 is, in the signs Pisces all November. A hashe is a wicker pad, wherein they use to cary fish. Virelaies, a light kind of song. JBec watred. For it is a saying of poetes, that they have dronk of the Muses well Castalias, whereof was before sufiiciently sayd. Dreriment, dreery and heavy cheere. The great shepheard is some man of high degree, and not, as some vainely suppose, God Pan. The person both of the shephearde and 20 of Dido is unknowen, and closely buried in the authors conceipt. But out of doubt I am, that it is not Rosalind, as some imagin: for he speaketh soone after of her also. Skene, fayre and shining. May, for mayde. 2'ene, sorrow. Guerdon, reward. Bynempt, bequethed. 29 Cosset, a lambe brought up without the dam. Unkempt, incompti ; not comed, that is, rude and unhansome. Melpomene, the sadde and waylefull Muse, used of poets in honor of tragedies : as saith Virgile, * Melpomene tragico proclamiit massta boatu.' Up griesly gosts, the maner of tragieall poetes, to call for helpe of furies and damned ghostes : so is Hecuba of Euripides, and Tan- talus brought in of Seneca; and the rest of 40 the rest. Herse is the solemne obsequie in funeralles. Wast of, decay of so beautiful! a peeoe. Carke, care. Ah why, an elegant epanorthosis, as also soone after : nay, time was long ago. Flouret, a diminutive for a little floure. This is a notable and sententious comparison ' A minore ad majus.' Meliven not, live not againe, sc. not in theyr 50 earthly bodies : for in heaven they enjoy their due reward. The braunch. He meaneth Dido, who being, as it were, the mayne braunch now withered, the buddes, that is, beautie (as he sayd afore) can no more flourish. With cakes, fit for shepheards bankets. Heame, for home : after the northeme pro- nouncing. Tinct, deyed or stayned. 60 The gaudie. The meaning is, that the things which were the ornaments of her lyfe are made the honor of her f unerall, as is used in burialls. Lohbin, the name of a shepherd, which seem- eth to have bene the lover and deere f rende of Dido. Bushrings, agreeable for such base gyftes. Faded lockes, dryed leaves. As if Nature her selfe bewayled the death of the mayde. Sourse, spring. 70 Mantled medowes, for the sondry flowres are like a mantle or coverlet wrought with many colours. Philomele, the nightingale : whome the poetee faine once to have bene a ladye of great beauty, till, being ravished by hir sisters husbande. 52 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER she desired to be turned into a byrd of her name. Whose complaintes be very well set forth of Maister George Gaskin, a wittie gentle- man, and the very chefe of our late ryraers, So who, and if some partes of learning wanted not (alfaee it is well knowen he altogyther wanted not learning) no doubt would have attayned to the excellenoye of those famous poets. For gifts of wit and naturall prompt- nesse appeare in hym aboundantly. Cj/presse, used of the old paynims in the fur- nishing of their funerall pompe, and properly the signe of all sorow and heavinesse. The fatall sisters, Clotho, Lachesis, and 90 Atropos, daughters of Herebus and the Nighte, whom the poetes fayne to spinne the life of man, as it were a long tlirede, which they drawe out in length, till his fatal howre and timely death be come ; but if by other casualtie his dayes be abridged, then one of them, that is, Atropos, is sayde to have cut the threde in twain. Hereof commeth a common verse. * Clotho colum bajulat, Lachesis trahit, Atropos occat.' trustlesse, a gallant exclamation, moral- ^°° ized with great wisedom, and passionate wyth great affection. Beare, a frame, wheron they use to lay the dead corse. Jewries, of poetes be feyned to be three, Persephone, Alecto, and Megera, which are sayd to be the authours of all evill and mis- chiefs. Eternall night is death or darknesse of hell. Betight, happened. no 1 see, a lively icon or representation, as if he saw her in heaven present. Elysian fieldes be devised of poetes to be a ■place of pleasure like Paradise, where the happye soules doe rest in peace and eternal happynesse. Dye would, the very expresse saying of Plato in Phsedone. Astert, befall unwares. Nfctar and ambrosia be feigned to be the 120 drink and foode of the gods : ambrosia they liken to manna in scripture, and nectar to be white like oreme, whereof is a proper tale of Hebe, that spilt a cup of it, and stayned the heavens, as yet appeareth. But I have already discoursed that at large in my Coramentarye upon the Dreames of the same authour, Meynt, mingled. EMBLEMS. Which is as much to say as, death biteth not. For although by course of nature we be 130 borne to dye, and being ripened with age, as with a timely harvest, we must be gathered in time, or els of our selves we fall like rotted ripe fruite fro the tree : yet death is not to be counted for evill, nor (as the poete sayd a little before) as doome of ill desert. For though the trespasse of the first man brought death into the world, as the guerdon of sinne, yet being overcome by the death of one that dyed for al, it is now made (as Chaucer sayth) the '4° grene path way to life. So that it agreeth well with that was sayd, that Death byteth not (that is) hurteth not at all. DECEMBER ^GLOGA DUODECIMA AKGUMENT This .^glogue (even as the first beganne) is ended with a complaynte of Colin to God Pan: wherein, as weary of his former wayes, he pro- portioneth his life to the foure seasons of the yeare, comparing hys youthe to the spring time, when he was fresh and free from loves follye ; his manhoode to the somnier, which, he sayth, was consumed with greate heate and excessive drouth, caused throughe a comet or blasinge starre, by which hee meaneth love, which passion is coraenly compared to such flames and immoderate heate ; his riper yeares hee resembleth to an unseasonable harveste, wherein the fruites fall ere they be rype ; his latter age to winters chyll and frostie season, now drawing neare to his last ende. The gentle shepheard satte beside a springe, All in the shadowe of a bushye brere, That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe, For he of Tityrus his songs did lere. There as he satte in secreate shade alone, Thus gan he make of love his piteous mone. ' O soveraigne Pan, thou god of shepheards all, Which of our tender lambkins takest keepe, And when our flocks into mischaunee mought fall, Doest save from mischiefe the unwary sheepe, 10 Als of their maisters hast no lesse regard Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward: ' I thee beseche (so be thou deigne to heare Rude ditties, tuud to shepheards oaten reede, DECEMBER 53 Or if I ever sonet song so cleare As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feeds) Hearken awhile,' from thy greene cabinet, The rurall song of caref ull Colinet. ' Whilome in youth, when flowrd my joyful! spring, Like swallow swift I wandred here and there : zo For heate of heedlesse lust me so did sting. That I of doubted daunger had no feare. I went the wasteful! woodes and forest wyde, Withouten dreade of wolves to bene espyed. ' I wont to raunge amydde the mazie thickette. And gather nuttes to make me Christmas game; And joyed oft to ehaee the trembling pricket. Or hunt the hartlesse hare til shee were tame. What recked I of wintrye ages waste ? Tho deemed I, my spring would ever laste. 30 ' How often have I scaled the craggie oke, All to dislodge the raven of her nest ! Howe have I wearied, with many a stroke. The stately walnut tree, the while the rest Under the tree fell all for nuts at strife ! For ylike to me was libertee and lyfe. ' And for I was in thilke same looser yeares, (Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth. Or I to much beleeved my shepherd peres,) Somedele ybent to song and musicks mirth, 40 A good olde shephearde, Wrenock was his name, Made me by arte more cunning in the , same. ' Fro thence I durst in derring doe compare With shepheards swayne what ever f edde in field : And if that Hobbinol right judgement bare. To Pan his owne selfe pype I neede not I yield: ' For if the flocking nymphes did folow Pan, The wiser Muses after Colin ranne. ' But ah ! such pryde at length was ill re- payde: The shepheards god (perdie, god was he none) 5° My hui-tlesse pleasaunce did me ill iip- braide ; My freedome lorne, my life he lefte to mone. Love they him called that gave me check- mate. But better mought they have behote him Hate. ' Tho gan my lovely spring bid me farewel. And sommer season sped him to display (For Love then in the Lyons house did dwell) The raging fyre that kindled at his ray. A comett stird up that unkindly heate. That reigned (as men sayd) in Venus seate. 60 ' Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore. When choise I had to choose my wandring waye. But whether Luck and Loves unbridled lore Would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playe. The bush my bedde, the bramble was my bowre. The woodes can witnesse many a wofull Stowre. ' Where I was wont to seeke the honey bee. Working her formal! rowmes in wexen frame. The grieslie todestoole growne there mought I se, And loathed paddocks lording on the same : 70 And where the chaunting birds luld me a sleepe. The ghastlie owle her grievous ynne doth keepe. ' Then as the springe gives place to elder time. And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers pryde. Also my age, now passed youngthly pryme, To thinges of ryper reason selfe applyed. And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame, Such as might save my sheepe and me fro shame. 54 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER ' To make fine cages for the nightingale, And baskets of bulrushes, was my wont: So Who to entrappe the fish in winding sale Was better seene, or hurtful beastes to hont? I learned als the signes of heaven to ken. How Phcebe f ayles, where Venus sittes and when. ' And tryed time yet taught me greater thiiiges : The sodain rysing of the raging seas. The soothe of byrds by beating of their wings. The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease. And which be wont tenrage the restlesse sheepe. And which be wont to worke eternall sleepe. go ' But ah, unwise and witlesse Colin Cloute ! That kydst the hidden kinds of many a wede, Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart roote, Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifelye bleede ! Why livest thou stil, and yet hast thy deathes wound ? Why dyest thou stil, and yet alive art f ounde ? ' Thus is my sommer worue away and wasted. Thus is my harvest hastened all to rathe: The eare that budded faire is burnt and blasted. And all my hoped gaine is turnd to scathe. Of all the seede that in my youth was sowne, loi Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowne. 'My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firste. And promised of timely fruite such store, Are left both bare and barrein now at erst: The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd before, And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripe: My harvest, wast, my hope away dyd wipe. ' The fragrant flowres that in my garden grewe Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long: "o Theyr rootes bene dryed up for laeke of dewe, Yet dewed with teares they ban be ever among. Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spight, To spil the flowres that should her girlond dight ? 'And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype Unto the shifting of the shepheards foote, Sike follies nowe have gathered as too ripe, And cast hem out as rotten and unsoote. The loser lasse I cast to please nomore: One if I please, enough is me therefore. 120 ' And thus of all my harvest hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care : Which, when I thought have thresht in swelling sheave, Cockel for corne, and chaff e for barley, bare. Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd. All was blowne away of the wavering wynd. ' So now my yeare drawes to his latter terme. My spring is spent, my sommer burnt up quite, My harveste hasts to stirre up Winter sterne. And bids him olayme with rigorous rage hys right: 130 So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoure, So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoure. 'The carefuU cold hath nypt my rugged rynde, And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight: My head besprent with hoary frost I fynd, And by myne eie the crow his clawe dooth wright. Delight is layd abedde, and pleasure past; No Sonne now shines, cloudes ban all over- cast. DECEMBER SS 'Now leave, ye shepheards boyes, your merry glee; My Muse is hoarse and weary of thys stounde : 140 Here will I hang my pype upon this tree ; Was never pype of reede did better sounde. Winter is come, that blowes the bitter blaste, And after winter dreerie death does hast. ' Gather ye together, my little flocke, My little flock, that was to me so liefe: Let me, ah ! lette me in your folds ye look, Ere the breme winter breede you greater grief e. Winter is come, that blowes the balefull breath, 149 And after winter commeth timely death. 'Adieu, delightes, that lulled me asleepe; Adieu, my deare, whose love I bought so deare ; Adieu, my little lambes and loved sheepe; Adieu, ye woodes, that oft my witnesse were; Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true: Tell Rosalind her Colui bids her adieu.' COLINS EMBLEMS. [^Vimtur ingenio: ccetera mortis erunt.J GLOSSE Tityrus, Chaucer, as hath bene oft sayd. Lambkins, young lambes. Als of their semeth to expresse Virgils verse. ' Pan curat ovee oviumque magistros.' Deigne, voutchsafe. Cabinet, Colinet, diminutives. Mazie : For they be like to a maze whence it is hard to get out agayne. Peres, felowes and companions. Musick, that is poetry, as Terence sayth, 10 'Qui artem tractant mnsicarn,' speking of poetes. Derring doe, af oresayd. Lions house. He imagineth simply that Cupid, which is Love, had his abode in the whote signe Leo, which is in middest of somer; a pretie allegory, whereof the meaning is, that love in him wrought an extraordinarie heate of lusfc. His ray, which is Cupides beame or flames of love. 20 A comete, a biasing starre, meant of beautie, which was the cause of his whote love. Venus, the goddesse of beauty or pleasure. Also a signe in heaven, as it is here taken. So he meaneth that beautie, which hath alwayes aspect to Venus, was the cause of all his un- quietnes in love. Where 1 was, a fine discription of the chaunge of hys lyf e and liking j for all things nowe seemed to hym to have altered their kindly 30 course. Lording : spoken after the maner of pad- docks and frogges sitting, which is indeed lordly, not removing nor looking once a side, unlesse they be sturred. Then as : the second part. That is, his manhoode. Cotes, sheepecotes : for such be the exercises of shepheards. Sale, or salow, a kind of woodde like wyl- 40 low, fit to wreath and bynde in leapes to catch fish withall. Phcebe fayles, the eclipse of the moone, which is alwayes in Cauda or Capite Draconis, signes in heaven. Venus, sc. Venus starre, otherwise called Hesperus, and Vesper, and Lucifer, both be- cause he seemeth to be one of the brightest stavres, and also first ryseth, and setteth last. All which skill in starres being convenient 50 for shepheardes to knowe, Theocritus and the rest use. Raging seas. The cause of the swelling and ebbing of the sea commeth of the course of the moone, sometime encreasing, sometime wayning and decreasing. Sooth of byrdes, a kind of sooth saying used in elder tymes, which they gathered by the fly- ing of byrds : first (as is sayd) invented by the Thuscanes, and from tliem derived to the 60 Romanes, who, (as is sayd in Livie) were so supersticiously rooted in the same, that they agreed that every noble man should put his Sonne to the Thuscanes, by them to be brought up in that knowledge. Of herbes : That wonderous thinges be wrought by herbes, aswell appeareth by the common working of them in our bodies, as also by the wonderful enchauntments and sorceries that have bene wrought by them ; insomuch 70 that it is sayde that Circe, a famous sorceresse, turned men into sondry kinds of beastes and monsters, and onely by herbes : as the poete sayth, ' Dea 88eva potentibus herbis,' &c. Kidst, knewest. JUare, of come. Scathe, losse, hinderatmce. Ever among, ever and anone. Thus is my, the thyrde parte, wherein is set 80 forth his ripe yeres as an untimely harvest, that bringeth little fruite. The fragraunt floures, sundry studies and laudable partes of learning, wherein how our S6 THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER poete is seene, be they witnesse, which are privie to his study. So now my yeere, the last part, wherein is described his age, by comparison of wyutrye stormes. Carefull cold, for care is sayd to coole the blood. gi Glee, mirth. Hoary frost, a metaphore of hoary heares scattred lyke to a gray frost. Breeme, sharpe and bitter. Adiew delights is a conclusion of all, where in sixe verses he comprehendeth briefly all that was touched in this booke. In the first verse his delights of youth generally : in the second, the love of Rosalind : in the thyrd, the keep- loo ing of sheepe, which is the argument of all .^glogues : in the fourth, his complaints : and in the last two, his professed frendsliip and good will to his good friend Hobbinoll. EMBLEMS. The meaning wherof is, that all thinges perish and come to theyr last end, but workes of learned wits and monuments of poetry abide for ever. And therefore Horace of his Odes, a work though f ul indede of great wit and learn- ing, yet of no so great weight and impor- no taunce, boldly sayth, ' Exegi monimentum sere perennius. Quod nee imber [edax], nee aquilo vorax,' &c. Therefore let not be envied, that this poete in his Epilogue sayth, he hath made a Calen- dar that shall endure as long as time, &c., folowing the ensample of Horace and Ovid in the like. ' Grande opua exegi, quod nee Jovis ira, nee ignis. Nee fernun poterit nee edax abolere vetustae,' &e. LoE ! I have made a Calender for every yeare, That Steele in strength, and time in durance, shall outweare: And if I marked well the starres revolu- tion, It shall continewe till the worlds dissolu- tion, To teach the ruder shepheard how to feede his sheepe, And from the f alsers fraud his folded flocke to keepe. Goe, lyttle Calender ! thou hast a free passeporte : Goe but a lowly gate emongste the meaner sorte : Dare not to match thy pype with Tityrus hys style, Nor with the Pilgrim that the Ploughman playde awhyle: But foUowe them farre off, and their high steppes adore: The better please, the worse despise; I aske no more. MERGE NON MERCEDE. COMPLAINTS CONTAINING SUNDRIE SMALL POEMES OF THE WORLDS VANITIE WHEREOF THE NEXT PAGE MAKETH MENTION BY ED. SP. LONDON IMPRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE, DWELLING IN PAULES CHURCHYARD AT THE SIGNE OF THE BISHOPS HEAD 1591 A NOTE OF THE SUNDRIE POEMES CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME 1. The Ruiues of Time. 2. The Teares of the Muses. 3. Virgils Gnat. 4. Prosopopoia, or Mother Hubberds Tale.' 5. The liuines of Rome: by Bellay. 6. Muiopotmos, or The Tale of the But- terflie. 7. Visions of the Worlds Vanitie. 8. Bellayes Visions. 9. Petrarches Visions. THE PRINTER TO THE GENTLE READER Since my late setting foorth of the Faerie Queene, finding that it hath fomid a favourable passage amongst you, I have sithence endevoured by all good meanes (for the better enerease and accomplish- ment of your delights,) to get into my handes such smale poemes of the same authors as I heard were disperst abroad in sundrie hands, and not easie to bee come by, by himself e ; some of them having bene diverslie imbeziled and purloyned from him, since his departure over sea. Of the which I have by good meanes gathered to- geather these fewe parcels present, which I have caused to bee imprinted altogeather, for that they al seeme to containe like matter of argument in them, being all com- plaints and meditations of the worlds van- itie, verie grave and profitable. To which effect I understand that he besides wrote sundrie others, namelie, Ecdesiastes and Canticum Canticorum translated, A Senights Slumber, The Hell of Lovers, his Purgatorie, being all dedicated to ladies, so as it may seeme he ment them all to one volume: besides some other pamphlets looselie scat- tered abroad: as The Dying Pellican, The Howers of the Lord, The Sacrifice of a Sin- ner, The Seven Psalmes, &c., which when I can either by himselfe or otherwise attaine too, I meane likewise for your favour sake to set foorth. In the meane time, praying you gentlie to accept of these, and gracious- lie to entertaine the ' new poet,' I take leave. [Thongh Complaints was not published till 1591, a year after the first issue of the Faery Queen, the poems of which it is composed are more properly to be classed with the Shepherd's Calendar. Most of them might have been printed, thougli perhaps not exactly as they now stand, before 1580; the others are best understood in company with these. The Cal- endar and Complaints, indeed, taken together, are the record of Spenser's growth to maturity. The circumstances of the publication are very oddly confused. In the opening address the credit for the whole enterprise is assumed by 'the Printer,' Ponsonby, who, we are told, hunted the poems out and made up and issued the volume by his own efforts. This work, we gather, was mainly prosecuted after the poet's ' departure over sea ' — his return, that is, to Ireland early in 1591. And the volume cer- tainly was published after his ' departure.' Yet we know that it had been made ready for printing while he was still in England. It ap- pears on the Stationers' Register for December 29, 1590, as approved by one of the official S8 COMPLAINTS censors : at that time, therefore, the copy must have been at least approximately complete. Three of the poems, moreover, ' The Tears of the Muses,' 'Mother Hubberd's Tale,' and ' Muiopotmos,' the central poems of the Tolume, bear signs of having been prepared for the press by himself and issued individually — ' Muiopot- mos ' in 1590. The plausible address of ' the Printer,' in fine, is not wholly to be trusted. What, then, is to be made of it ? According to Dr. Grosart, it was devised by the poet as a blind, in the manner of Swift. For such a de- vice one seeks a reason. May this be that, as, in 1579 (by the first letter to Harvey), he was shy of * seeming to utter his writings for gaine and commoditie,' so now, but a year after the issue of the Faery Queen, he was loth to accept the full responsibility of a second consider- able volume ? Any account of the publication, however, must be very largely conjectural. The chronology of the poems is less in doubt. Though two or three of them are somewhat hard to place, the majority can at least be grouped in certain main periods with reason- able probability. First of all is the group that belongs to his university days, 1570-1576, and his subsequent sojourn in Lancashire : ' The Visions of Petrarch,' ' The Visions of Bellay , ' ' Ruins of Rome,' and, perhaps, ' Visions of the World's Vanity.' Following upon these days is what may loosely be called his iirst London period, during which, until it ended with his de- parture for Ireland in 1580, his headquarters were probably in the capital. These three years were of marked literary activity. To them belong most, if not all, of the Calendar, and presumably the greater number of his so-called- 'lost works,' besides the beginnings of the Faery Queen ; to them belong also some of the most important ' complaints,' ' Virgil's Gnat,' 'Mother Hubberd's 'Tale,' and, less certainly, ' The Tears of the Muses.' Then follow the years of service in Ireland, till Raleigh brought him back in 1 589. During this period he would seem to have given his leisure for poetry almost exclusively to the Faery Queen. Of the two remaining ' complaints,' ' The Ruins of Time ' was written shortly after his return to Eng- land, and ' Muiopotmos ' perhaps at about the same time. ' The Ruins of Time ' and ' Muiopotmos ' were composed not long before publication and prob- ably needed no retonching. ' Mother Hubberd's Tale' and. 'The Tears of the Muses,' early poems, were to some extent revised for the press. The others, one may think, were allowed to appear as first finished, or were at most but casually retouched. For, from the general tenor of his output, one infers that Spenser was not very sedulous in the revision of work once completed, and these poems were relatively un- important — all but one, translations. They are not, like their companions, dedicated to people alive and influential in 1590 : their chief function, indeed, would seem to be to fill out the volume. If Ponsonby really had a shai'e m the collecting of Complaints, it must have been these, or some of them, that he gathered. To the reader of Complaints one name recurs more frequently than others, that of Joacliim Du Bellay, who, from 1549 to his early death in 1560, was one of the leaders of the new school of poetry in France. From him Spenser translated ' The Visions of Bellay ' and ' Ruins of Rome,' and from him chiefly he must have acquired those poetic theories of the PMade which are the staple of 'The Tears of the Muses.' Du Bellay is a personality of great attractiveness. Not so distinguished an artist as his colleague Ronsard, he had qualities of mind and character that win us more : dignity untouched by arrogance, guarded from it by native sense of fitness, the distinction of a finely congruous nature ; in especial, a singularly penetrating and human melancholy. On any Elizabethan author of a volume of ' com- plaints ' his influence might be among the deepest of that day. It is noteworthy, how- ever, that his really central work, the Regrets, does not seem to have touched Spenser at all. And indeed, the ' life-long vein of melancholy ' which Dr. Grosart detects in ' the newe poete ' must have been, at best, rather thin. His elegies are hardly convincing. When he strikes the note of personal disappointment, his verse occasionally betrays a feeling akin to sadness, but the bulk of his really character- istic and genuine work is anything but sad. In the Faery Queen one may search far and wide, in vain, for a touch of that peculiar feel- ing which pervades the romance-epic of the genuinely melancholy Tasso. His most con- stant mood would seem rather to have been a serenity neither sad nor cheerful. In any case, one will not infer his temperament from the professed melancholy of his earlier work. That much of the Calendar is gloomy, that he wrote a whole volume of ' complaints,' was to have been expected : work in that vein was a convention of the days into which he was born. The cosmopolitan pastoral invited, if it did not impose, a strain of lamentation, and in England, since the days of Sir Thomas Wyatt, love-poetry in the manner and tone of the plaintive Petrarch, meditations upon the van- ity of life, elegies, stories of the falls of the mighty had formed, in good measure, the staple of serious poetry. Spenser's early work but continues a convention already well estab- lished.] THE RUINES OF TIME 59 THE RUINES OF TIME DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT NOBLE AND BEAUTI- FULL LADIE, THE LADIE MARIE COUNTESSE OF PEMBROOKE Most honourable and bountiful! Ladie, there bee long sithens deepe sowed in my brest the seede of most entire love and humble afEectiou unto that most brave knight, your noble brother deceased ; which taking roote began in his life time some- what to bud forth, and to shew themselves to him, as then in the weakenes of their first spring: and would in their riper strength (had it pleased High God till then to drawe out his daies) 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; togeather with him both their hope of anie further fruit was cut off, and also the tender delight of those their first blossoms nipped and quite dead. Yet sithens my late cum- ming into England, some frends of mine (which might much prevaile with me, and indeede commaund me) knowing with howe straight bandes of duetie I was tied to him, as also bound unto that noble house, (of which the chief e hope then rested in him) have sought to revive them by upbraiding me, for that I have not shewed anie thauke- full remembrance towards him or any of them, but suffer their names to sleep in silence and forgetf ulnesse. Whome chieflie to satisfie, or els to avoide that fowle blot of unthankefulnesse, I have conceived this small poeme, intituled by a generall name of The Worlds Ruines : yet speciallie in- tended to the renowming of that noble race, from which both you and he sprong, and to the eternizing of some of the chiefe of them late deceased. The which I dedi- cate unto your Ladiship as whome it most speciallie concerneth, and to whome I acknowledge my selfe bounden, by manie singular favours and great graces. I pray for your honourable happinesse: and so humblie kisse your handes. Your Ladiships ever humblie at commaund, E. S. [' The Buins of Time ' is mainly official verse, melodious and uninspired. It is the one poem of the volume confessedly written to order — confessedly, in the frank and dignified letter of dedication. Had Sidney alone been Spenser's theme, or Sidney and Leicester, both his early patrons, this poem might perhaps have been comparable with Daphndida, but the great house to which they belonged having recently lost other distinguished members besides, Spen- ser saw fit to undertake a sort of necrology of the Dudleys, and the issue was perf unetoriness. Perhaps he was busy with other matters. Per- haps, too, as some have inferred, he built his poem up in good part of earlier material. It certainly is composite and ill-digested, and the device of the ' visions ' clearly harks back to the days of his artistic apprenticeship. If he did take recourse to his early mannseripts, he may possibly have helped himself witli Stem- mata Dudleiana, mentioned in the postscript of the second letter to Harvey. On these points, however, we have ground for nothing more definite than surmise.] THE RUINES OF TIME It chaimeed me on day beside the shore Of silver streaming Thamesis to bee. Nigh where the goodly Verlame stood of yore. Of which there now remaines no memorie, Nor anie little moniment to see. By which the travailer that fares that way This once was she may warned be to say. There on the other side, I did behold A woman sitting sorrowfullie wailing, g Rending her yeolow locks, like wyrie golde About her shoulders careleslie downe trail- ing. And streames of teares from her faire eyes forth railing. In her right hand a broken rod she held. Which towards heaven shee seemd on high to weld. Whether she were one of that rivers nymphes. Which did the losse of some dere love la- ment, I doubt; or one of those three fatall impes Which draw the dayes of men forth in ex- tent; Or th' auncient genius of that citie brent; But seeing her so piteouslie perplexed, 2a I (to her calling) askt what her so vexed. 6o COMPLAINTS • Ah ! what delight,' quoth she, ' in earthlie thing. Or comfort can I, wretched creature, have ? Whose happines the heavens envying, From highest staire to lowest step me drave. And have in mine owne bowels made my grave. That of all nations now I am f orlorne. The worlds sad spectacle, and Fortmies scorne.' Much was T mooved at her piteous plaint, And felt my heart nigh riven in my brest 30 With tender ruth to see her sore constraint; That shedding teares a while I still did rest, And after did her name of her request. ' Name have I none,' quoth she, ' nor anie being, Bereft of both by Fates unjust decreeing. ' I was that citie which the garland wore Of Britaines pride, delivered unto me By Komane victors, which it wonne of yore; Though nought at all but mines now I bee. And lye in mine owne ashes, as ye see: 40 Verlame I was; what bootes it that I was, Sith now I am but weedes and wastfull !? ' O vaine worlds glorie, and unstedfast state Of all that lives on face of sinfuU earth ! Which from their first untill their utmost date Tast no one hower of happines or merth. But like as at the ingate of their berth They crying creep out of their mothers woomb. So wailing backe go to their wof ull toomb. 'Why then dooth flesh, a bubble glas of breath, 50 Hunt after honour and advauneement vaine, And reare a trophee for devouring death With so great labour and long lastuig paine. As if his dales for ever should remaine ? Sith all that in this world is great or gaie Doth as a vapour vanish, and decaie. 'Looke backe, 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 wisedome knew the perfect somme ? 60 Where those great warriors, which did over- comme The world with conquest of their might and maine. And made one meare of th' earth and of their raine ? ' What nowe is of th' Assyrian Lyonesse, Of whome no footing now on earth ap- peares ? What of the Persian Beares outragious- nesse. Whose memorie is quite worne out with yeares ? Who of the Grecian Libbard now ought heares, That overran the East with greedie powre, And left his whelps their kingdomes to de- ' And where is that same great seven head- ded beast. That made all nations vassals of her pride, To fall before her feete at her beheast, And in the necke of all the world did ride? Where doth she all that wondrous welth nowe hide ? With her own weight down pressed now shee lies. And by her heaps her hugenesse testifies. ' O Rome, thy ruine I lament and rue. And in thy fall my fatall overthrowe. That whilom was, whilst heavens with equall vewe 80 Deignd to behold me, and their gifts bestowe, The picture of thy pride in pompous shew: And of the whole world as thou wast the empresse. So I of this small Northerne world was princesse. ' To tell the beawtie of my buildings fayre, Adornd with purest golde and precious stone, To tell my riches, and endowments rare. That by my foes are now all spent and gone, To tell my forces, matohable to none. Were but lost labour, that few would be- leeve, 90 And with rehearsing would me more agreeve. THE RUINES OF TIME 6i ' High towers, f aire temples, goodly thea- ters, Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pal- laces, Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepul- chers. Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries Wrought with faire pillours, and fine imageries. All those (O pitie !) now are turnd to dust, And overgrowen with blacke oblivions rust. ' Theretoo, for warlike power and peoples store, In Britannie was none to match with mee, That manie often did able full sore: loi Ne Troynovant, though elder sister shee, With my great forces might compared bee; That stout Pendragon to his perill felt. Who in a siege seaven yeres about me dwelt. ' But long ere this, Bunduca Britonnesse Her mightie hoast against my bulwarkes brought, Bunduca, that victorious conqueresse, That, lifting up her brave heroick thought Bove womens weaknes, with the Romanes fought, no Fought, and in field against them tlirice prevailed : Yet was she foyld, when as she me as- sailed. ' And though at last by force I conquered were Of hardie Saxons, and became their thrall, Yet was I with much bloodshed bought full deere, And prizde with slaughter of their gen- erall : The moniment of whose sad funerall. For wonder of the world, long in me lasted; But now to nought, through spoyle of time, is wasted. ' Wasted it is, as if it never were, 120 And all the rest that me so honord made, And of the world admired ev'rie where, Is turnd to smoake, that doth to nothing fade; And of that brightnes now appeares no shade, But greislie shades, such as doo haunt in hell With fearfuU fiends, that in deep darknes dwell. ' Where my high steeples whilom usde to stand, On which the lordly faulcon wont to towre. There now is but an heap of lyme and sand. For the shriche-owle to build her balefull bowre : 130 And where the nightingale wont forth to powre Her restles plaints, to comfort wakefull lovers, There now haunt yelling mewes and whin- ing plovers. ' And where the christall Thamis wont to slide In silver channell, downe along the lee. About whose flowrie bankes on either side A thousand nymphes, with mirthfull joUi- tee. Were wont to play, from all annoyance free. There now no rivers course is to be scene. But moorish fennes, and marshes ever greene. 140 ' Seemes that that gentle river, for great griefe Of my mishaps, which oft I to him plained, Or for to shimne the horrible mischiefe, With which he saw my cruell foes me pained, And his pure strearaes with guiltles blood oft stained. From my unhappie neighborhood farre fled. And his sweete waters away with him led. ' There also where the winged ships were seene In liquid waves to cut their f omie waie. And thousand fishers numbred to have been, 150 In that wide lake looking for plenteous praie Of fish, which they with baits usde to be- traie, Is now no lake, nor anie fishers store, Nor ever ship shall saile there anie more. ' They all are gone, and all with them is gone: Ne ought to me remaines, but to lament 62 COMPLAINTS My long decay, which no man els doth mone, And mourne my fall with dolefuU dreri- ment. Yet it is comfort in great languishment, To be bemoned with compassion kinde, i6o And mitigates the anguish of the minde. ' But me no man bewaileth, but in game, Ne sheddeth teares from lamentable eie: Nor anie lives that mentioneth my name To be remembred of posteritie, Save one, that maugre Fortunes injurie, And Times decay, and Envies cruell tort. Hath writ my record in true-seeming sort. ' Cambden, the nourice of antiquitie. And lanterne unto late succeeding age, 170 To see the light of simple veritie Buried m mines, through the great outrage Of her owne people, led with warlike rage, Cambden, though Time all moniments ob- scure, Yet thy just labours ever shall endure. 'But whie (unhappie wight) doo I thus crie. And grieve that my remembrance quite is raced Out of the knowledge of posteritie, And all my antique moniments defaced ? Sith I doo dailie see things highest placed. So soone as Fates their vitall thred have shorne, 181 Forgotten quite as they were never borne. ' It is not long, since these two eyes beheld A mightie Prince, of most renowmed race. Whom England high in count of honour held, And greatest ones did sue to gaine his grace ; Of greatest ones he greatest in his place, Sate in the bosome of his Soveraine, And Right and loyall did his word main- tains. ' I saw him die, I saw him die, as one 190 Of the meane people, and brought foorth on beare; I saw him die, and no man left to mone His dolefuU fate that late him loved deare: Soarse anie left to close his eylids neare; Scarse anie left upon his lips to laie The sacred sod, or requiem to sale. ' O trustlesse state of miserable men. That builde your blis on hope of earthly thing, And vainly thinke your selves halfe happie then, When painted faces with smooth flatter- ing 2CO Doo fawne on you, and your wide praises And when the courting masker louteth lowe, Him true in heart and trustie to you trow ! ' All is but f ained, and with oaker dide, That everie shower will wash and wipe away. All things doo change that under heaven abide. And after death all friendship doth decaie. Therefore, what ever man bearst worldlie sway. Living, on God and on thy self e relie ; For when thou diest, all shall with thee die. 210 ' He now is dead, and all is with him dead, Save what in heavens storehouse he up- laid: His hope is faild, and come to passe his dread. And evill men (now dead) his deeds up- braid: Spite bites the dead, that living never baid. He now is gone, the whiles the foxe is crept Into the hole the which the badger swept. ' He now is dead, and all his glorie gone. And all his greatnes vapoured to nought, That as a glasse upon the water shone, 220 Which vanisht quite, so soone as it was sought: His name is worne alreadie out of thought, Ne anie poet seekes him to revive ; Yet manie poets honourd him alive. ' Ne doth his Colin, carelesse Colin Cloute, Care now his idle bagpipe up to raise, Ne tell his sorrow to the listnmg rout Of shepherd groomes, which wont his songs to praise: Praise who so list, yet I will him dispraise, Untill he quite him of this guiltie blame : 230 Wake, shepheards boy, at length awake for shame t THE RUINES OF TIME 63 ' And who so els did goodnes by him gains, And who so els his bounteous minde did trie, Whether he shepheard be, or shepheards swaine, (For manie did, which doo it now denie) Awake, and to his song a part applie: And I, the whilest you mourne for his de- cease, Will with my mourning plaints your plaint increase. ' He dyde, and after him his brother dyde. His brother prince, his brother noble peere, 240 That whilste he lived was of none envyde. And dead is now, as living, counted deare, Deare unto all that true affection beare, But unto thee most deare, O dearest dame, His noble spouse and paragon of fame. ' He, whilest he lived, happie was through thee. And, being dead, is happie now much more ; Living, that lincked chaunst with thee to bee. And dead, because him dead thou dost adore As living, and thy lost deare love deplore. 250 So whilst that thou, faire flower of chastitie, Dost live, by thee thy lord shall never die. 'Thy lord shall never die, the whiles this verse Shall live, and surely it shall live fcr ever: For ever it shall live, and sliall rehearse His worthie praise, and vertues dying never. Though death his soule doo from his bodie sever. And thou thy self e herein shalt also live ; Such grace the heavens doo to my verses give. ' Ne shall his sister, ne thy father die, 260 Thy father, that good earle of rare renowne. And noble patrone of weake povertie ; Whose great good deeds, in eomitrey and in towne. Have purchast him in heaven an happie crowne ; Where he now liveth in eternall blis. And left his sonne t' ensue those steps of his. ' He, noble bud, his grandsires livelie hayre, Under the shadow of thy conntenaunce Now ginnes to shoote up fast, and flourish fayre In learned artes and goodlie govern- aunce, 270 That him to highest honour shall advaunce. Brave imce of Bedford, grow apace in bountie. And count of wisedome more than of thy countie. ' Ne may I let thy husbands sister die. That goodly ladie, sith she eke did spring Out of this stocke and famous familie. Whose praises I to future age doo sing. And foorth out of her happie womb did bring The sacred brood of learning and all honour. In whom the heavens powrde all their gifts upon her. 280 ' Most gentle spirite breathed from above. Out of the bosome of the Mjikers blis. In whom all bountie and all vertuous love Appeared in their native propertis. And did enrich that noble breast of his With treasure passing all this worldes worth, Worthie of heaven it selfe, which brought it forth. ' His blessed spirite, full of power divine And influence of all celestiall grace. Loathing this sinfull earth and earth lie slime, 290 Fled backe too soone unto his native place. Too soone for all that did his love em- brace. Too soone for all this wretched world, whom he Robd of all right and true nobilitie. ' Yet ere his happie soule to heaven went Out of this fleshlie goale, he did devise Unto his heavenlie Maker to present His bodie, as a spotles sacriftse ; And chose, that guiltie hands of enemies Should powre forth th' offring of his guilt- les blood : 300 So life exchanging for his countries good. ' noble spirite, live there ever blessed, The worlds late wonder, and the heavens new joy, 64 COMPLAINTS Live ever there, and leave me here dis- tressed Witli mortall cares, and cumbrous worlds anoy. But where thou dost that happines enjoy. Bid me, O bid me quioklie come to thee, That happie there I maie thee alwaies 'Yet, whilest the Fates affoord me vital! breath, I will it spend in speaking of thy praise, 310 And sing to thee, untill that timelie death By heavens doome doo ende my earthlie daies: Thereto doo thou my humble spirite raise, And into me that sacred breath inspire. Which thou there breathest perfect and entire. ' Then will I sing ; but who can better sing Than thme owne sister, peerles ladie bright. Which to thee sings with deep harts sorrow- ing, Sorrowing tempered with deare delight. That her to heare I feele my feeble spright Robbed of sense, and ravished with joy: 321 O sad joy, made of mourning and anoy ! ' Yet will I sing; but who can better sing. Than thou thy selfe, thine owne selfes valianoe. That, whilest thou livedst, madest the for- rests ring, And fields resownd, and flockes to leap and daunce, And shepheards leave their lambs unto mis- chaunce, To runne thy shrill Arcadian pipe to heare: O happie were those dayes, thrice happie were ! ' But now more happie thou, and wretched wee, 330 Which want the wonted sweetnes of thy voice. Whiles thou now in Elisian fields so free. With Orpheus; and with Linus, and the choice Of all that ever did in rimes rejoyce, Conversest, and doost heare their heavenlie layes. And they heare thine, and thine doo better praise. ' So there thou livest, singing evermore, And here thou livest, being ever song Of us, which living loved thee afore. And now thee worship, mongst that blessed throng 340 Of heavenlie poets and heroes strong. So thou both here and there immortall art. And everie where through excellent desart. 'But such as neither of themselves can sing, Nor yet are sung of others for reward, Die in obscure oblivion, as the thing Which never was, ne ever with regard Their names shall of the later age be heard, But shall in rustic darknes ever lie, Unles they mentiond be with infamie. 350 ' What booteth it to have been rich alive ? What to be great ? what to be gracious ? When after death no token doth survive Of former being in this mortall hous. But sleepes in dust dead and inglorious. Like beast, whose breath but in his nos- trels is. And hath no hope of happinesse or blis. ' How manie great ones may remembred be, Which in their daies most famouslie did florish. Of whome no word we heare, nor signe now see, 360 But as things wipt out with a sponge to- perishe. Because they, living, cared not to cherishe No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names for ever mem- orize ! ' Provide therefore (ye princes) whilst ye live. That of the Muses ye may friended bee, Which unto men eternitie do give: For they be daughters of Dame Memorie And Jove, the father of Eternitie, And do those men in golden thrones repose. Whose merits they to glorifie do chose. 371 ' The seven fold yron gates of grislie Hell, And horrid house of sad Proserpina, They able are with power of mightie spell To breake, and thence the soules to bring awaie Out of dread darkenesse to eternall day, THE RUINES OF TIME 6S And them immortall make, which els would die In foule forgetftdnesse, and nameles lie. ' So whilome raised they the puissant brood Of golden girt Alomena, for great merite, Out of the dust to which the Oetsean wood Had him consum'd, and spent his vitall spirite, 382 To highest heaven, where now he doth in- herite All happinesse in Hebes silver bowre, Chosen to be her dearest paramoure. 'So raisde they eke faire Ledaes warlick twinnes. And interchanged life unto them lent. That, when th' one dies, th' other then be- giunes To shew in heaven his brightnes orient; And they, for pittie of the sad wayment, 390 Which Orpheus for Eurydice did make. Her back againe to life sent for his sake. ' So happie are they, and so fortunate. Whom the Pierian sacred sisters love, That freed from bands of impacable fate. And power of death, they live for aye above. Where mortall wreakes their blis may not remove : But with the gods, for former vertuea meede, On nectar and ambrosia do feede. ' For deeds doe die, how ever noblie donne. And thoughts of men do as themselves decay, 401 But wise wordes taught in numbers for to runne. Recorded by the Muses, live for ay, Ne may with storming showers be washt away; Ne bitter breathing windes with harmfuU blast. Nor age, nor envie, shall them ever wast. ' In vaine doo earthly princes then, in vaine, Seeke with pyramides, to heaven aspired. Or huge colosses, buUt with costlie paine, Or brasen pillours, never to be fired, 410 Or shrines, made of the mettall most de- sired, To make their memories for ever live: For how can mortall immortalitie give ? ' Such one Mausolus made, the worlds great wonder, But now no remnant doth thereof remaine: Such one Marcellus, but was tome with thunder: Such one Lisippus, but is worue with raine : Such one King Edmond, but was rent for gaine. All such vaine moniments of earthlie masse, Devour'd of Time, in time to nought doo passe. 420 ' But Fame with golden wings aloft doth flie, Above the reach of ruinous decay. And with brave plumes doth beate the azure skie, Admir'd of base-borne men from farre away: Then who so will with vertuous deeds assay To mount to heaven, on Pegasus must ride, And with sweete poets verse be glorifide. ' For not to have been dipt in Lethe lake Could save the sonne of Thetis from to die; But that bliude bard did him immortall make 43a With verses, dipt in deaw of Castalie: Which made the Easteme conquerour to crie, O fortunate yong-man, whose vertue found So brave a trompe thy noble acts to sound > ' Therefore in this halfe happie I doo read Good Melibse, that hath a poet got To sing his living praises being dead. Deserving never here to be forgot. In spight of envie, that his deeds would spot: Since whose decease, learning lies unre- garded, 440 And men of armes doo wander unrewarded. ' Those two be those two great calamities, That long agoe did grieve the noble spright Of Salomon with great indignities; Who whilome was alive the wisest wight: But now his wisedome is disprooved quite : For he that now welds all things at his will Scorns th' one and th' other in his deeper skill. ' O griefe of griefes I gall of all good heartes I To see that vertue should dispised bee 450 66 COMPLAINTS Of him that first was raisde for vertuous And now, broad spreading like an aged tree, Lets none shoot up, that nigh him planted bee. O let the man of whom the Muse is scorned, Nor alive nor dead, be of the Muse adorned ! ' vile worlds trust, that with such vaine illusion Hath so wise men bewitoht and overkest, That they see not the way of their confu- sion ! vainesse to be added to the rest. That do my soule with inward griefe in- fest ! 460 Let them behold the piteous fall of mee, And in my case their owne ensample see. ' And who so els that sits in highest seate Of this worlds glorie, worshipped of all, Ne feareth change of time, nor fortunes threate, Let him behold the horror of my fall. And his owne end unto remembrance call; That of like ruine he may warned bee. And in himselfe be moov'd to pittie mee.' Thus having ended all her piteous plaint, 470 With dolefull shrikes shee vanished away. That I, through inward sorrowe wexen faint. And all astonished with deepe dismay For her departure, had no word to say; But sate long time in sencelesse sad af- fright, Looking still, if I might of her have sight. Which when I missed, having looked long. My thought returned greeved home againe, Renewing her complaint with passion strong. For ruth of that same womans piteous paine ; 480 Whose wordes recording in my troubled braine, 1 felt such anguish wound my feeble heart. That frosen horror ran through everie part. So inlie greeving in my groning brest, And deepelie muzing at her doubtful! Whose meaning much I Ia,bored foorth to wreste, Being above my slender reasons reach. At length, by demonstration me to teach. Before mine eies strange sights presented were, Like tragicke pageants seeming to appeare. I I saw an image, all of massie gold, 491 Placed on high upon an altare faire. That all which did the same from farre beholde Might worship it, and fall on lowest staire. Not that great idoU might with this com- paire. To which th' Assyrian tyrant would have made The holie brethren falslie to have praid. But th' altare on the which this image staid Was (O great pitie!) built of brickie clay. That shortly the foundation decaid, 500 With showres of heaven and tempests worne away: Then downe it fell, and low in ashes lay. Scorned of everie one which by it went; That I, it seing, dearelie did lament. Next unto this a statelie towre appeared, Built all of richest stone that might bee found, And nigh unto the heavens in height up- reared, But placed on a plot of sandie ground: Not that great towre which is so much re- nownd For tongues confusion in Holie Writ, 510 King Ninus worke, might be compar'd to it. But O vaine laboiirs of terrestriall wit. That buildes so stronglie on so frayle a . soyle, As with each storme does fall away and flit. And gives the fruit of all your travailes toyle, To be the pray of Tyme, and Fortunes spoyle ! I saw this towre fall sodainlie to dust. That nigh with griefe thereof my heart was brust. THE RUINES OF TIME 67 III Then did I see a pleasant paradize, Full of sweete flowres and daintiest de- lights, 520 Such as on earth man could not more devize, With pleasures choyce to feed his cheeref ull sprights : Not that which Merlin by his magicke slights Made for the gentle Squire, to entertaine His fayre Belphoebe, could this gardine staine. But O short pleasure bought with lasting paiue ! Why will hereafter anie flesh delight In earthlie blis, and joy in pleasures vaine, Since that I sawe this gardine wasted quite. That where it was scarce seemed anie sight? 530 That I, which once that beautie did beholde. Could not from teares my melting eyes with- holde. Soone after this a giaunt came in place. Of wondrous power, and of exceeding stat- ure. That none durst vewe the horror of his face ; Yet was he milde of speach, and meeke of nature. Not he, which in despight of his Creatonr With railing tearmes defied the Jewish hoast. Might with this mightie one in hugenes boast. For from the one he could to th' other coast 54° Stretch his strong thighes, and th' ocsean overstride, And reatch his hand into his enemies hoast. But see the end of pompe and fleshlie pride : One of his feete unwares from him did slide, That downe hee fell into the deepe abisse. Where drownd with him is all his earthlie blisse. Then did I see a bridge, made all of golde, Over the sea from one to other side, Withouten prop or pillour it t' upholde. But like the coulored rainbowe arched wide: 55° Not that great arche which Trajan edi- flde, To be a wonder to all age ensuing. Was matehable to this in equall vewing. But ah! what bootes it to see earthlie thing In glorie or in greatnes to exeell, Sith time doth greatest things to ruine bring ? This goodlie bridge, one foote not fastned well, Gan faile, and all the rest downe shortlie fell, Ne of so brave a building ought remained, That griefe thereof my spirite greatly pained. 560 VI I saw two beares, as white as anie milke, Lying together in a mightie cave. Of milde aspect, and haire as soft as silke. That salvage nature seemed not to have. Nor after greedie spoyle of blood to crave: Two fairer beasts might not elswhere be foimd. Although the compast world were sought around. But what can long abide above this ground In state of blis, or stedfast happinesse ? The cave in which these beares lay sleeping sound 570 Was but earth, and with her owne weighti- nesse Upon them fell, and did imwares oppresse; That, for great sorrow of their sudden fate, Henceforth all worlds felicitie I hate. IT Much was I troubled in my heavie spright, At sight of these sad spectacles forepast. That all my senses were bereaved quight, And I in minde remained sore agast. Distraught twixt feare and pitie; when at last I heard a voyce, which loudly to me called, 580 That with the suddein shrill I was ap- palled. ' Behold,' said it, ' and by ensample see, That all is vanitie and griefe of minde, 68 COMPLAINTS Ne other comfort in this world can be, But hope of heaven, and heart to God in- eliiide ; Por all the rest must needs be left behinde.' With that it bad me to the other side To cast mine eye, where other sights I spide. Upon that famous rivers further shore, There stood a snowie swan, of heavenly hiew 590 And gentle kinde, as ever fowle afore; A fairer one in all the goodlie eriew Of white Strimonian brood might no man view: There he most sweetly sung the prophecie Of his owne death in dolefull elegie. At last, when all his mourning melodic He ended had, that both the shores re- sounded, Feeling the fit that him forewarnd to die. With loftie flight above the earth he bounded, And out of sight to highest heaven mounted, 600 Where now he is become an heavenly signe: There now the joy is his, here sorrow mine. Whilest thus I looked, loe ! adowne the lee I sawe an harpe, stroong all with silver twyne. And made of golde and costlie yvorie, Swimming, that whilome seemed to have been The harpe on which Dan Orpheus was scene Wylde beasts and forrests after him to lead. But was th' harpe of Philisides now dead. At length out of the river it was reard, 610 And borne above the cloudes to be divin'd, Whilst all the way most heavenly noyse was heard Of the strings, stirred with the warbling wind. That wrought both joy and sorrow in my mind: So now in heaven a signe it doth appeare, The Harpe well knowne beside the North- ern Beare. Ill Soone after this I saw on th' other side A curious coffer made of heben wood. That in it did most precious treasure hide. Exceeding all this baser worldes good: 620 Yet through the overflowing of the flood It almost drowned was and done to nought. That sight thereof much griev'd my pensive thought. At length, when most in perill it was brought. Two angels, downe descending with swift flight. Out of the swelling streame it lightly caught. And twixt their blessed armes it carried quight Above the reach of anie living sight: So now it is transform 'd into that starre. In which all heavenly treasures locked are. Looking aside I saw a stately bed, 631 Adorned all with costly cloth of gold. That might for anie princes couche be red. And deckt with daintie flowres, as if it shold Be for some bride, her joyous night to hold: Therein a goodly virgine sleeping lay; A fairer wight saw never summers day. I heard a voyce that called farre away. And her awaking bad her quickly dight. For lo ! her bridegrome was in readie ray To come to her, and seeke her loves de- light: 641 With that she started up with cherefull sight; When suddeinly both bed and all was gone. And I in languor left there all alone. Still as I gazed, I beheld where stood A knight all arm'd, upon a winged steed, The same that was bred of Medusaes blood. On which Dan Perseus, borne of heavenly seed, The faire Andromeda from perUl freed: Full mortally this knight ywounded was. That streames of blood f oorth flowed on the gras. 651 Yet was he deckt (small joy to him, alas I) With manie garlands for his victories, THE TEARES OF THE MUSES 69 And with rich spoyles, which late he did purchas Through brave atcheivements from his ene- mies: Fainting at last through long infirmities, He smote his steed, that straight to heaven him bore, And left me here his losse for to deplore. VI Lastly, I saw an arke of purest golde Upon a brazen pillour standing hie, 660 Which th' ashes seem'd of some great prince to hold, Enclosde therein for endles memorie Of him whom all the world did glorifie : Seemed the heavens with the earth did dis- agree. Whether should of those ashes keeper bee. At last me seem'd wing footed Mercnrie, From heaven descending to appease their strife. The arke did beare with him above the skie. And to those ashes gave a second life, 669 To live in heaven, where happines is rife : At which the earth did grieve exceedingly, And I for dole was almost like to die. L'ENVOY Immortall spirite of Philisides, Which now art made the heavens orna- ment. That whilome wast the worldes chiefst riches. Give leave to him that lov'de thee to lament His losse, by lacke of thee to heaven hent, And with last duties of this broken verse. Broken with sighes, to decke thy sable herse. And ye, faire ladie, th' honor of your dales 680 And glorie of the world, your high thoughts scorne. Vouchsafe this moniment of his last praise With some few silver dropping teares t' adorne : And as ye be of heavenlie off-spring borne, So unto heaven let your high minde aspire. And loath this drosse of sinfull worlds de- sire. FINIS. THE TEARES OF THE MUSES BY ED. SP. LONDON IMPRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE, DWELLING IN PAULES CHURCHYARD AT THE SIGNE OF THE BISHOPS HEAD I59I TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE LADIE STRANGE Most brave and noble Ladie, the things that make ye so much honored of the world as ye bee, are such as (without my simple lines testimonie) are throughlie knowen to all men; namely, your excellent beautie, your vertuous behavior, and your noble match with that most honourable lord, the verie paterne of right nobUitie: but the causes for which ye have thus deserved of me to be honoured (if honour it be at all) are, both your particular bounties, and also some private bands of affinitie, which it hath pleased your Ladiship to acknow- ledge. Of which whenas I found my selfe in no part worthie, I devised this last slen- der meanes, both to intimate my humble affection to your Ladiship, and also to make the same univei?sallie knowen to the world ; that by honouring you they might know me, and by knowing me they might honor you. Vouchsafe, noble Lady, to accept this simple remembrance, thogh not worthy of your self, yet such as perhaps, by good ac- ceptance therof , ye may hereafter cull out a more meet and memorable evidence of your own excellent deserts. So recom- mending the same to your Ladiships good liking, I humbly take leave. Your Ladiships humbly ever Ed. Sp. [To what period this poem may belong has been somewhat disputed. On the whole, it would seem, like ' Mother Hubberd's Tale,' to be early work revised, for though the allusions in the lament of Thalia refer that passage to 1589 or 1590, there are good grounds for be- lieving that the poem lirst took form before 1580. Its doleful account of the state of literature, for instance, is quite at odds with 70 COMPLAINTS that survey in Colin Clout 's Come Home Again (of 1591) wherein Spenser deals so sympatheti- cally with his fellow poets, and is not unlike in tone to various passages in the Calendar. One can hardly understand, moreover, how, in 1590, even as a matter of convention, he could take so dismal a view of English literature. In 1580, on the other liand, before Sidney, Greene, Marlowe, and their fellows of the first great generation had begun to write, when, Spenser himself excepted, Lyly with liis Eu- phues was the one brilliant name In English letters, such a view is quite conceivable. The matter might be argued much further, to the same result. The general tone of the poem, its mental attitude, cannot but impress a modern reader somewhat unpleasantly. The complaint that * niightie peeres ' no longer care for the im- mortality which only poets can confer, that poets and scholars, 'the learned,' are left without patronage, may be set down partly to a trying personal experience. The note of contempt, however, and of arrogance that one is glad to believe youthful, the complaint of universal vulgarity, the cry that Ignorance and Barbarism have quite laid Avaste the fair realm of the Muses — all this comes near, in the end, to seeming insufferable. If the Areopagus, the select literary clnb in which Sidney and Dyer and Fulke Greville, with perhaps Spen- ser himself, discussed the condition of Eng- lish letters and planned great reforms, if this cinacle is fairly represented by ' The Tears of the Muses,' it must have been, one thinks, a more than usually supercilious clique of young radicals. Yet what may be distasteful in the poem is not so much the underlying opinions, which for 1579 or 1580 are quite intelligible, as the particular tone or mood. In this one almost suspects an echo of Ronsard. For in the great movement by which, thirty years before the Areopagus and in much the same way, the PUiade endeavored to regenerate French literature, Ronsard is notably dis- tinguished from his colleagues by an odd faculty for making their common views offen- sive or ridiculous. His rampant egotism and utter deficiency in the sense of humor lured him at times, like his greater descendant Victor Hugo, into strange extravagances. Now, the members of the Areopagus knew the poets of the Pl^iade well, especially Ron- Sard and Du Bellay. They seem to have felt that their own problem in England was not unlike tliat which these men had met in France. In them they found ideals with which they sympathized, opinions which seemed to be of value for their own difficulties. That the poet was directly inspired of God (or the gods), that great men could obtain immor- tality from the poets alone, that poetry must go hand in hand with learning, that the arch enemy of the Muses was Ig'norance, that poetry in their day lang"uished because the great were given over to luxury and the vulgar would listen only to a horde of unlearned and base rhymesters, — these theories of the Pl^iade and various precepts for the elevation of their own mother tongue to a place beside the tongues of Greece and Rome were caught at by the youthful members of the Areopagus with very lively interest. In the work of Spenser they may be traced unmistakably, chiefly in ' Octo- ber, ' 'The Ruins of Time,' and 'The Tears of the Muses.' This last, unhappily, voices them in a tone which, as so often in Ronsard and rarely in Du Bellay, makes sympathy quite impossible.] THE TEARES OF THE MUSES Rehearse fo me, ye sacred sisters nine, The golden brood of great ApoUoes wit, Those piteous plaints and sorowfull sad tine, Which late ye powred forth as ye did sit Beside the silver springs of Helicoiie, Making your musiek of hart-breaking mone. For since the time that Phoebus foolish Sonne, Ythundered through Joves avengefuU wrath, For traversing the charret of the Sunne Beyond the compasse of his pointed path, Of you, liis mournfuU sisters, was la- mented, , , Such mournfuU tunes were never since in- vented. Nor since that faire Calliope did lose Her loved twinnes, the dearlings of her joy, Her Palici, whom her unkindly foes, The Fatall Sisters, did for spight destroy, Whom all the Muses did bewaile long space, Was ever heard such wayling in this place. For all their groves, which with the heavenly noyses Of their sweete instruments were wont to sound, 2o And th' hollow hills, from which their silver voyces Were wont redoubled echoes to rebound, THE TEARES OF THE MUSES 71 Did HOW rebound with nought but rufull cries, And yelliag shrieks throwne up into the skies. The trembling streames which wont in chanels eleare To romble gently downe with murmur soft, And were by them right tunef ull taught to beare A bases part amongst their consorts oft, Now forst to overflowe with brackish teares. With troublous noyse did dull their daintie eares. 30 The joyous nymphes and lightfoote faeries Which thether came to heare their niusick sweet. And to the measure of their melodies Did learne to move their nimble shifting feete, Now hearing them so heavily lament, Like heavily lamenting from them went. And all that els was wont to worke de- light Through the divine infusion of their skill, And all that els seemd faire and fresh in sight. So made by nature for to serve their will, 40 Was turned now to dismall heavinesse. Was turned now to dreadfull uglinesse. Ay me ! what thing on earth, that all thing breeds. Might be the cause of so impatient plight ? What furie, or what feend with felon deeds Hath stirred up so mischievous despight ? Can griefe then enter into heavenly harts, And pierce immortall breasts with mortall smarts ? Vouchsafe ye then, whom onely it concernes, To me those secret causes to display; 50 For none but you, or who of you it learnes. Can rightfully aread so doleful! lay. Begin, thou eldest sister of the crew. And let the rest in order thee ehsew. Heare, thou great Father of the Gods on hie, That most art dreaded for thy thunder darts : And thou our syre, that raignst in Castalie And Mount Parnasse, the god of goodly arts: Heare and behold the miserable state Of us thy daughters, dolef ull desolate. 60 Behold the fowle reproach and open shame, The which is day by day unto us wrought By such as hate the honour of our name. The foes of learning and each gentle thought; They, not contented us themselves to scorne, Doo seeke to make us of the world f orlorne, Ne onely they that dwell in lowly dust. The sonnes of darknes and of ignoraunce; But they whom thou, great Jove, by doome unjust 69 Didst to the type of honour earst ad vaunce ; They now, puft up with sdeignf ull insolence, Despise the brood of blessed Sapience. The sectaries of my celestiall skill. That wont to be the worlds chlefe orna- ment. And learned impes that wont to shoote up still. And grow to bight of kingdomes govern- ment. They underkeep, and with their spredding amies Doo beat their buds, that perish through their harmes. It most behoves the honorable race Of mightie peeres true wisedome to sus- taine, 80 And with their noble countenaunee to grace The learned forheads, without gifts or gaine: Or rather learnd themselves behoves to bee; That is the girlond of nobilitie. But ah ! all otherwise they doo esteeme Of th' heavenly gift of wisdomes influence, And to be learned it a base thing deeme ; Base minded they that want intelligence: For God himselfe for wisedome most is praised. And men to God thereby are nighest raised. But they doo onely strive themselves to raise 91 Through pompous pride, and foolish vanitie; 72 COMPLAINTS In th' eyes of people they put all their praise, And onely boast of armes and auncestrie: But vertuous deeds, which did those armes first give To their grandsyres, they care not to atchive. So I, that doo all noble feates professe To register, and sound in trump of gold. Through their bad dooings, or base sloth- fulnesse, . Fiude nothing worthie to be writ, or told: For better farre it were to hide their names, loi Than telling them to blazon out their blames. So shall succeeding ages have no light Of things forepast, uor moniments of time. And all that in this world is worthie bight Shall die in darknesse, and lie hid in slime : Therefore I mourne with deep harts sorrow- ing, Because I nothing noble have to sing. With that she raynd such store of stream- ing teares. That could have made a stonie heart to weep, no And all her sisters rent their golden heares. And their faire faces with salt humour steep. So ended shee : and then the next anew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew. MELPOMENE. O who shall powre into my swollen eyes A sea of teares that never may be dryde, A brasen voice that may with shrilling cryes Pierce the dull heavens and fill the ayer wide. And yron sides that sighing may endure. To waile the wretchednes of world im- pure ? J20 Ah, wretched world ! the den of wicked- nesse, Deformd with filth and fowle iniquitie; Ah, wretched world ! the house of heavi- nesse, Fild with the wreaks of mortall miserie; Ah, wretched world, and all that is therein! The vassals of Gods wrath, and slaves of sin. Most miserable creature under sky Man without understanding doth appeare; For all this worlds affliction he thereby, And Fortunes freakes, is wisely taught to beare: . '3o Of wretched life the onely joy shee is, And th' only comfort in calamities. She armes the brest with constant patience Against the bitter throwes of dolours darts, She solacelh with rules of sapience The gentle minds, in midst of worldlie smarts : When he is sad, shee seeks to make him merie. And doth refresh his sprights when they be werie. But he that is of reasons skill bereft. And wants the stafEe of wisedome him to stay, 140 Is like a ship in midst of tempest left Withouten helme or pilot her to sway: Full sad and dreadfuU is that ships event: So is the man that wants intendiment. Whie then doo foolish men so much despize The precious store of this celestiall riches? Why doo they banish us, that patronize The name of learning? Most unhappie wretches ! The which lie drowned in deep wretchednes, Yet doo not see their owne uiihappines. 150 My part it is and my professed skill The stage with tragick buskin to adorne, And fill the scene with plaint and outcries shrill Of wretched persons, to misfortune borne: But none more tragick matter I can flnde Than this, of men depriv'd of sense and miiide. For all mans life me seemes a tragedy. Full of sad sights and sore catastrophees; First comming to the world with weeping eye, Where all his dayes, like dolorous tro- phees, 160 Are heapt with spoyles of fortune and of feare, And he at last laid forth on balefull beare. So all with rufull spectacles is fild, Fit for Megera or Persephone; THE TEARES OF THE MUSES 73 But I, that in true tragedies am skild, The flo wre of wit, iinde nought to busie me : Therefore I mourne, and pitifully mone, Because that mourning matter I have none. Then gan she wofuUy to waile, and wring Her wretched hands in lamentable wise ; 170 And all her sisters, thereto answering. Threw forth lowd shrieks and drerie dole- full cries. So rested she: and then the next in rew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew. Where be the sweete delights of learnings treasure, That wont with comick sock to beautefie The painted theaters, and fill with pleasure The listners eyes, and eares with melodie ; In which I late was wont to raine as queene, And maske in mirth with graces well be- 0, all is gone ! and all that goodly glee. Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits, Is layd abed, and no where now to see; And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits. With hollow browes and greisly counte- nauuce. Marring my joyous gentle dalliaimce. And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme, And brutish Ignorance, yerept of late Out of dredd darknes of the deep abysme. Where being bredd, he light and heaven does hate: 190 They in the mindes of men now tyramiize. And the f aire scene with rudenes f oule dis- guize. All places they with foUie have possest, And with vaine toyes the vulgare enter- taine ; But me have banished, with all the rest That whilome wont to wait upon my traine, Fine Counterfesaunce and unhurtfull Sport, Delight and Laughter deckt in seemly sort. All these, and all that els the comick stage With seasoned wit and goodly pleasance graced, 200 By which mans life in his likest image W^as limned forth, are wholly now defaced; And those sweete wits which wont the like to frame Are nowdespizd,and made a laughing game. And he, the man whom Nature selfe had made To mock her selfe, and truth to imitate. With kindly counter under mimick shade, Our pleasant Willy, ah ! is dead of late: With whom all joy and jolly meriment Is also deaded, and in dolour drent. 210 In stead thereof scoffing Seurrilitie, And scornf uU Follie with Contempt is crept, Rolling in rymes of shameles ribaudrie Without regard, or due decorum kept; Each idle wit at will presumes to make. And doth the learneds taske upon him take. But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen Large streames of honnie and sweete nectar flowe. Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men, Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe, 220 Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell. Than so himself e to mockerie to sell. So am I made the servant of the manie, And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne. Not honored nor cared for of anie; But loath'd of losels as a thing forlorne: Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest, Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest. Therevrith she lowdly did lament and shrike, Pouring forth streames of teares abun- dantly; 230 And all her sisters, with compassion like, The breaches of her singulfs did supply. So rested shee: and then the next in rew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew. EUTERPE. Like as the dearling of the summers pryde, Faire Philomele, when winters stormie wrath The goodly fields, that earst so gay were dyde In colours divers, quite despoyled hath, 74 COMPLAINTS All comfortlesse doth hide her chearlesse head During the time of that her widowhead: 240 So we, that earst were wont in sweet accord All places with our pleasant notes to fill, Whilest favourable times did us afford Free libertie to chaunt our charmes at will. All comfortlesse upon the bared bow. Like wofull culvers, doo sit wayling now. For far more bitter storme than winters stowre The beautie of the world hath lately wasted. And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre, Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted: 250 And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t' abound, Now without fruite or leaves are to be found. A stonie eoldnesse hath benumbd the sence And livelie spirits of each living wight. And dimd with darknesse their intelligence, Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night: And monstrous Error, flying in the ayre. Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre. Lnage of hellish horrour, Ignorance, 259 Borne in the bosome of the black abysse, And fed with Furies milke, for sustenamice Of his weake infaneie, begot amisse By yavraing Sloth on his owne mother Night; So hee his sonnes both syre and brother hight: He, armd with blindnesse and with boldnes stout, (For blind is bold) hath our fayre light defaced ; And gathering unto him a ragged rout Of faunes and satyres, hath our dwellings raced, And our chast bowers, in which all vertue rained. With brutishnesse and beastlie filth hath stained. 270 The sacred springs of horsefoot Helicon, So oft bedeawed with our learned layes, And speaking streames of pure Castalion, The famous witnesse of our wonted praise, They trampled have with their fowle foot- ings trade. And like to troubledpuddles have them made. Our pleasant groves, which planted were with paines. That with our musick wont so oft to ring. And arbors sweet, in which the shepheards swaines Were wont so oft their pastoralls to sing. They have cut downe, and all their plea- saunce mard, 281 That now no pastorall is to bee hard. In stead of them, fowle goblins and shriek- owles With fearfull howling do all places fill; And feeble Eccho now laments and howles, The dreadf uU accents of their outcries shrill. So all is turned into wildernesse, Whilest Ignorance the Muses doth oppresse. And I, whose joy was earst with spirit full To teach the warbling pipe to sound aloft, My spirits now dismayd with sorrow dull, Doo mone my miserie in silence soft. 292 Therefore I mourne and waile incessantly, Till please the heavens affoord me remedy. Therewith shee wayled with exceeding woe. And pitious lamentation did make. And all her sisters, seeing her doo soe. With equall plaints her sorrow'e did partake. So rested shee: and then the next in rew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew. 300 TERPSICHORE. Who so hath in the lap of soft delight Beene long time luld, and fed with pleasures sweet, Feareles through his own fault or Fortunes spight. To tumble into sorrow and regreet, Yf chaunce him fall into calamitie, Fmdes greater burthen of his miserie. So wee, that earst in joyance did abound. And in the bosome of all blis did sit, Like virgin queenes with laurell garlands crouud, For vertues meed and ornament of wit, 310 THE TEARES OF THE MUSES 75 Sith Ignorance our kingdome did confound, Bee now become most wretched wightes on ground. And in our royall thrones, which lately stood In th' hearts of men to rule them care- fully, He now hath placed his accursed brood, By him begotten of fowle Infamy; Blind Error, scornefull FoUie, and base Spight, Who hold by wrong that wee should have by right. They to the vulgar sort now pipe and sing. And make them merrie with their fooler- ies; 320 They cherelie chaunt and rymes at randon fling, The fruitfull spawne of their ranke fan- tasies ; They feede the eares of fooles with flat- tery, And good men blame, arid losels magnify. All places they doo with their toyes pos- sesse, And raigne in liking of tlie multitude; The schooles they All with fond newfangle- nesse, And sway in court with pride and rashnes rude; Mongst simple shepheards they do boast their skill. And say their musicke matcheth Phoebus quill. 330 The noble hearts to pleasures they allure. And tell their Prince that learning is but vaine; Faire ladies loves they spot with thouglits impure. And gentle mindes with lewd delights dis- taine; Clerks they to loathly idlenes entice. And fill their bookes with discipline of So every where they rule and tyrannize, For their usurped kingdomes maintenaimce. The whiles we silly maides, whom they dis- pize And with reprochfuU scorne discounte- naunce, 340 From our owne native heritage exilde. Walk through the world of every one re- vilde. Nor anie one doth care to call us in. Or once vouchsaf eth us to entertaine, Unlesse some one perhaps of gentle kin, For pitties sake, compassion our paine. And yeeld us some relief e in thisdistresse; Yet to be so reliev'd is wretchednesse. So wander we all carefuU comfortlesse. Yet none doth care to comfort us at all; 350 So seeke we helpe our sorrow to redresse. Yet none vouchsafes to answere to our call: Therefore we mourne and pittilesse com- plaine. Because none living pittieth our paine. With that she wept and wofuUie way- mented. That naught on earth her griefe might pacifie ; And all the rest her dolef uU din augmented With shrikes and groanes and grievous agonie. So ended shee : and then the next in rew Began her piteous plaint, as doth ensew. 360 Ye gentle spirits breathing from above. Where ye in Venus silver bowre were bred. Thoughts halfe devine, full of the fire of love. With beawtie kindled and with pleasure fed. Which ye now in securitie possesse, Forgetfull of your former heavinesse: Now change the tenor of your joyous layes. With which ye use your loves to deifie. And blazon foorth an earthlie beauties praise Above the compasse of the arched skie: 370 Now change your praises uito piteous cries, And eulogies turne into elegies. Such as ye wont, whenas those bitter stounds Of raging love first gan you to torment. And launch your hearts with lamentable wounds Of secret sorrow and sad languishment, 76 COMPLAINTS Before your loves did take you unto grace ; Those now renew, as fitter for this place. For I that rule in measure moderate The tempest of that stormie passion, 380 And use to paint in rimes the troublous state Of lovers life in likest fashion. Am put from practise of my kindlie skill, Banisht by those that love with leawdnes fill. Love wont to be schoolmaster of my skill, And the devicefuU matter of my song; Sweete love devoyd of villanie or ill, But pure and spotles, as at first he sprong Out of th' Almighties bosome, where he nests; From thence infused into mortall brests. 390 Such high conceipt of that celestiall fire, The base-borne brood of Bliudnes cannot gesse, Ne ever dare their dunghill thoughts aspire Unto so loftie pitch of perfectnesse. But rime at riot, and doo rage in love ; Yet little wote what doth thereto behove. Faire Cytheree, the mother of delight And queene of beautie, now thou maist go pack; For lo ! thy kin^dome is defaced quight. Thy scepter rent, and power put to wrack; And thy gay sorme, that winged God of Love, 401 May now goe prune his plumes like ruffed dove. And ye three twins, to light by Venus brought. The sweete companions of the Muses late, From whom what ever thing is goodly thought Doth borrow grace, the fancie to aggrate, Go beg with us, and be companions still. As heretofore of good, so now of ill. For neither you nor we shall anie more Finde entertainment, or in court or schoole: For that which was accounted hereto- fore 411 The learneds meed is now lent to the f oole ; He sings of love, and maketh loving layes, And they him heare, and they him highly prayse. With that she powred foorth a brackish flood Of bitter teares, and made exceeding mone; And all her sisters, seeing her sad mood. With lowd laments her answered all at one. So ended she; and then the next in rew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew. 420 CALLIOPE. To whom shall I my evill case complaine, Or tell the anguish of my inward smart, Sith none is left to remedie my paine. Or deignes to pitie a perplexed hart; But rather seekes my sorrow to augment With fowle reproach, and cruell banish- ment? For they to whom I used to applie The f aithf ull service of my learned skUl, The goodly ofE-spring of Joves progenie, That wont the world with famous acts to fill; 430 Whose living praises in heroick style, It is my chief e profession to compyle; They all corrupted through the rust of time, That doth all fairest things on earth deface, Or through unnoble sloth, or sinfull crime, That doth degenerate the noble race. Have both desire of worthie deeds f orlorne, And name of learning utterly doo scorne. Ne doo they care to have the auncestrie Of th' old heroes memorizde anew; 440 Ne doo they care that late posteritie Should know their names, or speak their praises dew: But die forgot from whence at first they sprong, As they themselves shalbe forgot ere long. What bootes it then to come from glorious Forefathers, or to have been nobly bredd ? What oddes twixt Irus and old Inachus, Twixt best and worst, when both alike are dedd, If none of neither mention should make, Nor out of dust their memories awake ? 450 Or who would ever care to doo brave deed, Or strive in vertue others to excell. If none should yeeld him his deserved meed, Due praise, that is the spur of dooing well ? THE TEARES OF THE MUSES 77 For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodnes of his owne freewill. Therefore the nurse of vertue I am hight, And golden trompet of eternitie, That lowly thoughts lift up to heavens hight, And mortall men have powre to deifle : 460 Bacchus and Hercules I raisd to heaven, And Charlemaine, amongst the starris seaveu. But now I will my golden clarion rend, And will henceforth immortalize no more, Sith I no more finde worthie to commend For prize of value, or for learned lore : For noble peeres, whom I was wont to raise, Now onely seeke for pleasure, nought for praise. Their great revenues all in sumptuous pride They spend, that nought to learning they may spare; 470 And the rich fee which poets wont divide Now parasites and sycophants doo share: Therefore I mourne and endlesse sorrow make, Both for my selfe and for my sisters sake. With that she lowdly gan to waile and shrike, And from her eyes a sea of teares did powre, And all her sisters, with compassion like. Did more increase the sharpnes of her showre. So ended she : and then the next in rew Began her plaint, as doth herein ensew. 480 URANIA. What wrath of gods, or wicked influence Of starres conspiring wretched men t' afflict. Hath powrd on earth this noyous pestilence. That mortall mindes doth inwardly infect With love of blindnesse and of ignorance. To dwell in darkenesse without sovenance? What difference twixt man and beast is left. When th' heavenlie light of knowledge is put out. And th' ornaments of wisdome are bereft ? Then wandreth he in error and in doubt, 490 Unweeting of the danger hee is in, Through fleshes frailtie and deoeipt of sin. In this wide world in which they wretches stray. It is the onelie comfort which they have. It is their light, their loadstarre and theb day; But hell and darkenesse and the grislie grave Is ignorance, the enemie of grace. That mindes of men borne heavenlie doth debace. Through knowledge we behold the worlds creation. How in his cradle first he fostred was; 500 And judge of Natures cunning operation, How things she formed of a formelesse mas; By knowledge wee do learne our selves to knowe. And what to man, and what to , God, wee owe. From hence wee mount aloft unto the skie, And looke into the christall firmament; There we behold the heavens great hier-i archie. The starres pure light, the spheres swift movement. The spirites and mtelligences fayre. And angels waighting on th' Almighties chayre. 510 And there, with humble minde and high in- sight, Th' eternall Makers majestic wee viewe. His love, his truth, his glorie, and his might, And mercie more than mortall men can vew. soveraigne Lord, soveraigne happinesse, To see thee, and thy mercie measurelesse! Such happines have they that doo embrace The precepts of my heavenlie discipline ; But shame and sorrow and accursed case Have they that scome the schoole of arts divine, 520 And banish me, which do professe the skill To make men heavenly wise through hum- bled will. How ever yet they mee despise and spight, 1 f cede on sweet contentment of my thought. And please my selfe with mine owne self e- delight. In contemplation of things heavenlie wrought I So loathing earth, I looke up to the sky, And being driven hence, I thether fly. 78 COMPLAINTS Thence I behold the miserie of men, Which want the blis that wisedom would them breed, 530 And like brute beasts doo lie in loathsome den Of ghostly darkenes, and of gastlie dreed: For whom I mourne, and for my selfe com- plaine. And for my sisters eake, whom they dis- daine. With that shee wept and waild so pityous- lie. As if her eyes had beene two springing wells: And all the rest, her sorrow to supplie, Did throw forth shrieks and cries and dreery yells. So ended shee: and then the next in rew Began her mournf uU plaint, as doth ensew. POLYHYMNIA. A dolefuU case desires a dolefuU song, 541 Without vaine art or curious complements. And squallid fortune, into basenes flong. Doth soorne the pride of wonted ornaments. Then fittest are these ragged rimes for mee. To tell my sorrowes that exceeding bee. For the sweet numbers and melodious mea- sures, With which I wont the winged words to tie. And make a tuneful! diapase of pleasures. Now being let to runne at libertie 550 By those which have no skill to rule them right, Haye now quite lost their naturall delight. Heapes of huge words uphoorded hideously, With horrid sound, though having little sence. They thinke to be chiefe praise of poetry; And thereby wanting due intelligence, Have mard the face of goodly poSsie, And made a monster of their fautasie. Whilom in ages past none might professe, But princes and high priests, that secret skill; 560 The sacred lawes therein they wont ex- presse. And with deepe oracles their verses fill: Then was shee held in soveraigne dignitie, And made the noursling of nobilitie. But now nor prince nor priest doth her maintayue, But suffer her prophaned for to bee Of the base vulgar, that with hands un- cleane Dares to pollute her hidden mysterie; And treadeth under foote hir holie things. Which was the care of kesars and of kings. One onelie lives, her ages ornament, 571 And myrrour of her Makers majestie; That with rich bountie and deare cherish- ment ■'' Supports the praise of noble poesie: Ne onelie favours them which it professe. But is her selfe a peereles poetresse. Most peereles prince, most peereles poe- tresse, The true Pandora of all heavenly graces, Divine Elisa, sacred Emperesse: Live she for ever, and her royall p'laces 580 Be fild with praises of divinest wits, That her eternize with their heavenlie writs. Some few beside this sacred skill esteme. Admirers of her glorious excellence. Which being lightned with her beawties beme, Are thereby flld with happie influence, And lifted up above the worldes gaze. To sing with angels her immortall praize. But all the rest, as borne of salvage brood. And having beene with acorns alwaies fed, 5go Can no whit savour this celestiall food. But with base thoughts are into blinduesse led. And kept from looking on the lightsome day: For whome I waile and weepe all that I may. Eftsoones such store of teares shee forth did powre, As if shee all to water would have gone; And all her sisters, seeing her sad stowre. Did weep and waile and made exceeding mone; And all their learned instruments did breake: The rest untold no living tongue can speake. 600 FINIS. VIRGILS GNAT 79 VIRGILS GNAT LONG SINCE DEDICATED TO THE MOST NOHLE AND EXCELLENT LORD, THE EARLE OF LEICESTER, LATE DECEASED Wkong'd, yet not daring to expresse my paine, To you (great Lord) the causer of my care, In elowdie teares my case I thus complaiue Unto your selfe, that onely privie are: But if that any (Edipus unware Shall chaunce, through power of some di- vining spright, To reade the secrete of this riddle rare, And know the purporte of my evill plight, Let him rest pleased with his owne insight, Ne further seeke to glose upon the text: For grief e enough it is to grieved wight To feele his fault, and not be further vext. But what so by my selfe may not be showen. May by this Gnatts complaint be easily kndwen. ['Virgil's Gnat' may be thought to follow close upon the latest of the sonnet series. The main period to which it belongs is, in any case, certain, for in the title it is described as ' long since dedicated' to the Earl of Leicester; it deals with some mishap in tlie personal rela- tions of the poet with that nobleman, and such relations would seem to have been confined to the years 1577-1580. What the mishap may have been has remained, on the other hand, obscure. The curious must divine it as they best may from the sonnet of dedication and from the main allegory, always remembering that the poem is not an invention based upon the circumstances, but a mere paraphrase of the pseudo-Virgilian Culex. Of greater mo- ment is the style, which, moving in a freer course than is natural to the sonnet, wins nearer than that of the ' Visions ' and ' Ruins of Rome ' to the cadences of the Faery Queen. The use of ottava rima, the stanza of the great Italian romances, points forward, too.] VIRGILS GNAT We now have playde (Augustus) wantonly, Tuning our soiig unto a tender Muse, And like a cobweb weaving slenderly. Have onely playde: let thus much then ex- This Gnats small poeme, that th' whole history Is but a jest, though envie it abuse: But who such sports and sweet delights doth blame. Shall lighter seeme than this Gnats idle name. Hereafter, when as season more secure Shall bring forth fruit, this Muse shall speak to thee m In bigger notes, that may thy sense allure. And for thy worth frame some fit poesie: The golden of spring of Latona pure. And ornament of great Joves progenie, Phoebus, shall be the author of my song. Playing on yvorie harp with silver strong. He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood. Of poets prince, whether he woon beside Faire Xanthus sprincled with Ghimseras blood. Or in the woods of Astery abide, 20 Or whereas Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood. Doth his broad forhead like two homes di- vide. And the sweete waves of sounding Castaly With liquid foote doth slide downe easily. Wherefore ye sisters, which the glorie bee Of the Pierian streames, fayre Naiades, Go too, and dauncing all in companie, Adorne that god: and thou holie Pales, To whome the honest care of husbandrie Returneth by contiuuall successe, 30 Have care for to pursue his footing light, Throgh the wide woods and groves with green leaves dight. Professing thee I lifted am aloft Betwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky: And thou most dread (Octavius) which oft To learned wits givest courage worthily, O come (thou sacred childe) come sliding soft. And favour my begimiings graciously: For not these leaves do sing that dreadf ull stound. When giants blond did staine Phlegrsean ground; 40 Nor how th' halfe horsy people, Centaures hight, Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord; 8o COMPLAINTS Nor how the East with tyranous despight Burnt th' Attick towres, and people slew with sword; Nor how Mount Athos through exceeding might Was digged downe ; nor yron bands abord The Pontick sea by their huge navy cast, My volume shall renowne, so long since past: Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete, When flocking Persians did the Greeks But my soft Muse, as fpr her power more meete, Delights (with Phoebus friendly leave) to play An easie running verse with tender feete. And thou (dread sacred child) to thee alway Let everlasting lightsome glory strive, Through the worlds endles ages to survive. And let an happie roome remaine for thee Mongst heavenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest; And let long lasting life with joyous glee, As thy due meede that thou deservest best, 60 Hereafter many yeares remembred be Amongst good men, of whom thou oft are blest; Live thou for ever in all happinesse: But let us turne to our first businesse. The fiery Sun was mounted now on hight Up to the heavenly towers, and shot each where Out of his golden charet glistering light; And fayre Aurora with her rosie heare The hatefull darknes now had put to flight; When as the shepheard, seeing day ap- peare, 70 His little goats gan drive out of their stalls. To f eede abroad, where pasture best befalls. To an high mountaines top he with them went. Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills: They, now amongst, the woods and thickets ment. Now in the valleies wandring at their wills. Spread themselves farre abroad through each descent; Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills; Some, clambring through the hollow elififes on hy. Nibble the bushie shrubs, which growe thereby. 80 Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop. And bronze the woodbine twigges, that freshly bud; This with full bit doth catch the utmost top Of some soft willow, or new growen stud; This with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop, And chaw the tender prickles in her cud; The whiles another high doth overlooke" Her owne like image in a christall brooke. O the great happines which shepheards have, Who so loathes not too much the poore es- tate 90 With minde that ill use doth before deprave, Ne measures all things by the costly rate Of riotise, and semblants outward brave ! No such sad cares, as wont to macerate And rend the greedie mindes of covetous men. Do ever creepe into the shepheards den. Ne cares he if the fleece which him arayes Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye; Ne glistering of golde, which underlayes The summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye; 100 Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayes Of precious stones, whence no good commeth by; Ne yet his cup embost with imagery Of Bsetus or of Alcons vanity. Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee. Which are from Indian seas brought far away: But with pure brest from carefull sorrow free, On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft dis- play. In sweete spring time, when flowres varietie With sundrie colours paints the sprincled lay; no There, lying all at ease from guile or spight, With pype of f ennie reedes doth him delight. There he, lord of himselfe, with palme be- dight, His looser locks doth wrap in- wreath of vine: VIRGILS GNAT 8i I'here his milk dropping goats be his delight, And f ruitef uU Pales, and the f orrest greene. And darkesome caves in pleasaunt vallies pight, Wheras continuall shade is to be seene, And where fresh springing wells, as chris- tall neate, Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate. 120 who can lead then a more happie life Than he, that with cleane minde and heart sincere, No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife, No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare, Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife, 1 hat in the sacred temples he may reare A trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure. Or may abound in riches above measure ? Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe, And not with skill of craftsman pol- ished: 130 He joyes in groves, and makes himselfe full blythe With sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gath- ered; Ne frankincens he from Panchsea buyth: Sweete Quiet harbours in his harmeles head. And perfect Pleasure buildes her joyous bowre, Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts devowre. This all his care, this all his whole inde- vour. To this his minde and senses he doth bend, How he may flow in quiets matchles trea- sour, Content with any food that God doth send; And how his limbs, resolv'd through idle leisour, 141 Unto sweete sleeps he may securely lend. In some coole shadow from the scorching heat. The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate. flocks, faimes, and ye pleasaunt springs Of Tempe, where the countrey nymphs are riife, Through whose not costly care each shep- heard sings As merrie notes upon his rusticke fife As that Ascrsean bard, whose fame now rings Through the wide world, and leads as joy- full life, ISO Free from all troubles and from worldly toyle, In which fond men doe all their dayes tur- moyle. In such delights whilst thus his caielesse time This shepheard drives, upleaning on his batt. And on shrill reedes chaunting his rustick rime, Hyperion, throwing foorth his beames full hott. Into the highest top of heaven gan clime, And the world parting by an equall lott. Did shed his whirling flames on either side. As the great Ocean doth himselfe divide. 160 Then gan the shepheard gather into one — His stragling goates, and drave them to a foord, I Whose cfflrule streame, rombling in pible stone, ^ Crept under mosse as greene as any goord. ' Now had the sun halfe heaven overgone, ■ — When he his heard back from that water foord I Drave from the force of Phoebus boyling ray. Into thick shadowes, there themselves to lay. Soone as he them plac'd in thy sacred wood (O Delian goddesse) saw, to which of yore 170 Came the bad daughter of old Cadmus brood, Cruell Agave, flying vengeance sore Of King Nietileus for the guiltie blood Which she with cursed hands had shed be- fore; There she halfe frantick having slaine her Sonne, Did shrowd her selfe like pimishment to shonne. Here also playing on the grassy greene, Woodgods, and satyres, and swift dryades, 82 COMPLAINTS With many fairies oft were daimcing seene. Not so much did Dan Orpheus represse i8o The streames of Hebrus with his songs, I weene, As that faire troupe of woodie goddesses Staied thee (0 Peneus) powring foorth to thee, From cheereful lookes, great mirth and gladsome glee. The verie nature of the place, resounding With gentle murmure of the breathing ayre, A pleasant bowre with all delight abonnding In the fresh shadowe did for them prepayre, To rest their limbs with weariues redound- For first the high palme trees, with bramiohes faire, 190 Out of the lowly vallies did arise, And high shoote up their heads into the skyes. And them amongst the wicked lotos grew. Wicked, for holding guilefully away Ulysses men, whom rapt with sweetenes new. Taking to hoste, it quite from him did stay ; And eke those trees, in whose transformed . hew The Sunnes sad daughters waylde the rash decay Of Pliaeton, whose limbs with lightening rent They gathering up, with sweete teares did lament. 200 And that same tree, in which Demophoon, By his disloyalty lamented sore, Eternall hurte left unto many one: Whom als accompanied the oke, of yore Through f atall charmes transformd to such an one: The oke, whose acornes were our foode, be- fore That Ceres seede of mortall men were knowne. Which first Triptoleme taught how to be Here also grew the rougher rinded pine. The great Argoan ships brave ornament, 210 Whom golden fleece did make an heavenly signe; Which coveting, with his high tops extent, To make the mountaines touch the starres divine. Decks all the forrest with embellishment; And the blacke holme that loves the watrie vale; And the sweete cypresse, signe of deadly bale. Emongst the rest the clambring yvie grew. Knitting his wanton armes with grasping hold. Least that the poplar happely should rew Her brothers strokes, whose boughes she doth enfold 220 With her lythe twigs, till they the top sur- vew. And paint with pallid greene her buds of gold. Next did the myiile tree to her approach. Not yet unmindfuU of her olde reproach. But the small birds, in their wide boughs embo wring, Chaunted their sundrie tunes with sweete consent; And under them a silver spring, forth powring His trickling streames, a gentle murmure sent; Thereto the frogs, bred in the slimie scow- ring Of the moist moores, their jarring voyces bent; 230 And shrill grashoppers chirped them around : All which the ayrie echo did resound. In this so pleasant place this shepheards flocke Lay everie where, their wearie limbs to rest. On everie Isush, and everie hollow rocke. Where breathe on them the whistling wind mote best; The whiles the shepheard self, tending his stocke. Sate by the fountaine side, in shade to rest. Where gentle slumbring sleep oppressed him, Displaid on ground, and seized everie lim. Of trecherie or traines nought tooke he keep, 2^, But, looslie on the grassie greene dispredd, VIRGILS GNAT 83 His dearest life did trust to careles sleep; Which, weighing down his drouping drowsie hedd, In quiet rest his molten heart did steep, Devoid of care, and feare of all falshedd: Had not inconstant Fortune, bent to ill, Bid strange mischance his quietnes to spill. For at his wonted time in that same place An huge great serpent, all with speckles pide, 250 To drench himselfe in moorish slime did trace. There from the boyling heate himselfe to hide: He, passing by with rolling wreathed pace. With brandisht tongue the emptie aire did gride. And wrapt his soalie bonghts with fell de- spight. That all things seem'd appalled at his sight. Now more and more having himselfe en- rolde, His glittering breast he lifteth up on hie, And with proud vaunt his head aloft doth holde; 259 His creste above, spotted with purple die. On everie side did shine like soalie golde. And his bright eyes, glaiineing full dread- fullie. Did seeme to flame out flakes of flashing fyre. And with sterne lookes to threaten kindled yre. Thus wise long time he did himselfe dispace There round about, when as at last he spide. Lying along before him in that place. That flocks grand captaine and most trustie guide : Eftsoones more fierce in visage and in pace. Throwing his flrie eyes on everie side, 270 He commeth on, and all things in his way Full steamly rends, that might his passage stay. Much he disdaines, that anie one should dare To come unto his haunt; for which intent He inly burns, and gins straight to prepare The weapons which Nature to him hath lent; Fellie he hisseth, and doth fiercely stare. And hath his jawes with angrie spirits rent, That all his tract with bloudie drops is stained, And all his foldes are now in length out- strained. 280 Whom, thus at point prepared, to prevent, A litle noursling of the humid ayre, A Gnat, unto the sleepie shepheard went, And marking where his ey-lids, twinckling rare, Shewd the two pearles which sight unto him lent. Through their thin coverings appearing fayre. His little needle there infixing deep, Wamd him awake, from death himselfe to keep. Wherewith enrag'd, he fiercely gan upstart, And with his hand him rashly bruzing, slewe, 290 As in avengement of his heedles smart. That streight the spirite out of his senses flew. And life out of his members did depart: When suddenly casting aside his vew. He spide his foe with felonous intent. And fervent eyes to his destruction bent. All suddenly dismaid, and hartles quight. He fled abacke, and, catching hastie holde Of a yong alder hard beside him pight. It rent, and streight about him gan be- holde 300 What god or fortune would assist his might. But whether god or fortune made him bold Its hard to read: yet bardie will he had To overcome, that made him lesse adrad. The scalie backe of that most hideous snake Enwrapped round, oft faining to retire. And oft him to a;ssaile, he fiercely strake Whereas his temples did his creast front tyre; And, for he was but slowe, did slowth off shake. And gazing ghastly on (for feare and yre 310 Had blent so much his sense, that lesse he feard;) Yet, when he saw him slaine, himselfe he cheard. By this the Night forth from the darksome bowre Of Herebus her teemed steedes gan call, 84 COMPLAINTS And laesie Vesper in his timely howre From golden Oeta gan proeeede withall; Whenas the shepheard after this sharpe stowre, Seing the doubled shadowes low to fall, Gathering his straying flocke, does home- ward fare, And unto rest his wearie joynts prepare. 320 Into whose sense so soone as lighter sleepe Was entered, and now loosing everie lim, Sweete slumbring deaw in oarelesnesse did steepe, The image of that Gnat appeard to him. And in sad tearmes gan sorrowfully weepe, With greislie countenaunce and visage grim, Wailing the wrong which he had done of late. In steed of good, hastning his cruell fate. Said he, • What have I, wretch, deserv'd, that thus Into tliis bitter bale I am outcast, 330 Whilest that thy life more deare and pre- cious Was than mine owne, so long as it did last ? I now, in lieu of paines so gracious, Am tost in th' ayre with everie windie blast : Thou, safe delivered from sad decay. Thy careles limbs in loose sleep dost dis- play. ' So livest thou; but my poore wretched ghost Is forst to ferrie over Lethes river, 338 And, spoyld of Charon, too and fro am tost. Seest thou, how all places quake and quiver, Lightned with deadly lamps on everie post ? Tisiphone each where doth shake and shiver Her flaming fire brond, encountring me. Whose lookes uncombed cruell adders be. ' And Cerberus, whose many mouthes doo bay. And barke out flames, as if on Are he fed; Adowne whose neoke, in terrible array, Ten thousand snakes, cralling about his hed, Doo hang in heapes, that horribly affray, And bloodie eyes doo glister firie red; 350 He oftentimes me dieadfullie doth threaten. With painfull torments to be sorely beaten. ' Ay me ! that thankes so much should faile of meed ! For that I thee restor'd to life againe, Even from the doore of death and deadlie dreed. Where then is now the guerdon of my paine ? Where the reward of my so piteous deed ? The praise of pitie vanisht is in vaine, And th' antique faith of justice long agone Out of the land is fled away and gone. 360 ' I saw anothers fate approaching fast. And left mine owne his safetie to tender; Into the same mishap I now am cast. And shun'd destruction doth destruction render: Not unto him that never hath trespast, But punishment is due to the ofEender: Yet let destruction be the punishment, So long as thankfull will may it relent. ' I carried am into waste wildernesse, 369 Waste wildernes, amongst Cymerian shades, Where endles paines and hideous heavinesse Is round about me heapt in darksome glades. For there huge Othos sits in sad distresse, Fast bound with serpents that him oft in- vades. Far of beholding Ephialtes tide, Which once assai'd to burne this world so wide. ' And there is mournfull Tityus, mindef ull yet Of thy displeasure, O Latona f aire ; Displeasure too implacable was it. That made him meat for wild f oules of the ayre: 380 Much do I feare among such fiends to sit; Much do I feare back to them to repayre, To the black shadowes of the Stygian shore. Where wretched ghosts sit wailing ever- ' There next the utmost brinckdoth he abide, That did the bankets of the gods bewray. Whose throat, through thirst, to nought nigh being dride, His sense to seeke for ease turnes every way: And he that in avengement of his pride, For scorning to the sacred gods to pray, 390 Against a mountaine rolls a mightie stone, Calling in vaine for rest, and can have none. ' Go ye with them, go, cursed damosells, Whose bridale torches foule Erynnis tynde, VIRGILS GNAT 85 And Hymen, at your spousalls sad, foretells Tydings of death and massacre unkinde: With them that cruell Colchid mother dwells, The, which conceiv'd in her revengefull minde. With bitter woundes her owne deere babes to slay. And murdred troupes upon great heapes to lay. 400 ' There also those two Pandionian maides. Calling on Itis, Itis evermore, Whom, wretched boy, they slew with guUtie blades; For whome the Thracian king lamenting sore, Tnrn'd to a lapwing, f owlie them upbraydes. And fluttering round about them still does sore; There now they all eternally complaine Of others wrong, and suffer endles paine. 'But the two brethren borne of Cadmus blood, Whilst each does for the soveraignty con- tend, 410 Blinde through ambition, and with ven- geance wood, Each doth against the others bodie bend His cursed Steele, of neither well withstood. And with vride wounds their carcases doth rend; That yet they both doe mortall foes re- maine, Sith each with brothers bloudie hand was slaine. ' Ah (waladay \) there is no end of paine. Nor chaunge of labour may intreated bee; Yet I beyond all these am carried faine. Where other powers farre different I see, 420 And must passe over to th' Elisian plaine: There grim Persephone, enoountring mee. Doth urge her fellow Furies earnestlie, With their bright flrebronds me to terrifle. ' There chast Alceste lives inviolate. Free from all care, for that her husbands dales She did prolong by changing fate for fate: Lo I there lives alSo the immortall praise Of womankinde, most faithfuU to her mate, Penelope ; and from her farre awayes 430 A rulesse rout of yongmen, which her woo'd. All slaine with darts, lie wallowed in their blood. ' And sad Eurydice thence now no more Must turne to life, but there detained bee, For looking back, being forbid before : Yet was the guilt thereof, Orpheus, in thee. Bold sure he was, and worthie spirite bore, That durst those lowest shadowes goe to see. And could beleeve that anie thing could please 439 Fell Cerberus, or Stygian powres appease. ' Ne feard the burning waves of Phlegeton, Nor those same mournfuU kingdomes, com- passed With rustle horrour and fowle fashion. And deep digd vawtes, and Tartar covered With bloodie night, and darke confusion, And judgement seates, whose judge is deadlie dred, A judge that, after death, doth punish sore The faults which life hath trespassed be- fore. 'But valiant fortune made Dan Orpheus bolde : For the swift running rivers still did stand. And the wilde beasts their furie did with- hold, 451 To follow Orpheus musicke through the land: And th' okes, deep grounded in the earthly molde. Did move, as if they could him understand; And the shrill woods, which were of sense bereav'd. Through their hard barke his silver sound receav'd. ' And eke the Moone her hastie steedes did stay, Drawing in teemes along the starrie skie; And didst (O monthly virgin) thou delay Thy nightly course, to heare his melodie ? The same was able, with like lovely lay. The Queene of Hell to move as easily, 462 To yeeld Eurydice unto her fere. Backs to be borne, though it unlawfull ' She (ladie) having well before approoved, The feends to be too cruell and severe, 86 COMPLAINTS Observ'd th' appointed way, as her be- hooved, Ne ever did her ey-sight tume arere, Ne ever spake, ne cause of speaking mooved: But eruell Orpheus, thou much crueller. Seeking to kisse her, brok'st the gods decree, 471 And thereby mad'st her ever damn'd to be. ' Ah ! but sweete love of pardon worthie is. And doth deserve to have small faults re- mitted ; If Hell at least things lightly done amis Knew how to pardon, when ought is omitted : Yet are ye both received into blis. And to the seates of happie soules ad- mitted. And you beside the honourable band Qf great heroes doo iii order stand. 480 ' There be the two stout sonnes of Aeacus, Fierce Peleus, and the hardie Telamon, Both seeming now full glad and joyeous Through their syres dreadfull jurisdiction, Being the judge of all that horrid hous: And both of themj by strange occasion, Eenown'd in choyoe of happie marriage Through Venus grace, and vertues cariage. ' For th' one was ravisht of his owne bond- maide. The faire Ixione, captiv'd from Troy: 490 But th' other was with Thetis love assaid. Great Nereus his daughter and his joy. On this side them there is a yongman layd, Their match in glorie, mightie, fierce and coy, That from th' Argolick ships, with furious yre, Bett back the furie of the Trojan fyre. ' O who would not recount the strong di- vorces Of that great warre, which Trojanes oft behelde, And oft beheld the warlike Greekish forces. When Teucrian soyle with bloodie rivers swelde, 500 And wide Sigsean shores were spred with corses, And Simois and Xauthus blood outwelde, Whilst Hector raged with outragious minde. Flames, weapons, wounds in Greeks fleets to have tynde ? 'For Ida selfe, in ayde of that fierce fight, Out of her mountaines ministred supplies. And like a kindly nourse, did yeeld (for spight) Store of flrebronds out of her nourseries Unto her foster children, that they might Inflame the navie of their enemies, 510 And all the Rhsetean shore to ashes tume. Where lay the ships which they did seeke to bume. 'Gainst which the noble sonne of Tela- mon Opposd' himselfe, and thwarting his huge shield. Them battel! bad; gainst whom appeard anon Hector, the glorie of the Trojan field: Both fierce and furious in contention Enoountred, that their mightie strokes so shrild As the great clap of thrmder, which doth ryve The ratling heavens, and cloudes asunder dryve. 520 ' So th' one with fire and weapons did con- tend To cut the ships from turning home againe To Argos; th' other strove for to defend The force of Vulcane with his might and maine. Thus th' one Aeacide did his fame extend: But th' other joy'd, that, on the Phrygian playne Having the blood of vanquisht Hector shedd. He compast Troy thrice with his bodie dedd. ' Againe great dole on either partie grewe. That him to death unfaithfull Paris sent; And also him that false Ulysses slewe, 531 Drawne into danger through close ambush- ment: Therefore from him Laertes sonne his vewe Doth turne aside, and boaSts his good event In working of Strymonian Rhsesus fall, And efte in Colons slye surprysall. VIRGILS GNAT 87 Againe the dreadful! Cyoones him dis- may, And blacke Lsestrigones, a people stout: Then gTeedie Scilla, under whom there bay Manie great bandogs, which her gird about : 540 Then doo the Aetnean Cyclops him aflpray. And deep Chary bdis gulphing in and out: Lastly the squalid lakes of Tartaric, And griesly feends of hell him terriiie. ' There also goodly Agamemnon hosts, The glorie of the stock of Tantalus, And famous light of all the Greekish hosts, Under whose conduct most victorious. The Dorick flames consiun'd the Iliack posts. Ah ! but the Greekes themselves more dolorous, 550 To thee, O Troy, paid penaunce for thy faU, In th' Hellespont being nigh drowned all. ' Well may appeare, by proof e of their mis- chaunce, The chaungfull turning of mens slipperie That none, whom fortime freely doth ad- vaunce, HimseKe therefore to heaven should ele- vate: For loftie type of honour, through the glaunce Of envies dart, is downe in dust prostrate; And all that vaunts in worldly vanitie Shall fall through fortunes mutabilitie. 560 'Th' Argolicke power returning home againe, Enricht with spoyles of th' Ericthonian towre. Did happie winde and weather entertaine. And with good speed the fomie billowes scowre : No signe of storme, no feare of future paine. Which soone ensued them with heavie stowre. Nereis to the seas a token gave. The whiles their crooked keeles the surges clave. 'Suddenly, whether through the gods de- cree, 569 Or haplesse rising of some froward starre, The heavens on everie side enelowded bee: Black stormes and fogs are blowen up from farre. That now the pylote can no loadstarre see. But skies and seas doo make most dread- full warre; The billowes striving to the heavens to reach, And th' heavens striving them for to im- peach. ' And, in avengement of their bold attempt, Both sun and starres and all the heavenly powres Conspire in one to wreake their rasla con- tempt, And downe on them to fall from highest towres: 580 The skie, in pieces seeming to be rent, Throwes lightning forth, and haile, and harmful showres, That death on everie side to them appeares, In thousand formes, to worke more ghastly feares. ' Some in the greedie flouds are sunke and dreut ; Some on the rocks of Caphareus are throwue ; Some on th' Euboick cliffs in pieces rent; Some scattred on the HerCEeau shores un- knowne ; And manie lost, of whom no moniment Kemaines, nor memorie is to be showne: Whilst all the pvirchase of the Phrigian pray, _ 59, Tost on salt billowes, round about doth stray. ' Here manie other like heroes bee, Equall in honour to the former erne. Whom ye in goodly seates may placed see, Descended all from Rome by linage due, From Rome, that holds the world in sove- reigntie, And doth all nations unto her subdue: Here Fabii and Deoii doo dwell, Horatii that in vertue did excell. 600 ' And here the antique fame of stout Camill Doth ever live; and constant Curtius, Who, stifly bent his vowed life to spill For oountreyes health, a gulph most hideous Amidst the towne with his owne corps did fill, T' appease the powers; and prudent Mutius, COMPLAINTS Who in his flesh endur'd the scorching flame, To daunt his foe by ensample of the same. ' And here wise Curius, companion Of noble vertues, lives in endles rest; 610 And stout Flaminius, whose devotion Taught him the fires scorn 'd f urie to detest; And here the praise of either Scipion Abides in highest place above the best, To whom the ruin'd walls of Carthage vow'd, Trembling their forces, sound their praises lowd. 'Live they for ever through their lasting praise : But I, poore wretch, am forced to retourne To the sad lakes, that Phcebus sunnie rayes Doo never see, where soules doo alwaies mourne ; 620 And by the wayling shores to waste my dayes, Where Phlegeton with quenchles flames doth burne ; By which just Minos righteous soules doth sever From wicked ones, to live in blisse for ever. • Me therefore thus the cruell fiends of hell, Girt with long snakes and thousand yron chaynes. Through doome of that their cruell judge, compel]. With bitter torture and impatient paines, Cause of my death and just complaint to tell. For thou art he whom my poore ghost com- plaines 630 To be the author of her ill unwares, That careles hear'st my intoUerable cares. ' Them therefore as bequeathing to the winde," ' I now depart, returning to thee never. And leave this lamentable plaint behinde. But doo thou haunt the soft downe rolling river, And wilde greene woods, and fruitful pas- tures minde. And let the flitting aire my vaine words sever.' Thus having said, he heavily departed With piteous crie, that anie would have smarted. 64a Now, when the sloathf uU fit of lif es sweets rest Had left the heavie shepheard, wondrous cares His inly grieved minde full sore opprest; That baleful! sorrow he no longer beares For that Gnats death, which deeply was imprest, But bends what ever power his aged yeares Him lent, yet being such as through their might He lately slue his dreadf uU foe in fight. [By that same river lurking under greene, Eftsoones he gins to fashion forth a place. And squaring it in compasse well beseene. There plotteth out a tombe by measured space : • 652 His yron headed spade tho making cleene, To dig up sods out of the flowrie grasse. His worke he shortly to good purpose brought. Like as he had conceiv'd it in his thought. An heape of earth he hoorded up on hie, Enclosing it with banks on everie side, And thereupon did raise full busily A little mount, of greene turffs edifide; 660 And on the top of all, that passers by Might it behold, the toomb he did provide Of smoothest marble stone in order set. That never might his luckie scape forget. And round about he taught sweete flowres to growe. The rose engrained in pure scarlet die, The lilly fresh, and violet belowe. The marigolde, and cherefuU rosemarie. The Spartan mirtle, whence sweet gumV does flowe. The purple hyacinthe, and fresh cost- marie, 670 And saffron, sought for in Cilieian soyle. And lawrell, th' ornament of Phcebus toyle : Fresh rhododaphne, and the Sabine flowre. Matching the wealth of th' auncient frank- incence. And pallid yvie, building his owne bowre, And box, yet mindfuU of his olde offence, Red amaranthus, lucklesse paramour, Oxeye still greene, and bitter patience ; Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that, in a well Seeing his beautie, in love with it fell. 680 PROSOPOPOIA: OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE 89 And whatsoever other flowre of worth, And whatso other hearb of lovely hew The joyous Spring out of the ground brings forth, To cloath her selfe iu colours fresh and new. He planted there, and reard a mount of earth. In whose high front was-writ as doth ensue : To thee, small Gnat, in lieu of Ms life saved, The Shepheard hath thy deaths record en- graved. FINIS. PROSOPOPOIA OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE BY ED. SP. DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE LADIE COMPTON AND MOUNTEGLE LONDON IMPRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE, DWELLING IN PAULES CHURCHYARD AT THE SIGNE OF THE BISHOPS HEAD 1591 TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE LADIE COMPTON AND MOUNTEGLE Most faire and vertuous Ladle : having often sought opportiuiitie by some good meanes to make knowen to your Ladiship the humble affection and faithfuU duetie which I have alwaies professed, and am bound to beare, to that house from whence yee spring; I have at length found occasion to remember the same, by making a simple present to you of these my idle labours ; which haying long sithens composed in the raw conoeipt of my youth, I lately amongst other papers lighted upon, and was by others, which lUied the same, mooved to set them foorth. Simple is the device, and the com- position meane, yet oarrieth some delight, even the rather because of the simplicitie and meannesse thus personated. The same I beseech your Ladiship take in good part, as a pledge of that profession which I have made to you, and keepe with you untill, with some other more worthie labour, I do redeeme it out of your hands, and discharge my utmost dutie. Till then, wishing your Ladiship all increase of honour and happi- nesse, I bumblie take leave. Your Ladiships ever humbly, Ed. Sp. [' Mother Hubberd's Tale ' is of the same period with ' Virgil's Gnat.' In the dedicatory letter of 159 1 it is said to have been ' long sithens composed in the raw oonceipt of my youth,' and ' long sithens ' is limited by tlie satire on court life to the years from 1577 to 1680. A probable glance at the disgrace of Leicester in 1579 (1. 028) may limit it still more. Yet be- side this very reference is one, equally prob- able, to events of ten years later, and other such insertions may be found. It would ap- pear, therefore, that when, during his second sojourn at court, Spenser ' lighted upon ' this early poem and was ' mooved to set it foorth,' he to some extent revised and enlarged it. The most obvious characteristic of ' Mother Hubberd's Tale ' is the range of its satire. The career of the Ape and the Fox is a kind of rogues' progress through the three estates to the crown. They begin among the common people, rise from thence to the clergy and from thence to the court, among the nobility ; in the end they cap the climax of their villainies by making themselves king and prime minis- ter. The satire is mainly concentrated, to be sure, upon life at the court and the intrigues of those in power, topics of direct personal concern to Spenser, yet the poem as a whole does survey, however imperfectly and unsym- metrioally, some of the main conditions of life in the nation at large. In this it harks back unmistakably to Piers Plowman. Though the satiric scope is of Langland, however, there is much in the style to suggest the vein of Chaucer, and the dramatis person stretch. When as he knowes his meede, if he be spide, To be a thousand deathes, and shame be- side ? ' ' Fond Ape ! ' sayd then the Foxe, ' into whose brest Never crept thought of honor nor brave gest. Who will not venture life a king to be, And rather rule and raigne in soveraign see, 986 Than dwell in dust inglorious and baoe, Where none shall name the number of his place ? One joyous houre in blisfull happines, I chose before a life of wretchednes. Be therefore counselled herein by me. And shake off this vile harted cowardree. If he awake, yet is not death the next. For we may eoulor it with some pretext Of this or that, that may excuse the cryme: Else we may flye; thou to a tree mayst clyme, ,90 And I creepe undec ground ; both from his reach: Therefore be rul'd to doo as I doo teach.' The Ape, that earst did nought but chill and quake, Now gan some courage unto him to take, And was content to attempt that enterprisBj Tickled with glorie and rash covetise. But first gan question, whither should as- say Those royall ornaments to steale away. 'Marie, that shall your selfe,' quoth he theretoo, ' For ye be fine and nimble it to doo; 1000 PROSOPOPOIA: OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE 103 Of all the beasts which in the forrests bee Is not a fitter for this turne than yee: Therefore, mine owne deare brother, take good hart. And ever thiuke a kingdome is your part.' Loath was the Ape, though praised, to ad- venter, Yet faintly gan into his worke to enter. Afraid of everie leafe that stir'd him by, And everie stick that vmderneath did ly; Upon his tiptoes nicely he up went, 1009 For making noyse, and still his eare he lent To everie sound that under heaven blew; Now went, now stept, now crept, now back- ward drew, That it good sport had been him to have eyde. Yet at the last (so well he him applyde) Through his fine handling and cleanly play He all those royall signes had stolne away, And with the Foxes helpe them borne aside Into a secret corner uuespide. Whether whenas they came, they fell at words, Whether of them should be the lord of lords : 1020 For th' Ape was stryfull and ambicious. And the Foxe guilefull and most covetous; That neither pleased was, to have the rayne Twixt them divided into even twaine, But either algates would be lord alone: For love and lordship bide no paragone. ' I am most worthie,' said the Ape, ' sith I For it did put my life in jeopardie: Thereto I am in person and in stature Most like a man, the lord of everie crea- ture ; 1030 So that it seemeth I was made to raigne. And borne to be a kingly soveraigne.' ' Nay,' said the Foxe, ' Sir Ape, you are astray: For though to steale the diademe away Were the worke of your nimble hand, yet I Did first devise the plot by poUicie ; So that it wholly springeth from my wit: For which also I claime my selfe more fit Than you to rule: for government of state Will without wisedome soone be ruinate. And where ye claime your selfe for out- ward shape 1041 Most like a man, man is not like an ape In his chief e parts, that is, in wit and spirite ; But I therein most like to him doo merite, For my slie wyles and subtill craftinesse, The title of the kingdome to possesse. Nath'les (my brother) since we passed are Unto this point, we will appease our jarre; And I with reason meete will rest content, That ye shall have both erowne and gov- ernment, 1050 Upon condition that ye ruled bee In all affaires, and counselled by mee; And that ye let none other ever drawe Your minde from me, but keepe this as a la we : And hereupon an oath unto me plight.' The Ape was glad to end the strife so light. And thereto swore : for who would not oft sweare. And oft unsweare, a diademe to beare ? Then freely up those royall spoyles he tooke ; Yet at the Lyons skin he inly quooke; 1060 But it dissembled; and upon his head The erowne, and on his backe the skin, he did. And the false Foxe him helped to array. Then when he was all dight he tooke his way Into the forest, that he might be scene Of the wilde beasts in his new glory sheene. There the two first whome he encountred were The Sheepe and th' Asse, who, striken both with feare At sight of him, gan fast away to flye ; But unto them the Foxe alowd did cry, 1070 And in the kings name bad them both to Upon the payne that thereof follow may. Hardly naythles were they restrayned so. Till that the Foxe forth toward them did goe. And there disswaded them from needlesse feare. For that the king did favour to them beare ; And therefore dreadles bad them come to corte : For no wild beasts should do them any torte There or abroad, ne would his Majestye Use them but well, with gracious clemen- cye, 1080 As whome he knew to him both fast and true. So he perswaded them, with homage due Themselves to humble to the Ape pros- trate, Who, gently to them bowing in his gate, 104 COMPLAINTS Reeeyved them with ehearefull entertayne. Thenceforth proceeding with his priacely trayne, He shortly met the Tygre, and the Bore, Which with the simple Camell raged sore In bitter words, seeking to take occasion, Upon his fleshly corpse to make mvasion: 1090 But soone as they this mock-king did espy, Their troublous strife they stinted by and Thinking indeed that it the Lyon was. He then, to prove whether his powre would pas As currant, sent the Foxe to them streight way,_ Commaunding them their cause of strife bewray ; And, if that wrong on eyther side there were, That he should warne the wronger to ap- peare The morrow next at court, it to defend ; 1099 In the meane time upon the king t' attend. The subtile Foxe so well his message sayd. That the proud beasts him readily obayd: Whereby the Ape in wondrous stomack woxe. Strongly encorag'd by the crafty Foxe ; That king indeed himselfe he shortly thought. And all the beasts him feared as they ought. And followed unto his palaice bye; Where taking conge, each one by and by Departed to his home in dreadfull awe, Full of the feared sight, which late they sawe. mo The Ape, thus seized of the regall throne, Eftsones by counsell of the Foxe alone Gan to provide for all things in assurance. That so his rule might lenger have endm?- ance. First, to his gate he pointed a strong gard, That none might enter but with issue hard: Then, for the safegard of his personage. He did appoint a warlike equipage Of forreine beasts, not in the forest bred, But part by land and part by water f ed ; 1 120 For tyrannic is with strange ayde supported. Then unto him all monstrous beasts resorted Bred of two kindes, as Griffons, Minotaures, Crocodiles, Dragons, Beavers, and Cen- taures : With those himselfe he strengthned mighte- lie. That feare he neede no force of enemie. Then gan he rule and tyrannize at will, Like as the Foxe did guide his graceles skill. And all wylde beasts made vassals of his pleasures. And with their spoyles enlarg'd his private treasures. 1130 No care of justice, nor no rule of reason. No temperance, nor no regard of season. Did thenceforth ever enter in his minde, But crueltie, the signe of currish kinde. And sdeignfuU pride, and wilfuU arro- gaunce ; Such followes those whom fortune doth ad- vaunce. But the false Foxe most kindly plaid his part: For whatsoever mother wit or arte Could worke, he put in proof e: no practise slie. No counterpoint of cunning policie, 1140 No reach, no breach, that might him profit bring. But he the same did to his purpose wring. Nought suffered he the Ape to give or graunt. But through his hand must passe the flaunt. All offices, all leases by him lept. And of them all whatso he likte he kept. Justice he solde injustice for to buy. And for to purchase for his progeny. Ill might it prosper, that ill gotten was, But, so he got it, little did he pas. 1150 He fed his cubs with fat of all the soyle, And with the sweete of others sweating toyle; He crammed them with crumbs of bene- fices. And fild their mouthes with meeds of male- flees; He eloathed them with all colours save white, And loded them with lordships and with might, So much as they were able well to beare. That with the weight their backs nigh broken were. He chaffred chayres in which churchmen were set. And breach of lawes to privie ferme did let; 1160 No statute so established might bee, Nor ordinaunce so needfull, but that hee Would violate, though not with violence, Yet under colour of the confldence PROSOPOPOIA: OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE i°S The which the Ape reposd' in him alone, And reckned him the kingdomes corner stone. And ever, when he ought would bring to pas, His long experience the platf orme was : And when he ought not pleasing would put The eloke was care of tlirift, and hus- bandry, 1,70 For to encrease the common treasures store. But his owne treasure he encreased more, And lifted up his loftis towres thereby, That they began to threat the neighbour sky; The whUes the princes pallaces fell fast To ruins, (for what thing can ever last?) And whUest the other peeres, for povertie. Were forst their auncieut houses to let lie. And their olde castles to the ground to fall. Which their forefathers, famous over all, 1 1 80 Had founded for the kingdomes ornament, And for their memories long moniment. But he no count made of nobilitie, Nor the wilde beasts whom armes did glorifie, The realmes chiefe strength and girlond of the crowne. All these through fained crimes he thrust adowne, Or made them dwell in darknes of dis- grace : For none but whom he list might come in place. Of men of armes he had but small regard, But kept them lowe, and streigned verie hard. ugo For men of learning little he esteemed; His wisedome he above their learning deemed. As for the rascall commons, least he cared; For not so common was his bountie shared". 'Let God,' said he, ' if please, care for the manie, I for my selfe must care before els anie.' So did he good to none, to manie ill. So did he all the kingdome rob and pUl, Yet none durst speake, ne none durst of him plaine ; So great he was in grace, and rich through gaine. 1200 Ne would he anie let to have accesse Unto the prince, but by his owne addresse: For all that els did come were sure to f aile ; Yet would he further none but for availe. For on a time the Sheepe, to whom of yore The Foxe had promised of friendship store, What time the Ape the kingdome first did gaine. Came to the court, her case there to com- plaine ; How that the Wolfe, her mortall enemie, Had sithence slaine her lambe most cruel- lie; 1210 And therefore crav'd to come unto the king, To let him knowe the order of the thing. ' Soft, Gooddie Sheepe ! ' then said the Foxe, ' not soe : Unto the king so rash ye may not goe ; He is with greater matter busied Than a lambe, or the lambes owne mothers hed. Ne certes may I take it well in part. That ye my cousin Wolfe so fowly thwart. And seeke with slaunder his good name to blot: For there was cause, els doo it he would not : 1220 Therefore surcease, good dame, and hence depart.' So went the Sheepe away with heavie hart; So manie moe, so everie one was used, That to give largely to the boxe refused. Now when high Jove, in whose almightie hand The care of kings and power of empires stand, Sitting one day within his turret hye, From whence he vewes with his blacklid- ded eye Whatso the heaven in his wide vawte con- taines, ' And all that in the deepest earth re- maines, 1230 And troubled kingdome of wUde beasts be- helde. Whom not their kindly sovereigne did welde. But an usurping Ape, with guile suborn'd. Had all subverst, he sdeignf ully it scorn'd In his great heart, and hardly did refrains But that with thunder bolts he had him slains. And driven downe to hell, his dewest mssd. But him avizing, hs that dreadfull deed io6 COMPLAINTS Forbore, and rather chose with seornfuU shame 1239 Him to avenge, and blot his brutish name Unto the world, that never after anie Should of his race be voyd of inf amie : And his false counsellor, the cause of all, To damne to death, or dole perpetuall, From whence he never should be quit nor stal'd. Forthwith he Mercurie unto him cal'd. And bad him flie with never resting speed Unto the forrest, where wilde beasts doo breed, And there enquiring privily, to learne What did of late chaunce to the Lyon stearne, 1250 That he rul'd not the empire, as he ought; And whence were all those plaints unto him brought Of wrongs and spoyles by salvage beasts committed ; Which done, he bad the Lyon be remitted Into his seate, and those same treachours vile Be punished for their presumptuous guile. The Sonne of Maia, soone as he receiv'd That word, streight with his azure wings he cleav'd The liquid clowdes and lucid firmament; Ne staid, till that he came with steep de- scent 1260 Unto the place, where his prescript did showe. There stouping, like an arrowe from a bowe, He soft arrived on the grassie plaine, And fairly paced forth with easie paine, Till that unto the pallaee nigh he came. Then gan he to himselfe new shape to frame, And that faire face, and that ambrosiall hew. Which wonts to decke the gods immortall crew, And beautefie the shinie firmament. He doft, unfit for that rude rabblement. 1270 So standing by the gates in strange disguize, He gan enquire of some in secret wize, Both of the king, and of his government. And of the Foxe, and his false blandishr ment: And evermore he heard each one complaine Of foule abuses both in realme and raine: Which yet to prove more true, he meant to see, And an ey-witnes of each thing to bee. Tho on his head his dreadfuU hat he dight. Which maketh him invisible in sight, 1280 And mocketh th' eyes of all the lookers on, Making them thinke it but a vision. Through power of that, he rumies through enemies swerds; Through power of that, he passeth through the herds Of ravenous wilde beasts, and doth beguile Their greedie mouthes of the expected spoyle; Through power of that, his cunning theev- eries He wonts to worke, that none the same es- pies; And through the power of that, he putteth on What shape he list in apparition. 1290 That on his head he wore, and in his hand He tooke Caduceus, his snakie wand. With which the damned ghosts he gov- emeth, And furies rules, and Tartare tempereth. With that he causeth sleep to seize the eyes, And feare the harts of all his enemyes; And when him list, an universall night Throughout the world he makes on everie wight, As when his syre with Alcumena lay. Thus dight, into the court he tooke his way, 1300 Both through the gard, which never him descride. And through the watchmen, who him never spide : Thenceforth he past into each secrete part. Whereas he saw, that sorely griev'd his hart. Each place abounding with fowle injuries, And fild with treasure rackt with robberies ; Each place defllde with blood of guiltles beasts. Which had been slaine, to serve the Apes beheasts; Gluttonie, malice, pride, and eovetize, And lawlesnes raigning with riotize; 1310 Besides the infinite extortions, Done through the Foxes great oppressions. That the complaints thereof could not be tolde. Which when he did with lothfuU eyes be- holde, He would no more endure, but came his way. And cast to seeke the Lion, where he may, PROSOPOPOIA: OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE 107 That lie might worke the avengement for this shame On those two oaytives, which had bred him blame; And seeking all the forrest busily, At last he found where sleeping he did ly. The wicked weed, which there the Foxe did lay, _ 1321 From underneath his head he tooke away, And then him waking, forced up to rize. The Lion, looking up, gan him avize, As one late in a trauuee, what had of long Become of him: for fantasie is strong. ' Arise,' said Mercurie, ' thou sluggish beast. That here liest senseles, like the corpse de- ceast, The whilste thy kingdome from thy head is rent. And thy throne royall with dishonour blent: 1330 Arise, and doo thy selfe redeeme from shame, And be aveng'd on those that breed thy blame.' Thereat enraged, soone he gan upstart, Grinding his teeth, and grating his great hart. And, rouzing up himselfe, for his rough hide He gan to reach; but no where it espide. Therewith he gan full terribly to rore. And chafte at that indignitie right sore. But when his crowne and scepter both he wanted. Lord ! how he fum'd, and sweld, and rag'd, and panted, 1340 And threatned death and thousand deadly dolours To them that had purloyn'd his princely honours ! With that in hast, disroabed as he was. He toward his owne palla^e forth did pas; And all the way he roared as he went. That all the forrest with astonishment Thereof did tremble, and the beasts therein Fled fast away from that so dreadfull din. At last he came unto his mansion. Where all the gates he found fast lockt anon, 1350 And manie warders round about them stood: With that he roar'd alowd, as he were wood, That all the pallace quaked at the stound, As if it quite were riven from the ground, And all within were dead and hartles left; And th' Ape himselfe, as one whose wits were reft. Fled here and there, and eyerie corner sought. To hide himselfe from his owne feared thought. But the false Foxe, when he the Lion heard, Fled closely forth, streightway of death afeard, 1360 And to the Lion came, full lowly creeping. With fained face, and watrie eyne halfe weeping, T' excuse his former treason and abusion. And turning all unto the Apes confusion: Nath'les the royall beast forbore beleeving. But bad him stay at ease till further preev- mg. Then when he saw no entrance to him graunted. Roaring yet lowder, that all harts it daunted. Upon those gates with force he fiercely flewe. And, rending them in pieces, felly slewe Those warders strange, and all that els he met. 1371 But th' Ape, still flying, he no where might get: From rowme to rowme, from beame to beame he fled. All breathles, and for feare now almost ded: Yet him at last the Lyon spide, and caught, And forth with shame unto his judgement brought. Then all the beasts he causd' assembled bee. To heare their doome, and sad ensample see: The Foxe, first author of that treaeherie, He did uncase, and then away let flie. 1380 But th' Apes long taile (which then he had) he quight Cut ofi:, and both eares pared of their hight; Since which, all apes but halfe their eares have left. And of their tailes are utterlie bereft. So Mother Hubberd her discourse did end: Which pardon me, if I amisse have pend, For weake was my remembrance it to hold. And bad her tongue, that it so bluntly tolde. FINIS. io8 COMPLAINTS RUINES OF ROME BY BELLAY [The Songe of Du Bellay, of jwhich the 'Visions of Bellay' are a rendering, forms a kind of appendix to his Antiquitez de Rome. Spenser, having had his attention directed to the former, would naturally read also the latter: the result was this other translation, ' Kuins of Rome.' It is difficult to believe that this work is not also of his university days. In the 'Envoy,' to he sure, he refers to the Sepmaine of Du Bartas, first published in 157S, but the ' Envoy,' or that part of it, may very well be an afterthought. Both the weight of antecedent probability and the evidence of style would place the translation proper with the two earliest series of 'visions,' those of Bellay and of Petrarch. They are all three much of a piece. As translations in the larger sense, though often resourceful and apt, they can hardly be said to foretell the rare felicity of his later renderings from Tasso. As poetic exercises, however, they show at least the rudiments of that copious ease which is the mark of his maturer style.] Ye heavenly spirites, whose ashie cinders lie Under deep ruines, with huge walls op- prest, But not your praise, the which shall never die, Through your faire verses, ne in ashes rest; If so be shrilling voyce of wight alive May reach from hence to depth of darkest hell, _ ■ Then let those deep abysses open rive. That ye may understand my sbreiking yell. Thrice having scene, under the heavens veale. Your toombs devoted compasse over all. Thrice unto you with lowd voyce I appeale, And for your antique f urie here doo call, The whiles that I with sacred horror sing Yonr glorie, fairest of all earthly thing. GreatBabylon her haughtie walls will praise, And sharped steeples high shot up in ayre; Greece will the olde Ephesian buildings blaze; And Nylus nurslings their pyramides faire ; The same yet vaunting Greece will tell the storie Of Joves great image in Olympus placed ; Mausolus worke will be the Carians glorie; And Crete will boast the Labyrinth, now raced; The antique Rhodian will likewise set forth The great colosse, erect to Memorie; And what els in the world is of like worth, Some greater learned wit will magnifie. But I will sing above all moniments Seven Romane hils, the worlds seven wonderments. Thou stranger, which for Rome in Rome here seekest, And nought of Rome in Rome perceiv'st at all. These same olde walls, olde arches, which thou seest, Olde palaces, is that which Rome men call. Behold what wreake, what ruine, and what wast. And how that she, which with her mightie powre Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herselfe at , last, The pray of Time, which all things doth devowre. Rome now of Rome is th' onely funerall, And onely Rome of Rome hath victorie; Ne ought save Tyber hastning to his fall Remaines of all: O worlds inconstancie ! That which is firme doth flit and fall away, And that is flitting doth abide and stay. She, whose high top above the starres did sore. One foote on Thetis, th' other on the Morning, One hand on Scy thia, th' other on the More, Both heaven and earth in roundnesse com- passing, Jove, fearing least, if she should greater growe. The old giants should once againe uprise. Her whelm'd with hills, these seven hils, which be nowe Tombes of her greatnes, which did threate the skies: Upon her head he heapt Momit Saturnal, Upon her bellie th' antique Palatine, Upon her stomacke laid Mount Quirinal, On her left hand the noysome Esquiline, And Cselian on the right ; but both her f eete Mount Viminal and Aventine doo meete. RUINES OF ROME 109 Who lists to see what ever nature, arte, And heaven could doo, O Rome, thee let him see, In case thy greatnes he can gesse in harte By that which but the picture is of thee. Kome is no more: but if the shade of Rome May of the bodie yeeld a seeming sight. It 's like a corse drawne forth out of the tombe By magioke skill out of eternall night: The corpes of Rome in ashes is entombed. And her great spirite, rejoyned to the spirite Of this great masse, is in the same en- wombed ; But her brave writings, which her famous merite, In spight of Time, out of the dust doth reare, Doo make her idole through the world appears. VI Such as the Berecynthian goddesse bright. In her swift charret with high turrets crownde, Proud that so manie gods she brought to Such was this citie in her good daies fownd: This citie, more than that great Phrygian mother Renowm'd for fruite of famous progenie. Whose greatnes by the greatnes of none other. But by her selfe, her equall match could see: Rome onely might to Rome compared bee. And onely Rome could make great Rome to tremble : So did the gods by heavenly doome decree. That other earthlie power should not re- semble Her that did match the whole earths puissaunoe. And did her courage to the heavens ad- vaunce. Ye sacred ruines, and ye tragick sights. Which onely doo the name of Rome retaine, Olde moniments, which of so famous sprights The honour yet in ashes doo maintaine, Triumphant arcks, spyres neighbours to the skie. That you to see doth th' heaven it selfe appall, Alas ! by little ye to nothing flie, The peoples fable, and the spoyle of all: And though your frames do for a time make warre Gainst Time, yet Time in time shall ruin- ate Your workes and names, and your last rel- iques marre. My sad desires, rest therefore moderate: For if that Time make ende of things so sure, It als will end the paine which I endure. Through armes and vassals Rome the world subdu'd. That one would weene that one sole cities strength Both land and sea in roundnes had sur- vew'd, To be the measure of her bredth and length: This peoples vertue yet so fruitfuU was Of vertuous nephewes, that posteritie. Striving in power their grandfathers to passe, The lowest earth join'd to the heaven hie; To th' end that, having all parts in their power, Nought from the Romane Empire might be quight; And that though Time doth commonwealths devowre. Yet no time should so low embase their hight. That her head, earth'd in her foundations deep, Should not her name and endles honour keep. Ye cruell starres, and eke ye gods unkinde, Heaven envious, and bitter stepdame Na^ ture. Be it by fortune, or by course of kinde, That ye doo weld th' affaires of earthlie creature; Why have your hands long sithence tra- veile(i To frame this world, that doth endure so long? no COMPLAINTS Or why were not these Romane palaces Made of some matter no lesse firme and strong ? I say not, as the common voyce doth say, That all things which beneath the moone have being Are temporall, and subject to decay: But I say rather, though not all agreeing With some that weene the contrarie in thought. That all this whole shall one day come to nought. As that brave sonne of Aeson, which by charmes Atcheiv'd the golden fleece in Colchid land. Out of the earth engendred men of armes Of dragons teeth, sowne in the sacred sand; So this brave towne, that in her youthlie daies An hydra was of warriours glorious. Did fill with her renowmed nourslings praise The flrie sunnes both one and other hous: But they at last, there being then not living An Hercules, so ranke seed to represse, Emongst themselves with cruell f urie striv- ing, Mow'd downe themselves with slaughter mercilesse ; Renewing in themselves that rage un- kinde. Which whilom did those earthbom bre- thren blinde. Mars, shaming to have given so great head To his off-spring, that mortall puissaunce, Puft up with pride of Romane hardie- head, Seem'd above heavens powre it selfe to ad- vaunce, Cooling againe his former kindled heate. With which he had those Romane spirits fild, Did blowe new flre, and with enflamed breath Into the Gothicke oolde hot rage instil'd: Then gan that nation, th' earths new giant brood. To dart abroad the thunder bolts of warre, And, beating downe these walls with furious mood Into her mothers bosome, all did marre; To th' end that none, all were it Jove his sire, Should boast himselfe of the Romane Empire. XII Like as whilome the children of the earth Heapt hils on hils, to scale the starrie skie, And fight against the gods of heavenly berth. Whiles Jove at them his thunderbolts let flie; All suddenly with lightning overthrowne. The furious squadrons downe to ground did fall, That th' earth under her childrens weight did grone. And th' heavens in glorie triumpht over all: So did that haughtie front, which heaped was On these seven Romane hils, it selfe up- reare Over the world, and lift her loftie face Against the heaven, that gan her force to feare. But now these scorned fields bemone her fall. And gods secure feare not her force at all. Nor the swift f urie of the flames aspiring, Nor the deep wounds of victours raging blade. Nor ruthlesse spoyle of souldiers blood- desiring. The which so oft thee (Rome) their con- quest made ; Ne stroke on stroke of fortune variable, Ne rust of age hating continuance. Nor wrath of gods, nor spight of men un- stable, Nor thou opposd' against thine owne puis- sance ; Nor th' horrible uprore of windes high blowing. Nor swelling streames of that god snakie- paced. Which hath so often with his overflowing Thee drenched, have thy pride so much abaced. But that this nothing, which they have thee left, Makes the world wonder what they from thee reft. RUINES OF ROME XIV As men in summer fearles passe the foord, Which is in winter lord of all the plaine, And with his tumbling streames doth beare aboord The ploughmans hope and shepheards la- bour vaine : And as the coward beasts use to despise The noble lion after his lives end, Whetting their teeth, and with vaine fool- hardise Daring the foe, that cannot him defend: And as at Troy most dastards of the Greekes Did brave about the corpes of Hector colde ; So those which whilome wont with pallid cheekes The Romane triumphs glorie to behold, Now on these ashie tombes shew bold- nesse vaine. And, conquer'd, dare the conquerour dis- daine. XV Ye pallid spirits, and ye ashie ghoasts. Which, joying in the brightnes of your day, Brought foorth those signes of your pre- sumptuous boasts Which now their dusty reliques do bewray; Tell me, ye spirits (sith the darksome river Of Styx, not passable to soules returning. Enclosing you in thrice three wards for ever, Doo not restraine your images still mourn- ing) Tell me then (for perhaps some one of you Yet here above him secretly doth hide) Doo ye not feele your torments to ac- crewe. When ye sometimes behold the ruin'd pride Of these old Romane works, built with your hands. To have become nought els but heaped sands ? XVI Like as ye see the wrathfull sea from farre, In a great mountaine heap't with hideous noyse, Eftsoones of thousand billowes shouldred narre. Against a rooke to breake with dreadful! poyse : Like as ye see fell Boreas with sharpe blast, Tossing huge tempests through the troubled skie, Eftsoones having his wide wings spent in wast. To stop his wearie cariere suddenly: And as ye see huge flames spred diverslie, Gathered m one up to the heavens to spyre, Eftsoones consum'd to fall downe feebily: So whilom did this mouarchie aspyre As waves, as winde, as fire spred over all. Till it by fatall doorae adowne did fall. So long as Joves great bird did make his flight. Bearing the Are with which heaven doth us fray. Heaven had not feare of that presumptuous might. With which the giaunts did the gods assay. But all so soone as scortohmg sunne had brent His wings, which wont the earth to over- spredd. The earth out of her massie wonibe forth sent That antique horror, which made heaven adredd. Then was the Grermane raven in disguise That Romane eagle seene to cleave asunder. And towards heaven freshly to arise Out of these mountaines, now consimi'd to pouder: In which the foule that serves to beare the lightning Is now no more seen flying, nor alighting. XVIII These heapes of stones, these old wals which ye see. Were first enclosures but of salvage soyle; And these brave pallaces, which maystred bee Of Time, were shepheards cottages some- while. Then tooke the shepheards kingly orna- ments. And the stout hynde arm'd his right hand with Steele: Eftsoones their rule of yearely presidents Grew great, and sixe months greater a great deele; 112 COMPLAINTS Which, made perpetuall, rose to so great might, That thence th' imperiall eagle rooting tooke. Till th' heaven it selfe, opposing gainst her might. Her power to Peters successor be tooke; Who, shepheardlike, (as Fates the same foreseeing) Doth shew that all things turne to their first being. All that is perfect, which th' heaven beau- tefles ; All that 's imperfect, borne belowe the moone ; All that doth f eede our spirits and our eies ; And all that doth consume our pleasures soone ; All the mishap, the which our daies out- weares ; All the good hap of th' oldest times afore, Rome in the time of her great ancesters. Like a Pandora, locked long in store. But destinie this huge chaos turmoyling, In which all good and evill was enclosed, Their heavenly vertues from these woes assoyling, Caried to heaven, from sinfull bondage losed: But their great sinnes, the causers of their pame. Under these antique ruines yet remaine. No otherwise than raynie cloud, first fed With earthly vapours gathered in the ayre, Eftsoones in compas arch't, to steepe his hed, Doth plonge himselfe in Tethys bosome faire; And mounting up againe, from whence he came, With his great bellie spreds the dimmed world, Till at the last, dissolving his moist frame, In raine, or snowe, or haile he forth is horld; This citie, which was first but shepheards shade, Uprising by degrees, grewe to such height, That queene of land and sea her selfe she made. At last, not able to beare so great weight, Her power, disperst, through all the world did vade; To shew that all in th' end to nought shall fade. XXI The same which Pyrrhus and the puis- saunce Of Afrike could not tame, that same brave citie, Which, with stout courage arm'd against mischauuce, Sustein'd the shocke of common enmitie; Long as her ship, tost with so manie freakes. Had all the world in armes against her bent. Was never scene that anie fortunes wreakes Could breake her course begun with brave intent. But when the object of her vertue failed, Her power it selfe against it selfe did arme; As he that having long in tempest sailed, Paine would arive, but cannot for the storme. If too great winde against the port him drive. Doth in the port it selfe his vessell rive. XXII When that brave honour of the Latine name. Which mear'd her rule with Africa and Byze, With Thames inhabitants of noble fame, And they which see the dawning day arize, Her nourslings did with mutinous uprore Harten against her selfe, her conquer'd spoile. Which she had wonne from all the world afore. Of all the world was spoyl'd within a while. So, when the compast course of the uni- verse In sixe and thirtie thousand yeares is ronne. The bands of th' elements shall backe re- verse To their first discord, and be quite un- donne: The seedes, of which all things at first were bred. Shall in great Chaos wombe againe be hid. RUINES OF ROME 113 O warie wisedome of the man that would That Carthage towres from spoile should be forborne, To th' end that his victorious people should With cancring laisvire not be overworne ! He well foresaw, how that the Romane courage, Impatient of pleasures faint desires, Through idlenes would tume to civill rage. And be her selfe the matter of her flres. For in a people given all to ease. Ambition is engendred easily ; As in a vicious bodie, grose disease Soone growes through humours super- fluitie. That came to passe, when, swolne with plenties pride. Nor prince, nor peere, nor kin, they would abide. If the blinde Furie, which warres breedeth oft. Wonts not t' enrage the hearts of equall beasts. Whether they fare on foote, or flie aloft. Or armed be with clawes, or scalie oreasts. What fell Erynnis, with hot burning tongs. Did grype your hearts, with noysome rage imbew'd. That, each to other working cruell wrongs. Your blades in your owne bowels you em- brew'd ? Was this, ye Romanes, your hard destinie ? Or some old sinne, whose unappeased guilt Powr'd vengeance forth on you eternallie ? Or brothers blood, the which at first was spilt Upon your walls, that God might not en- dure Upon the same to set foundation sure ? that I had the Thracian poets harpe. For to awake out of th' infernall shade Those antique Caesars, sleeping long in darke, The which this aunoient citie whilome made! Or that I had Amphions instrument, To quicken with his vitall notes accord The stonie joynts of these old walls now rent, By which th' Ausoniam light might be re- stor'd I Or that at least I could with pencill fine Fashion the pourtraicts of these palacis. By paterne of great Virgils spirit divme ! I would assay with that which in me is To builde, with levell of my loftie style. That which no hands can evermore com- pyle. XXVI Who list the Romane greatnes forth to figure, Him needeth not to seeke for usage right Of line, or lead, or rule, or squaire, to mea^ sure Her length, her breadth, her deepnes, or her hight; But him behooves to vew in compasse rovmd All that the ocean graspes in his long armes ; Be it where the yerely starre doth scortch the ground, Or where colde Boreas blowes his bitter stormes. Rome was th' whole world, and al the world was Rome, And if things nam'd their names doo equal- ize, When land and sea ye name, then name ye Rome, And naming Rome, ye land and sea com- prize: For th' auncient plot of Rome, displayed plaine. The map of all the wide world doth con- taine. XXVII Thou that at Rome astonisht dost behold The antique pride, which menaced the skie, These haughtie heapes, these palaces of olde. These wals, these arcks, these baths, these temples hie. Judge, by these ample mines vew, the rest The which injurious time hath quite out- worne. Since, of all workmen helde in reckning best. Yet these olde fragments are for paternes borne: Then also marke, how Rome, from day to day, Repayring her decayed fashion, Renewes herselfe with buildings rich and gay; That one would judge that the Romaine Dxmon 114 COMPLAINTS Doth yet himselfe with fatall hand en- force, Againe on foote to reare her pouldred corse. XXVIII He that hath seene a great oke drie and dead, Yet clad with reliques of some trophees olde. Lifting to heaven her aged hoarie head. Whose foote in ground hath left but feeble holde, But half e disbowei'd lies above the ground, Shewing her wreathed rootes, and naked armes. And on her trunke, all rotten and unsound, Onely supports herselfe for meate of wormes, And though she owe her fall to the first winde. Yet of the devout people is ador'd, And manie yong plants spring out of her rinde ; Who such an oke hath seene, let him re- cord That such this cities honour was of yore. And mongst all cities florished much more. All that which Aegypt whilome did de- vise. All that which Greece their temples to em- brave. After th' lonicke, Atticke, Doricke guise, Or Corinth skil'd in curious workes to grave, All that Lysippus praotike arte could forme, Apelles wit, or Phidias his skill. Was wont this auncient citie to adorne. And the heaven it selfe with her wide wonders fill. All that which Athens ever brought forth wise. All that which Afrike ever brought forth strange. All that which Asie ever had of prise, Was here to see. O mervelous great change ! Rome, living, was the worlds sole orna- ment. And dead, is now the worlds sole moni- ment. Like as the seeded field greene grasse first showes. Then from greene grasse into a stalke doth spring, And from a stalke into an eare forth- growes, Which eare the f rutef uU graine doth shortly bring; And as in season due the husband mowes The waving lockes of those faire yeallow heares, Which, bound in sheaves, and layd in comely rowes. Upon the naked fields in stackes he reares: So grew the Romane Empire by degree. Till that barbarian hands it quite did spill, And left of it but these olde markes to see, Of which all passers by doo somewhat pill, As they which gleane, the reliques use to gather, Which th' husbandman behind him chanst to scater. That same is now nought but a champian wide. Where all this worlds pride once was situate. No blame to thee, whosoever dost abide By Nyle, or Gange, orTygre, or Euphrate; Ne Afrike thereof guiltie is, nor Spaine, Nor the bolde people by the Thamis brincks. Nor the brave warlicke brood of Alemaine, Nor the borne souldier which Rhine run- ning drinks. Thou onely cause, O Civill Furie, art: Which, sowing in th' Aemathian fields thy spight, Didst arme thy hand against thy proper hart; To th' end that when thou wast in greatest hight To greatnes growne, through long pros- peritie, Thou then adowne might'st fall more horriblie. Hope ye, my verses, that posteritie Of age ensuing shall you ever read ? Hope ye that ever immortalitie So meane harpes worke may ohalenge for her meed ? MUIOPOTMOS: OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE "S If under heaven anie endurance were, These moniments, which not in paper writ, But iu porphyre and marble doo appeare, Might well have hop'd to have obtained it. Nath'les, my lute, whom Phtebus deigned to give, Cease not to sound these olde antiquities: For if that Time doo let thy glorie live. Well maist thou boast, how ever base thou bee. That thou art first which of thy nation song Th' olde honour of the people gowned long. L'ENVOY Bellay, first garland of free poesie That France brought forth, though fruit- full of brave wits, Well worthie thou of immortalitie. That long hast traveld by thy learned writs, Olde Rome out of her ashes to revive. And give a second life to dead decayes: Needes must he all eternitie survive. That can to other give eternall dayes. Thy dayes therefore are endles, and thy prayse Excelling all that ever went before; And, after thee, gins Bartas hie to rayse His heavenly Muse, th' Almightie to adore. Live happie spirits, th' honour of your name. And fill the world with never dying fame. FINIS. MUIOPOTMOS, OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTER- FLIE BY ED. SP. DEDICATED TO THE MOST FAIRE AND VERTUOUS LADIE: THE LADIE CAREY LONDON IMPRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE, DWELLING IN PAULES CHURCHYARD AT THE SIGNE OF THE BISHOPS HEAD 1590 TO THE RIGHT WORTHY AND VERTUOUS LADIE; THE LADIE CAREY Most brave and bountifuU Lady: for so excellent favours as I have received at your sweet handes, to offer these fewe leaves as in reeompence, should be as to offer flowers to the gods for their divine benefltes. There- fore I have determined to give my selfe wholy to you, as quite abandoned from my selfe, and absolutely vowed to your services : which in all right is ever held for full re- eompence of debt or damage to have the person yeelded. My person I wot wel how little worth it is. But the faithfull minde and humble zeale which I beare unto your Ladiship may perhaps be more of price, as may please you to account and use the poore service thereof; which taketh glory to ad- vance your excellent partes and noble ver- tues, and to spend it selfe in honouring you: not so much for your great bounty to my self, which yet may not be unminded ; nor for name or kindreds sake by you vouch- safed, beeing also regardable; as for that honorable name, which yee have by your brave deserts purchast to your self, and spred in the mouths of al men: with which 1 have also presumed to grace my verses, and under your name to commend to the world this smal poeme ; the which beseech- ing your Ladiship to take in worth, and of all things therein according to your wonted graciousnes to make a milde construction, I humbly pray for your happines. Your Ladiships ever humbly ; E. S. ['Muiopotmos' cannot be dated with certainty. In style it would seem to be more mature than the work of the Calendar period ; it may have been written in Ireland ; one rather associates it with that period of delight in London while the poet was seeing his Faery Queen through the press. If the date upon its separate title- page, 1590, is to be trusted, it must have been written, at latest, not long after his arrival in England. By contrast to the motley and impressive medisevalism of ' Mother Huhherd's Tale,' this poem would seem to be conspicuously Renais- sance Italian. Its subject is a mere nothing : it tells no story that could not be told in full in a stanza, it presents no situation for the ii6 COMPLAINTS delicate rhetoric of the emotions : it is a mere running frieze of images and scenes, linked in fanciful continuity. It is organized as a mock- heroic poem, but its appeal is essentially to the eye. Myths, invented or real, that seem to form themselves spontaneously into pic- tures, the landscape of the gardens, fantastic armor, the figured scenes of tapestry richly bordered, these are of a poetry akin to the plastic arts, such as one finds in the Stanze of Poliziano. Tfet the temper of ' Muiopotmos ' is not that of the Stanze and their like. It is rather of the air than of the earth. One might think it an emanation of the theme itself and fancy that the frail wings of the butterfly had been spread for the style, delicately colored, ethereal. The poet of the Faery Queen never more happily escaped into ' delight with lib- erty ' than here.] MUIOPOTMOS: OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE I SING of deadly dolorous debate, Stir'd up through wrathfull Nemesis de- spight, Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate, Drawne into armes, and proofs of mortall fight, Through prowd ambition and hartswelling hate, Whilest neither could the others greater might And sdeignfuU scorne endure; that from small Jarre ; Their wraths at length broke into open warre. The roote whereof and tragicall effect, Vouchsafe, O thou the moumfulst Muse of nyne, lo That wontst the tragick stage for to direct, In funerall complaints and waylfull tyne, Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect Through which sad Clarion did at last de- clyne To lowest wretchednes: And is there then Such rancour in the harts of mightie men ? Of all the race of silver-winged flies Which doo possesse the empire of the aire, Betwixt the centred earth and azure skies, Was none more favourable, nor more f aire, Whilst heaven did favour his felicities, 21 Then Clarion, the eldest Sonne and haire Of MuscaroU, and in his fathers sight Of all alive did seeme the fairest wight. With fruitfuU hope his aged breast he fed Of futvire good, which his yong toward yeares. Full of brave courage and bold hardyhed, Above th' ensample of his equall peares, Did largely promise, and to him f orered (Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares) 3° That he in time would sure prove such an one, As should be worthie of his fathers throne. The fresh yong flie, in whom the kindly fire Of lustful! yongth began to kindle fast. Did much disdaine to subject his desire To loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast. But joy'd to range abroad in fresh attire. Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast, And with unwearied wings each part t' in- quire Of the wide rule of his renowmed sire. 40 For he so swift and nimble was of flighty That from this lower tract he dar'd to stie Up to the clowdes, and thence, with pineons light. To mount aloft unto the christall skie, To vew the workmanship of heavens hight: Whence downe descending he along would flie Upon the streaming rivers, sport to finde; And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde. So on a summers day, when season milde With gentle calme the world had quieted, And high in heaven Hyperions flerie childe 51 Ascending, did his beames abroad dispred. Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde, Yong Clarion, with vauntfuU lustiehead, After his guize did cast abroad to fare. And theretoo gan his furnitures prepare. His breastplate first, that was of substance pure, 1 Before his noble heart he firmely bound, MUIOPOTMOS: OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE 117 That mought his life from yron death as- sure, And ward his gentle corpes from cruell wound : 60 For it by arte was framed to endure The bit of balefuU Steele and bitter stownd, No lesse than that which Vulcane made to sheild Achilles life from fate of Troyan field. And then about his shoulders broad he threw An hairie hide of some wUde beast, whom hee In salvage forrest by adventure slew. And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee: Which, spreddiog all his baoke with dread- full vew. Made all that him so horrible did see 70 Thiuke him Alcides with the lyons skin. When the Nsemean conquest he did win. Upon his head, his glistering burganet. The which was wrought by wonderous device, And curiously engraven, he did set: The mettall was of rare and passing price; Not Bilbo Steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet, Nor costly oricalche from strange Phcenice; But such as could both Phoebus arrowes ward, And th' hayling darts of heaven beating hard. 80 Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore. Strongly outlaunced towards either side, Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore: Like as a warlike brigandine, applyde To fight, layes forth her threatfuU pikes afore, The engines which in them sad death doo hyde: So did this flie outstretch his fearefuU homes. Yet so as him their terrour more adornes. Lastly his shinie wings, as silver bright. Painted with thousand colours, passing farre 90 All painters skill, he did about him dight: Not halfe so mauie simdrie colours arre In Iris bowe, ne heaven doth shine so bright, Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre. Nor Junoes bird in her ey-spotted trains So manie goodly colours doth containe. Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken) The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree, That joyes on wretched lovers to be wroken. And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see, 100 Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token. Ah ! my liege lord, forgive it unto mee. If ought against thine honour I have tolde ; Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde. Full manie a ladie faire, in court full oft Beholding them, him secretly envide, And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft And golden faire, her love would her pro- vide; Or that, when them the gorgeous flie had doft. Some one, that would with grace be grati- fide, no From him would steale them privily away. And bring to her so precious a pray. Report is that Dame Venus on a day. In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruit- ful ground, Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play. Bad her faire damzels, flocking her arownd. To gather flowres, her forhead to array. Emongst the rest a gentle nymph was found, Hight Astery, excelling all the orewe In curteous usage and unstained hewe. 120 Who, being nimbler joynted than the rest. And more industrious, gathered more store Of the fields honour than the others best; Which they in secret harts envying sore, Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiest She praisd', that Cupide (as they heard be- fore) Did lend her secret aide in gathering Into her lap the children of the Spring. Whereof the goddesse gathering jealous feare. Not yet umnindfull how not long agoe 130 ii8 COMPLAINTS Her Sonne to Psyche secrete love did beare, And long it close eonceal'd, till mickle woe Thereof arose, and manie a ruf ull teare, Reason with sudden rage did overgoe, And giving hastie credit to th' accuser, Was led away of them that did abuse her. Eftsoones that damzel, by her heavenly might. She turn'd into a winged butterflie, In the wide aire to make her wandring flight; And all those flowres, with which so plen- teouslie 140 Her lap she filled had, that bred her spight. She placed in her wings, for memorie Of her pretended crime, though crime none were: Since which that flie them in her wings doth beare. Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight, Unto his journey did himself e addresse, And with good speed began to take his flight: Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse. And all the champion he soared light, 149 And all the countrey wide he did possesse. Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie, That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie. The woods, the rivers, and the medowes green. With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide, Ne did he leave the mountaines bare un- seene, Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights un- tride. But none of these, how ever sweete they beene. Mote please his faneie, nor him cause t' abide : His ehoieef ull sense with everie change doth flit; No common things may please a wavering wit. 160 To the gay gardins his unstaid desire Him wholly caried, to refresh his sprights: There ^lavish Nature, in her best attire, Powres forth sweete odors, and alluring sights ; And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire T' exoell the naturall with made delights: And aU that faire or pleasant may be found In riotous excesse doth there abound. There he arriving, roimd about doth flie, From bed to bed, from one to other bor- der, . 170 And takes survey, with curious busie eye, Of everie flowre and herbe there set in order; Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly. Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder, Ne with his feete their silken leaves de- face; But pastures on the pleasures of each place. And evermore with most varietie. And change of sweetnesse (for all change is sweete) He easts his glutton sense to satisfie; Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meete, 180 Or of the deaw, which yet on them does lie. Now in the same bathing his tender feete: And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby, To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry. And then againe he turneth to his play. To spoyle the pleasures of that paradise: The wholsome saulge, and lavender still gray, Kanke smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes, _ The roses raigning in the pride of May, Sharpe isope, good for greene wounds reme- dies, 190 Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime, Sweete marjoram, and daysies decking prime: Coole violets, and orpine growing stUl, Embathed balme, and chearfuU galingale, Fresh eostmarie, and breathfuU camomill, Dull poppie, and drink-quickning setuale, Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dUl, Sound savorie, and bazUl hartie-hale, Fat colworts, and comforting perseline, Colde lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine. 200 And whatso else of vertue good or ill Grewe in this gardin, fetcht from farre away. Of everie one he takes, and tastes at will, And on their pleasures greedily doth pray. MUIOPOTMOS: OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE 119 Then, when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill. In the warme sunne he doth himself e em- bay, And there him rests in riotous sufBsaunce Of all his gladfulnes and kingly joyaunce. What more felieitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, 210 And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie. To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature, To take what ever thing doth please the eie? Who rests not pleased with such happiues, Well worthie he to taste of wretchednes. But what on earth can long abide in state, Or who can him assure of happie day; Sith morning faire may bring f owle evening late. And least mishap the most blisse alter may ? 220 For thousand perills lie in close awaite About us daylie, to worke our decay; That none, except a God, or God him guide, May them avoyde, or remedie provide. And whatso heavens in their secret doome Ordained have, how can f railo fleshly wight Forecast, but it must needs to issue come ? The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night, And th' armies of their creatures all and some Do serve to them, and with importune might 230 Warre against us, the vassals of their will. Who then can save what they dispose to spill? Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thou Of all thy kinde, unhappie happie flie, Whose cruell fate is woven even now Of Joves owne hand, to worke thy miserie : Ne may thee helpe the manie hartie vow, Which thy olde sire with sacred pietie Hath ppwred forth for thee, and th' altars sprent: Nought may thee save from heavens avengement. mo It fortuned (as heavens had behight) That in this gardin, where yong Clarion Was wont to solace him, a wicked wight. The foe of faire things, th' author of con- fusion, The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight. Had lately built his hatefull mansion. And, lurking closely, in awayte now lay. How he might anie in his trap betray. But when he spide the joyous butterflie In this faire plot dispaemg too and fro, 250 Fearles of foes and hidden jeopardie. Lord ! how he gan for to bestirre him tho. And to his wicked worke each part applie ! His heart did earne against his hated foe. And bowels so with ranckling poyson swelde, That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde. The cause why he this flie so maliced Was (as in stories it is written found) For that his mother which him bore and bred. The most flne-fingred workwoman on ground, 260 Arachne, by his meanes was vanquished Of Pallas, and in her owne skill confound. When she with her for excellence con- tended. That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended. For the Tritonian goddesse, having hard Her blazed fame, which all the world had fil'd. Came downe to prove the truth, and duo reward For her prais-worthie workmanship to yeild : But the presumptuous damzel rashly dar'd The goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field, 270 And to compare with her in curious skill Of workes with loome, with needle, and with quill. Minerva did the chalenge not refuse. But deign'd with her the paragon to make : So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuse What storie she will for her tapet take. Arachne flgur'd how Jove did abuse Europa like a bull, and on his backe 120 COMPLAINTS Her through the sea did beare; so lively seene, That it true sea and true bull ye would weene. 280 She seem'd still backe unto the land to looke, And her play-fellowes aide to call, and feare The dashing of the waves, that up she tooke Her daintie feete, and garments gathered neare : But (Lord !) how she in everie member shooke. When as the land she saw no more ap- peare, But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe ! Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe. Before the bull she piotur'd winged Love, With his yong brother Sport, light flutter- ing 290 Upon the waves, as each had been a dove; The one his bowe and shafts, the other spring A burning teade about his head did move, As in their syres new love both triumph- ing: And manie Nymphes about them flocking round, And manie Tritons, which their homes did sound. And round about, her worke she did em- pale With a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres, Enwoven with an yvie winding trayle : 299 A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres. Such as Dame Pallas, such as Envie pale. That al good things with venemous tooth devowres, Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse bright Her selfe likewise unto her worke to dight. She made the storie of the olde debate. Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie; Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state, And Jove in midst with awfuU majestic, To judge the strife betweene them stirred late: Each of the gods by his like visnomie 310 Eathe to be knowen; but Jove above them aU, By his great lookes and power imperiall. Before them stands the god of seas in place, Clayming that sea-coast citie as his right. And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace ; Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight, The signe by which he clialengeth the place; That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might. Did surely deeme the victorie his due: But seldome seene, forejudgement proveth true. 320 Then to her selfe she gives her Aegide shield, And steelhed speare, and morion on her hedd. Such as she oft is seene in warlicke field: Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dredd She smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yield A fruitfuU olyve tree, with berries spredd. That all the gods admir'd; then all the storie She compast with a wreathe of olyves hoarie. Emongst those leaves she made a buttei-flie, With excellent device and wondrous slight, Eluttring among the olives wantonly, 331 That seem'd to live, so like it was in sight: The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, The sUken downe with which his backe is dight, His broad outstretched homes, his hayrie thies. His glorious colours, and his glistering eies. Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid And mastered with workmanship so rare, She stood astonied long, ne ought gaine- said, 339 And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare. And by her silence, signe of one dismaid. The victorie did yeeld her as her share: Yet did she inly fret, and felly burne. And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne: That shortly from the shape of womanhed. Such as she was, when Pallas she attempted, MUIOPOTMOS: OR THE FATE OF THE BUTTERFLIE 121 She grew to hideous shape of dryiihed, Piued with grief e of follie late repented: Eftsoones her white streight legs were altered To crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted, 350 And her faire face to fowle and loathsome hewe, And her fine eorpes to a bag of venini grewe. This cursed creature, mindfuU of that olde Enfested grudge, the which his mother felt. So soone as Clarion he did beholde, His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt; And weaving straight a net with manie a folde About the cave in which he lurking dwelt. With fine small cords about it stretched wide. So finely sponne that scarce they could be spide. 360 Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most In skilf uU knitting of soft silken twyne ; Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast In dieper, in damaske, or ia lyne ; Nor anie skil'd in workmanship embost; Nor anie skil'd in loupes of flngring fine, Might in their divers cunning ever dare, With this so curious networke to compare. Ne doo I thinke that that same subtil gin. The which the Lemnian god firamde craf- tUie, 370 Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in, That all the gods with common mockerie Might laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin. Was like to this. This same he did applie For to entrap the careles Clarion, That rang'd each where without suspition. Suspitiou of friend, nor feare of foe. That hazarded his health, had he at all. But walkt at will, and wandred too and fro, In the pride of his freedome principall: 380 Litle wist he his fatall future woe, But was secure; the liker he to fall. He likest is to fall into misohaunce. That is regardles of his governaunce. Yet still AragnoU (so his foe was hight) Lay lurking covertly him to surprise, And all his gins, that him entangle might, Drest in good order as he could devise. At length the foolish flie, without foresight, As he that did all daimger quite despise, 390 Toward those parts came flying careleslie. Where hidden was his hatefuU enemie. Who, seeing him, with secrete joy therefore Did tickle inwardly in everie vaine. And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store, Was fil'd with hope his purpose to obtaine: Himselfe he close upgathered more and more Into his den, that his deceiptfuU traine By his there being might not be bewraid, Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made. 400 Like as a wily foxe, that, having spide Where on a sunnie bauke the lambes doo play, Full closely creeping by the hinder side, Lyes in ambushmeut of his hoped pray, Ne stirreth limbe, till, seeing readie tide, He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite away One of the litle yonglings ima wares: So to his worke AragnoU him prepares. Who now shall give unto my heavie eyes A well of teares, that all may oveiflow ? 410 Or where shall I flnde lamentable cryes, And mournfuU tunes enough my griefe to show ? Helpe, thou Tragick Muse, me to devise Notes sad enough, t' expresse this bitter throw: For loe ! the drerie stownd is now arrived, That of all happines hath us deprived. The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled. Or some imgracious blast out of the gate Of Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed. Was (O sad hap and hovirre unfortunate ! ) With violent swift flight forth caried 422 Intp the cursed cobweb, which his foe Had framed for his finall overthroe. There the fond flie, entangled, strugled long, Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine. For, striving more, the more in laces strong Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his winges twaine 122 COMPLAINTS In lymie snares the subtill loupes among; That in the ende he breathelesse did re- maine, 43° And all his yougthly forces idly spent Him to the mercie of th' avenger lent. Which when the greisly tyrant did espie, Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce might Out of his den, he seized greedelie On the resistles pray, and with fell spight, Under the left wing stroke his weapon slie Into his heart, that his deepe groning spright In bloodie streames f oorth fled into the aire, His bodie left the spectacle of care. 440 FINIS. VISIONS OF THE WORLDS VANITIE [This series of original 'visions' is mani- festly of kin to those translated from Petrarch and Du Bellay and, more distantly, to * Ruins of Rome.' It is unquestionably of later com- position, but how much later has been disputed. Some critics, observing that, whereas the son- nets of the three earlier series are in the com- mon Elizabethan form, the sonnets of this are in the special form tliat Spenser devised for himself, have argued that the interval of time must be considerable. In the first place, how- ever, we have no proof that Spenser may not have devised his own sonnet-form early (we meet it in the dedication to ' Virgil's Gnat,' of Calendar days) ; in the second place, for the three series that were translations he might naturally choose the looser and therefore easier Elizabethan form, when, for original soTinets, he would adopt his own more complicated scheme. This point set aside, there is nothing in the series to denote a much later period ; the style is, indeed, distinctly immature. One may plau- sibly conclude that ' Visions of the World's Vanity ' was suggested by the earlier ' Visions ' and executed not long after them. The noteworthy fact about these various early poems is that they show Spenser, at the outset of his career, driving full on allegory. Partly by accident and partly by choice, he has committed himself to a special form of the art, from which he later progresses to others more comprehensive. This form is the literary coun- terpart of a mixed type, in which poetry and the graphic arts are combined, the so-called ' emblem.' The essence of both consists in the expression of an idea by means of a complete image or picture. Thus Du Bellay, having composed in his Antiquitez de Home (' Ruins of Rome ') a series of meditations upon the tran- sitoriness of human grandeur, went on, in his supplementary Songe ('Visions of Bellay '), to express those same ideas in a series of poetic pictures. These, when borrowed by Van der Noot for the TU&tre of 1568, were made into emblems proper by the addition of engravings that rendered them to the eye. Such emblem hooks, of engravings and poetry combined, were enormously popular through most of the sixteenth century. They affected the imagina- tion of that period incalculably. Book fol- lowed book, edition edition. Mythology, fable, natural history, history were ransacked for themes and illustrations, which were repeated in a dozen forms. Poetry, which, as the 'Visions of Petrarch' show, had long since practised a variety of this art, was stimulated to it afresh. Spenser, in his turn, wrote ' Visions of the World's Vanity,' among which the son- nets on the Scarabee and the Remora, adapted from the first great emblem-writer Alciati, sufficiently declare his indebtedness. The in- fluence may be thought to extend even to the allegory of the Faery Queen ; for the figures in the procession at the House of Pride and in the Masque of Cupid, with others of their kind, are in a, way hut figures from the emblem books glorified by a larger art. At this point, however, the emblem as a special type merges in the more common forms of allegory.] One day, whiles that my daylie cares did sleepe, My spirit, shaking off her earthly prison, Began to enter into meditation deepe Of things exceeding reach of common rea- son; Such as this age, in which all good is geason, And all that humble is and meane debaced, Hath brought forth in her last declining season, Griefe of good mindes, to see goodnesse disgraced. On which when as my thought was throghly placed, Unto my eyes strange showes presented were, Picturing that which I in minde embraced, That yet those sights empassion me full nere. Such as they were (faire Ladie) take in worth. That when time serves, may bring things better forth. VISIONS OF THE WORLDS VANITIE 123 In summers day, when Phoebus fairly shone, I saw a bull as white as driven snowe, With gUden homes embowed like the moone, In a fresh flo wring meadow lying lowe: Up to his eares the verdant grasse did growe. And the gay floures did offer to be eaten; But he with fatnes so did overflowe, That he all wallowed in the weedes downe beaten, Ne car'd with them his daintie lips to sweeten: Till that a brize, a scorned little creature. Through his faire hide his angrie sting did threaten. And vext so sore, that all his goodly feature And all his plenteous pasture nought him pleased: So by the smaU the great is oft diseased. Beside the fruitf uU shore of muddle Nile, Upon a sumiie bahke outstretched lay. In monstrous length, a mightie crocodile, That.cram'd with guiltles blood and greedie pray Of wretched people travailing that way, Thought all things lesse than his disdain- full pride. I saw a little bird, cal'd Tedula, The least of thousands which on earth abide. That forst this hideous beast to open wide The greisly gates of his devouring hell, And let him feede, as Nature doth provide. Upon his jawes, that with bla,cke venime swell. Why then should greatest things the least disdaine, Sith that so small so mightie can con- straine ? The kingly bird, that beares Joves thunder- clap. One day did seorne the simple scarabee, Proud of his highest service and good hap. That made all other foules his thralls to bee: The silly flie, that no redresse did see, Spide where the eagle built his towring nest, And kindling fire within the hollow tree. Burnt up his yong ones, and himseKe dis- trest; Ne suffred him in anie place to rest. But drove in Joves ovTiie lap his egs to lay; Where gathering also filth him to infest, Forst with the iilth his egs to fling away: For which when as the foule was wroth, said Jove, ' Lo ! how the least the greatest may re- prove.' Toward the sea turning my troubled eye, I saw the fish (if fish I may it cleepe) That makes the sea before his face to flye, And with his fiaggie finnes doth seeme to sweepe The f omie waves out of the dreadf ull deep, The huge Leviathan, Dame Natiu^es wonder. Making his sport, that manie makes to weep: A sword-fish small him from the rest did sunder. That, in his throat him pricking softly under, His wide abysse him forced forth to spewe. That all the sea did roare like heavens thunder. And all the waves were stain'd with filthie hewe. Hereby I learned have, not to despise What ever thing seemes small in com- mon eyes. An hideous dragon, dreadfull to behold, Whose backe was arm'd against the dint of speare With shields of brasse, that shone like burnisht golde, And forldied sting, that death in it did beare. Strove with a spider, his unequall peare, And bad defiance to his enemie. The subtill vermin, creeping closely neare, Did in his drinke shed poyson privilie ; Which, through his entrailes spredding diversly, Made him to swell, that nigh his bowells brust. And him enforst to yeeld the victorie, That did so much in his owne greatnesse trust. O how great vainnesse is it then to seorne The weake, that hath the strong so oft forlorne ! 124 COMPLAINTS High on a hill a goodly cedar grewe, Of wondrous length and straight proportion, That farre abroad her daintie odours threwe ; Mongst all the daxighters of proud Libauon, Her match in beautie was not anie one. Shortly within her inmost pith there bred A litle wicked worme, perceiv'd of none, That on her sap and vitall moysture fed: Thenceforth her garland so much honoured Began to die, (O great ruth for the same !) And her faire lockes fell from her loftie head, That shortly balde and bared she became. I, which this sight beheld, was much dismayed, To see so goodly thing so soone decayed. Soone after this I saw an elephant, Adorn'd with bells and bosses gorgeouslie. That on his backe did beare (as batteilant) A gUden towre, which shone exceedinglie ; That he himself e through foolish vanitie, Both for his rich attire and goodly forme, Was puffed up with passing surquedrie, And shortly gan all other beasts to scorne: Till that a little ant, a silly worme, Into his nosthrils creeping, so him pained, That, casting downe his towres, he did de- forme Both borrowed pride, and native beautie stained. Let therefore nought, that great is, therein glorie, Sith so small thing his happines may varie. IX Looking far foorth into the ocean wide, A goodly ship with banners bravely dight. And flag in her top-gallant, I espide. Through the maine sea making her merry flight: Faire blew the winde into her bosome right. And th' heavens looked lovely all the while. That she did seeme to daunce, as in delight, And at her owne felicitie did smile. All sodainely there clove unto her keele A little fish, that men call Remora, Which stopt her course, and held her by the heele. That winde nor tide could move her thence away. Straunge thing me seemeth, that so small a thing Should able be so great an one to wring. A mighty lyon, lord of all the wood. Having his hunger throughly satisfide With pray of beasts and spoyle of living blood. Safe in his dreadles den him thought to hide: His stemesse was his prayse, his strength his pride, And all his glory in his cruell clawes. I saw a wasp, that fiercely him deflde. And bad him battaile even to his jawes; Sore he him stong, that it the blood forth drawes. And his proude heart is flld with fretting ire: In vaine he threats his teeth, his tayle, his pawes, And from his Hoodie eyes doth sparkle fire; That dead himselfe he wisheth for de- spight. So weakest may anoy the most of might. What time the Romaine Empire bore the raiiie Of all the world, and florisht most in might, The nations gan their soveraigntie disdaine. And cast to quitt them from their bondage quight: So, when all shrouded were in silent night. The Galles were, by corrupting of a mayde, Possest nigh of the Capitol through slight, Had not a goose the treachery bewrayde. If then a goose great Rome from ruine stayde. And Jove himselfe, the patron of the place, Preservd from being to his foes betrayde, Why do vaine men mean things so much deface. And in their might repose their most assurance, Sith nought on earth can chalenge long endurance ? XII When these sad sights were overpast and gone, My spright was greatly moved in her rest, With inward ruth and deare affection. To see so great things by so small distrest: THE VISIONS OF BELLAY 12S Thenceforth I gan in my engrieved brest To scorne all difEereuoe of great and small, Sith that the greatest often are opprest, And unawares doe into daunger fall. And ye, that read these ruiiies tragioall, Learne by their losse to love the low de- gree. And if that Fortune ohaimce you up to call To honours seat, forget not what you be: For he that of himselfe is most secure Shall finde his state most fickle and unsure. FINIS. THE VISIONS OF BELLAY [' The Visions of Bellay ' and ' The Visions of Petrarch,' which belong together, are pre- sumably the earliest poems of the volume. They are but a remodeUing of Spenser's first known literary -work, the translation done in 1569 for Van der Noot's Thi&tre: it is more than likely, therefore, that they were executed while that work was still of interest to him, during' his early days at Cambridge. The ob- ject of the youthful poet in these rifadmenti was apparently not to better his translation, but, for merely artistic effect, to turn the irregular stanzas of the Petrarch group and the blank verse poems of the Bellay group into formal sonnets. He does not seem to have con- salted his foreign originals afresh, except that he here renders for the first time four sonnets out of Da Bellay which Van der Noot, in trans- ferring the Frenchman's series to his book, had dropped. The version of 1569 wiU be found in the Appendix.] It was the time when rest, (soft sliding downe From heavens hight into mens heavy eyes, In the forgetfulnes of sleepe doth drowne The carefull thoughts of mortall miseries. Then did a ghost before mine eyes appeare, On that great rivers banck, that rmmes by Rome, Which, calling me by name, bad me to reare My lookes to heaven, whence all good gifts do come, And crying lowd, 'Loe now, beholde,' quoth hee, 'What under this great temple placed is: Lo, all is nought but flying vanitee ! ' So I, that know this worlds inconstancies, Sith onely God surmounts all times de- cay, In God alone my confidence do stay. II On high hills top I saw a stately frame, An hundred cubits high by just assize. With huudreth pillours fronting faire the same. All wrought with diamond after Dorick wize: Nor brick, nor marble was the wall in view. But shining christall, which from top to Out of her womb a thousand rayons threw On hundred steps of Af rike golds enchase : Golds was the parget, and the seeling bright Did shine all scaly with great plates of golde ; The floore of jasp and emeraude was dight. O worlds vainesse ! Whiles thus I did be- hold. An earthquake shooke the hill from lowest seat. And overthrew this frame with mine great. Then did a sharped spyre of diamond bright. Ten feete each way in square, appeare to mee. Justly proportion'd up unto his hight. So far as archer might his level see: The top thereof a pot did seeme to beare, Made of the mettall which we most do honour. And in this golden vessell couched weare The ashes of a mightie emperour: Upon foure corners of the base were pight, To beare the frame, foure great lyons of gold; A worthy tombe for such a worthy wight. Alas! this world doth nought but grievance hold. I saw a tempest from the heaven descend, Which this brave monument with flash did rend. I saw raysde up on yvorie pillours tall. Whose bases were of richest mettalls warke. The chapters alablaster, the fryses christall. The double front of a triumphall arke: 126 COMPLAINTS On each side purtraid was a Victorie, Clad like a, nimph, that wings of silver weares, And in triumphant chayre was set on hie The auncient glory of the Romaine peares. No worke it seem'd of earthly eraftsmaus wit, But rather wrought by his owne industry, That thunder-dartes for Jove his svre doth iit. _ ^ Let me no more see faire thing under sky, Sith that mine eyes have seene so faire a sight With sodaiu fall to dust consumed quight. Then was the faire Dodonian tree far seene Upon seaven hills to spread his gladsome gleame. And conquerours bedecked with his greene. Along the bancks of the Ausonian streamer There many an auucieut trophee was ad- drest, And many a spoyle, and many a goodly show, Which that brave races greatnes did attest, That whilome from the Troyan blood did flow. Ravisht I was so rare a thing to vew; When lo ! a barbarous troupe of clownish fone The honour of these noble boughs down threw: Under the wedge I heard the tronck to grone; And since, I saw the roote in great dis- daine A twinne of forked trees send forth againe. I saw a wolfe under a rookie cave Noursing two whelpes ; I saw her litle ones In wanton dalliance the teate to crave. While she her neck wreath'd from them for the nones. I saw her raunge abroad to seeke her food. And roming through the field with greedie rage T' embrew her teeth and clawes with luke- warm blood Of the small beards, her thirst for to as- swage. I saw a thousand huntsmen, which descended Downe from the mountaiues bordring Lom- bardie, That with an hundred speares her flank wide rended : I saw her on the plaine outstretched lie. Throwing out thousand thi-obs in hel owne soyle: Soone on a tree uphang'd I saw her spoyle. I saw the bird that can the sun endure With feeble wings assay to mount on bight; By more and more she gan her wmgs t' assure. Following th' ensample of her mothers sight: I saw her rise, and with a larger flight To pierce the cloudes, and with wide pin- neons • To measure the most haughtie mountaines hight, Untill she raught the gods owne mansions: There was she lost; when suddaine I be- helde, Where, tumbling through the ayre in firie fold. All flaming downe she on the plaine was felde, And soone her bodie turn'd to ashes colde. I saw the foule that doth the light dispise Out of her dust like to a worme arise. I saw a river swift, whose fomy billowes Did wash the ground work of an old great wall; I saw it cover'd all with griesly shadowes. That with black horror did the ayre appall: Thereout a strange beast with seven heads arose. That townes and castles under her brest did coure. And seem'd both milder beasts and fiercer foes Alike with equall ravine to devoure. Much was I mazde, to see this monsters kinde In hundred formes to change his fearefull hew; * When as at length I saw the wrathfuU winde. Which blows cold storms, burst out of Scithian mew. That sperst these cloudes, and in so short as thought. This dreadfull shape was vanished to nought. THE VISIONS OF BELLAY 127 IX Then all astoined with this mighty ghoast, An hideous bodie, big and strong, I sawe, With side long beard, and locks down hanging least, Sterne face, and front full of Saturnlike awe; Who, leaning on the belly of a pot, Pourd foorth a water, whose out gushing flood Ran bathing all the creakie shore aflot. Whereon the Troyan prince spilt Turnus blood; And at his feete a biteh wolfe suck did yeeld To two young babes: his left the palme tree stout. His right hand did the peaoefull olive wield. And head with lawrell garnisht was about. Sudden both palme and olive fell away, And f aire greene lawrell branch did quite decay. Hard by a rivers side a virgin f aire. Folding her armes to heaven with thousand tlu-obs. And outraging her cheekes and golden haire, To falling rivers soimd thus tun'd her sobs. 'Where is,' quoth she, 'this whilom hon- oured face ? Where the great glorie and the auncient praise, In which all worlds felicitie had place, When gods and men my honour up did raise ? Suffisd' it not that civill warres me made The whole worlds spoUe, but that this Hydra new, Of hundred Hercules to be assaide, With seven heads, budding monstrous crimes anew. So many Neroes and Caligulaes Out of these crooked shores must dayly rayse ? ' XI Upon an hill a bright flame I did see, Waving aloft with triple point to skie. Which, like incense of precious cedar tree, With balmie odours fil'd th' ayre farre and nie. A bird all white, well feathered on each wing, Hereout up to the throne of gods did flie, And all the way most pleasant notes did sing. Whilst in the smoake she vmto heaven did stie. Of this faire fire the scattered rayes forth threw On everie side a thousand shining beames: W^hen sudden dropping of a silver dew (O grievous chance !) gan quench those precious flames; That it, which earst so pleasant sent did yeld, Of nothing now but noyous sulphure smeld. XII I saw a spring out of a rocke forth rayle, As cleare as christall gainst the sunnie beames. The bottome yeallow, like the golden grayle That bright Pactolus washeth with his streames : It seem'd that Art and Nature had assem- bled All pleasure there, for which mans hart could long; And there a noyse alluring sleepe soft trembled. Of manie accords, more sweete than mer- maids song: The seates and benches shone as yvorie, And hundred nymphes sate side by side about: When from nigh hUls, with hideous outcrie, A troupe of satyres in the place did rout. Which with their villeine feete the streame did ray. Threw down the seats, and drove the nymphs away. Much richer then that vessell seem'd to bee, Which did to that sad Florentine appeare. Casting mine eyes farre off, I chaunst to see Upon the Latine coast herself e to reare. But suddenly arose a tempest great, Bearing close envie to these riches rare, Which gan assaile this ship with dreadfuU threat, This ship, to which none other might com- pare. 128 COMPLAINTS And finally the storme impetuous Sunke up these riches, second unto none, Within the gulfe of greedie Nereus. I saw both ship and mariners each one, And all that treasure, drowned in the mauie : But I the ship saw after raisd' againe. XIV Long having deeply gron'd these visions sad, I saw a citie like unto that same, Which saw the messenger of tidings glad, But that on sand was built the goodly frame : It seem'd her top the firmament did rayse, And no lesse rich than f aire, right worthie sure If ought here worthie) of immortall dayes, ~r if ought under heaven might firme en- dure. Much wondred I to see so faire a wall: When from the Northerne coast a storme s Which, breathing furie from his inward gall On all which did against his course oppose, Into a clowde of dust sperst in the aire The weake foundations of this citie faire. At length, even at the time when Morpheus Most trulie doth unto our eyes appeare, Wearie to see the heavens still wavering thus, I saw Typhseus sister comming neare ; Whose head, full bravely with a morion hidd. Did seeme to match the gods in majestic. She, by a rivers baneke that swift downe slidd, Over all the world did raise a trophee hie; An hundred vanquisht kings under her lay, With armes bound at their backs in shame- full wize. Whilst I thus mazed was with great affray, I saw the heavens in warre against her rize: Then downe she stricken fell with clap of thonder, That with great noyse I wakte in sudden wonder. FINIS. THE VISIONS OF PETRARCH FORMERLY TRANSLATED I Being one day at my window all alone. So manie strange things happened me to see. As much it grieveth me to thinke thereon. At my right hand a hynde appear'd to mee. So faire as mote the greatest god delite; Two eager dogs did her pursue in chace. Of which the one was blacke, the other white: With deadly force so in their cruell race They pincht the haunches of that gentle beast. That at the last, and in short time, I spide. Under a roeke, where she, alas ! opprest, Fell to the ground, and there untimely dide. Cruell death vanquishing so noble beau- tie Oft makes me wayle so hard a destenie. II After, at sea a tall ship did appeare. Made all of heben and white yvorie; The sailes of golde, of silke the tackle were: Milde was the winde, calme seem'd the sea to bee. The skie eachwhere did show full bright and faire: With rich treasures this gay ship fraighted was: But sudden storme did so turmoyle the aire, And tumbled up the sea, that she (alas !) Strake on a rock, that under water lay, And perished past all recoverie. O how great ruth, and sorrowfull assay, Doth vex my spirite with perplexitie. Thus in a moment to see lost and drown'd So great riches as like cannot be found 1 Then heavenly branches did I see arise Out of the fresh and lustie lawrell tree. Amidst the yong greene wood: of Paradise Some noble plant I thought my self e to see. Such store of birds therein yshrowded were, Chaunting in shade their simdrie melodie. That with their sweetnes I was ravish't nere. While on this lawrell fixed was mine eie. THE VISIONS OF PETRARCH 129 The skie gan everie where to overcast, And darkned was the welkin all about: When sudden flash of heavens fire out brast, And rent this royall tree quite by the roote ; Which makes me much and ever to com- plaine ; For no such shadow shalbe had againe. Within this wood, out of a rocke did rise A spring of water, mildly rumbling dowue, Whereto approched not in anie wise The homely shepheard, nor the ruder clowne; But manie Muses, and the nymphes with- all. That sweetly in accord did tune their voyce To the soft sounding of the waters fall, That my glad hart thereat did much re- joyce. But while herein I tooke my chiefe delight, I saw (alas !) the gaping earth devoure The spring, the place, and all cleane out of sight: Which yet aggreeves my hart even to this houre, And wounds my soule with rufuU me- morie. To see such pleasures gon so suddenly. I saw a phoenix in the wood alone. With purple wings, and crest of golden he we ; Strange bird he was, whereby I thought anone, That of some heavenly wight I had the vewe; Untill he came unto the broken tree. And to the spring, that late devoured was. What say I more ? Each thing at last we see Doth passe away; the phcenix there, alas I Spying the tree destroid, the water dride, Himselfe smote with his beake, as in dis- daine. And so foorthwith in great despight he dide: That yet my heart burnes in exceeding paine, For ruth and pitie of so haples plight. 0, let mine eyes no more see such a sight ! At last, so faire a ladie did I spie. That thinking yet on her 1 burne and quake : On hearbs and flowres she walked pen- sively, Milde, but yet love she proudly did for- sake: White seem'd her robes, yet woven so they were As snow and golde together had been wrought: Above the wast a darke clowde shrouded her, A stingmg serpent by the heele her caught ; Wherewith she languisht as the gathered floure, And well assur'd she mounted up to joy. Alas ! on earth so nothing doth endure. But bitter grief e and sorrowfuU annoy: Which make this life wretched and mis- erable. Tossed with stormes of fortune variable. VII When I behold this tickle trusties state Of vaine worlds glorie, flitting too and fro. And mortall men tossed by troublous fate In restles seas of wretchednes and woe, I wish I might this wearie life f orgoe, And shortly turne unto my happie rest. Where my free spirite might not anie moe Be vext with sights, that doo her peace molest. And ye, faire Ladie, in whose bounteous brest All heavenly grace and vertue shrined is. When ye these rythmes doo read, and vew the i-est. Loath this base world, and thinke of hea- vens blis: And though ye be the fairest of Gods creatures, Yet thinke, that death shall spoyle your goodly features. FINIS. THE FAERIE QUEENE DISPOSED INTO TWELVE BOOKS, FASHIONING J XII MORALL VERTUES LONDON PRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE 159° TO THE MOST MIGHTIE AND MAGNIFICENT EMPRESSE ELIZABETH, BY THE GRACE OF GOD QUEENE OF ENGLAND, FRANCE AND IRELAND DEFENDER OF THE FAITH &C. HER MOST HUMBLE SERVANT : ED. SPENSER [Dedication of tlie edition of 1590.] TO THE MOST HIGH MIGHTIE AND MAGNIFICENT EMPRESSE RENOWMED FOR PIETIE, VERTUE, AND ALL GRATIOUS GOVERNMENT ELIZABETH BY THE GRACE OF GOD QUEENE OF ENGLAND FRAUNCE AND- IRELAND AND OF VIRGINIA, DEFENDOUR OF THE FAITH, &C. HER MOST HUMBLE SERVAUNT EDMUND SPENSER DOTH IN ALL HUMILITIE DEDICATE, PRESENT AND CONSECRATE THESE HIS LABOURS TO LIVE WITH THE ETERNITIE OF HER FAME [Dedication of the edition of 1506.] [When the first three books of the Faery Queen were published in 1590, Spenser had been at work upon the poem for at least ten years. The earliest records of its existence are worth transcribing. In the letter to Harvey of April 2, 1580, he writes ; ' Nowe, my Dreames and Dying PelUcane being fully finished . . . and presentlye to bee imprinted, I wil in hande forthwith with my Faery Queene, whyohe I praye you hartily send me with al expedition, and your frendly letters and long expected judge- ment wythal, whyche let not be shorte, but in all pointes suche as you ordinarilye use and I extraordinarily desire.' That was in the days just following the publication of the Calendar, some three months and a half before he went with Lord Grey to Ireland. There, probably in the year 1582, occurred that gathering in the little cottage near Dublin so memorably recounted by his friend Lodowick Bryskett. Being invited to speak of moral philosophy, its benefits and its nature, Spenser declined : 'For,' said he, ' sure I am that It is not unknowne unto you that I have already undertaken a work tending to the same effect, which is in lieroical verse, under the title of a Faerie Queene, to represent all the moral vertues, as- signing to every virtue a knight to be the pa- tron and defender of the same : in whose actions and feates of armes and chivalry the operations of that virtue whereof he is the protector are to be expressed, and the vices and unruly appetites that oppose themselves against the same to be beaten downe and overcome. Which work . . . I have already well entred into.' The company were content to await its conclusion. Eight years passed, completing a decade, with but a quarter of the whole work done, and still this conclusion seemed to the poet within easy reach. The Letter to Kaleigh shows him quite confident of achieving his hundred and forty-fourth canto, shows him even plan- ning another hundred and forty-four in sequel. Mortality, that favorite theme of his generation, the theme of Complaints, was assuredly not in his mind when he thought of his Faery Queen- THE FAERIE QUEENE 131 ^nd, indeed, tlie second three books 'were ex- ecuted much more rapidly than the first, at the rate, it seems, of about a book a year ; for they can hardly have been taken up in earnest before his return to Ireland in 1591, and they were completed in the spring of 1594, under the pressure, one may think, of his approaching marriage. How he progressed with them ia partly recorded in the thirty-third and the eightieth sonnets of the Amoretti. They were not published till 1596, apparently because he could not take them to London earlier. This eightieth sonnet of the Amoretti, which announces the completion of thus much of his poem, declares that, * being halfe fordonne' (i. e. exhausted ), the poet will rest, ' and gather to himself new breath awhile.' That is the last we hear about the further progress of the Faery Queen until the publication in 1609, ten years after his death, of the cantos on Muta- bility. These have been regarded by some as an independent poem (not unlike the Cinque Canti of Ariosto ) — for the reason, it seems, that they are competent to stand alone. Yet the mere fact that they were numbered VI, VII, and VIII ( surely not by the piinter) indi- cates that they are part of a larger whole, and stanza 37 of the first of them gives the clearest possible evidence that they belong to the great romance. Were these cantos, then, all that Spenser found time during four years to com- pose for the remaining books of his poem, or did he write others, which may have perished in the disaster of 1598 ? Again, their being numbered as they are is suggestive : Spenser may be thought, at least to have planned this one book in outline, possibly to have executed other parts of it. A generation after his death, Sir James Ware asserted that the Faery Queen had been finished, and that the unpub- lished books had been lost in 1598 ' by the dis- order and abuse of his servant, whom he had sent before him into England.' The story is, of course, apocryphal ( that Spenser could have composed six books in four years is a manifest impossibility ; nor would any so extensive a loss have failed to be recorded earlier); yet it may well be that the sack of Kilcolman deprived the world of not a few such fragments as this. In that letter of April 2, 15S0, from which our first knowledge of the Faery Queen is de- rived, Spenser, we have seen, called for the judgment of Harvey upon his new venture. Harvey, never loath to express an opinion, sent back one of those misguided verdicts to which men of his stamp are unluckily prone : it would be a mere curiosity of criticism, did it not by chance record the views of the poet himself. ' To be plaine,' is the summing up, 'I am voyde of al judgement, if your Nine Comoediea . . . come not neerer Ariostoes coma3- dies . . . than that Elvish Queene doth to his Orlando Funoso, which, notwithstanding, you wil needesseeme toemulate, and hope to overgo, as you flatly professed your self in one of your last letters.' In undertaking what he must have meant to be tjie grand work of his life, Spenser, then, was deliberately setting himself to rival Ariosto. This avowed rivalry is involved in the very origins of his plan. For, first and most obvi- ously, he must build up an extended poem of action : the material in which his didactic pur- pose was to be worked out, was epic. In this field all the many influences that would control his choice drew him irresistibly to one quarter, the romance. The poetry in which the tradi- tions of his native literature were embodied gave him, for epics, romances. The great legendary hero of his race, the ancestor of his Queen, Arthur, was at the very heart of ro- mance. The highest embodiment of his own spiritual ideals was in chivalry, and chivalry implied romance. Romance, too, satisfied to the full his native delight in color and warmth and magic of beauty. The epics of antiquity, on the other hand, dealt with alien matter, in an alien, though noble, spirit. Such imitations of them as had been made by Trissino, Eon- sard, and others, were too utterly dreary to encourage a like attempt, and the Gerusalemme Liberata of Tasso, in which the native glamour of romance was to be informed by their more spacious and simpler art, had not yet been given to the world. Nothing could be more natural, then, more inevitable, than that Spen- ser should set himself to rival the Orlando Fu- rioso. In 1580 it still stood as the one really ' great poem of epic scope that sixteenth-century Europe had produced, the accepted masterpiece, moreover, of that variety of the epic to which he was irresistibly drawn, the romance poem. But this was not all. Ariosto was further- more accounted a grave and moral poet, a master in the art of poetic edification. He had come by this repute through the cleares- of critical necessities. His fertility and de- lightfulness, which seemed to revive the lost epical spirit of Homer, had captivated at once all lovers of poetry ; but poetry could not in those days be its own raison d'Hre, it must make for moral edification : the inevitable con- cern of his admirers, therefore, had for gen- erations been to expound the ultimate serious- ness of his purpose. His easy-going scepticism, his irreverence, his delight in life and action, moral and immoral, for their own sake, with- out ethical prepossessions, these qualifies they ignored or explained away : his seriousness (sometimes, by force of imaginative sympathy, 132 THE FAERIE QUEENE very genuine, but more often conventional or factitious) they exalted to a level with the high seriousness of Virgil. The chief engine of their "work was allegory, Ariosto, "who made fx'ee use of "whatever might enrich his poem, had adorned it here and there with frankly allegorical episodes : successive commentators had forced a like interpretation upon other passages, till, by 1580, the whole poem -was expounded as a many-colored, comprehensive allegory of life, and all its admirers were agreed on its fundamental morality. ' Our sage and serious Spenser,' then, could find even in the moral aspects of the Orlando matter for sincere emulation : in particular, of course, that allegory which had been so thoroughly read into it by commentators. This was, at best, somewhat irregular : it illus- trated the moral problems of life, efficiently perhaps, but rather at random : it left room for a more philosophic method. He must have felt that, in this regard, he might safely ' hope to overgo' the Italian. For, with a genuine fervor for ailegory, impossible to the more worldly and modern Ariosto, impossible even to those commentators on the Orlando who had pushed allegorical interpretation so far, he had conceived a plan of vastly greater scope and more thorough method. His poem was to ex- pound a complete system of Christian ethics, modelled upon the Aristotelian scheme of the virtues and vices, and this main allegory was to be enriched by another, to deal with notable contemporary events and personages. It is one thing, however, to compose a great poem of action which commentators may find means to interpret allegorically, and quite an- other to develop a set of ideas allegorically in a great poem of action. For, given the action, it will go hard but some definite spiritual par- rallel may be found for it (as Tasso, having composed his romance-epic, safeguarded the most seductive passages by ex post facto allego- rizing) : given the set of ideas, however, action, free, self-sustaining, moving of its own im- pulse in a plain path, is by no means easy to invent. And Spenser's material was unusually stubborn. He had twelve ' private morall ver- * tues,' each to be embodied in a knight, whose ' f eates of armes and chivalry ' were to show the workings of that virtue with regard to ' the vices and uiu:uly appetites that oppose them- selves against the same.' To devise twelve ap- propriate courses of action was manifestly but to begin ; these must furthermore be held to- gether ; and how ? If he carried them all for- ward simultaneously, by interweaving, after the manner of the Orlando Furioso, he might in- deed achieve unity, but he would also confuse the philosophic development of each separate virtue : if he developed the action of each vir- tue separately and continuously, the second not begun until the first was ended, he would be composing not one poem but twelve. The alter- native was certainly hard. In the philosophic scheme, however, after which his own was planned, Aristotle's, Spenser found the rudi- ments of a solution. Concerning Magnanimity he read that ' it seems to be a kind of ornament of all the other virtues, in that it makes them better and cannot be without them.' From this hint he developed means of unification. The twelve virtues were to be treated sepa- ^ rately, but at the same time brought into rela- tion to the master virtue Magnanimity, — or, as he chose. Magnificence. In narrative terms, there was to be a hero, who, by playing an im- portant, though it might be a brief, part in the ► enterprise of each knight, should be gradually developed as the central agent of the poem. Epical dignity would be furthered if this hero were historic, and romance pointed to the Brit- ish Arthur. Then there must be a heroine — who could hardly be Guenevere. At this point the allegory gave an opening to loyalty — or, if one pleases, adulation. For according to Aris- totle, the object-matter of Magnanimity is " honor, or ' Glory,' and who could better stand for this than Spenser's sovereign, Elizabeth ? This choice determined the rest. She could not be introduced in propriapersona, still less as an- other historic character. The poet, therefore, invented for her the disguise of Gloriana, Queen " of Faery Land. For narrative function he gave her the initiation of the twelve enterprises. This general outline of action once conceived, the separate parts could be planned as the poem progressed. There was no need that the mat- ter of each book should be determined at the outset ; even the conclusion might be left for a time undecided. The one problem to be solved immediately was the beginning. The various enterprises were to start from the court of Gloriana on successive days of her great- annual feast. Should this feast be described at the outset in a sort of proem, or should each separate book begin with an account of that par- ticular day of the feast on which the knight of the book was sent forth ? One or other of these methods would unquestionably have been the choice of Ariosto, who, as a genuine romance poet, believed in beginning at the beginning. To begin there, however, would not be epic (Ariosto himself had been blamed for just thjit) ; the genuine epic poet plunged at once in medias res ; and the Faery Queen, though not epic in. formal structure, ought none the less to ac- knowledge classical law. Spenser, therefore, determined to keep his beginnings, the feast, for retrospective presentment. Since he evi- THE FAERIE QUEENE 133 dently felt also, however, that this feast was one great pag-eant, to be preserved entire and not distributed among the several books, it must manifestly, in default of first place, come last. So far his plan might seem to be dear. Yet the account given in the prefatory letter is oddly perplexing. According to one passage, the twelfth and last book is to be devoted en- tire to the beginnings ; according to another, it would seem to be intended for the enterprise of the twelfth knight ; and surely, one might expect from it some termination to the quest of Magnificence for Glory, of Arthur for his Faery Queen. One inclines to doubt if Spenser really knew just where his plan was taking him. So organized, the Faery Queen must mani- festly be at a disadvantage with other great poems of action. Despite the ingenious device for linking the separate enterprises to the quest of Arthur and the rule of Gloriana, the poem could not have that unity, that centralization of forces, which distinguishes the epics of anti- quity. In the six books composed, Arthur does not really become a controlling and guiding power in the action, nor is it likely that all the twelve could have made him that. Gloriana could never have become much more than a kind of presiding divinity, a transcendent looker-on. Nor, in lieu of centralization, could the poem attain the forward energy of the Orlando Furioso. Ariosto's romance moves like a broad river, in a dozen currents, now min- gling, now separating, ever on, leisurely, irre- sistibly. In the Faery Queen, one enterprise must run its course uninterrupted to the end, and then disappear forever ; a fresh start must be made, another enterprise, with new characters, set in motion and followed through ; and then a third. That these enterprises succeed each other in time, that certain episodes are carried over from book to book, and certain characters, can hardly create the impression of forward energy. As it progresses, indeed, the poem takes on more and more the external aspect of the Orlando, but the ground plan of separate enter- prises keeps its action fundamentally difBerent. It moves without clearly perceptible g.oal. This peculiarity of organization, however, is hardly the cause that so many have found the Faery Queen tedious. They might complain, rather, that the poem is not grounded in action, that in those simple human energies which alone could sustain an epic or a romance at such length it is sadly wanting. And they would complain with some reason. Spenser's knights pass from chivalric feat to ohivalric feat with due enterprise, but the eye of their creator is less often upon the doing than the deed. Scene follows scene in the narrative, less often an encounter of active forces than a picture of spiritual conditions. Spenser, indeed, had not that delight in the realities of living ac- tion, that native sense for the situations that lurk in the conflict of living energies, which were the gift of the poet he particularly emu- lated. The combats of his knights, for example, how often they seem to be repetitions of a set ceremony ! To Ariosto each combat is a new and quite peculiar act of life ; it is the outbreak of forces that meet in a fresh combination or under fresh conditions ; simple or intricate, it has a spirit and growth of its own. That unending recurrence of encounters, therefore, which is the special infirmity of romance, be- comes in his poem a manifestation of exuber- ant vitality. In the Faery Queen, on the other hand, spirited as some few of the combats are, particularly those of the second book, one re- cognizes only too clearly that Spenser's heart is not in this eager work. Nor is it in that active conflict of will with wdl, of purpose with cir- cumstance, which is the life of the poetry of action. Even in those scenes which are most truly dynamic, not merely picturesque or ex- pository, scenes like the meeting of the Ked- cross Knight with Despair, the action, the power, is mainly embodied in one personage ; there is little interplay of forces. For situations his sense is at times curiously fallible ; as when Britomart at the close of her combat with Ar- thegall, and during and after the negotiations for truce, is left standing, like an image, with her sword uplifted to strike. It would seem sufficiently clear that such failings as these, in so far as they are failings, spring from a native inaptitude for the poetry of action. Yet how often we hear them and others ascribed to the allegorical design ! If, in any passage, the poet's imagination seems to flag, the blame is always on the allegory. The combat of the Redcross Knight with the Dragon is conventional and lifeless — because the allegory obliges Spenser to draw the fight- ing out to the third day. Medina and her two sisters are desperately uninteresting, the do- mestic organization of the House of Alma is described in rather ridiculous detail — again because of the allegory. The allegory, in short, is mainly a check or drag upon the poet's naturally spontaneous and fresh imagination. That many of the leading characters, for in- stance, are too shadow-like, not living men and women in whom one can take a living interest, is what might have been expected ; as embodi- ments of abstractions they could not be other. Bunyan, to be sure, has shown that allegory can be made vital at length, but the length of the PilgrMs Progress is as nothing to that of the Faery Queen, and its plan is the perfection of simplicity. To an allegorical scheme) on 134 THE FAERIE QUEENE the other hand, so Tast and so oomplicated as that devised by Spenser, no poet could have given full imaginative life. Hence, in the end, the poem's peculiar tediousness. In criticism such as this there is just enough truth to be misleading. The combat of the Eedeross Knight -with the Dragon, Medina and her sisters, the House of Alma — it cannot be denied that these must be charged on the alle- gory. Yet when we survey the poem from end to end, how many such staring failures do we find, how many failures that can clearly be laid to allegorical pressure ? It is true also that, if many of the leading characters are somewhat :;hadow-like and unreal, the fault may partly be that they personate abstractions. But has Spenser, anywhere in his work at large, shown signs of the power to create substantial men and women ? If the Faery Queen had been de- signed as pure romance, would its leading char- acters have been more human ? Is not their remoteness due quite as much to his absorption in the ideal as to his love of mere allegory ? Indeed, this supposed domination of the poem by allegory, the allegory of abstractions, will hardly bear the test of simple reading. In the first two boobs, of course, those with which everybody is familiar, it is indisputable. The Kedcross Knight and Una, Sir Guyon and his Palmer, and the long array of personages among whom these two champions execute their 'f eates of armes and chivalry' very manifestly stand for qualities, ideas, and the like, and the 'feates of armes and chivalry ' for successive * opera- tions ' of the spirit. With Book III, however, there comes a sudden and most curious change. Britomart, the heroine, is still nominally of the old order, the formal embodiment of chastity, and she is accompanied by a few figures like Malecasta, also of the old order ; but other figures appear, and in the greater number, who can be reduced to abstractions by nothing short of violence. Florimel is no more than a beau- tiful maiden of romance, faithful to her love amid disasters ; Hellenore is but a frail wife, Malbeceo, up to the time of his transformation, but an old and jealous husband ; and their actions are equally unsymbolio. In a word, barring personal and historic allusions, most of the characters in Book III are no more than men and women of certain general types en- gaged in actions which are typically moral. One may, of course, with Spenser, call such work allegory, but it is manifestly not that kind of allegory which can hamper free move- ment of the imagination ; and when one notices that it prevails throughout the better part of the remaining books, one wonders at the per- sistence of the old cry. Tet after this much-abused allegory of ab- stractions has ceased to dominate the romance, it still remains a mode of the poet's rarest creative power — among the minor figures. Throughout the poem, indeed, these figures are, on the whole, more vivid than those which lead the action, and when they are particularly vivid it is often because of their allegorical intensity. The main characters draw but little life from the allegory ; when they im- press us, it is rather as types of ideal hu- manity ; but those others, among whom they move, how often their life is the very quintes- sence of an emotion or an idea I It is not the procession at the House of Pride, or the Masque of Cupid, that one need cite anew. Splendid as these pageants are, they are mainly orna- mental, and the value of allegory as ornament has always been recognized. But those strange figures that play a small .but real part in the action, one succeeding another in brief stages, how much of the power of the poem issues from them ! We may be indifferent to Arthur, to Belphoebe, to Duessa, to Cambell and Tri- amond ; but Despair and Atin and Guile and the blacksmith Care and Talus (if he be a minor figure), these are unforgettable. They are not human beings ; their very life of fea- ture and action is rooted in the immaterialities they embody. If ever abstractions took flesh and walked, it is these. And beside them are half-human creatures, such as Ignaro, to link them with wholly human and delightful creatures such as Phsedria, whose charm is for- ever at odds with her allegorical duty. Surely, had the Faery Queen been pure romance, it would have been a much less exquisite creation. For, in fine, the world of the Faery Queen is not altogether the world of romance ; it is, if possible, more remote, more strange, more diverse. By its forest fountains meet Venus and Diana, almost within the ken of Christian knights and ladies, and in its castles or upon its open hillsides and heaths, among gentry and retainers and shepherds and vei-y rabble, side • by side with giants and monsters, move sheer incarnations of the immaterial. It is a world of jarring elements gathered from antiquity and the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, and harmonized by the serenest of poetic imagina- tions. In such a world as this, if we can breathe its atmosphere, we shall not crave the vigor and sparkle of movement that are at such full tide in the Orlando Furioso, nor even the graver human energies of the great epics : it has a life to which these are not essential. For, externally a, poem of action, meant to rival Ariosto's, the Faery Queen is at heart but the vision of a contemplative mind to which the main realities of life are beauty and the law of the spirit. If it quickens at rare intervals THE FAERIE QUEENE I3S into action full and vigorous, the quickening is but for a moment, and when it subsides we are not regretful. Faint in passion, faint even in pathos, the poem appeals most intimately to that ' inward eye ' which can read forms and hues of beauty, and feature and bearing as they reveal the spirit, and to the mind that can ruad the spirit in speech. And this world that Spenser has created can never be to us a mere Kubia Khan paradise of romance. Amid its throng of ideal creatures, though we may not feel the force of the express moral doctrine they enact, we shall feel the force of the poet's own bent. His temper of grave and sweet spirituality, always human, that tone of the mind whicii is ever the cliief spring of moral influence, this will be unescapable, and, in the end, it will be this as much as the pure magic of his imagination that will seem to impart to the poem its peculiar and imperturbable atmosphere. Spenser was long ago called ' the Rubens of our poets,' and tlie phrase is still passed about. The vision which it evokes of large, plump, pink-and-white women and of big-limbed, tawny men, of superb pliysical vigor and of bright magnificence of color, will hardly ap- peal to the judicious as Spenserian. If one must have a phrase, let it be Cliarles Lamb's ' the poet of poets,' since that, despite its ap- parent vagueness, has a meaning. For what finally impresses us in tlie Faery Queen is its triumph over a dozen capital defects by the power of a very few, and those the essential, poetic qualities. Its narrative plan is funda- mentally vicious, the narrative execution of the various episodes is weakened again and again by the most singular blunders, it is neither consistent allegory nor consistent romance, it gives over one canto to rhymed genealogy, an- other to rhymed chronicle, another to a merely ingenious transmogrification of the hura.an body almost as crude as that at the conclusion of the Soman de la Rose; one might continue the story of its defects, general and particular, for pages. And yet, as unmistakably as the Divina Commedia, it has the imaginative and spiritual tone of high poetry. Perhaps jitst because of these defects, moreover, no poem makes us feel more keenly the mere virtue of style. Spenser's almost unerring sense for lan- guage and his apparently inexhaustible power of welling out the most limpid and exquisitely modulated verse, these make poetry of mate- rial that his imagination cannot vivify. It is these, too, that have made him master to so many poetic spirits of alien temper. He has taught more poets than almost any other poet in our literature. The most patent, though not the most inti- mate, mode of his influence has been his great stanza. Much has been written about its quali- ties of form, which have been illustrated by a long line of masterpieces ; a word, therefore, about its origins may be better worth while, especially since critics have not always re- membered that, if he invented this stanza, it was, in part, of necessity. When he began the Faery Queen, indeed, the forms among which he might have chosen were few and not all good. Blank verse had not yet been suppled to free movement by generations of dramatic artists ; it was a yet new and strange invention. The ten-syllable couplet labored under the name of ' riding rimes ' and was associated chiefly with the more humorous passages of the Can- terbury Tales, Spenser might well have disre- garded this prejudice, but it was of weight. In stanzas, the accredited form for high poetry was the rhyme royal, the stanza of his own Hymns. This was cai>able of sweetness and grace, even of vigor : seven lines, however, was rather narrow compass for the more ex- tended harmonies of verse, and the arrange- ment of the rhymes at the close restricted free movement. Finally, there was the Italian ot- tava rima, the stanza of Ariosto's romance and of his own ' Virgil's Gnat.' For such a poem as he was about to undertake it might seem to have been the most natural form. Yet, admir- ably adapted to a rapid and flexible style and to the ready interchange of pathos, humor, and lively action, as also to facile sweetness, it was hardly capable of graver modulations, of such higher harmonies as Spenser was then dreaming. The first six lines were too fluent, the distinct couplet at the close was too epi- grammatic. In defect, then, of satisfactory models, he was driven to invention. He knew, in Chaucer and Lyndesay, a fine, sonorous old stanza in eight verses, built of two quatrains linked by rhyme. Such linking by rhyme was familiar to him from Marot as well, and he had practised the art in the Calendar. He had also there experimented with the alexandrine, had learned to moderate and vary its pendulum movement, and had found that, in combination with other measures, it was capable of the most unexpected sonorities. For his Faery Queen, therefore, he merely added to the old stanza that he knew a final alexandrine, and by that simplest combination transfigured them both, ' Beauty making beautiful old rime. In piuise of ladies dead and lovely kniglits.* Those verses of Shakespeare might seem to have been meant for motto to the Faery. Queen. Read somewhat fantastically, they might also fit the stanza to which the Faery Queen owes so much of its abiding charm.] 136 THE FAERIE QUEENE A LETTER OF THE AUTHORS EXPOUNDING HIS WHOLE INTENTION IN THE COURSE OF THIS WORKE : WHICH FOR THAT IT GIVETH GREAT LIGHT TO THE READER, FOR THE BETTER UNDERSTANDING IS HEREUNTO ANNEXED rO THE RIGHT NOBLE, AND VALOROUS, SIR WALTER RALEIGH KNIGHT, LORD WARDEIN OF THE STANNERYES, AND HER MAJESTIES LIEFE- TENAUNT OF THE COUNTY OF CORNEWAYLL Sir, knowing how doubtfully all allego- ries may be construed, and this booke of mine, which I have entituled the Faery Queene, being a continued allegory, or darke conceit, I have thought good, aswell for avoyding of gealous opinions and mis- constructions, as also for your better light in reading therof, (being so by you com- manded,) to discover unto you the general intention and meaning, which in the lo whole course thereof I have fashioned, without expressing of any particular pur- poses or by accidents therein occasioned. ['The generall end therefore of all the booke lis to fashion a gentleman or noble person (in vertuous and gentle discipline : which ' for that I conceived shoulde be most plau- sible and pleasing, being coloured with an historicall fiction, the which the most part of men delight to read, rather for variety 20 of matter then for proflte of the eusample, . I chose the historye of King Arthure, as most fitte for the excellency of his person, being made famous by many mens former workes, and also furthest from the daun- ger of envy, and suspition of present time. In which I have followed all the antique poets historicall : iirst Homere, who in the persons of Agamemnon and Ulysses hath ensampled a good governour and a ver- 30 tuous man, the one in his Ilias, the other in his Odysseis ; then Virgil, whose like inten- tion was to doe in the person of .Sneas ; after him Ariosto comprised them both in his Orlando ; and lately Tasso dissevered them againe, and formed both parts in two per- sons, namely that part which they in philo- sophy call Ethioe, or vertues of a private man, coloured in his Binaldo ; the other named Politice in his Godfredo. By en- 40 sample of which excellente poets, I labour to pourtraict in Arthure, before he was king, the image of a brave knight, per- fected in the twelve private morall vertues,' as Aristotle hath devised, the which is the purpose of these first twelve bookes : which if I finde to be well accepted, I may be perhaps encoraged to frame the other part of polliticke vertues in his person, after that hee came to be king. To some, I 50 know, this methode wUl seeme displeasaunt, which had rather have good discipline de- livered plainly in way of precepts, or ser- moned at large, as they use, then thus clowdUy enwrapped in allegoricall devises. But such, me seeme, should be satisflde with the use of these dayes, seeing all things accounted by their showes, and nothing esteemed of, that is not delightfull and pleasing to commune sence. For tliis 60 cause is Xenophon preferred before Plato, for that the one, in the exquisite depth of his judgement, formed a commune welth such as it should be, but the other in the person of Cyrus and the Persians fashioned a governement, such as might best be : so much more profitable and gratious is doc- trine by ensample, then by rule. So have I laboured to doe in the person of Arthure : whome I conceive, after his long educa- 70 tion by Timon, to whom he was by Merlin delivered to be brought up, so soone as he was borne of the Lady Igrayne, to have scene in a dream or vision the Faery Queen, with whose excellent beauty ravished, he awaking resolved to seeke her out, and so being by Merlin armed, and by Timon throughlj instructed, he went to seeke her forth in Faerye Land. In that Faery Queene / I meane glory in my generall mtention, 80 but in my particular I conceive the most exJ cellent and glorious person of our soveraina the Queene, and her kingdome in Faery Land. And yet, in some places els, I doe otherwise shadow her. For considering she beareth two persons, the one of a most royall queene or empresse, the other of a most vertuous and beautifull lady, this lat- ter part in some places I doe expresse in Belphoebe, fashioning her name according 90 to, your owne excellent conceipt of Cynthia, (Phsebe and Cynthia being both names of Diana.) So in the person of Prince Arthure I sette forth maguifioenoe in particular, A LETTER OF THE AUTHORS 137. which vertue, for that (according to Aris- ^ totle and the rest) it is the perfection of all the rest, and oonteineth in it them all, therefore in the whole course 1 mention the deedes of Aitlmre applyable to that vertue which I write of in that booke. But 100 of the xii. other vertues I make xii. other knights the patroues, for the more variety of the history : of which these three bookes contayn three. The first of the Knight of the Kedcrosse, in whome I expresse holynes : The seconde of Sir Guyon, in whome I sette forth temperaunce : The third of Britomartis, a lady knight, in whome I picture chastity. But because the beginning of the whole worke seemeth no abrupte and as depending upon other ante- cedents, it needs that ye know the occasion of these three knights severall adventures. i'or the methode of a poet historical is not such as of an historiographer. For an his- toriographer discourseth of afEayres orderly as they were donne, accounting as well the times as the actions ; but a poet thrusteth into the middest, even where it most con- eerneth him, and there recoursing to the 120 thinges forepaste, and divining of thinges to come, maketh a pleasing analysis of all. The beginning therefore of my history, if it were to be told by an historiographer, should be the twelfth booke, which is the last; where I devise that the Faery Queene kept her > annuall feaste xii. dayes, uppon which xii. severall dayes, the occasions of the xii. sev- erall adventures hapned, which being under- taken by xii. severall knights, are in these 130 xii. books severally handled and discoursed. The first was this. In the beginning of the feast, there presented him self e a tall clown- ish younge man, who, falling before the Queen of Faries, desired a boone (as the manner then was) which during that feast she might not refuse : which was that hee might have the atehievement of any adven- ture, which during that feaste should hap- pen : that being graunted, he rested him 140 on the floore, uufitte through his rusticity for a better place. Soone after entred a faire ladye in mourning weedes, riding on a white asse, with a dwarf e behind her leading a war- like steed, that bore the armes of a knight, and his speare in the dwarf es hand. Shee, falling before the Queene of Faeries, com- playned that her father and mother, an an- cient king and queene, had bene by an huge dragon many years shut up in a brasen 150 castle, who thence sulfred them not to yssew: and therefore besought the Faery Queene to assygne her some one of her knights to take on him that exployt. Presently that clownish person, upstarting, desired that adventure : whereat the Queene much wondering, and the lady much gainesaying, yet he earnestly importuned his desire. In the end the lady told him, that unlesse that armour which she brought would serve him (that is, the ar- 160 mour of a Christian man specified by Saint Paul, vi. Ephes.), that he could not succeed m that enterprise : which being forthwith put upon him with dewe furnitures there- unto, he seemed the goodliest nian in al that company, and was well liked of the lady. And eftesoones taking on him knighthood, and mounting on that straunge courser, he went forth with her on that adventure : where beginneth the first booke, vz. 170 A gentle knight was pricking on the playne, &c. The second day ther came in a palmer bearing an infant with bloody hands, whose parents he complained to have bene slayn by an enchauuteresse called Aerasia ; and therfore craved of the Faery Queene, to ap- point him some knight to perf orme that ad- venture ; which being assigned to Sir Guyon, he presently went forth with that same palmer: which is the beginning of the see- 180 cond booke and the whole subject thereof. The third day there came in a groome, who complained before the Faery Queene, that a vile enchaunter, called Busirane, had in hand a most faire lady, called Amoretta, whom he kept in most grievous torment, because she would not yield him the plea- sure of her body. Whereupon Sir Scuda- mour, the lover of that lady, presently tooke onhim that adventure. But being unable 190 to performe it by reason of the hard en- chauntments, after long sorrow, in the end met with Britomartis, who succoured him, and reskewed his love. But by occasion hereof, many other ad- ventures are uitermedled, but rather as accidents then intendments : as the love of Britomart, the overthrow of Marinell, the misei-y of Florimell, the vertuousnes of Bel- phcebe, the lasciviousnes of Hellenora, 200 and many the like. Thus much. Sir, I have briefly overronne, to direct your miderstanding to the wel-head 138 THE FAERIE QUEENE of the history, that from thenee gathering the whole intention of the conceit, ye may, as in a handful!, gripe al the discourse, which otherwise may happily seeme tedious and confused. So humbly craving the con- tinuaunce of your honourable favour towards me, and th' eternall establishment of your happines, I humbly take leave. 211 23. January, 1589. Yours most humbly affectionate, Ed. Spenser. A VISION UPON THIS CONCEIPT OF THE FAERY QUEENE Me thought I saw the grave where Laura Within that temple where the vestall flame Was wont to burne; and passing by that way. To see that buried dust of living fame. Whose tumbe faire Love, and fairer Ver- tue kept. All suddeinly I saw the Faery Queene: At whose approch the soule of Petrarke wept. And from thenceforth those graces were not seene. For they this Queene attended; in whose steed Oblivion laid him downe on Lauras herse : Hereat the hardest stones were seene to bleed, And grones of buried ghostes the hevens did perse: Where Homers spright did tremble all for griefe. And curst th' aocesse of that celestiall theife. ANOTHER OF THE SAME The prayse of meaner wits this works like profit brings. As doth the Cuokoes song delight when Philumena sings. If thou hast formed right true Vertues face herein, Vertue her selfe can best discerne, to whom they written bin. If thou hast Beauty praysd, let her sole lookes divine Judge if ought therein be amis, and mend it by her sine. If Chastitie want ought, or Temperaimce her dew. Behold her princely mind aright, and write thy Queene anew. Meane while she shall perceive, how far her vertues sore Above the reach of all that live, or such as wrote of yore: And thereby wUl excuse and favour thy good will: Whose vertue can not be exprest, but by an angels quill. Of me no lines are lov'd, nor letters are of price. Of all which speak our English tongue, but those of thy device. W. R. TO THE LEARNED SHEPEHEARD CoLLTN, I see by thy new taken taske. Some sacred fury hath enricht thy braynes. That leades thy Muse in haughty verse to maske. And loath the layes that longs to lowly swaynes ; That lifts thy notes from shepheardes unto kinges, So like the lively Larke that mounting singes. Thy lovely Rosolinde seemes now for- lorne, And all thy gentle flockes forgotten quight; Thy chaunged hart now holdes thy pypes in scorne. Those prety pypes that did thy mates delight. Those trusty mates, that loved thee so well. Whom thou gav'st mirth, as they gave thee the bell. Yet, as thou earst, with thy sweete rounde- layes, Didst stirre to glee our laddes in homely bowers. So moughtst thou now in these refyned layes Delight the daintie eares of higher powers: And so mought they, in their deepe skan- ning skill, <. Alow and grace our CoUyns flowing quylh COMMENDATORY VERSES 139 And f aire befall that Faery Queene of thine, In whose faire eyes Love linckt with Ver- tue sittes: Enfusing, by those bewties fyers devyne, Such high conceites into thy humble wittes, As raised hath poore pastors oaten reede, From rustick tunes, to chaunt heroique deedes. So mought thy Eedcrosse Knight with happy hand Victorious be iu that faire Hands right, Which thou dost vayle in type of Faery Land, Elizas blessed field, that Albion hight: That shieldes her friendes, and warres her mightie foes, Yet still with people, peace, and plentie flowes. But (jolly shepheard) though with pleasing style Thou feast the humour of the courtly trayne. Let not conceipt thy setled senee beguile, Ne daunted be through envy or disdaine. Subject thy dome to her empyring spright, From whence thy Muse, and all the world, takes light. Hobynoll. Fatee Thamis streame, that from Ludds stately towne Kunst paying tribute to the ocean seas. Let all thy nymphes and syrens of renowne Be sUent, whyle this Bryttane Orpheus playes: Nere thy sweet bankes, there lives that sa- cred Crowne, Whose hand strowes palme and never-dying bayes : Let all at once, with thy soft murmuring sowne. Present her with this worthy poets prayes: For he hath taught hye drifts in shepe- herdes weedes. And deepe conceites now singes in, Faeries deedes. K. S. Grave Muses, march in triumph and with prayses; Our Goddesse here hath given you leave to land, And biddes this rare dispenser of your graces Bow downe his brow unto her sacred hand. Desertes Andes dew in that most princely doome. In whose sweete brest are all the Muses bredde: So did that great Augustus erst in Boome With leaves of fame adorne his poets hedde. Faire be the guerdon of your Faery Queene, Even of the fairest that the world hath seene. H. B. When stout Achilles heard of Helens rape And what revenge the states of Greece de- visd: Thinking by sleight the f atall warres to scape, In womans weedes him selfe he then dis- guisde : But this devise Ulysses soone did, spy, And brought him forth, the chaunce of warre to try. When Spencer saw the fame was spredd so large. Through Faery Land, of their renowned Queene, Loth that his Muse should take so great a charge. As in such haughty matter to be seene. To seeme a shepeheard then he made his choice ; But Sydney heard him sing, and knew his And as Ulysses brought faire Thetis soime From his retyred life to menage armes, So Spencer was by Sidneys speaches woune To blaze her fame, not fearing future harmes: For well he knew, his Muse would soone be tyred In her high praise, that aU the world ad- mired. Yet as AchUles, in those warlike frayes. Did win the palme from all the Grecian peeres, So Spencer now, to his immortall prayse, Hath wonne the laurell quite from all his feres. What though his taske exceed a humaine witt? He is excus'd, sith Sidney thought it fitt. W.L. 140 THE FAERIE QUEENE To looke upon a worke of rare devise The which a workman setteth out to view, And not to yield it the deserved prise That unto such a workmanship is dew, Doth either prove the judgement to be naught, Or els doth shew a miad with envy fraught. To labour to commend a peece of worke Which no man goes about to discommend, Would raise a jealous doubt, that there did lurke Some secret doubt, whereto the prayse did tend: For when men know the goodnes of the wyne, 'Tis needlesse for the hoast to have a sygne. Thus then, to shew my judgement to be such As can discerne of colours blacke and white. As alls to free my minde from envies tuch, That never gives to any man his right, I here pronounce this workmanship is such. As that no pen can set it forth too much. And thus I hang a garland at the dore. Not for to shew the goodnes of the ware. But such hath beene the custome hereto- fore. And customes very hardly broken are. And when your tast shall tell you this is trew, Then looke you give your hoast his ut- most dew. Ignoto. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR CHRIS- TOPHER HATTON, LORD HIGH CHAUN- CELOR OF ENGLAND, &C. Those prudent heads, that with theire coun- sels wise Whylom the pillours of th' earth did sus- taine. And taught ambitious Rome to tyrannise. And in the neck of all the world to rayne. Oft from those grave affaires were wont abstaine. With the sweet Lady Muses for to play: So Ennius the elder Africane, So Maro oft did Csesars cares allay. So you, great Lord, that with your cotmsell sway The burdeine of this kingdom mightily. With like delightes sometimes may eke delay The rugged brow of carefuU Policy; And to these ydle rymes lend litle space. Which for their titles sake may find more grace. TO THE MOST HONOURABLE AND EXCEL- LENT LORD THE EARLE OF ESSEX. GREAT MAISTER OF THE HORSE TO HER HIGHNESSE, AND KNIGHT OF THE NOBLE ORDER OF THE GAR- TER, &C. Magnifickb Lord, whose vertues excellent Doe merit a most famous poets witt. To be thy living praises instrument. Yet doe not sdeigne to let thy name be writt In this base poeme, for thee far unfltt: Nought is thy worth disparaged thereby. But when my Muse, whose fethers, no- thing flitt. Doe yet but flagg, and lowly learne to ^ ^^' With bolder wing shall dare alofte to sty To the last praises of this Faery Queeue, Then shall it make more famous memory Of thine heroicke parts, such as they beene. Till then vouchsafe thy noble countenaunce. To these first labours needed f urtheraunce. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARLE OF OXENFORD, LORD HIGH CHAM- BERLAYNE OF ENGLAND, &C. Receive, most noble Lord, in gentle gree The unripe fruit of an unready wit. Which by thy countenaunce doth crave to bee Defended from foule Envies poisnous bit: Which so to doe may thee right well beflt, Sith th' antique glory of thine auncestry Under a shady vele is therein writ. And eke thine owne long living memory, Succeeding them in true nobility; And also for the love which thou doest beare DEDICATORY SONNETS 141 To th' Heliconian ymps, and they to thee, They unto thee, and thou to them, most deare. Deare as thou art unto thy selfe, so love That loves and honours thee, as doth behove. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARLE OF NORTHUMBERLAND The sacred Muses have made alwaies clame To be the nourses of nobility. And registres of everlasting fame. To all that armes professe and chev- alry. Then, by like right, the noble progeny, Wliich them succeed in fame and worth, are tyde T'embrace the service of sweete poetry, By whose endevours they are gloriflde; And eke from all of whom it is envide To patronize the authour of their praise. Which gives them life, that els would soone have dide, And crownes their ashes with immortall bales. To thee, therefore, right noble Lord, I send This present of my paines, it to defend. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARLE OF ORMOND AND OSSORY Receive, most noble Lord, a simple taste Of the wilde fruit which salvage soyl hath bred. Which, being through long wars left al- most waste. With brutish barbarisme is overspredd: And in so faire a land as may be redd, Not one Parnassus nor one Helicone Left for sweete Muses to be harboured. But where thy selfe hast thy brave man- sione: There in deede dwel faire Graces many one. And gentle nymphes, delights of learned wits, And in tlay person without paragone All goodly bountie and true honour sits. Such, therefore, as that wasted soyl doth yield, Receive, dear Lord, in worth, the fruit of barren field. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD CH. HOWARD, LORD HIGH ADMIRAL OF ENGLAND, KNIGHT OF THE NOBLE ORDER OF THE GAR- TER, AND ONE OF HER MAJESTIES PRIVIE COUNSEL, &C. And ye, brave Lord, whose goodly person^ age And noble deeds, each other garnishing, Make you ensample to the present age Of th' old heroes, whose famous ofspring The antique poets wont so much to sing. In this same pageaunt have a worthy place, Sith those huge castles of Castilian king, That vainly threatned kingdomes to dis- place, Like flying doves ye did before you chace, And that proud people, woxen insolent Through many victories, didst first de- face: Thy praises everlasting monvunent Is in this verse engraven semblably. That it may live to all posterity. TO THE MOST RENOWMED AND VALIANT LORD, THE LORD GREY OF WILTON, KNIGHT OF THE NOBLE ORDER OF THE GARTER, &C. Most noble Lord, the pillor of my life, And patrone of my Muses pupillage. Through whose large bountie, poured on me rife. In the first season of my feeble age, I now doe live, bound yours by vassalage : Sith nothing ever may redeeme, nor reave Out of your endlesse debt so sure a gage, Vouchsafe in worth this small gurft tD receave, Which in your noble hands for pledge I leave Of all the rest that I am tyde t' ac- count : Rude rymes, the which a rustick Muse did weave In savadge soyle, far from Pamasso mount. And roughly wrought in an imlearned loome: The which vouchsafe, dear Lord, your fa- vorable doome. 142 THE FAERIE QUEENE TO THE EIGHT NOBLE AND VALOROUS KNIGHT, SIR WALTER RALEIGH, LORD WARDEIN OF THE STAN- NERYES, AND LIEFTENAUNT OF CORNEWAILE To thee that art the sommers Nightingale, Thy soveraine Goddesses most deare de- light. Why doe I send this rustieke madrigale. That may thy tunefuU eare unseason quite ? Thou onely fit this argument to write, In whose high thoughts Pleasure hath built her bowre, And dainty Love learnd sweetly to en- dite. My rimes I know unsavory and sowre, To tast the streames, that like a golden showre Flow from thy fruitf ull head, of thy loves praise ; Fitter perhaps to thonder martiall stowre. When so thee list thy lofty Muse to raise : Yet till that thou thy poeme wilt make knowne. Let thy faire Cinthias praises bee thus rudely showne. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD BURLEIGH, LORD HIGH THREA- SURER OF ENGLAND To you, right noble Lord, whose oarefuU brest To menage of most grave affaires is bent. And on whose mightie shoulders most doth rest The burdein of this kingdomes goveme- ment, As the wide compasse of the firmament On Atlas mighty shoulders is upstayd, Unfitly I these ydle rimes present. The labor of lost time, and wit unstayd: Yet if their deeper sence be inly wayd, And the dim vele, with which from comune vew Their fairer parts are hid, aside be layd, Perhaps not vaine they may appeare to you. Such as they be, vouchsafe them to receave, And wipe their faults out of your censure grave. E. S. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARLE OF CUMBERLAND Redoubted Lord, in whose corageous mind The flowre of chevalry, now bloosming faire. Doth promise fruite worthy the noble kind Which of their praises have left you the haire; To you this humble present I prepare, For love of vertue and of martiall praise; To which though nobly ye inclined are. As goodlie well ye shew'd in late assaies. Yet brave ensample of long passed dales. In which trew honor yee may fashioned see. To like desire of honor may ye raise. And fill your mind with magnanimitee. Receive it. Lord, therefore, as it was meilt. For honor of your name and high descent. E. S. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD OF HUNSDON, HIGH CHAMBER- LAINS TO HER MAJESTY Renowmed Lord, that for your worthinesse And noble deeds, have your deserved place High in the favour of that Emperesse, The worlds sole glory and her sexes grace; Here eke of right have you a worthie place. Both for your nearnes to that Faerie Queene, And for your owne high merit in like cace. Of which apparaunt proofe was to be scene. When that tumultuous rage and fearfuU deene Of Northeme rebels ye did pacify. And their disloiall powre defaced clene, The record of enduring memory. Live, Lord, for ever in this lasting verse, That all posteritie thy honor may reherse. E. S. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD OF BUCKHURST, ONE OF HER MA- JESTIES PRIVIE COUNSELL In vain 1 thinke, right honourable Lord, By this rude rime to memorize thy name, Whose learned Muse hath writ her owne record In golden verse, worthy immortal fame: DEDICATORY SONNETS 143 Thou much more fit (were leasure to the same) Thy gracious Soverains praises to com- pile, And her imperiall majestie to frame In loftie numbers and heroicke stile. But sith thou maist not so, give leave a while To baser wit his power therein to spend, Whose grosse defaults thy dauitie pen may file, And imadvised oversights amend. But evermore vouchsafe it to maintains Against vile Zoilus backbitings vaine. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE SIR FR. WALSIXGHAM, KNIGHT, PRINCIPALL SECRETARY TO HER MAJESTY AND OF HER HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNSELL That Mantuane poetes incompared spirit. Whose girlaud now is set in highest place. Had not Mecsenas, for his worthy merit, It first advaunst to great Augustus grace. Might long, perhaps, have lien in silence bace, Ne bene so much admir'd of later age. This lowly Muse, that learns like steps to trace, Flies for like aide unto your patronage; That are the great Meoenas of this age. As wel to al that civil artes professe. As those that are inspir'd with martial rage, And craves protection of her feeblenesse: Which if ye yield, perhaps ye may her rayse In bigger tunes to sound your living prayse. E. S. TO THE RIGHT NOBLE LORD AND MOST VALIAUNT CAPTAINE, sir JOHN NORRIS, KNIGHT, LORD PRE- SIDENT OF MOUNSTER Who ever gave more honourable prize To the sweet Muse then did the martiall crew, That their brave deeds she might im- mortalize In her shril tromp, and sound their praises dew ? Who then ought more to favour her then Moste noble Lord, the honor of this age, And precedent of all that armes ensue ? Whose warlike prowesse aijd manly cour- age, _ Tempred with reason and advizement sage, Hath flld sad Belgioke with victorious spoile. In Fraunee and Ireland left a famous And lately shakt the Lusitanian soile. Sith, then, each where thou hast dispredd thy fame. Love him that hath eternized your name. E. S. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE AND MOST VERTUOUS LADY, THE COUNTESSE OF PENBROKE Remembraunce of that most heroicke spirit, The hevens pride, the glory of our daies, Which now triumpheth through Lmmor- tall merit Of his brave vertues, crovmd with last- ing bales Of hevenlie blis and everlasting praies; Who first my Muse did lift out of the flore, To sing his sweet delights in lowlie laies; Bids me, most noble Lady, to adore His goodly image living evermore In the divine resemblaunce of your face; Which with your vertues ye embellish more. And native beauty deck with hevenlie grace : For his, and for your owne especial sake. Vouchsafe from him this token in good worth to take. E. S. TO THE MOST VERTUOUS AND BEAUTI- FULL LADY, THE LADY CAREW Ne may I, without blot of endlesse blame, You, fairest Lady, leave out of this place, But with remembraunce of your gracious name, Wherewith that courtly garlond most ye grace, And deck the world, adorne these verses base. Not that these few lines can in them comprise 144 THE FAERIE QUEEN E Those glorious ornaments of hevenly grace, Wherewith ye triumph oyer feeble eyes, And in subdued harts do tyranyse; For thereunto doth need a golden quill And silver leaves, them rightly to devise ; But to make humble present of good will: * Which, whenas timely meanes it purchase may. In ampler wise it selfe will forth display. E. S. TO ALL THE GRATIOUS AND BEAUTIFULL LADIES IN THE COURT The Chian peinoter, when he was requirde To pourtraict Venus in her perfect hew. To make his worke more absolute, de- sird Of all the fairest maides to have the vew. Much more me needs, to draw the sem- blant trew Of Beauties Queene, the worlds sole wonderment, To sharpe my sence with sundry beauties vew, • And steale from each some part of orna- ment. If all the world to seeke I overwent, A fairer crew yet no where could I see Then that brave court doth to mine eie present. That the worlds pride seemes gathered there to bee. Of each a part I stole by cunning thefte: Forgive it me, faire Dames, sith lesse ye have not lefte. E. S. THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENE CONTAYNING THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF THE RED CROSSE OR OF HOLINESSE Lo I I the man, whose Muse whylome did maske, As time her taught, in lowly shephards weeds, Am now enforst, a farre unfitter taske. For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine oaten reeds. And sing of knights and ladies g^entle deeds; Whose praises having slept in silence long. Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broade emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize my song. Helpe then, holy virgin, chiefe of nyne, Thy weaker novice to performe thy will; Lay forth out of thine everlasting scryne The antique roUes, which there lye hidden still, Of Faerie knights, and fayrest Tanaquill, Whom that most noble Briton Prince so long Sought through the world, and suffered so much ill. That I must rue his undeserved wrong: O helpe thou my weake wit, and sharpen my dull tong. And thou, most dreaded impe of highest Jove, Faire Venus Sonne, that with thy cruell dart At that good knight so cunningly didst rove, That glorious fire it kindled in his hart. Lay now thy deadly hebeu bowe apart, And with thy mother mylde come to mine ayde: Come both, and with you bring triumphant Mart, In loves and geiicle jollities arraid, After his murdrous spoyles and bloudie rage allayd. IV And with them eke, O Goddesse heavenly bright, Mirrour of grace and majestie divine. Great Ladie of the greatest Isle, whose light Like Phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine, Shed thy faire beames into my feeble eyne, And raise my thoughtes, too humble and too vile. To thinke of that true glorious type of thine, The argument of mine afflicted stile: The which to heare vouchsafe, O dearest dread, a while. BOOK I, CANTO I HS CANTO I The patrone of true HolineBse Foule Errour doth defeate : Hypocrieie, him to entrappe, Doth to his home eutreate. A GENTLE knight was pricking on the '^ plaine, 'J Yoladd in mightie armes and silver shieide, 0^ Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did , remaine, -^ The cruell markes of many' a bloody ftelde; -^ Yet armes till that time did he uever wield: (_His angry steede did chide his foming , bitt, As much disdayning to the curbe to yield : CFull jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt, QA.S cue for knightly giusts and fierce en- counters fltt. But on his bres tfabioodiecrossi yhe bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, And dead as living ever him ador'd : Upon his shield the like was also seor'd, For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had: Right faithfuU true he was in deede and word. But of his oheere did seeme too solemne sad; v/ Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydiud. Ill Upon a great adventure he was bond, That greatest Gloriana to him gave, That greatest glorious queene of Faery Lond, To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have. Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave ; And ever as he rode his hart did eame To prove his puissance in battell brave Upon his foe, and his new force to learne ; Upon his foe, a dragon horrible and steame. IV A lovely ladie rode him faire beside, Upon a lowly asse mor? white then snow, Yet she much whiter, bvit the same did hide Under a vele, that wimpled was full low, (/^ And over all a blaoke stole shee did throw: As one that inly mournd, so was she sad. And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow: Seemed in heart some hidden care she had; And by her in a line a milkewhite lambe v-^ she lad. ^a- y <.-- ^ 3 i c So pure and innocent, as that same lai(nbe, '^- She was in life and every vertuous lore, I' And by descent from royall lyuage came "- Of ancient kinges and queenes, that had of yore ^ Their scepters stretcht from east to west- . erne shore, ■" And all the world in their subjection held, ^ Till that infernall feend with foule uprore ^ Forwasted all their land, and them expeld: c Whom to avenge, she haJd this knight from \_ far eompeld. Behind her farre away a dwarfe did lag, That lasie seemd, in being ever last. Or wearied with bearing of her bag Of needments at his backe. Thus as they * past, Ihe daY with clo udes was sud Angi[S'Si:y «l "Vg an hideous i Did poure into his lemans lap so fast. That everie wight to shrowd it did constrain, And this faire couple eke to shroud them- selves were fain. The day with clo udes was suddeine overcasu, ffigiry «l nse an hideous storme of raine Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, A shadie grove not farr away they spide, That promist ayde the tempest to withstand: Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride. Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, Not perceable with power of any starr: And all within were pathes and alleles wide, With footing worne, and leading inward farr: Faire harbour that them seemes, so in they entred ar. And foorth they passe, with pleasure for- ward led, Joying to heare the birdes sweete harmony, 146 THE FAERIE QUEENE I 4 Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, The sayling pine, the cedar proud and tall. The vine-propp elme, the poplar never dry. The buUder oake, sole king of forrests all, The aspiue good for staves, the cypresse funeria,ll, The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours And poets sage, the firre that weepeth still. The willow worne of forlorne paramours. The eugh obedient to the benders wUl, The birch for shaf tes, the sallow for the mill, The mirrhe sweete bleeding in the bitter wound. The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill. The fruitf uU olive, and the platane round. The carver holme, the maple seeldom in- ward soimd. Led with delight, they thus beguile the way, Untill the blustring storme is overblowne ; hen, weening to returne whence they did stray, They cannot flnde that path, which first was showne, ' But wander too and fro in waies unknowns, Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, That makes them doubt, their wits be not their owne: So many pathes, so many turnings seene. That which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. , At last resolving forward still to fare, Till that some end they finde, or in or out. That path they take, that beaten seemd most bare. And like to lead the labyrinth about; Which when by tract they hunted had throughout. At length it brought them to a hollowe cave, Amid the thickest woods. The champion stout Eftsoones dismounted from his courser brave. And to the dwarfe a while his needless* spere he gave. ' Be well aware,' quoth then that ladie milde, ' Least suddaine mischief e ye too rash pro- voke: The danger hid, the place unknowne and wilde, Breedes dreadfuU doubts: oft fire is with- out smoke, And perill without show: therefore your stroke. Sir knight, with-hold, till further tryall made.' 'Ah, ladie,' sayd he, ' shame were to revoke The forward footing for an hidden shade: Vertue gives her selfe light, through darke- nesse for to wade.' XIII ' Yea, but,' quoth she, ' the perill of this place I better wot then you; though no we too late To wish you backe returne with foule dis- grace. Yet wisedome warnes, whilest foot is in the gate, To stay the steppe, ere forced to retrate. / This is the wandring wood, this Errours den,' A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : Therefore I read beware.' ' Ely, fly ! ' quoth then The fearefuU dwarfe: 'this is no place for living men.' But full of flre and greedy hardime^U, The youthful! knight could not fo/ ought be staide, But forth unto the darksom hole he went, And looked in: his glistring armor made A litle glooming light, much like a shade, By which he saw the ugly monster plaine, Half e like a serpent horribly displaide, But th' other half e did womans shape re-, / taine, y Most lothsom, fllthie, foule, and full of vile disdaine. XV And as she lay upon the durtie ground, Her huge long taile her den all overspred, Yet was in knots and many boughtes up- wound, Pointed with mortall sting. Of her there BOOK I, CANTO I 147 . . thousand yong ones, which she dayly fed, Sucking upon her poisnous dugs, eachone Of sundrie shapes, yet all ill favored: Soone as that uncouth light upon theip shone, 1/lnto her mouth they crept, and suddaiu all were gone. XVI Their dam upstart, out of her den effraide. And rushed forth, hurling her hideous taile About her cursed head, whose folds dis- plaid Were stretoht now forth at length with- out entraUe. She lookt about, and seeing one in raayle. Armed to point, sought backe to turne againe; 'or light she hated as the deadly bale. Ay wont in desert darknes to remaine, Where plain none might her see, nor she see any plaine. "v/p Which when the valiant Elf e perceiv'd, he lept As lyon fierce upon the flying pray. And with his trenchand blade her boldly kept From turning baoke, and forced her to stay: Therewith enrag'd she loudly gan to bray. And turning fierce, her speckled taile ad- v>unst, Threatning her angrie sting, him to dis- may: Who, nought aghast, his mightie hand en- hauust: T troke down from her head unto her t.noulder glaunst. XVIII Much daimted with that dint, her senoe was dazd. Yet kindling rage her selfe she gathered round, And all attouce her beastly bodie raizd f With doubled forces high above the ground: Jho, wrapping up her wrethed sterne arownd, Lept fierce upon his shield, and her huge traine VU suddenly about his body wound, That hand or foot to stirr he strove in vaine: v/ God helpe the man so wrapt in Errours endlesse traine. His lady, sad to see his sore constraint, Cride out, 'Now, now, sir knight, shew what ye bee : Add faith unto your force, and be not faint: Strangle her, els she sure will strangle thee.' That when he heard, in great perplexitie. His gall did grate for griefe and high dis- daine ; And knitting all his force, got one hand free, Wherewith he grypt her gorge with so great paine. That soone to loose her wicked bands did her constraine. Therewith she spewd out of her fllthie maw ^ A floud of poyson horrible and blacke, Full of great lumps of flesh and gobbets raw, Which stunck so vildly, that it forst him slacke His grasping hold, and from her turne him backe: Her vomit full of bookes and papers Was, ^ With loathly frogs and toades, which eyes did lacke. And creeping sought way in the weedy gras: Her fllthie parbreake all the place defiled has. As when old father Nilus gins io swell With timely pride above the Aegyptian vale. His fattie waves doe fertile slime outwell, And overflow each plaine and lowly dale: But when his later spring gins to avale. Huge heapes of mudd he leaves, wherin there breed Ten thousand kindes of creatures, partly male And partly f email, of his fruitful seed; Such ugly monstrous shapes elswher may no man reed. The same so sore annoyed has the knight. That, welnigh choked with the deadly stinke. His forces faile, ne can no lenger fight. Whose corage when the feend perceivd to shrinke. She poured forth out of her hellish sinke Her fruitfuU cursed spawne of serpents small, 148 THE FAERIE QUEENE Deformed monsters, fowle, and blaoke as inke, Which swarming all about his legs did crall, And him encombred sore, but could not hurt at all. As gentle shepheard in sweete eventide, When ruddy Phebus gins to welke in west, High on an hill, his flocke to vewen wide, Markes which doe byte their hasty supper best; A cloud of cumbrous gnattes doe him mo- lest. All striving to infixe their feeble stinges. That from their noyance he no where can rest, But with his clownish hands their tender wings He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings. Thus ill bestedd, and fearefuU more of shame Then of the certeine perill he stood in, Halfe furious unto his foe he came, Besolvd in minde all suddenly to win. Or soone to lose, before he once would lin; And stroke at her with more then manly force. That from her body, full of filthie sin. He raft her hateful! heade without remorse : A streame of cole black blood forth gushed from her corse. Her scattred brood, soone as their parent deare They saw so rudely falling to the ground, Groning full deadly, all with troublous f eare, Gathred themselves about her body round. Weening their wonted entrance to have found At her wide month: but being there with- stood, ThBy flocked all about her bleeding wound. And sucked up their dying mothers blond. Making her death their life, and eke her hurt their good. That detestable sight him much amazde. To see th' unkindly impes, of heaven ac- curst, Devoure their dam; on whom while so he gazd. Having all satisfide their bloudy thurst. Their bellies swolne he saw with fulnesse burst, And bowels gushing forth: well worthy end Of such as drunke her life, the which them nurst ! Now needeth him no lenger labour spend; His foes have slaine themselves, with whom he should contend. His lady, seeing all that chaun.st, from farre, , Approcht in hast to greet his viotorie, And saide, ' Faire knight, borne under hap- pie starre. Who see your vanquisht foes before you lye, Well worthie be you of that armory. Wherein ye have great glory wonne this day, And proov'd your strength on a strong eni- mie, Your first adventure: many such I pray, And henceforth ever wish that like succeed it may.' Then mounted he upon his steede againe. And with the lady backward sought to wend; That path he kept which beaten was most plaine, Ne ever would to any by way bend. But still did follow one unto the end. The which at last out of the wood them brought. So forward on his way (with God to frend) He passed forth, and new adventure sought: Long way he travelled, before he heard of ought. At length they chaunst to meet upon the way An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, *' His f eete all bare, his beard all hoarie gray, And by his belt his booke he hanging had; Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, Siinple in shew, and voide of malice bad, And all the way he prayed as he went. And often knockt his brest, as one that did repent. BOOK I, CANTO I 149 XXX iHe faire the knight saluted, louting low, Who faire him quited, as that courteous was; And after asked him, if he did know Of straimge adventures, which abroad did pas. • Ah ! my dear sonne,' quoth he, ' how should, alas ! Silly old man, that lives in hidden cell, Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, Tydings of warre and worldly trouble tell ? With holy father sits not with such thinges to mell. 'But if of daunger, which hereby doth d well, And homebredd evU ye desire to heare, Of a straunge man I can you tidings tell. That wasteth all this countrie farre and neare.' • Of such,' saide he, ' I chiefly doe inquere. And shall you well rewarde to shew the place, In which that wicked wight his dayes doth weare : For to all knighthood it is foule disgrace. That such a cursed creature lives so long a space.' XXXII ' Far hence,' quoth he, ' in wastf nil wilder- nesse. His dwelling is, by which no living wight May ever passe, but thorough great dis- tresse.' 'Now,' saide the ladie, ' draweth toward night. And well I wote, that of your later fight Te all f orwearied be : for what so strong, But, wanting rest, will also want of might ? The Sunne, that measures heaven all day . long. At night doth baite his steedes the ocean waves emong. XXXIII ' Then with the Sunne take, sir, your timely rest. And with new day new worke at once begin: Untroubled night, they say, gives couusell best.' ' Right well, sir knight, ye have advised bin,' Quoth then that aged man; ' the way to win Is wisely to advise: now day is spent; Therefore with me ye may take up your in For this same night.' The knight was well content: So with that godly father to his home they went. XXXIV A litle lowly hermitage it was, Downe in a dale, hard by a forests side, Far from resort of people, that did pas In traveill to and froe: a litle wyde There was an holy chappell edifyde. Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say His holy thinges each morne and even-tyde: Thereby a christall streame did gently play, Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. XXXV Arrived there, the litle house they fill, Ne looke for entertainement, where none was: Rest is their feast, and all thinges at their will; The noblest mind the best contentment has. With faire discourse the evening so they pas : For that olde man of pleasing wordes had store. And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas: He told of saintes and popes, and evermore He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before. The drouping night thus creepeth on them fast. And the sad humor loading their eye liddes, As messenger of Morpheus, on them cast Sweet slombring deaw, the which to sleep them biddes: Unto their lodgings then his guestes he riddes: Where when all drownd in deadly sleeps he findes. He to his studie goes, and there amiddes His magick bookes and artes of sundrie kindes. He seekes out mighty charmes, to trouble sleepy minds. XXXVII Then choosing out few words most horrible, (Let none them read) thereof did verses frame; ISO THE FAERIE QUEENE With which and other spelles like terrible, He bad awake blacke Plutoes griesly dame, And cursed heven, and spake reprochful shame Of highest God, the Lord of life and light: A bold bad man, that dar'd to call by name Great Gorgon, priace of darknes and dead night. At which Cocytus quakes, and Styx is put to flight. And forth he cald out of deepe darknes dredd Legions of sprights, the which, like Utle flyes Fluttring about his ever damned hedd, Awaite whereto their service he applyes. To aide his f riendes, or fray his enimies : Of those he chose out two, the falsest twoo. And fittest for to forge true-seeming lyes; The one of them he gave a message too, The other by him selfe staide, other worke to doo. XXXIX He, making speedy way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters wide and deepe, To Morpheus house doth hastily repaire. Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe. And low, where dawning day doth never peepe. His dwelling is ; there Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash, and Cynthia still doth steepe In silver deaw his ever-drouping hed, Whiles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. Whose double gates he findeth locked fast, The one faire fram'd of burnisht yvory, The other all with silver overcast; And wakeful dogges before them farre doe lye, Watching to banish Care their enimy. Who oft is wont to trouble gentle Sleepe. By them the sprite doth passe in quietly. And unto Morpheus comes, whom drowned deepe In drowsie fit he Andes: of nothing he takes keepe. XLI And more, to luUe him in his slumber soft, A trickling streame from high rock tum- bling downe. And ever drizliug raine upon the loft, Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne : No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes. As still are wont t' annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard: but carelesse Quiet lyes, Wrapt in eternall silence farre from eni- myes. XLII The messenger approchmg to him spake. But his waste wordes retournd to him in vaiue : So sound he slept, that nought mought him awake. Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine. Whereat he gan to stretch: but he againe Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake. He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake. The sprite then gan more boldly him to wake. And threatned imto him the dreaded name Of Hecate: whereat he gan to quake. And, lifting up his lompish head, with blame Half e angrie asked him, for what he came. ' Hether,' quoth he, ' me Archimago sent. He that the stubborne sprites can wisely tame; He bids thee to him send for his intent A fit false dreame, that can delude the sleepers sent.' XLIV The god obayde, and calling forth straight way A diverse dreame out of his prison darke, Delivered it to him, and dovime did lay His heavie head, devoide of careful carke; Whose sences all were straight benumbd and Starke. He, baoke returning by the yvorie dore. BOOK I, CANTO I 151 Remounted up as light as cliearefull larke, And on his litle winges tlie dreaiue he bore In hast unto his lord, where he him left afore. XLV Who all this while, with oharmes and hid- den artes. Had made a lady of that other spright, And fram'd of liquid ayre her tender partes, So lively and so like in all mens sight, That weaker sence it could have ravisht quight: The maker self e, for all his wondrous witt. Was nigh beguiled with so goodly sight: Her all in white he clad, and over it Cast a black stole, most like to seeme for Una fit. Now when that ydle dreame was to him brought, Unto that Elfin knight he bad him fly. Where he slept soundly, void of evil thought. And with false shewes abuse his fantasy. In sort as he him schooled privily: And thai; new creature, borne without her dew. Full of the makers guyle, with usage sly He taught to imitate that lady trew. Whose semblance she did carrie under feigned hew. Thus well instructed, to their worke they haste. And coraming where the knight in slom.- ber lay, The one upon his bardie head him plaste. And made him dreame of loves and lust- full play. That nigh his manly hart did melt away. Bathed in wanton blis and wicked joy. Then seemed him his lady by him lay. And to him playnd, how that false winged boy Her ehaste hart had subdewd to learne Dame Pleasures toy. And she her selfe, of beautie soveraigne queene, Fayre Venus, seemde unto his bed to bring Her, whom he, waking, evermore did weene To bee the chastest flowre that aye did spring On earthly braunch, the daughter of a king. Now a loose leman to vile service bound: And eke the Graces seemed all to sing Hymen io Hymen, dauncing all around, Whylst freshest Flora her with yvie girlond crownd. XLIX In this great passion of unwonted lust, Or wonted feare of doing ought amis, He started up, as seeming to mistrust Some secret ill, or hidden foe of his : Lo ! there before his face his ladie is, Under blacke stole hyding her bayted hooka, And as halfe blushing oft'red him to kis, With gentle blandishment and lovely looke. Most like that virgin true, which for her knight him took. All cleane dismayd to see so uncouth sight, And halfe enraged at her shamelesse guise. He thought have slaine her in his fierce de- spight; But hastie heat tempring with sufBerance wise, He stayde his hand, and gan himselfe advise To prove his sense, and tempt her faigned truth. Wrmging her hands in wemens pitteous wise, Tho can she weepe, to stirre up gentle ruth. Both for her noble blood, and for her tender youth. LI And sayd, ' Ah sir, my liege lord and my love, Shall I accuse the hidden cruell fate. And mightie causes wrought in heaven above. Or the blind god, that doth me thus amate, For hoped love to winne me certaine hate ? Yet thus perforce he bids me do, or die. Die is my dew: yetrew my wretched state You, whom my hard avenging destinie Hath made judge of my life or death in differently. ' Your owne deare sake f orst me at first to leave My fathers kingdom ' — There she stopt with teares; 152 THE FAERIE QUEENE Her swollen hart her speech seemd to be- reave; And then againe begonne: 'My weaker yeares, Captiv'd to fortune and frayle worldly feares, Fly to your fayth for succour and sure ayde : Let me not die in languor and long teares.' 'Why, dame,' quoth he, ' what hath ye thus dismayd ? What frayes ye, that were wont to comfort me afPrayd ? ' ' Love of your selfe,' she saide, ' and deare constraint. Lets me not sleepe, but waste the wearie night In secret anguish and unpittied plaint. Whiles you in carelesse sleepe are drowned quight.' Her doubtfuU words made that redoubted knight Suspect her truth: yet since no' untruth he knew, Her fawning love with foule disdainefuU spight He would not shend, but said, ' Deare dame, I rew. That for my sake unknowne such griefe unto you grew. * Assure your selfe, it fell not all to ground; For all so deare as life is to my hart, I deeme your love, and hold me to you bound ; Ne let vaine feapes procure your needlesse smart. Where cause is none, but to your rest de- part.' Not all content, yet seemd she to appease Her mournefull plaintes, beguiled of her art. And fed with words, that could not chose but please; So slyding softly forth, she tvirnd as to her ease. LV Long after lay he musing at her mood. Much griev'd to thinke that gentle dame so light. For whose defence he was to shed his blood. At last dull wearines of former fight Having yrookt a sleepe his irkesome spright, That troublous dreame gan freshly tosse his braine With bowres, and beds, and' ladies deare delight: But when he saw his labour all was vaine, With that misformed spright he backe re- turnd againe. CANTO II Tlie guilefull great enchaunter parts The EedcroBse Knight from Truth : Into whose Btead faire Falshood steps. And workes him woefullruth. By this the northeme wagoner had set His sevenfold teme behind the stedfast starre. That was in ocean waves yet never wet, But firme is fixt, and sendeth light from farre To al that in the wide deepe wandring arre : And chearefuU Chaunticlere with his note shrill Had warned once, that Phoebus fiery carre In hast was climbing up the easterue hill, Full envious that night so long his roome did fill: When those accursed messengers of hell, That feigning dreame, and that faire-f orged spright. Came to their wielded maister, and gan tel Their bootelesse paines, and ill succeed- ing night: Who, all in rage to see his skilfuU might Deluded so, gan threaten hellish paine And sad Proserpines wrath, them to af- fright. But when he saw his threatning was but vaine. He cast about, and searcht his baleful bokes againe. Ill Eftsoones he tooke that miscreat^ faire, And that false other spright, on whom he spred A seeming body of the subtile aire. Like a young squire, in loves and lustyhed His wanton dales that ever loosely led. Without regard of armes and dreaded fight; Those twoo he tooke, and in a secrete bed, BOOK I, CANTO II IS3 Covered with darkenes and misdeeming night, Them hoth together laid, to joy in vaine delight. Forthwith he runnes with feigned faithfull hast Unto his guest, who, after troublous sights And dreames, gan now to take more sound repast; Whom suddenly he wakes with fearful frights. As one aghast with feends or damned sprights, And to him cals; ' Rise, rise, unhappy swaine. That here wex old in sleepe, whiles wicked wights Have knit themselves in Venus shameful chaine ; Come see, where your false lady doth her honor staine.' All in amaze he suddenly up start With sword in hand, and with the old man went; Who soone him brought into a secret part. Where that false couple were full closely ment In wanton lust and lend enbracement: Which when he saw, he burnt with gealous fire. The eie of reason was with rage yblent. And would have slaine them in his furious ire. But hardly was restreined of that aged sire. Retourning to his bed in torment great. And bitter anguish of his guilty sight, / He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat, And wast his mward gall with deepe de- spight, Yrkesome of life, and too long lingring night. At last faire Hesperus in highest skie Had spent his lampe, and brought forth dawning light; Then up he rose, and clad him hastily; The dwarf e him brought his steed: so both away do fly. VII Now when the rosy fingred Morning faire, '^ Weary of aged Tithones saffron bed, Had spred her purple robe through deawy aii'e, And the high hils Titan discovered, The royall virgin shooke of drousyhed, And rising forth out of her baser bowre, Lookt for her knight, who far away was fled. And for her dwarfe, that wont to wait each howre : Then gan she wail and weepe, to see that woeful stowre. VIII •— And after him she rode with so much speede. As her slowe beast could make; but all in vaine : For him so far had borne his light-foot steede. Pricked with wrath and fiery fierce dis- daine. That him to follow was but f ruitlesse paine ; Yet she her weary limbes would never rest. But every hil and dale, each wood and plaine. Did search, sore grieved in her gentle brest, He so ungently left her, whome she loved . / best. ^ But subtill Archiraago, when his guests ' He saw divided uito double parts, And Una wandring in voods and forrests, Th' end of his drift, he praisd his divelish arts. That had such might over true meaning harts : Yet rests not so, but other meanes doth make. How he may worke unto her further smarts : For her he hated as the hissing snake. And in her many troubles did most pleasure take. He then devisde himself e how to disguise ; For by his mighty science he could take As many formes and shapes in seemmg wise, As ever Proteus to himself e could make: Sometime a fowle, sometime a fish in lake, Now like a foxe, now like a dragon fell, 154 THE FAERIE QUEENE That of himselfe he ofte for feare would quake, And oft would flie away. O who can tell The hidden powre of herbes, and might of magick spel ? XI But now seemde best, the person to put on Of that good knight, his late beguiled guest: In mighty armes he was yclad anon. And silver shield; upon his coward brest A bloody crosse, and on his craven crest A bounch of heares discolourd diversly: Full jolly knight he seemde, and wel ad- drest, And when he sate uppon his courser free, Saint George himselfe ye would have deemed him to be. XII But he, the knight whose semblaunt he did beare. The true Saint George, was wandred far away. Still flying from his thoughts and gealous feare ; Will was his guide, and griefe led him astray. At last him chaunst to meete upon the way / A f aithlesse Sarazin, all armde to point. In whose great shield was wi'it with letters gay • Sans foy : full large of limbe and every joint He was, and cared not for God or man a point. XIII Hee had a faire companion of his way, A goodly lady clad in searlot red, Purfled with gold and pearle of rich assay; And like a Persian mitre on her hed Shee wore, with crowns and owches gar- nished. The which her lavish lovers to her gave:! Her wanton palfrey all was overspred With tinsell trappings, woven like a wave. Whose bridle rung with golden bels and bosses brave. With faire disport and courting dalliaunce She intertainde her lover all the way: But when she saw the knight his speare advaunce, Shee soone left of her mirth and wanton play, And bad her knight addresse him to the fray: His foe was nigh at hand. He, prickte with pride And hope to winne his ladies hearte that day. Forth spurred fast: adowne his coursers side The red blond trickling staind the way, as he did ride. XV y The Knight of the Kedcrosse, when him he Spurring so bote with rage dispiteous, Gan fajiely couch his speare, and towards (^: Soone meete they both, both fell and furi- ous. That, daunted with theyr forces hideous, Their steeds doe stagger, and amazed stand, And eke themselves, too rudely rigorous, Astonied with the stroke of their owne hand. Doe backe rebutte, and ech to other yealdetu land. As when two rams, stird with ambitious pride. Fight for the rule of the rich fleeced flocke, Their horned fronts so fierce on either side Doe meete, that, with the terror of the shocke Astonied, both stand sencelesse as a blocks, Forgetfull of the hanging victory: So stood these twaine, unmoved as a rocke, Both starirg fierce, and holding idely The broken reliques of their former cruelty. The Sarazin, sore daunted with the buffe, Snatcheth his sword, and fiercely to him flies; Who well it wards, and quyteth cuff with cuff: Each others equall puissaunce envies, And through their iron sides with eruell spies Does seeke to perce: repining courage yields No foote to foe. Tlie flashing fier flies, As from a forge, out of their burning shields, And streams of purple bloud new dies the verdant fields. BOOK I, CANTO II iSS XVIII ' Curse on that Crosse,' quoth then the Sara^ zin, ' That keepes thy body from the bitter fitt ! Dead long ygoe, I wote, thou haddest bin, Had not that charme from thee f orwarned itt: But yet I warne thee now assured sitt, And hide thy head.' Therewith upon his (Srest With rigor so outrageoiis he smitt. That a large share it hewd out of the rest. And glaunciiig downe his shield, from blame him fairely blest. Who thereat wondrous wroth, the sleeping Of native vertue gan eftsoones revive, And at his haughty helmet making mark. So hugely stroke, that it the Steele did rive, > And cleft his head. He, tumbling downe alive, With bloudy mouth his mother earth did kis. Greeting his grave : his grudging ghost did strive With the fraUe flesh; at last it flitted is, Whether the soules doe fly of men that live amis. XX The lady, when she saw her champion fall. Like the old ruines of a broken towre, Staid not to waile his woefuU funerall, '" But from him fled away with all her powre ; Who after her as hastily gan seowre. Bidding the dwarf e with him to bring away The Sarazins shield, sigue of the conquer- oure. Her soone he overtooke, and bad to stay. For present cause was none of dread her to dismay. Shee, turning backe with rueful! counte- naunce, Cride, ' Mercy, mercy, sir, vouchsafe to showe On silly dame, subject to hard mischaunce. And to your mighty wil ! ' Her humblesse low. In so ritch weedes and seeming glorious show. Did much emmove his stout heroicke heart. And said, ' Deare dame, your suddein over- throw Much rueth me; but now put feare apart, And tel, both who ye be, and who that tooke your part.' XXII Melting in teares, then gan shee thus la- ment: ' The wreohed woman, whom unhappy howre Hath now made thrall to your commande- ment. Before that angry heavens list to lowre. And Fortune false betraide me to your powre. Was, (O what now availeth that I was ?) Borne the sole daughter of an emperour. He that the wide west mider his rule has. And high hath set his throne where Tiberis doth pas. ' He, in the first flowre of my freshest age, Betrothed me unto the onely haire Of a most mighty king, most rich and sage ; Was never prince so faithf ull and so faire. Was never prince so meeke and debonaire; But ere my hoped day of spousall shone, My dearest lord fell from high honors staire, Into the hands of hys accursed fone. And cruelly was slaine, that shall I ever mone. XXIV ' His blessed body, spoild of lively breath, Was afterward, I know not how, convaid And fro me hid: of whose most innocent death When tidings came to mee, unhappy maid, O how great sorrow my sad soule assaid ! Then forth I went his woef ull corse to find. And many yeares throughout the world I straid, A virgin widow, whose deepe wounded mind With love, long time did languish as the striken hind. XXV ' At last it chaunced this proud Sarazin To meete me wandring; who perforce me led With him away, but yet could never win The fort, that ladies hold in soveraigne dread. , There lies he now with f oule dishonor dead, iS6 THE FAERIE QUEENE WlKy^vM^s he livde, was called proud The eldest of three brethren, all thw , Of one bad sire, whose youngest is< 1 And twixt tl " " \ bold 4jh was born the bloudy XXVI ' In this sad plight, f rieudlesse, unfortunate, 7 Now miserable I Fidessa dwell. Craving of you, in pitty of my state. To doe none ill, if please ye not doe well.' He in great passion al this while did dwell. More busying his quicke eies, her face to view, Then his dull eares, to heare what shee did tell; And said, ' Faire lady, hart of flint would re w The undeserved woes and sorrowes which ye shew. ' Henceforth in safe assuraunce may ye rest, Having both found a new friend you to aid, And lost an old foe^that did you molest: Better new friend then an old foe is said.' With chaunge of chear the seeming simple maidL,,,^ Let f al herSgie^ as shamef ast, to the earth. And yeelding^sof t, in that she nought gain- said, So forth they rode, he f eining seemely merth. And shee eoy lookes: so dainty, they say, maketh derth. Long time they thvis together travelled. Til, weary of their way, they came at last Where grew two goodly trees, that faire did spred Their amies abroad, with gray mosse over- cast, And their greene leaves, trembling with every blast. Made a calme shadowe far in compasse round : The f earef uU shepheard, often there aghast. Under them never sat, ne wont there sound His mery oaten pipe, but shund th' unlucky ground. XXIX But this good knight, soone as he them can spie. For the coole shade him thither hastly got: For golden Phoebus, now ymouuted hie. From fiery wheeles of his faire chariot Hurled his beame so scorching cruell hot, That living creature mote it not abide; And his new lady it endured not. There they alight, in hope themselves -to hide _ 7 From the fierce heat, and rest their weary limbs a tide. XXX Faire seemely pleasaunce each to other makes, With goodly purposes, there as they sit: And in his falsed fancy he her takes To be the fairest wight that lived yit; Which to expresse, he bends his gentle wit, And thinking of those braunches greene to frame A girlond for her dainty forehead fit, He pluckt a bough; out of whose rifte there came Smal drops of gory bloud, that trickled down the same. Therewith a piteous yelling voice was heard, Crying, ' spare with guilty hands to teare My tender sides-in this rough rynd embard; But fly, ah ! fly far hence away, for feare Least to you hap that happened to me heare. And to this wretched lady, my deare love; O too deare love, love bought with death too deare ! ' Astond he stood, and up his heare did hove, And with that suddein horror could no member move. XXXII At last, whenas the dreadfull passion Was overpast, and manhood well awake, Yet musing at the straunge occasion. And doubting much his sence, he thus be- spake: ' What voice of damned ghost from Limbo lake, Or guilef ull spright wandring in empty aire, Both which fraile men doe oftentimes mis- take, Sends to my doubtful eares these speaohes rare. And ruefull plaints, me bidding guiltlesse blood to spare? ' BOOK I, CANTO II '57 / J XXXIII Then groning deep: ' Nor damned ghost,' quoth he, 'Nor guileful sprite to thee these words doth speake. But once a man, Fradubio, now a tree ; Wretched man, wretched tree ! whose na- ture weake A cruell witch, her cursed wUl to wreake. Hath thus transformd, and plast in open plaines, Where Boreas doth blow full bitter bleake. And scorching sunne does dry my secret vaines : For though a tree I seme, yet cold and heat me paines.' XXXIV ' Say on, Fradubio, then, or man or tree,' Quoth then the knight; ' by whose mis- chievous arts Art thou misshaped thus, as now I see? He oft finds med'oine who his griefe im- parts; But double griefs afflict concealing harts. As raging flames who striveth to suppresse.' ' The author then,' said he, ' of all my smarts. Is one Duessa, a false sorceresse, That many errant knights hath broght to wretchednesse. ' In prime of youthly yeares, when corage hott The fire of love and joy of chevalree First kindled in my brest, it was my lott To love this gentle lady, whome ye see Now not a lady, but a seeming tree; With whome as once I rode aocompanyde. Me chaunced of a knight encountred bee, That had a like faire lady by his syde; Lyke a faire lady, but did f o wle Duessa hyde. ' Whose forged beauty he did take in hand All other dames to have exceded f arre ; I in defence of mine did likewise stand. Mine, that did then shine as the morning starre: So both to batteill fierce arraunged arre; In which his harder fortune was to fall Under my speare : such is the dye of warre : His lady, left as a prise martiall. Did yield her comely person, to be at my call. ' So doubly lov'd of ladies unlike faire, Th' one seeming such, the other such in- deede. One day in doubt I cast for to compare, Whether in beauties glorie did exceede; A rosy girlond was the victors meede. Both seemde to win, and both seemde won to bee. So hard the discord was to be agreede : Frselissa was as faire as faire mote bee, And ever false Duessa seemde as faire as shee. ' The wicked witch, now seeing all this while The doubtfuU ballaunce equally to sway. What not by right, she cast to win by guile; And by her hellish science raisd streight way A foggy mist, that overcast the day. And a dull blast, that, breathing on her face. Dimmed her former beauties shining ray. And with foule ugly forme did her dis- grace : Then was she fayre alone, when none was faire in place. XXXIX ' Then cride she out, " Fye, fye ! deformed wight. Whose borrowed beautie now appeareth plaine To have before bewitched all mens sight; O leave her soone, or let her soone be slaine." Her loathly visage viewing with disdaine, Eftsoones I thought her such as she me told. And would have kild her; but with faigned paine The false witch did my wrathfuU hand with-hold: So left her, where she now is turnd to treen mould. ' Thensforth I tooke Duessa for my dame. And in the witch unweeting joyd long time, Ne ever wist but that she was the same : Till on a day (that day is everie prime. When witches wont do penance for their crime) I chaunst to see her in her proper hew. Bathing her selfe in origane and thyme: iss THE FAERIE QUEENE A filthy foule old woman I did vew, That ever to have toucht her I did deadly XLI ' Her neather partes misshapen, monstruous, Were hidd in water, that I could not see, But they did seeme more foule and hide- ous, Then womans shape man would beleeve to bee. Thensforth from her most beastly com- panie I gan refraine, in minde to slipp away, Soone as appeard safe opportunitie : For danger great, if not assurd decay, I saw before mine eyes, if I were knowne to stray. XLII ' The divelish hag, by chaunges of my cheare, Perceiv'd my thought; and drowndin sleepie night, W' ith wicked herbes and oyntments did be- smeare My body all, through charmes and magieke might. That all my senses were bereaved quight: Then brought she me into this desert waste, And by my wretched lovers side me pight. Where now enclosd in wooden wals full faste, Banisht from living wights, our wearie dales we waste.' ' But how long time,' said then the Elfln knight, • Are you in this misformed hous to dwell ? ' ' We may not ehaunge,' quoth he, ' this evill plight Till we be bathed in a living well; That is the terme prescribed by the spell.' ' O how,' sayd he, ' mote I that well out find. That may restore you to your wonted well ? ' ' Time and suffised fates to former kynd Shall us restore; none else from hence may us unbynd.' The false Duessa, now Fidessa bight, Heard how in vaine Fradubio did lament, And knew well all was true. But the good knight Full of sad feare and ghastly dreriment, When all this speech the living tree had spent. The bleeding bough did thrust into the ground, That from the blood he might be innocent, And with fresh clay did close the wooden wound: Then turning to his lady, dead with feare her fownd. Her seeming dead he fownd with feigned feare. As all unweeting of that well she knew. And paynd himself e with busie care to reare Her out of carelesse swowue. Her eylids blew. And dimmed sight, with pale and deadly hew, At last she up gan lift; with trembliiig cheare Her up he tooke, too simple and too trew. And oft her kist. At length, all passed feare, He set her on her steede, and forward forth did beare. CANTO III Forsaken Truth long seekes her love. And makes the lyon mylde, Marres Blind Devotions mart, and fala In hand of leachour vylde. s more deare compassion of mind, / tie brought t'un'worthie wretch- \/ Nought is there imder heav'ns wide hol- lownesse. That moves i Then beautie ednesse Through envies snares, or fortunes freakes imkind: I, whether lately through her brightnes blynd. Or through alleageance and fast fealty, Which I do owe imto all womankynd, Feele my hart perst with so great agony. When such I see, that all for pitty I could dy. II And now it is empassioned so deepe, For fairest Unaes sake, of whom I sing, That my frayle eies these lines with teares do steepe, To thinke how she through guylefnl hande-. ling. BOOK I, CANTO III IS9 Though true as touch, though daughter of a king, Though f aire as ever living wight was fayre. Though nor in woid nor deede ill meriting, Is from her knight divorced in despayre. And her dew loves deryv'd to that vile witches shayre. Ill Yet she, most faithfull ladie, all this while Forsaken, wofuU, solitarie mayd. Far from all peoples preace, as in exUe, In wUdernesse and wastfuU deserts strayd. To seeke her knight; who, subtUy betrayd Through that late vision which th' en- chaunter wrought, Had her abandond. She, of nought affrayd. Through woods and wastnes wide him daily sought; Yet wished tydinges none of him unto her brought. IV One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way. From her uuhastie beast she did alight, And on the grasse her dainty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight: From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face As the great eye of heaven shyned bright, And made a sunshine ia the shady place ; Did never mortall eye behold such heavenly grace. It fortuned, out of the thickest wood A ramping lyon rushed suddeinly. Hunting full greedy after salvage blood: Soone as the royall virgin he did spy, With gaping mouth at her ran greedily. To have attonce devourd her tender corse; But to the pray when as he drew more ny, His bloody rage aswaged with remorse. And with the sight amazd, forgat his furi- ous forse. In stead thereof he kist her wearie feet. And lickt her lilly hands with fawning tong. As he her wronged innocence did weet. O how can beautie maister the most strong. And simple truth subdue avenging wrong ! Whose yielded pryde and proud submission, Still dreading death, when she had marked long. Her hart gan melt in great compassion, And drizling teares did shed for pure affec- tion. VII ' The lyon, lord of everie beast in field,' Quoth she, 'his princely puissance doth abate. And mightie proud to humble weake does yield, Forgetf uU of the hungry rage, which late Him prickt, in pittie of my sad estate : But he, my lyon, and my noble lord. How does he find in cruell hart to hate Her that him lov'd, and ever most adord As the god of my life ? why hath he me abhord ? ' VIII Redounding teares did choke th' end of her plaint. Which softly ecchoed from the neighbour wood; And sad to see her sorrowfull constraint, The kingly beast upon her gazing stood; With pittie calmd, downe fell his angry mood. At last, in close hart shutting up her payne, Arose the virgm borne of heavenly brood. And to her snowy palfrey got agayne. To seeke her strayed champion if she might attayne. IX The lyon would not leave her desolate. But with her went along, as a strong gard Of her chast person, and a faythfuU mate Of her sad troubles and misfortunes hard: Still, when she slept, he kept both watch and ward. And when she wakt, he wayted diligent, With humble service to her wUl prepard: From her fayre eyes he tooke commande- ment. And ever by her lookes conceived her in- tent. Long she thus traveOed through deserts wyde, . By which she thought her wandring knight shold pas. Yet never shew of living wight espyde; Till that at length she found the troden gras, In which the tract of peoples footing was. i6o THE FAERIE QUEENE Under the steepe foot of a mountaine here: The same she foUowes, till at last she has A damzell spyde slow footing her before, That on her shoulders sad a pot of water bore. To whom approching, she to her gan call, To weet if dwelling- place were nigh at hand ; But the rude wench her auswerd nought at all; She could not heare, nor speake, nor under- stand; Till, seeing by her side the lyon stand, With suddeiue feare her pitcher downe she threw. And fled away: for never in that land Face of fayre lady she before did vew, And that dredd lyons looke her cast in deadly hew. Pull fast she fled, ne ever lookt behynd. As if her life upon the wager lay, , And home she came, whereas her mother blynd Sate in eternall night: nought could she say. But, suddeine catching hold, did her dis- may With quaking hands, and other signes of feare : Who, full of ghastly fright and cold aflfray, Gan shut the dore. By this arrived there Dame Una, weary dame, and entrance did requere. Which when none yielded, her unruly page With his rude clawes the wicket open rent. And let her in ; where, of his cruell rage Nigh dead with feare, and faint astonish- ment, Shee found them both in darkesome corner pent; Where that old woman day and night did pray Upon her beads, devoutly penitent: Nine hundred Pater nosters every day. And thrise nine hundred Apes, she was wont to say. And to augment her painefuU penaimce more, Thrise every weeke In ashes shee did sitt, And next her wrinkled skin rough sacke- cloth wore, And thrise three times did fast from any bitt: But now for feare her beads she did for- gett. Whose needelesse dread for to remove away, Faire Una framed words and couut'naunce fitt: Which hardly doen, at length she gan them pray That in their cotage small that night she rest her may. XV The day is spent, and commeth drowsie night. When every creature shrowdedis in sleepe: Sad Una downe her laies in weary plight. And at her feete the lyon watch doth keeper In stead of rest, she does lament, and weepe For the late losse of her deare loved knight, And sighes, and grones, and evermore does steepe Her tender brest in bitter teares all night; All night she thinks too long, and often lookes for light. XVI Now when Aldeboran was mounted hye Above the shinie Cassiopeias chaire. And all m deadly sleepe did drowned lye, One knocked at the dore, and in would fare; He knocked fast, and often curst, and sware, That ready entraunce was not at his call: For on his backe a heavy load he bare Of nightly stelths and pillage severall, Which he had got abroad by purchas criminall. XVII He was, to weete, a stout and sturdy thiefe. Wont to robbe churches of their ornaments. And poore mens boxes of their due reliefe. Which given was to them for good intents; The holy saints of their rich vestiments He did disrobe, when all men carelesse slept. And spoildthe priests of their habiliments; Whiles none the holy things in safety kept, Then he by conning sleights in at the win- dow crept. XVIII And all that he by right or wrong could find Unto this house he brought, and did bestow BOOK I, CANTO III i6i Upon the daughter of this woman blind, Abessa, daughter of Corceca slow, With whom he whoredome usd, that few did know. And fed her fatt with feast of offerings, And plenty, which in all the land did grow ; Ne spared he to give her gold and rings: And , now he to her brought part of his stolen things. Thus, long the dore with rage and threats he bett. Yet of those f earfull women none durst rize, (The lyou frayed them,) him in to lett: He would no lenger stay him to advize, But open breakes the dore in furious wize, And entring is; when that disdainful! beast, Encountriug fierce, him suddein doth sur- prize. And seizing cruell clawes on trembling brest, Under his lordly foot him proudly hath sup- prest. Him booteth not resist, nor succour call. His bleeding hart is in the vengers hand ; Who streight him rent in thousand peeces small. And quite dismembred hath: the thirsty land Dronke up his life; his corse left on the strand. His fearefuU freends weare out the wofuU night, Ne dare to weepe, nor seeme to understand The heavie hap which on them is alight; Affraid, least to themselves the like mis- happen might. Now when broad day the world discovered has, Up Una rose, up rose the lyon eke. And on their former journey forward pas. In waies unknowne, her wandring knight to With paines far passing that long wandring Greeke, That for his love refused deitye; Such were the labours of this lady meeke. Still seeking him, that from her still did flye ; Then furthest from her hope, when most she weened nye. Soone as she parted thence, the fearfuU twayne, That blind old woman and herdaughter dear. Came forth, and fijiding Kirkrapine there slayne, For anguish great they gan to rend their heare. And beat their brests, and naked flesh to teare. And when they both had wept and wayld their fill. Then forth they ran like two amazed deare, Halfe mad through malice and revenging will. To follow her, that was the causer of their ill. Whorae overtaking, they gan loudly bray. With hollow houling and lamenting cry, Shamefully at her rayling all the way. And her accusing of dishonesty. That was the flowre of faith and chastity; And still, amidst her rayling, she did pray That plagues, and mischief es, and long mis- ery Might fall on her, and follow all the way. And that in endlesse error she might ever stray. But when she saw her prayers nought pre- vails, Shee backe retourned with some labour lost; And in the way, as shee did weepe and waile, A knight her mett in mighty armes embost, Yet knight was not for all his bragging host. But subtill Archimag, that Una sought By traynes into new troubles to have toste: Of that old woman tidings he besought. If that of such a lady shee could tellen ought. Therewith she gan her passion to renew. And cry, and curse, and raile, and rend her heare. Saying, that harlott she too lately knew, That causd her shed so many a bitter teare. And so forth told the story of her f eare. Much seemed he to mone her haplesse chaunce, _^ And after for that lady did inquere; v. 162 THE FAERIE QUEENE Which being taught, he forward gan ad- vauuce His fair euchaunted steed, and eke his charmed launce. XXVI Ere long he came where Una traveild slow, And that wilde champion wayting her be- syde: Whome seeing such, for dread hee durst not show Him selfe too nigh at hand, but turned wyde Unto aa--hik from whence when she him By his ISfce seeming shield ber knight by name Shee weend it was, and towards him gan ride: Ajjproching nigh, she wist it was the same. And with f aire f earef uU humblesse towards him shee came; XXVII And weeping said, 'Ah! my long lacked lord. Where have ye bene thus long out of my sight? Much feared I to have bene quite abhord. Or ought have done, that ye displeasen might, That should as death unto my deare heart light: For since mine eie your joyous sight did mis. My chearefuU day is turnd to chearelesse night. And eke my night of death the shadow is; But welcome now, my light, and shining lampe of blis.' XXVIII He thereto meeting said, 'My dearest dame, Far be it from your thought, and fro my wil. To thinks that knighthood I so much should shame. As you to leave, that have me loved stil. And chose in Faery court, of meere good- wil. Where noblest knights were to be found on earth: The earth shall sooner leave her kindly Bkil To bring forth fruit, and make eternall derth, Then I leave you, my liefe, yborn of hevenly berth. XXIX ' And sooth to say, why I lefte you so long. Was for to seeke adventure in straunge place. Where Archimago said a felon strong To many knights did daily worke disgrace; But knight he now shall never more de- face: Good cause of mine excuse, that mote ye please Well to accept, and ever more embrace My faithfull service, that by land and seas Have vowd you to defend. Now then your plaint appease.' XXX His lovely words her seemd due recom- pence Of all her passed paines: one loving howre For many yeares of sorrow can dispence: A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre : Shee has forgott how many a woeful stowre For him she late endurd; she speakes no more Of past : true is, that true love hath no. powre To looken backe; his eies be flxt before. Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore. XXXI Much like as when the beaten marinere. That long hath wandred in the ocean wide, Ofte soust in swelling Tethys saltish teare, And long time having tand his tawney hide With blustring breath of heaven, that none can bide. And scorching flames of fierce Orions hound, Soone as the port from far he has espide, His chearfull whistle merily doth sound. And Nereus crownes with cups; his mates- him pledg around. Such joy made Una, when her knight she found ; And eke th' enchaimter joyous seemde no lesse / BOOK I, CANTO III 163 Then the glad marchant, that does vew from ground His ship far come from watrie wildernesse; He hurles out Yowes, and Neptmie oft doth blesse. So forth they past, and all the way they spent Discoursing of her dreadful late distresse, In which he askt her, what the lyon ment: Who told her all that fell in journey, as she went. XXXIII They had not ridden far, when they might see One pricking towards them with hastie heat, Full strongly armd, and on a courser free, That through his flersnesse fomed all witli sweat. And the sharpe yron did for anger eat. When his hot ryder spurd his chavifBed side ; His looke was sterne, and seemed still to threat Cruell revenge, whiptrite-far-hart did hyde; And on his shield iSans loy^ bloody lines was dyde. \^__^^ XXXIV When nigh he drew unto this gentle payre. And saw the red-crosse, which the knight did beare, He burnt in fire, and gan ef tsoones prepare Himself e to batteill with his couched speare. Loth was that other, and did faint through feare, To taste th' untryed dint of deadly Steele; But yet his lady did so well him cheare, That hope of new good hap he gan to feele; So bent his speare, and spurd his horse with yron heele. XXXV But that proud Paynim forward came so ferce And full of wrath, that with his sharphead speare Through vainly crossed shield he quite did perce; And had his staggering steed not shronke for feare. Through shield and body eke he should him beare: Yet so great was the puissance of his push. That from his sadle quite he did him beare: He, tombling rudely downe, to ground did rush, And from his gored wound a well of bloud did gush. XXXVI Dismountiag lightly from his loftie steed. He to him lept, in minde to reave his life, And proudly said: ' Lo there the worthie meed Of him that slew Sansf oy with bloody knife ! Henceforth his ghost, freed from repining strife, ^- ^ , In peace may passen over Le^gjake, >^ When mourning altars, purgSwith enimies life, The black inf email Furies doen aslake : Life from Sansfoy thou tookst, Sansloy shall from thee take.' Therewith in haste his helmet gan unlace. Till Una cride, ' O hold that heavie hand, Deare sir, what ever that thou be in place ! Enough is, that thy foe doth vanquisht stand Now at thy mercy: mercy not withstand: For he is one the truest knight alive. Though conquered now he lye on lowly land. And whilest him fortune favourd, fayre did thrive In bloudy field: therefore of life him not deprive.' Her piteous wordes might notabate his rage. But, rudely rending up his helmet, would Have slayne him streight: but when he sees his age, And hoarie head of Archimago old. His hasty hand he doth amased hold. And, halfe ashamed, wondred at the sight: For that old man well knew he, though un- told. In charmes and magick to have wondrous might; Ne ever wont in field, ne in round lists, to fight. XXXIX And said, ' Why, Archimago, lucklesse syre. What doe I see ? what hard mishap is this, That hath thee hether brought to taste mine yre? Or thine the fault, or mine the error is, 164 THE FAERIE QUEENE In stead of foe to wound my friend amis ?' He answered nought, but in a traunce still lay, And on those guilefull dazed eyes of his The cloude of death did sit. Which doen away, He left him lying so, ne would no lenger stay; XL But to the virgin comes; who all this while Amased stands, her selfe so mockt to see By him, who has the guerdon of his guile. For so misfeigning her true knight to bee: Yet is she now in more perplexitie. Left in the hand of that same Paynim bold. From whom her booteth not at all to flie; Who, by her cleanly garment catching hold. Her from her palfrey pluckt, her visage to behold. XLI But her flers servant, full of kingly aw And high disdaine, whenas his soveraine dame So rudely handled by her foe he saw, With gaping jawes full greedy at him came. And, ramping on his shield, did weene the same Have reft away with his sharp rending elawes: But he was stout, and lust did now inflame His corage more, that from his griping pawes He hath his shield redeemd, and forth his swerd he drawes. XLII O then too weake and feeble was the forse Of salvage beast, his puissance to with- stand : For he was strong, and of so mightie corse. As ever wielded speare in warlike hand. And feates of armes did wisely understand. Eftsoones he perced through his chaufed chest With thrilling point of deadly yron brand, And launcht his lordly hart : with death opprest He ror'd aloud, whiles life forsooke his stubborne brest. Who now is left to keepe the forlorne maid From raging spoile of lawlesse victors will ? Her faithfull gard remov'd, her hope dis- maid. Her selfe a yielded pray to save or spill. He now, lord of the field, his pride to fill. With f oule reproches and disdainef ul spight Her vildly entertaines, and, will or nill, Beares her away upon his coxirser light: Her prayers nought prevaUe; his rage is more of might. XLIV And all the way, with great lamenting paine. And piteous plaintes, she filleth his dull eares. That stony hart could riven have in twaine. And all the way she wetts with flowing teares: But he, enrag'd with rancor, nothing heares. Her servile beast yet would not leave her so, But followes her far of, ne ought he feares. To be partaker of her wandring woe. More mild, in beastly kind, then that her beastly foe. CANTO IV To Bmf uU Hous of Fryde BueBsa Guydes the faithfull knight, "Where, brothers death to wreak, SanBJoy Doth chaleng him to fight Young knight what ever, that dost armes professe. And through long labours huntest after fame. Beware of fraud, beware of fleklenesse. In choice, and chaunge, of thy deare loved ' dame. Least thou of her believe too lightly blame, And rash mis weening doe thy hart remove: For unto knight there is no greater shame. Then lightnesse and inoonstancie in love : That doth this Redcrosse Knights ensample plainly prove. Who, after that he had faire Una lome, Through light misdeeming of her loialtie, / And f alas-ftiessa in her sted had borne, / -i Called E^e^;|,and so supposd to be. Long wiBlrlier traveild, till at last they see A goodly building, bravely garnished; The house of mightie prince it seemd to be ; BOOK I, CANTO IV i6S And towards it a broad high way that led, All bare tlirough peoples feet, which thether traveUed. Great troupes of people traveild thether- ward Both day and night, of each degree and place ; But few returned, having scaped hard. With balef uU beggery, or f oule disgrace ; Which ever after in most wretched case. Like loathsome lazars, by the hedges lay. Thether Duessa badd him bend his pace : For she is wearie of the toilsom way. And also nigh consumed is the lingring day. IV I A stately pallace built of squared brioke, Which cunningly was without morter laid. Whose wals were high, but uothuig strong nor thick, And golden foUe all over them displaid, That purest skye with brightnesse they dis- maid: High lifted up were many loftie towres, And goodly galleries far over laid. Full of faire windowes and delightful bowres; And on the top a diall told the timely howres. It was a goodly heape for to behould. And spake the praises of the workmans witt; But full great pittie, that so faire a mould Did on so weake foundation ever sitt: For on a sandie hill, that still did flitt And fall away, it mounted was full hie. That every breath of heaven shaked itt; And all the hinder partes, that few could spie, Were ruinous and old, but painted cun- ningly. Arrived there, they passed in forth right; For still to all the gates stood open wide : Yet charge of them was to a porter hight, Cald Malvenii, who entrance none denide: Thence to the hall, which was on every side With rich array and costly arras dight: Infinite sortes of people did abide There waiting long, to win the wished sight Of her, that was the lady of that pallace bright. By them they passe, all gazing on them round. And to the presence mount; whose glorious vew Their frayle amazed senses did confound: In living princes court none ever knew Such eudlesse richesse, and so sumpteous shew; Ne Persia selfe, the nourse of pompous pride. Like ever saw. And there a noble crew Of lords and ladies stood on every side. Which, with their presence fayre the plac.e much beautiflde. VIII High above all a cloth of state was spred. And a rich throne, as bright as sunny day. On which there sate, most brave embel- lished With royall robes and gorgeous array, A mayden queene, that shone as Titans ray, In glistring gold and perelesse pretious stone ; Yet her bright blazing beautie did assay To dim the brightnesse of her glorious throne, As envying her selfe, that too exceeding shone: Exceeding shone, like Phcebus f ayrest childe, That did presume his fathers fyrie wayne. And flaming mouthes of steedes imwonted wilde. Through highest heaven with weaker hand to rayne: Proud of such glory and advancement vayne. While flashing beames do daze his feeble eyen, He leaves the welkin way most beaten playne, And, rapt with whirling wheeles, inflames the skyen With fire not made to burne, but fayrely for to shyne. So proud she shyned in her princely state. Looking to heaven, for earth she did dis- dayne. And sitting high, for lowly she did hate: Lo ! underneath her scornefull feete, was layne i66 THE FAERIE QUEENE A dreadfull dragon with an hideous trayne, And in her hand she held a mirrhour bright, Wherein her face she often vewed fayne, And in her selfe-lov'd semblance tooke de- light; For she was wondrous faire, as any living wight. XI Of griesly Pluto she the daughter was, And sad Proserpina, the queene of hell; \Yet did she thinke her pearelesse worth to pas That parentage, with pride so did she swell, And thundring Jove, that high in heaven doth dwell. And wield the world, she claymed for her syre. Or if that any else didJov^ excell: For to the highest she, oBiJls'till aspyre, Or, if ought higher,/were then that, did it desyre. / ^- - / XII And prom Lucif era' nien did her call. That maafe-J^Fspfe a queene, and crownd to be; Yet rightf uU kingdome she had none at all, Ne heritage of native soveraintie. But did usurpe with wrong and tyrannic Upon the scepter, which she now did hold: Ne ruld her realme with lawes, but pol- licie. And strong advizement of six wisards old. That with their counsels bad her kingdome did uphold. XIII Soone as the Elfin knight in presence came, And false Duessa, seeming lady fayre, A gentle husher, Vanitie by name, Made rowme, and passage for them did pre- paire: So goodly brought them to the lowest stayre Of her high throne, where they, on humble knee Making obeysaunce, did the cause declare, Why they were come, her roiall state to see. To prove the wide report of her great majestee. With lof tie eyes, half e loth to looke so lowe, She thancked them in her disdainef ull wise, Ne other grace vouchsafed them to showe Of prineesse worthy; scarse them bad arise. Her lordes and ladies all this while devise Themselves to setten forth to straungers sight: Some frounce their curled heare in courtly guise, Some prancke their ruffes, and others trimly dight Their gay attyre: each others greater pride does spight. Goodly they all that knight doe entertayne, Right glad with him to have increast their crew; But to Duess' each one himselfe did payne All kindnesse and faire courtesie to shew; For in that court whylome her well they knew: Yet the stout Faery mongst the middest crowd Thought all their glorie vaine in knightly vew. And that great prineesse too exceeding prowd. That to strange knight no better counte- nance allowd. Suddein upriseth from her stately place The roiall dame, and for her coche doth call: All hurtlen forth, and she, with princely pace. As faire Aurora, in her purple pall, Out of the east the dawning day doth call, So forth she comes: her brightnes brode doth blaze: The heapes of people, thronging m the hall, Doe ride each other, upon her to gaze : Her glorious glitterand light doth all mens eies amaze. XVII So forth she comes, and to her coche does - clyme. Adorned all with gold and girlonds gay, That seemd as fresh as Flora in her prime, And strove to match, in roiall rich array. Great Junoes golden ohayre, the which, they say, The gods stand gazing on, when she does ride To Joves high hous through heavens bras- paved way, BOOK I, CANTO IV 167 Drawne of fayre pecocks, that excell in pride, And full of Argus eyes their tayles dis- preddeu wide. XVIII ' But this was drawne of six unequall beasts, On which her six sage counsellours did ryde, Taught to obay their be'stiall beheasts, With like conditions to their kindes ap- plyde: Of which the first, that all the rest did \J Was sluggish Idlenesse, the nourse of sin; ' Upon a slouthfuU asse he chose to ryde, Arayd in habit blacke, and amis thin, Like to an holy monck, the service to begin. And in his hand his portesse still he bare. That much was worne, but therein little redd; For of devotion he had little care. Still drownd in sleepe, and most of his dales dedd: Scarse could he once uphold his heavie hedd. To looken whether it were night or day : May seeme the wayne was very evill ledd. When such an one had guiding of the way, That knew not whether right he went, or else astray. From worldly cares himselfe he did ea- loyne. And greatly shunned manly exercise; From everie worke he chalenged essoyne. For contemplation sake: yet otherwise His life he led in lawlesse riotise; By which he grew to grievous malady ; For iu his lustlesse limbs, through, evill guise, A shaking fever raignd continually. Such one was Idlenesse, first of this com- pany. )xxi And by his side rode loathsome Gluttony, ' Deformed creature, on a filthie swyne: His belly was upblowne with luxury. And eke with f atnesse swollen were his eyne ; And like a crane his necke was long and With which he swallowd up excessive feast, For want whereof poore people oft did pyne : And all the way, most like a brutish beast. He spued up his gorge, that all did him deteast. XXII In greene vine leaves he was right fitly clad; For other clothes he could not weare for heat; And on his head an yvie girland had. From under which fast trickled downe the sweat: StUl as he rode, he somewhat stiU did eat. And in his hand did beare a bouzmg can. Of which he supt so oft, tliat on his seat His dronken corse he scarse upholden can: In shape and life more like a monster then a man. Unfit he was for any worldly thing. And eke unhable once to stirre or go ; Not meet to be of counsell to a king, Whose mind in meat and di'inke was drowned so. That from his frend he seeldome knew his fo: Full of diseases was his careas blew, And a dry dropsie through his flesh did flow, Which by misdiet daily greater grew. Such one was Gluttony, the second of that crew. •a ■^ And next to him rode lustfull Lechery Upon a bearded gote, whose rugged heare. And whally eies (the signe of gelosy,) Was like the person selfe, whom he did beare: Who rough, and blacke, and filthy, did ap- peare, Unseemely man to please faire ladies eye; Yet he of ladies oft was loved deare, When fairer faces were bid standen by: O who does know the bent of womens fan- ~y tasy? --^ x,xv In a greene gowne he clothed was full faire. Which underneath did hide his filthinesse; And in his hand a burning hart he bare, FuU of vaine follies and new fanglenesse; 1 68 THE FAERIE QUEENE For be was false, and fraught with flckle- nesse, And learned had to love with secret lookes, And well could dauuce, and sing with rue- fulnesse, And fortunes tell, and read in loving bookes, And thousand other waies, to bait his fleshly hookes. Inconstant man, that loved all he saw. And lusted after all that he did love; Ne would his looser hfe be tide to law, But joyd weake wemens hearts to tempt, and prove If from their loyall loves he might them move; Which lewdnes fild him with reproohf uU pain Of that f oule evill, which all men reprove. That rotts the marrow, and consumes the braiiie. Such one was Lechery, the third of all this traiue. XXVII ^ And greedy Avarice by him did ride, Uppon a camell loaden all with gold: Two iron coffers hong on either side. With precious metall full as they might hold. And m his lap an heap of coine he told; For of his wicked pelfe his god he made, And unto hell him selfe for money sold: Accursed usury was all his trade; And right and wrong ylike in equall bal- launce waide. XXVIII His life was nigh unto deaths dore yplaste ; And thred-bare cote, and cobled shoes, hee ware, Ne soarse good morsell all his life did taste. But both from backe and belly still did spare. To fill his bags, and richesse to compare; Yet childe ne kinsman living had he none To leave them to; but thorough daily care To get, and nightly feare to lose his owne. He led a wretched life, unto him selfe mi- knowne. XXIX Most wretched wight, whom nothing might suffise, Whose greedy lust did lacke in greatest store, Whose need had end, but no end covetise, Whose welth was want, whose plenty made him pore, Who had enough, yett wished ever more, A vile disease; and eke in foote and hand A grievous gout tormented him full sore. That well he could not touch, nor goe, nor stand. , Such one was Avarice, the forth of this faire band. XXX f) (^ And next to him malicious Envy rode Upon a ravenous wolfe, and still did chaw Betweene his cankred teeth a venemous tode, Tjiat a11 tlip. pniannjan about-his chaw: ^ggjj^in-rogfj^lY ^p phftwRfl hlji "wpe maj > "^ At neibors welth, that made him ever sad; For death it was, when any good he saw; And wept, that cause of weeping none he had; But when he heard of harme, he wexed wondrous glad. All in a kirtle of discolourd say He clothed was, ypaynted full of eies; And in his bosome secretly there lay An hatef uU snake, the which his taile uptyes In many folds, and mortall sting implyes. Still as he rode, he gnasht his teeth, to see Those heapes of gold with griple Covetyse; And grudged at the great felicitee Of proud Lucifera, and his owne companee. XXXII He hated all good workes and vertuous deeds. And him no lesse, that any like did use; And who with gratious bread the hungry feeds. His almes for want of faith he doth accuse; So every good to bad he doth abuse : And eke the verse of famous poets witt He does backebite, and spightfull poison spues From leprous mouth on all that ever writt. Such one vile Envy was, that flfte in row did sitt. xxxiir /[j And him beside rides fierce revenging Wrath, Upon a lion, loth for to be led; BOOK I, CANTO IV 169 And in his hand a burning brond he hath, The which he brandisheth about liis hed: His eies did hurle forth sparcles fiery red, And stared sterne on all that him beheld: As ashes pale of hew, and seeming ded; And on his dagger still his hand he held. Trembling through hasty rage, when choler in him sweld. XXXIV His ruffin raiment all was staind with blood. Which he had spilt, and all to rags yrent, Through unadvized rashnes woxen wood; For of his hands he had no governement, Ne car'd for blood in his avengement: But when the furious fitt was overpast, "is cruell facts he often would repent; Yet, wUfull man, he never would forecast, How many mischieves should ensue his heedlesse hast. ^ Full many mischief es follow cruell Wrath; Abhorred bloodshed, and tumultuous strife. Unmanly murder, and unthrifty scath. Bitter despight, with rancours rusty knife, And fretting grief e, the enemy of life: All these, and many evils moe haunt Ire; The swelling splene, and frenzy raging rife, The shaking palsey, and Saint Fravmces fire. Such one was Wrath, the last of this un- godly tire. XXXVI And after all, upon the wagon beame. Rode Sathan, with a smarting whip in hand. With which he forward lasht the laesy teme, So oft as Slowth still in the mire did stand. Huge routs of people did about them band, Showting for joy; and still before their way -^ foggy ™ist had covered all the land; And underneath their feet, all scattered lay Dead sculls and bones of men, whose life had gone astray. So forth they marchen in this goodly sort, To take the solace of the open aire, And in fresh flowring fields themselves to sport. Emongst the rest rode that false lady f aire, / The foule Duessa, next unto the chaire \ Of proud Lucifer', as one of the traine •. But that good knight would not so nigh re- paire. Him selfe estraunging from their joyaunce vaine. Whose fellowship seemd far unfltt for war- like swaine. XXXVIII So having solaced themselves a space. With pleasaunce of the breathing fields yfed. They backe retourned to the princely place ; Whereas an errant knight, in armes ycled, And heathnish shield, wherein with letters red Was writt Sans joy, they new arrived find: Enflam'd wii.i fury and feers hardy hed. He secmd in hart to harbour thoughts un- kind. And nourish bloody vengeaunce in his bit- ^ ter mmd. XXXIX Who, when the shamed shield of slaine Sansfoy He spide with that same Fary champions page, Bewrayuig him that did of late destroy His eldest brother, burning all with rage. He to him lept, and that same envious gage Of victors glory from him snacht away : But th' Elfin knight, which ought that war- like wage, Disdaind to loose the meed he wonne in fray, And him rencountrmg fierce, reskewd the noble pray. XL Therewith they gan to hurtlen greedily, Redoubted battaile ready to darrayne, And clash their shields, and shake their swerds on by. That with their sturre they troubled all the traiue ; Till that great queene, upon etemall paine Of high displeasure, that ensewen might, Commaunded them their fury to refraine, And if that either to that shield had right. In equall lists they should the morrow next it fight. XLI ' Ah ! dearest dame,' quoth then the Paynim bold, ' Pardon the error of enraged wight, 170 THE FAERIE QUEENE Whome great grief e made forgett the raines to hold Of reasons rule, to see this recreaunt knight, No knight, but treachour full of false de- spight And shameful treason, who through guile hath slayn The prowest knight that ever field did fight. Even stout Sansfoy, (O who can then re- f rayn ?) Whose shield he beares renverst, the more to heap disdayn. ' And to augment the glorie of his guile, His dearest love, the f aire Fidessa, loe ! Is there possessed of the traytour vUe, Who reapes the harvest sowen by his foe, Sowen iu bloodie field, and bought with woe: That brothers hand shall dearely well re- quight. So be, O Queene, you equall favour showe.' Him litle answerd th' angry Elfin knight; He never meant with words, but swords, to plead his right: But threw his gauntlet as a sacred pledg. His cause in combat the next day to try: So been they parted both, with harts on edg To be aveng'd each on his enimy. That night they pas in joy and jollity. Feasting and courting both in bowre and haU; For steward was excessive Gluttony, That of his plenty poured forth to all; Which doen, the chamberlain Slowth did to rest them call. XLIV Now whenas darkesome Night had all dis- play! Her coleblacke curtein over brightest skye. The warlike youthes, on dayntie couches layd. Did chace away sweet sleepe from slug- gish eye. To muse on meanes of hoped victory. But whenas Morpheus had with leaden mace Arrested all that courtly company. Uprose Duessa from her resting plaoej And ^ the Paynima lodging comes with silent pace. XLV Whom broad awake she Andes, in trou- blous fitt. Forecasting, how his foe he might annoy, '' And him amoves with speaches seeming fitt: J ' Ah deare Sansjoy, next dearest to Sansfoy, Cause of my new griefe, cause of my new i°y' ' . . . Joyous, to see his ymage in mme eye. And greevd, to thinke how foe did him de- stroy, That was the flowre of grace and cheval- rye; Lo ! his Fidessa, to thy secret faith I flye.' With gentle wordes he can her fayrely greet, And bad say on the secrete of her hart. Then, sighing soft, ' I learne that litle sweet Oft tempred is,' quoth she, ' with muchell smart: For since my brest was launcht with lovely dart Of deare Sansfoy, I never joyed howre, But in eternall woes my weaker hart Have wasted, loving him with all my powre, And for his sake have felt full many an heavie stowre. ' At last, when perils all I weened past, And hop'd to reape the crop of all my care. Into new woes uuweeting I was cast By this false f aytor, who unworthie ware His worthie shield, whom he with guilefuU snare Entrapped slew, and brought to shamefuU grave. Me, silly maid, away with him he bare, And ever since hath kept in darksom cave. For that I would not yeeld that to Sansfoy I gave. XLVIII 'But since faire sunne hath sperst that lowring clowd, And to my loathed life now shewes some light. Under your beames I will me safely shrowd From dreaded storme of his disdainfuU spight: To you th' inheritance belonges by right Of brothers prayse, to you eke longes his love. BOOK I, CANTO V 171 Let not his love, let not his restlesse spright, Be unreveng'd, that calles to you above From wandring Stygian shores, -where it doth endlesse move.' XLIX Thereto said he, ' Faire dame, be nought dismaid For sorrowes past; their griefe is with them gone: Ne yet of present perill be afEraid: For needlesse f eare did never vantage none, And helplesse hap it booteth not to moue. Dead is Sansf oy, his vitall paines are past. Though greeved ghost for vengeance deep do grone: He lives, that shall him pay his dewties last. And guiltie Elfin blood shall sacrifice in hast.' ' ! but I feare the fickle freakes,' quoth shee, 'Of Fortune false, and oddes of armes in field.' ' Why, dame,' quoth he, ' what oddes can ever bee. Where both doe fight alike, to win or . yield?' ' Yea, but,' quoth she, ' he beares a charmed shield. And eke enchaimted armes, that none can perce, Ne none can wound the man, that does them wield.' ' Charmd or enchaunted,' answerd he then ferce, ' I no whitt reck, ne you the like need to reherce. LI ' But, faire Fidessa, sithens Fortunes guile, Or enimies powre, hath now captived you, Keturne from whence ye came, and rest a while, Till morrow next, that I the Elfe subdew, And with ^nsfoyes dead dowry you en- dew.' 'Ay me ! that is a double death,' she said, 'With proud foes sight my sorrow to re- new: Where ever yet I be, my secrete aide Shall follow you.' So, passing forth, she him obaid. CANTO V The faithful! knight in equall field Subdewes his faithlesse foe, Whom false DueBsa saves, and for His cure to hell does goe. The noble hart, that harbours vertuoui thought, And is with childe of glorious great intent. Can never rest, tmtill it forth have brought Th' eternall brood of glorie excellent: Such restlesse passion did all night tor- ment The flaming eorage of that Faery knight, Devizing how that doughtie turnament With greatest honour he atchieven might: StUl did he wake, and still did watch for dawning Hght. At last, the golden orientall gate Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre. And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate. Came dauncing forth, shaking his deawie hayre, And hurld his glistring beams through gloomy ay re. Which when the wakeful Elfe perceivd, streight way He started up, and did him selfe prepayre In sunbright armes, and battailous array: For with that Pagan proud he combatt will that day. Ill And forth he comes into the commune hall, Where earely waite him many a gazing e)'e, To west what end to straunger knights maj fall. There many minstrales maken melody, To drive away the dull melancholy. And many bardes, that to the trembling chord Can tune their timely voices cunningly, And many chroniclers, that can record Old loves, and warres for ladies doen by many a lord. Soone after comes the cruell Sarazin, In woven maile all armed warily. And sternly lookes at him, who not a pin Does care for looke of living creatures eye 172 THE FAERIE QUEENE They bring them wines of Greece and Araby And daiutie spices fetcht from furthest Ynd, To kindle heat of corage privily: And in the wine a solemne otli they bynd T' observe the sacred lawes of armes, that are assynd. V At last forth comes that far renowmed queene, With royall pomp and princely majestie: She is ybrought unto a paled greene, And placed mider stately canapee, The warlike feates of both those knights to see. On th' other side, in all mens open vew, Duessa placed is, and on a tree Sansfoy his shield is hangd with bloody hew: Both those, the lawrell girlonds to the vic- tor dew. A shrilling trompett sownded from on hye. And mito battaill bad them selves addresse: Their shining shieldes about their wrestes they tye, And burning blades about their heades doe blesse, The instruments of wrath and heavinesse: With greedy force each other doth assayle, And strike so fiercely, that they doe im- presse Deepe dinted f urro wes in the battred mayle : The yron walles to ward their blowes are weak and fraile. VII The Sarazin was stout, and wondrous strong, And heaped blowes like yron hammers great: For after blood and vengeance he did long. The knight was flers, and full of youthly heat. And doubled strokes, like dreaded thun- ders threat: For all for praise and honour he did fight. Both stricken stryke, and beaten both doe beat. That from their shields forth flyeth firie light, And helmets, hewen deepe, shew marks of eithers might. VIII So th' one for wrong, the other strives for right: As when a gryfon, seized of his pra,y, A dragon fiers encountreth in his ilight. Through widest ayre making his ydle way, That would his rightful! ravine rend away: With hideous horror both together smight. And souce so sore, that they the heavens affray: The wise southsayer, seeing so sad sight, Th' amazed vulgar telles of warres and mortall fight. So th' one for wrong, the other strives for right. And each to deadly shame would drive his foe: The cruell Steele so greedily doth bight In tender flesh, that streames of blood down flow. With which the armes, that earst so bright did show. Into a pure vermillion now are dyde. Great ruth in all the gazers harts did grow. Seeing the gored woundes to gape so wyde. That victory they dare not wish to either side. At last the Paynim chaunst to cast his eye. His suddein eye, flaming with wrathful! fyre, Upon his brothers shield, which hong thereby: Therewith redoubled was his raging yre. And said: 'Ah, wretched Sonne of wofuU syre ! Doest thou sit wayling by blaoke Stygian 'lake, Whylest here thy shield is hangd for vic- tors hyre ? And, sluggish german, doest thy forces slakfe To after-send his foe, that him may over- take? XI ' Goe, caytive Elfe, him quickly overtake, yf And soone redeeme from his long wandring/ woe: Goe, guiltie ghost, to him my message make. That I his shield have quit from dying foe.' Therewith upon his crest he stroke him so, '^ That twise he reeled, readie twise to fall: BOOK I, CANTO, V 173 y End of the doubtfull battaile deemed tho The lookers on, and lowd to him gan call The false Duessa, ' Thine the shield, and I, and all ! ' Soone as the Faerie heard his ladie speake. Out of his swowning dreame he gan awake, And quicknmg faith, that earst was woxen 'r~**"f weake, ie creeping deadly cold away did shake : 0, mov'd with wrath, and shame, and ladies sake, ■'Of all attonce he cast avengd to be. And with so' exceeding f urie at him strake, That forced him to stoupe upon his knee : Had he not stouped so, he should have cloven bee. XIII And to him said: 'Goe now, proud mis- creant, Thy selfe thy message do to german deare; Alone he, wandring, thee too long doth want : Goe say, his foe thy shield with his doth bears.' Therewith his heavie hand he high gan reare, S»^k^to have slaine; when lo! a darke- 3, K Viv some elowd ^, •' pwh him fell: he no where doth appeare, '' '^^rjpftMpanisht is. The Elfe him calls alowd, ' !^7answer none receives: the darknes him does shrowd. In haste Duessa from her place arose. And to him running sayd : ' O prowest knight, That ever ladie to her love did chose. Let now abate the terrour of your might, And quench the flame of furious despight And bloodie vengeance; lo ! th' inf email powres. Covering your foe with cloud of deadly night, borne him hence to Plutoes baleful! bowres. ionquest yours, I yours, the shield and glory yours ! ' XV Not all so satisfide, with greedy eye He sought all round about, his thristy blade To bathe in blood of faithlesse enimy; I Who all that while lay hid in secret shade: He standes amazed, how he thence should fade. At last the trumpets triimiph sound on hie, And rmming heralds humble homage made. Greeting him goodly with new victorie. And to him brought the shield, the cause of enmitie. Wherewith he goeth to that soveraine queene, And falling her before on lowly knee. To her makes present of his service seene : Which she accepts, with thankes and goodly gree, Greatly advauncing his gay chevalree: So marcheth home, and by her takes the knight. Whom all the people foUowe with great glee, Shouting, and clapping all their hands on bight, That all the ayre it fils, and flyes to heaven bright. XVII Home is he brought, and layd in sump- hious bed: Where many skilfull leaches him abide, To salve his hurts, that yet still freshly bled. In wine and oyle they wash his woundes wide. And softly can embalme on everie side. And all the while, most heavenly melody About the bed sweet musicke did divide, Him to beguile of grief e and agony : And all the whUe Duessa wept full bitterly, As when a wearie traveller, that strayes ' j By muddy shore of broad seven-mouthed Nile, Unweeting of the perillous wandring wayes, / Doth meete- a cruell craf tie crocodile, ' Which, in false griefe hydmg his harmef uU i guile, \ Doth weepe full sore, and sheddeth tender I teares: j The foolish man, that pitties all this while 1 His mournefull plight, is swallowd up un- wares, Forgetfull of his owne, that mindes an / others cares. 174 THE FAERIE QUEENE So wept Duessa untill eventyde, That shyning lampes in Joves high house were light: Then forth she rose, ne lenger would abide, But comes unto the place, where th' he- then knight, In slombring swownd, nigh voyd of vitall spright, Lay cover 'd with inchaunted cloud all day: Whom when she found, as she him left in plight, To wayle his wof uU case she Would not stay, But to the easterne coast of heaven makes speedy way: Where griesly Night, with visage deadly sad. That Phoebus chearefuU face durst never vew, And in a foule blacke pitchy mantle clad. She Andes forth comming from her dark- some mew. Where she all day did hide her hated hew. Before the dore her yron charet stood, Already harnessed for journey new; And coleblacke steedes yborne of hellish brood. That on their rusty bits did champ, as they were wood. Who when she saw Duessa sunny bright, Adornd with gold and jewels shining cleare. She greatly grew amazed at the sight, And th' unacquainted light began to feare; For never did such brightnes there appeare ; And would have baeke retyred to her cave, Untill the witches speach she gan to heare. Saying : ' Yet, O thou dreaded dame, I crave Abyde, till I have told the message which I have.' She stayd, and f oorth Duessa gan proceede : ' O thou most auncient grandmother of all. More old then Jove, whom thou at first didst breede. Or that great house of gods cselestiall. Which wast begot in Dsemogorgons hall, And sawst the secrets of the world unmade. Why sufPredst thou thy nephewes deare to fall With Elfin sword, most shamefully betrade ? Lo where the stout Sansjoy doth sleepe in deadly shade I lyes, XXIII ' And him before, I saw with bitter eyes The bold Sansfoy shrinck underneath his speare ; And now the pray of f owles in field he lyes, Nor wayld of friends, nor layd on groi ' beare. That whylome was to me too dearely dea: O what of gods then boots it to be borne. If old Aveugles sonnes so evill heare ? Or who shall not great Nightes children scorne, When two of three her nephews are so f owle f orlorne ? ' Up, then ! up, dreary dame, of darknes queene ! Go gather up the reliques of thy race. Or else goe them avenge, and let be scene That dreaded Night in Ijrightest day hath place, And can the children of fayre Light de- face.' Her feeling speaches some compi mov'd In hart, and chaimge in that great m( face: Yet pitty in her hart was never prov'i Till then: for evermore she hated, never lov'd: XXV And said, ' Deare daughter, rightly may I rew The fall of famous children borne of mee, And good successes, which their foes en- sew: But who can tume the streame of destinee, Or breake the chayne of strong necessitee. Which fast is tyde to Joves eternall seat ? The sonnes of Day he favoureth, I see. And by my mines thinkes to make great: To make one great by others losse excheat. XXVI ' Yet shall they not escape so freely all; For some shall pay the price of others guilt: And he, the man that made Sansfoy to fall ■ BOOK I, CANTO V '75 / hall with his owne blood price that he hath spilt. But what art thou, that telst of nephews kilt ? ' ' 1, that do seeme not I, Duessa ame,' Quoth she, ' how ever now, in garments gilt And gorgeous gold arayd, I to thee came; Duessa I, the daughter of Deeeipt and e.' XXVII ing downe her aged backe, she >; 5Phen The wicked witch, saying: ' In that fayre ■;."| face ;|'' The false resemblaunce of Deeeipt, I wist, ty, Did closely lurke;yet so true-seeming grace .^' It carried, that I scarse in darksome place ^v Could it diseerne, though I the mother bee p/' Of Falshood, and roote of Duessaes race. ijf welcome, child, whom I have longd to "1 see, And now have seene unwares ! Lo, now I goe with thee.' XXVIII I to her yron wagon she betakes, (th her beares the fowle welfavourd vitch: mirkesome aire her ready way ihe makes. ii jstwyfold teme, of which two blacke as pitch. And two were browne, yet each to each unlich. Did softly swim away, ne ever stamp, Unlesse she chaunst their stubborne mouths to twitch; Then f oming tarre, their bridles they would champ. And trampling the fine element, would fiercely ramp. XXIX sped, that they be come at i, whereas the Paynim lay, ard sence and native strength, armed cloud from vew of day sight of men, since his late luckelesse fray. His cruell wounds, with cruddy bloud con- geald. They bmden up so wisely as they may, And handle softly, till they can be heald: So lay him in her charett, close in night conceald. XXX And all the while she stood upon the ground, The wakef ull dogs did never cease to bay, As giving warning of th' unwonted sound. With which her yron wheeles did them affray. And her darke griesly looke them much dismay: The messenger of death, the ghastly owle, With drery shriekes did also her bewray; And hungry wolves continually did howle At her abhorred face, so filthy and so fowle. XXXI Thence turning backe in silence softe they stole, And brought the heavy corse with easy pace To yawning gulfe of deepe Avernus hole. By that same hole an entraunce, darke and bace, With smoake and sulphur hiding all the place, Descends to hell : there creature never past. That backe retourned without heavenly grace ; But dreadfull Furies, which their chaines have brast, And damned sprights sent forth to make ill men aghast. XXXII By that same way the direfull dames doe drive Their mournefull charett, fild with rusty blood, And downe to Plutoes house are come bilive: Which passing through, on every side them stood The trembling ghosts with sad amazed mood, Chattring their iron teeth, and staring wide With stony eies; and all the hellish brood Of feends infernall flockt on every side. To gaze on erthly wight, that with the Night durst ride. XXXIII They pas the bitter waves of Acheron, Where many soules sit wailing woefully, And come to fiery flood of Phlegeton, H 176' \ THE FAERIE QUEENE Whereas the damned ghosts in torments fry, And with sharp shrilling shriekes doe boot- lesse cry, Cursing high Jove, the which them thither sent. The house of endlesse paine is built thereby. In which ten thousand sorts of punishment The cursed creatures doe eternally torment. Before the threshold dreadful! Cerberus His three deformed heads did lay along. Curled with thousand adders venemous. And lilled forth his bloody flaming toug: At them he gan to reare his bristles strong, And felly gnarre, untill Dayes enemy Did him appease > then downe his taile he hong, And suffered them to passen quietly: For she in hell and heaven had power equally. Therte was Ixion turned on a wheele, For daring tempt the queene of heaven to sin; And Sisyphus an huge round stone did reele Against an hill, ne might from labour lin; There thristy Tantalus hong by the chin; And Tityus fed a vultur on his maw ; Typhceus joynts were stretched on a gin; Theseus condemned to endlesse slouth by law; .\nd fifty sisters water in leke vessels draw. XXXVI They all, beholding worldly wights in place. Leave off their worke, unmindful! of their < smart, To gaze on them; who forth by them doe ; pace. Till they be come unto the furthest part: Where was a cave ywrought by wondrous art. Si Deepe, darke, uneasy, doleful!, comfort- ( s/ lesse. ^ ~~ In which sadAesculapius far apart Emprisond was in ohaines remedilesse, For that Hippolytus rent corse he did re- dresse. \ Hippolytus a jolly huntsman was, That wont in charett chace the foming bore; He all his peeres in beauty did surpas, ' But ladies love, as losse of time, forbore: His wanton stepdame loved him the more; But when she saw her offred sweets re- fusd. Her love she turnd to hate, and him before His father fierce of treason false accusd, And with her gealous termes his open eares abusd. XXXVIII Who, all in rage, his sea-god syre besought, Some cursed vengeaunce on his- Sonne Id . cast: ' • •■ — From surging gulf two monsters streightju. were brought, With dread whereof his chacing steedes aghast Both charett swifte and huntsman overcast. His goodly corps, on ragged cliffs yrent. Was quite dismembred, and his members chast Scattered on every mountaine as he went. That of Hippolytus was lefte no moniment. His cruel! stepdame, seeing what was donne, Her wicked dales with wretched knife dk end, ''Si In death avowing th' iimocence of her Sonne. Which hearing, his rash syre began to rend His heare, and hasty tong, that did offend: Tho, gathering up the relicks of his smart, By Dianes meanes, who was Hippolyts f rend, Them brought to Aesculape, that by his art Did heale them all againe, and joyned every part. XL Such wondrous science in mans witt to rain When Jove avizd, that could the dead re- vive. And fates expired could renew again, Of endlesse life he might him not deprive, But unto hell did thrust him downe alive, With flashing thunderbolt y wounded |ore: Where long remaining, he did alj^ies strive Him selfe with salves tohealthra" torestdtei; I And slake the heavenly fire, that rfiged I evermore. XLI There auncient Night arriving, did alight From her nigh weary wayne, and in her armes BOOK I, CANTO V 177 To ^sculaphis brought the wounded knight: Whome having softly disaraid of armes, Tho gan to him discover all his harmes, Beseeching him with prayer, and with praise, If either salves, or oyles, or herbes, or charmes A fordonne wight from dore of death mote raise, He would at her request prolong her nephews dales. XLII ' Ah ! dame,' quoth he, ' thou temptest me in vaine *, ■fl'o dare the thing, which daily yet I rew, |i3A.nd the old cause of my contuiued paine ^Vith like attempt to like end to renew. ~|!s not enough, that, thrust from heaven dew, lere endlesse penaunce for one fault I pay, 8ut that redoubled crime with vengeaunee new thou biddest me to eeke ? Can Night de- fray Dhe wrath of thundring Jove, that rules both Xight and Day ? ' JNot so,' quoth she; ' but sith that heavens king ^rom hope of heaven hath thee excluded : ^ quight, Why fearest thou, that canst not hope for thing, ^nd fearest not that more thee hurten might, fow in the powre of everlasting Night ? ioe to then, O thou far renowmed sonne ^f great Apollo, shew thy famous might ~ 1 medicine, that els hath to thee wonne Jreat pauis, and greater praise, both never to be doime.' ler words prevaild: and then the learned leach lis cunning hand gan to his wounds to lay, Ind all things els, the which his art did teach : J'hich having seene, from thence arose away he mother of dredd darkenesse, and let stay Aveugles sonne there m the leaches cure, And backe retourning, tooke her wonted way To ronne her timely race, whilst Phoebus pure In westerne waves his weary wagon did recure. The false Duessa, leaving noyous Night, Returnd to stately pallace of Dame Pryde ; Where when she came, she fomid the Faery knight Departed thence, albee his woundes wyde. Not throughly heald, miready were to ryde. Good cause he had to hasten thence away; For on a day his wary dwarfe had spyde Where, in a dungeon deepe, huge nombers lay Of eaytive wretched thralls, that wayled night and day: A ruefull sight as could be seene with eie: Of whom he learned had in secret wise The hidden cause of their captivitie; How mortgaging their lives to Covetise, Through wastfull pride and wanton riotise. They were by law of that proud tyran- nesse, Provokt with Wrath, and Envyes false sur- mise. Condemned to that dongeon mercilesse. Where they should live m wo, and dye in wretchednesse. XLVII There was that great proud king of Baby- lon, That would compell all nations to adore, And him as onely God to call upon. Till, through celestiall doome thrown out of dore, Into an oxe he was transformd of yore: There also was King Croesus, that enhaunst His hart too high through his great richesse store ; And proud Antiochus, the which advaunst His cursed hand gainst God, and on his altares daunst. XLVIII And, them long time before, great Nimrod was. That first the world with sword and fire warrayd; 178 THE FAERIE QUEENE ' And after him old Ninus far did pas,.^ — _, In princely pomp, of all the world;ob||ydj_J> There also was that mightie monartnlayd Low under all, yet above all in pride, That name of native syre did fowle up- brayd, And would as Ammons Sonne be magniflde. Till, scornd of God and man, a shamefuU death he dide. XLIX All these together in one heape were throwne. Like carkases of beastes in butchers stall. And, in another corner, wide were strowne The antique ruins of the Romanes fall: Great Romulus, the grandsyre of them all. Proud Tarquin, and too lordly Lentulus, Stout Scipio, and stubborne Hanniball, Ambitious Sylla, and sterns Marius, High Caesar, great Pompey, and flers An- touius. Amongst these mightie men were wemen mixt. Proud wemen, vaine, forgetfull of their yoke: The bold Semiramis, whose sides, transfixt With sonnes own blade, her fowle reproches spoke ; Fayre Sthenobcea, that her selfe did choke With wilfuU chord, for wanting of her will; High minded Cleopatra, that with stroke Of aspes sting her selfe did stoutly kill: And thousands moe the like, that did that dongeon fill. / Besides the endlesse routes of wretched thralles, Which thether were assembled day by day. From all the world, after their wofull falles Through wicked pride and wasted welthes decay. But most, of all which in that dongeon lay, Fell from high princes courtes, or ladies bowres. Where they in ydle pomp, or wanton play. Consumed had their goods, and thriftlesse howres, And lastly thrown themselves into these heavy stowres. « % Whose ease whenas the carefuU dwarfe had tould. And made ensample of their mournful! sight Unto his maister, he no lenger would There dwell in perill of like painefull plight, But earely rose, and ere that dawning light Discovered had the world to heaven wyde. He by a privy posterne tooke his flight, That of no envious eyes he mote be spyde : For doubtlesse death ensewed, if any him descryde. LIII Scarse could he footing find in that fowlfl way, For many corses, like a great lay-stall, '! Of murdred men, which therein strowei lay, Without remorse or decent funerall: f Which al through that great princesse pridS - did fall ;,^.,, And came to shamefuU end. And theAi^'*; besyde, . ^'"'t" Forth ryding underneath the castell wall,'' I-/ A donghill of dead carcases he spyde, \ The dreadfuU spectacle of that sad House, of Pryde. CANTO VI From lawlesse lust by wondrous grace Fayre Una is releast : Whom salvage nation does adore, And learnes her wise beheaat. As when a ship, thatflyes fayre under sajl^^''M% An hidden rocke escaped hath unwares, i'"«l2fl That lay m waite her wrack for to bewaife,i ' The marriner, yet halfe amazed, stares . , ', At perill past, and yet in doubt ne dares |^sii To joy at his foolhappie oversight: t^S^mi So doubly is distrest twixt joy and cares -' The dreadlesse corage of this Elfin knight, . . Having escapt so sad ensamples in his sight. ' ,' ^ II '.■ •;'■ ''' Yet sad he was, that his too hastie speedV The fayre Duess' had forst him leave be- hind; J . And yet more sad, that Una, his deare dre^, ' Her truth had staynd with treason so illi-'.'>>- kind: Yet cryme in her could never creature find, BOOK I, CANTO VI 179 But for his love, and for her own self e sake, She wandred had from one to other Ynd, Him for to seeke, ne ever would forsake. Till her unwares the fiers Sansloy did over- take. Who, after Archimagoes fowle defeat, Led her away into a forest wilde, And turnmg wrathf nil f yre to lustf uU heat. With beastly sin thought her to have de- filde, And made the vassall of his pleasures vilde. Yet first he cast by treatie, and by traynes. Her to persuade that stubborne fort to yilde : For greater conquest of hard love he gayues. That workes it to his wUl, then he that it constraines. IV With fawning wordes he courted her a while. And, looking lovely and oft sighing sore. Her constant hart did tempt with diverse guile: But wordes, and lookes, and sighes she did abhore. As rock of diamond stedfast evermore. Yet for to feed his fyrie lustfuU eye, He snatcht the vele that hong her face be- fore: Then gan her beautie shyne as brightest skye. And burnt his beastly hart t' efforce her chastitye. So when he saw his flatt'ring artes to fayle, And subtile engines bett from batteree, With greedy force he gan the fort assayle. Whereof he weend possessed soone to bee. And win rich spoile of ransackt chastitee. Ah ! heavens, that doe this hideous act be- hold. And heavenly virgin thus outraged see, How can ye vengeance just so long with- hold. And hurle not flashing flames upon that Paynim bold ? VI The pitteous mayden, oarefull comfort- lesse, Does throw out thrilling shriekes, and shrieking cryes, The last vaine helpe of wemens great dis- tresse. And with loud plaintes importuneth the skyes; That molten starres doe drop like weeping eyes, And Phoebus, flying so most shamef uU sight. His blushing face in foggy cloud implyes, And hydes for shame. What witt of mortall wight Can now devise to quitt a thrall from such a plight ? VII Eternall Providence, exceeding thought, Where none appeares can make her selfe a way: A wondrous way it for this lady wrought. From lyous clawes to pluck the gryped pray. Her shrill outcryes and shrieks so loud did bray. That all the woodes and forestes did re- sovmd; A troupe of Faunes and Satyres far a way Within the wood were daunciug iu a rownd. Whiles old Sylvanus slept in shady arber sownd. VIII Who, when they heard that pitteous strained voice, In haste f orsooke their rurall meriment. And ran towardes the far rebownded noyce, To weet what wight so loudly did lament. Unto the place they come incontinent: Whom when the raging Sarazin espyde, A rude, mishapen, monstrous rablement. Whose like he never saw, he durst not byde. But got his ready steed, and fast away gan ryde. The wyld woodgods, arrived in the place, There find the virgin doolfull desolate. With ruffled rayments, and fayre blubbred face, As her outrageous foe had left her late. And trembling yet through feare of former hate. All stand amazed at so uncouth sight. And gin to pittie her unhappie state ; All Stand astonied at her beautie bright. In their rude eyes unworthy of so wofuU plight. i8o THE FAERIE QUEENE She, more amazd, in double dread doth dwell; And every tender part for f eare does shake : As when a greedy wolfe, through honger fell, A seely lamb far from the floek does take, Of whom he meanes his bloody feast to make, A lyon spyes fast running towards him. The innocent pray in hast he does forsake, Which, quitt from death, yet quakes in every lim With chaunge of feare, to see the lyon looke so grim. XI Such f earef uU fitt assaid her trembling liart, Ne word to speake, ne joynt to move, she had: The salvage nation feele her secret smart. And read her sorrow in her count 'nance sad : Their frowning f orheades, with rough homes yclad, And rustick horror, all a syde doe lay. And, gently grenning, shew a semblance glad To comfort her, and, feare to put away, Their backward bent knees teach her hum- bly to obay. The doubtfull damzell dare not yet com- mitt Her single person to their barbarous truth. But still twixt feare and hope amazd does sitt, Late learnd what harme to hasty trust en- su'th: They, in compassion of her tender youth. And wonder of her beautie soverayne, Are wonne with pitty and unwonted ruth. And all prostrate upon the lowly playne, Doe kisse her feete, and fawne on her with count'nance fayne. Their harts she ghesseth by their humble guise, And yieldes her to extremitie of time; So from the grotmd she f earelesse doth arise, And walketh forth without suspect of crime : They all as glad as birdes of joyous pryme, Thence lead her forth, about her dauncing round, Shouting, and singing all a shepheards ryme ; And, with greene braunehes strowmg all the ground. Do worship her as queene with olive gir- lond Ground. And all the way their merry pipes they sound, That all the woods with doubled eccho ring, And with their homed feet doe weare the ground. Leaping like wanton kids in pleasant spring. So towards old Sylvanus they her bring; Who with the noyse awaked, commeth out To weet the cause, his weake steps govern- ing And aged limbs on cypresse stadle stout; And with an yvie twyne his waste is girt about. Far off he wonders what them makes so glad, Or Bacchus merry fruit they did invent. Or Cybeles frantioke rites have made them mad. They, drawing nigh, unto their god present That flowre of fayth and beautie excellent: The god himselfe, vewing that mirrhour rare, Stood long amazd, and burnt in his intent: His owne fayre Dryope now he thinkes not faire. And Pholoe fowle, when her to this he doth compaire. The woodbome people fall before her flat. And worship her as goddesse of the wood; V^ And old Sylvanus self e bethinkes not, what To thinke of wight so fayre, but gazing stood, In doubt to deeme her home of earthly brood: Sometimes Dame Venus selfe he seemes to see. But Venus never had so sober mood; Sometimes Diana he her takes to be, But misseth bow, and shaftes, and buskins to her knee. XVII By vew of her he ginneth to revive His ancient love, and dearest Cyparisae; BOOK I, CANTO VI i8i And calles to mind his pourtraiture alive, How fayre he was, and yet not f ayre to this ; And how he slew with glauncing dart amisse A gentle hynd, the which the lovely boy Did love as life, above all worldly blisse ; For grief e whereof the lad n'ould after joy. But pynd away in anguish and selfewild annoy. The wooddy nymphes, faire Hamadryades, Her to behold do thether runne apace, And all the troupe of light-foot Naiades Floeke all about to see her lovely face: But when they vewed have her heavenly grace, They envy her in their malitious mind, And fly away for feare of fowle disgrace: But all the Satyres scorne their woody kind, And henceforth nothing faire, but her, on earth they find. Glad of such lucke, the luckelesse lucky mayd Did her content to please their feeble eyes. And long time with that salvage people stayd. To gather breath in many miseryes. During which time her gentle wit she plyes. To teach them truth, which worshipt her in vaine. And made her th' image of idolatryes; But when their bootlesse zeale she did re- strayne From her own worship, they her asse would worship fayn. XX It fortuned, a noble warlike knight By just oeoasiou to that forrest came. To seeke his kindred, and the lignage right. From whence he tooke his weldeserved name: He had in armes abroad wonne muchell fame, And fild far landes with gloria of his might; Plaine, faithfuU, true, and enimy of shame, And ever lov'd to fight for ladies right, But in vaine glorious frayes he litle did delight. A Satyres sonne yborne in forrest wyld. By straunge adventure as it did betyde, And there begotten of a lady myld, Fayre Thyamis the daughter of Labryde, That was in sacred bandes of wedlocks tyde To Therion, a loose unruly swayne, Who had more joy to raunge the forrest wyde. And chase the salvage beast with busie payne. Then serve his ladies love, and waste in pleasures vayne. XXII The forlorne mayd did with loves longing burne, And could not lacke her lovers company, But to the wood she goes, to serve her turne. And seeke her spouse, that from her stUl does fly. And foUowes other game and venery. A Satyre chaunst her wandrmg for to finde, And kindling coles of lust in brutish eye, The loyall linkes of wedlocke did unbinde, And made her person thrall unto his beastly kind. So long in secret cabin there he held Her captive to his sensuall desyre. Till that with timely fruit her belly sweld, And bore a boy unto that salvage sjTe: Then home he suffred her for to retyre. For ransome leaving him the late-borne childe; Whom, till to ryper yeares he gan aspyre, He nousled up in life and manners wilde, Emongst wild beastes and woods, from lawes of men exilde. For all he taught the tender ymp was but To banish eowardize and bastard feare : His trembling hand he would him force to put Upon the lyon and the rugged beare. And from the she beares teats her whelps to teare ; And eke wyld rormg buls he would him make To tame, and ryde their backes not made to beare; And the robuckes in flight to overtake: That everie beast for feare of him did fly and quake. l82 THE FAERIE QUEENE Thereby so fearelesse and so fell he grew, That his owne syre and maister of his guise Did often tremble at his horrid vew, And oft, for dread of hurt, would him advise The angry beastes not rashly to despise. Nor too much to provoke: for he would learne The lyon stoup to him in lowly wise, (A lesson hard) and make the libbard steme Leave roaring, when in rage he for revenge did earne. And for to make his powre approved more, Wyld beastes in yron yokes he would com- pell; The spotted panther, and the tusked bore, The pardale swift, and the tigre cruell, The antelope, and wolfe both fiers and fell; And them constraine in equall teme to draw. Such joy he had their stubbome harts to quell. And sturdie courage tame with dreadful! aw. That his beheast they feared, as a tyrans law. XXVII His loving mother came upon a day Unto the woodes, to see her little sonne; And chaunst uuwares to meet him in the way. After his sportes and cruell pastime donne. When after him a lyonesse did runne. That roaring all with rage, did lowd requere Her children deare, whom he away had wonne: The lyon whelpes she saw how he did beare, And lull in rugged armes, withouten child- ish feare. XXVIII The fearefuU dame all quaked at the sight, And turning backe gan fast to fly away, Untill, with love revokt from vaine affright, She hardly yet perswaded was to stay. And then to him. these womanish words gan say: ' Ah! Satyrane, my dearling and my joy. For love of me leave off this dreadfuU play; To dally thus with death is no fit toy: Go find some other play-fellowes, mine own sweet boy.' In these and like delightes of blood;^ ^e trayned was, till ryper yeares 1 And there abode, whylst any beastui name Walkt in that f orrest, whom he had not taught To feare his force: and then his courage haught Desyrd of forreine f oemen to be knowne. And far abroad for straunge adventures sought: In which his might was never overthrowne, But through al Faery Lond his famous worth was blown. XXX Yet evermore it was his maner faire. After long labours and adventures spent. Unto those native woods for to repaire, To see his syre and ofspring auncient. And now he thether came for like intent; Where he unwares the fairest Una f omid, Straunge lady, in so straunge habiliment. Teaching the Satyres, which her sat around, Trew sacred lore, which from her sweet lips did redound. He wondred at her wisedome hevenly rare, Whose like in womens witt he never knew; And when her eurteous deeds he did com- pare, Gan her admire, and her sad sorrowes rew. Blaming of Fortune, which such troubles threw. And joyd to make proofe of her cruelty On gentle dame, so hurtlesse and so trew: Thenceforth he kept her goodly company, And leamd her discipline of faith and verity. XXXII But she, all vowd unto the Redcrosse Knight, His wandring perUl closely did lament, Ne in this new acquaintaunce could delight. But her deare heart with anguish did tor- ment, And all her witt in secret counsels spent, How to escape. At last in privy wise To Satyrane she shewed her intent; Who, glad to gain such favour, gan devise. How with that pensive maid he best might thence arise. XXXIII So on a day, when Satyres all were gone To doe their service to Sylvanus old, BOOK I, CANTO VI 183 The gentle virgin, left behinde alone, He led away with corage stout and bold. Too late it was to Satyres to be told. Or ever hope recover her againe : In vaine he seekes that, having, cannot hold. So fast he carried her with carefull paine. That they the wods are past, and come now to the plaine. The better part now of the lingring day They traveild had, whenas they far espide A weary wight forwandring by the way, And towards him they gan in hast to ride, To weete of newes that did abroad betide. Or tidings of her Knight of the Redcrosse. But he, them spymg, gan to turne aside For feare, as seemd, or for some feigned losse : More greedy they of newes fast towards him do crosse. XXXV A silly man, in simple weeds forworne. And soild with dust of the long dried way; His sandales were with toilsome travel! tome. And face all tand with scorching sunny ray, As he had traveild many a sommers day Through boy ling sands of Arable and Ynde; And in his hand a Jacobs staffe, to stay His weary limbs upon; and eke behiad His scrip did hang, in which his needments he did bind. The knight, approching nigh, of him inquerd Tidings of warre, and of adventures new; But warres, nor new adventures, none he herd. Then Una gan to aske, if ought he knew Or heard abroad of that her champion trew, Tliat in his armour bare a croslet red. ' Ay me ! deare dame,' quoth he, ' well may ,1 rew To tell the sad sight which mine eies have red: These eies did see that knight both living and eke ded.' XXXVII That cruell word her tender hart so thrild. That suddein cold did ronne through every vaine, And stony horrour all her sences fild With dying fltt, that downe she fell for paine. The knight her lightly reared up againe. And comforted with curteous kind relief e: Then, wonne from death, she bad him tellen plaine The further processe of her hidden grief e; The lesser pangs can beare, who hath en- v^ dur'd the chief. xxxviil Then gan the pilgrim thjis : ' I chaunst this day. This fatall day, that shall I ever rew. To see two knights in travell on my way (A sory sight) arraung'd in batteUl new. Both breathing vengeaunce, both of wrath- full hew: My f careful flesh did tremble at their strife, To see their blades so greedily imbrew. That, dronke with blood, yet thristed after life: What more ? the Redcrosse Knight was slain with Paynim knife.' XXXIX ' Ah, dearest Lord ! ' quoth she, ' how might that bee, And he the stoutest knight, that ever wonne ? ' ' Ah, dearest dame,' quoth hee, ' how might I see The thing, that might not be, and yet was donne ? ' 'Where is,' said Satyrane, 'that Paynims Sonne, That him of life, and us of joy, hath ref te ? ' ' Not far away,' quoth he, ' he hence doth wonne, Foreby a fountaine, where I late him lefte Washing his bloody wounds, that through the Steele were cleft.' Therewith the knight thence marched forth in hast, Whiles Una, with huge heavinesse opprest. Could not for sorrow follow him so fast; And soone he came, as he the place had ghest. Whereas that Pagan proud him selfe did rest In secret shadow by a fountaine side: Even he it was, that earst would have sup« prest 184 THE FAERIE QUEENE Faire Una: whom when Satyrane espide, With f oule reprochfuU words he boldly him deiide; XLI And said: 'Arise, thou cursed miscreaunt, That hast with knightlesse guile and trech- erous train Faire knighthood fowly shamed, and doest vaunt That good Knight of the Kedcrosse to have slain: Arise, and with like treason now maintain Thy guilty wrong, or els thee guilty yield.' The Sarazin, this hearing, rose amain. And catching up in hast his three square shield And shining helmet, soone him buckled to the field; XLII And, drawing nigh him, said : ' Ah, mis- born Elfe ! In evill houre thy foes thee hither sent, Anothers wrongs to wreak upon thy selfe: Yet ill thou blamest me, for having blent My name with guile and traiterous intent: That Redcrosse Knight, perdie, I never slew; But had he beene where earst bis armes were lent, Th' enchaunter vaine his errour should not rew: But thou his errour shalt, I hope, now proven trew.' XLIII Therewith they gan, both furious and fell. To thunder blowes, and fiersly to assaile Each other, bent his enimy to quell; That with their force they perst both plate and maile. And made wide furrowes in their fleshes fraUe, That it would pitty any living eie. Large floods of blood adowne their sides did raile ; But floods of blood could not them satisfie: Both hongred after death: both chose to win, or die. So long they flght, and fell revenge pursue. That, fainting each, them selves to breathen lett, And, of te refreshed, battell oft renue : As when two bores, with raneling malice mett. Their gory sides fresh bleeding fiercely f rett, Til breathlesse both them selves aside retire, Where, f oming wrath, their cruell tuskes they whett. And trample th' earth, the whiles they may respire ; Then backe to flght againe, new breathed and entire. So fiersly, when these knights had breathed once. They gan to flght retourne, increasing more Their puissant force and cruell rage at- tonoe. With heaped strokes more hugely then be- fore. That with their drery wounds and bloody gore They both deformed, scarsely could bee known. By this, sad Una fraught with anguish sore, Led with their noise, which through the aire was thrown, «, Arriv'd, wher they in erth their fruitles blood had sown. Whom all so soone as that proud Sarazin Espide, he gan revive the memory Of his leud lusts, and late attempted sin. And lef te the doubtfuU battell hastily. To catch her, newly offred to his eie: But Satyrane, with strokes him turning, staid. And sternely bad him other businesse plie Then hunt the steps of pure imspotted maid: Wherewith he al enrag'd, these bitter speaches said: XLVII ' O foolish Faeries Sonne ! what fury mad Hath thee ineenst to hast thy dolefull fate? Were it not better I that lady had Then that thou hadst repented it too late ? Most sencelesse man he, that himselfe doth hate. To love another. Lo then, for thine ayd. Here take thy lovers token on thy pate.' BOOK I, CANTO VII i8s So they two fight; the whiles the royall mayd Fledd farre away, of that proud Paynim sore afrayd. XLVIII But that false pilgrim, which that leasing told, Being in deed old Archimage, did stay In secret shadow, all this to behold, And much rejoyced in their bloody fray: But when he saw the damsell passe away, He left his stond, and her pursewd apace, In hope to bring her to her last decay. But for to tell her lamentable cace. And eke this battels end, will need another place. CANTO VII The Redcrosse Knight is captive made, By gyaunt proud opprest: Prince Arthure meets with Una great- ly with those newes dlstrest. What man so wise, what earthly witt so ware, As to discry the crafty cunning traine, By which Deceipt doth maske in visour faire, And cast her coulours died deepe in graine. To seeme like Truth, whose shape she well can faine. And fitting gestures to her purpose frame, The guiltlesse man with guile to entertaine ? Great maistresse of her art was that false dame. The false Duessa, cloked with Fidessaes Who when, returning from the drery Night, She fownd not in that perilous Hous of Pryde, Where she had left, the noble Redcross Knight, Her hoped pray, she would no longer byde. But forth she went to seeko him far and wide. Ere long she fownd, whereas he wearie sate To rest hira selfe, foreby a fountaine syde, Disarmed all of yron-coted plate. And by his side his steed the grassy forage ate. Hee feedes upon the cooling shade, and bayes His sweatie forehead iu the breathing wynd. Which through the trembling leaves full gently playes. Wherein the chearefuU birds of sundry kynd Doe chaunt sweet musick, to delight his mynd. The witch approching gan him fayrely greet. And with reproch of carelesnes unkynd Upbrayd, for leaving her in place mmieet, With fowle words tempriug faire, soure gall with hony sweet. Unkindnesse past, they gan of solace treat. And bathe in pleasaunce of the joyous shade. Which shielded them against the boyling heat. And, with greene boughes decking a gloomy glade. About the fountaine like a girlond made ; Whose bubbling wave did ever freshly well, Ne ever would through fervent sonimer fade: The sacred nymph, which therein wont to dwell. Was out of Dianes favor, as it then befell. The cause was this: one day when Phoebe fayre With all her band was following the chace, This nymph, quite tyr'd with heat of scorching ayre, Satt downe to rest in middest of the race: The goddesse wroth gan fowly her disgrace. And badd the waters, which from her did flow. Be such as she her selfe was then in place. Thenceforth her waters wexed dull and slow. And all that drunke thereof did faint and feeble grow. VI Hereof this gentle knight unweeting was. And lying downe upon the sandie graile, Dronke of the streame, as cleare as christall glas: Eftsoones his manly forces gan to fayle, i86 THE FAERIE QUEENE And mightie strong wa3 turnd to feeble frayle: His chaunged powres at first them selves not felt, Till crudled cold his eorage gan assayle, And chearefuU blood iu fayutnes chili did melt, Which, like a fever fit, through all his body swelt. Yet goodly court he made still to his dame, Pourd out in loosnesse on the grassy grownd. Both earelesse of his health, and of his fame : Till at the last he heard a dreadfull sownd. Which through the wood loud bellowing did rebownd. That all the earth for terror seemd to shake, And trees did tremble. Th' Elf e, therewith astownd. Upstarted lightly from his looser make. And his unready weapons gan in hand to take. But ere he could his armour on him dight. Or gett his shield, his monstrous enimy With sturdie steps came stalking iu his sight. An hideous geaunt, horrible and hye. That with his tallnesse seemd to threat the skye; The ground eke groned under him for dreed: His living like saw never living eye, Ne durst behold: his stature did exceed The hight of three the tallest sonnes of mortall seed. IX The greatest Earth his uncouth mother was, And blustring ^olus his boasted syre ; Who with his breath, which through the world doth pas. Her hollow womb did secretly inspyre. And flld her hidden caves with stormie yre. That she conceiv'd; and trebling the dew time. In which the wombes of wemen doe expyre. Brought forth this monstrous masse of earthly slyme, Puft up with emptie wynd, and fild with sinfull cryme. So growen great, through arrogant delight Of th' high descent whereof he was yborne, And through presumption of his matchlesse might. All other powres and knighthood he did scorne. Such now he marcheth to this man forlorne. And left to losse: his stalking steps are stayde Upon a snaggy oke, which he had torne Out of his mothers bovrelles, and it made His mortall mace, wherewith his foemen he dismayde. That when the knight he spyde, he gan ad- vaunce With huge force and insupportable mayne. And towardes him with dreadfull fury praunee ; Who haplesse, and eke hopelesse, all in vaino Did to him pace, sad battaile to darrayne, Disarmd, disgraste, and inwardly dismayde. And eke so faint in every joynt and vayne. Through that fraile fountain, which him feeble made. That scarsely could he weeld his bootlesse single blade. The geaunt strooke so maynly mercilesse. That could have overthrowne a stony towre, And were not hevenly grace, that him did blesse. He had beene pouldred all, as thin as flowre: But he was wary of that deadly stowre, And lightly lept from underneath the blow: Yet so exceeding was the villeins powre That with the winde it did him overthrow, And all his sences stoond, that still he lay ■■ full low. XIII As when that divelish yron engin, wrought In deepest hell, and framd by furies skill. With windy nitre and quick sulphur fraught. And ramd with boUet rownd, ordaind to kill, Conceiveth fyre, the heavens it doth fill With thundring noyse, and all the ayre doth choke. That none can breath, nor see, nor heare at will, BOOK I, CANTO VII 187 Through smouldry cloud of duskish stiiick- ing smok, That th' onely breath him daunts, who hath escapt the stroke. XIV So daunted when the geaunt saw the knight, His heavie hand he heaved up on hye, And ^lim to dust thought to have battred quight, Untill Uuessa loud to him gan crye, ' great Orgoglio, greatest under skye, O hold thy mortall hand for ladies sake ! Hold for my sake, and doe him not to dye. But vanquisht thine etemaU bondslave make. And me, thy worthy meed, unto thy leman take.' He hearkned, and did stay from further harmes. To gayne so goodly guerdon as she spake: So willingly she came into his armes. Who her as willingly to grace did take. And was possessed of his newfound make. Then up he tooke the slombred senoelesse corse. And ere he could out of his swowne awake. Him to his castle brought with hastie forse. And in a dongeou deep him threw without remorse. XVI From that day forth Duessa was his deare, And highly honourd in his liaughtie eye ; He gave her gold and purple pall to weare, And triple crowue set on her head full hye. And her endowd with royall majestye: Then, for to make her dreaded more of men. And peoples hartes with awfuU terror tye, A monstrous beast ybredd in filthy fen He chose, which he had kept long time in darksom den. Such one it was, as that renowmed snake Which great Alcides in Stremona slew. Long fostred in the filth of Lerna lake. Whose many lieades out budding ever new Did breed him endlesse labor to subdew: But this same monster much more ugly was; For seven great heads out of his body grew, An yron brest, and back of scaly bras. And all embrewd in blood, his eyes did shine as glas. His tayle was stretched out in wondrous length, That to the hous of hevenly gods it raught, And with extorted powre, and borrow'd strength. The everburning lamps from thence it braught, And prowdly threw to ground, as things of naught; And underneath his filthy feet did tread The sacred thinges, and holy heastes fore- taught. Upon this dreadfull beast with sevenfold head He sett the false Duessa, for more aw and dread. XIX The wofull dwarfe, which saw his maisters fall, Whiles he had keeping of his grasing steed. And valiant knight become a caytive thrall, When all was past, tooke up his forlorne weed; His mightie armour, missing most at need; His silver shield, now idle maisterlesse ; His poynant speare, that many made to bleed; The ruef nil moniments of heavinesse ; And with them all departes, to tell his great distresse. He had not travaUd long, when on the way He wofull lady, wofull Una, met, Fast flying from the Paynims greedy pray, Whilest Satyrane him from pursuit did let: Who when her eyes she on the dwarf had set. And saw the signes, that deadly tydinges spake. She fell to ground for sorrowful! regret. And lively breath her sad brest did forsake, Yet might her pitteous hart be scene to pant and quake. The messenger of so unhappie «ewes Would faine have dyde; dead was his hart within; THE FAERIE QUEENE Yet outwardly some little comfort shewes: At last recovering hart, he does begin To rubb her temples, and to chaufe her chin. And everie tender part does tosse and turne : So hardly he the flitted life does win, Unto her native prison to retourne: Then gins her grieved ghost thus to lament and moui'ne: XXII ' Ye dreary instruments of dolefull sight. That doe this deadly spectacle behold, Why do ye lenger feed on loathed light. Or liking find to gaze on earthly mould, Sith cruell fates the carefuU threds un- fould. The which my life and love together tyde? Now let the stony dart of sencelesse cold Perce to my hart, and pas through everie side, And let eternall night so sad sight fro me hyde. XXIII ' O lightsome day, the lampe of highest Jove, First made by him, mens wandring wayes to guyde, When darknesse he in deepest dongeon drove, Henceforth thy hated face for ever hyde. And shut up heavens windowes shyning wyde: For earthly sight can nought but sorow breed. And late repentance, which shall long abyde. Mine eyes no more on vanitie shall feed. But, seeled up with death, shall have their deadly meed.' Then downe againe she fell unto the ground; But he her quickly reared up againe: Thrise did she sinke adowne in deadly swownd. And thrise he her reviv'd with busie paine: At last, when life recover'd had the raine, And over-wrestled his strong enimy. With foltring tong, and trembling everie vaine, ' Tell on,' quoth she, ' the wofull tragedy, The which these reliques sad present unto mine eye. XXV 'Tempestuous Fortune hath spent all her spight. And thrilling Sorrow throwne his utmost dart; Thy sad tong cannot tell more heavy plight Then that I feele, and harbour in mine hart: Who hath endur'd the whole, can beare ech part. If death it be, it is not the first woimd, That launched hath my brest with bleedmg smart. 'Begin, and end the bitter balefuU stound; If lesse then that I feare, more favour I have found.' XXVI Then gan the dwarfe the whole discourse ( declare : The subtile traines of Archimago old; The wanton loves of false Fidessa fayre. Bought with the blood of vanquisht Paynim bold; The wretched payre transformd to treen mould ; The House of Pryde, and periUes round about ; The combat, which he with Sansjoy did hould; The lucklesse conflict with the gyaunt stout. Wherein captiv'd, of life or death he stood in doubt. XXVII She heard with patience all imto the end, And strove to maister sorrowfull assay, Which greater grew, the more she did con- tend. And almost rent her tender hart in tway ; And love fresh coles unto her fire did lay: For greater love, the greater is the losse. Was never lady loved dearer day. Then she did love the Knight of the Red- crosse; For whose deare sake so many troubles her did tosse. XXVIII At last, when fervent sorrow slaked was, She up arose, resolving him to find. Alive or dead; and forward forth doth pas, All as the dwarfe the way to her assynd; And ever more, in constant careful! mind. She fedd her wound with fresh renewed bale: BOOK I, CANTO VII 189 Long tost with stormes, and bet with bitter wind, High over hills, and lowe adowne the dale. She wandred many a wood, and measuid many a vale. At last she chaunced by good hap to meet A goodly knight, faiie marching by the way, Together with his squyre, arayed meet: His glitterand armour shiued far away. Like glauncing light of Phcebus brightest ray; From top to toe no place appeared bare. That deadly dint of Steele endanger may: Athwart his brest a bauldrick brave he ware, That shind, like twinkling stars, with stones most pretious rare. And in the midst thereof, one pretious stone Of wondrous worth, and eke of wondrous mights, Shapt like a ladies head, exceeding shone. Like Hesperus emougst the lesser lights, And strove for to amaze the weaker sights : Thereby his mortall blade full comely hong In yvory sheath, yearv'd with curious slights; Whose hilts were burnisht gold, and handle strong Of mother perle, and buckled with a golden tong. His haughtie helmet, horrid all with gold. Both glorious brightnesse and great terrour bredd; For all the crest a dragon did enfold With greedie pawes, and over all did spredd His golden winges: his dreadfuU hideous hedd. Close couched on the bever, seemd to throw From flaming mouth bright sparckles fiery redd, That suddeine horrour to faint hartes did show; And scaly tayle was stretcht adowne his back full low. XXXII Upon the top of all his loftie crest, A bomich of heares discolourd diversly, With sprincled pearle and gold full richly drest, Did shake, and seemd to daunce for jollity; Like to an almond tree yniounted hye On top of greene Selinis all alone, With blossoms brave bedecked daintily; Whose tender locks do tremble every one At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne. His warlike shield all closely eover'd was, Ne might of mortall eye be ever scene; Not made of Steele, nor of enduring bras ; Such earthly mettals soone consumed beene ; But all of diamond perfect pure and cleene It framed was, one massy entire mould, Heweu out of adamant rocke with engines keene. That point of speare it never percen could, Ne dint of direfuU sword divide the sub- stance would. The same to wight he never wont disclose, But when as monsters huge he would dis- may. Or daunt unequall armies of his foes, Or when the flying heavens he would af- fray: For so exceeding shone his glistring ray. That Phcebus golden face it did attaint, As when a cloud his beames doth over-lay; And silver Cynthia wexed pale and faynt, As when her face is staynd with magicke arts constraint. XXXV No magicke arts hereof had any might, Nor bloody wordes of bold enohaunters call. But all that was not such as seemd m sight Before that shield did fade, and suddeine fall: And when him list the raskall routes ap- pall. Men iuto stones therewith he could trans- mew, And stones to dust, and dust to nought at all; And when him list the prouder lookes sub- dew. He would them gazing blind, or turne to other hew. igo THE FAERIE QUEENE XXXVI Ne let it seeme that credence this exceedes ; Por he that made the same was knowne right well To have done much more admirable deedes. It Merlin was, which whylome did excell All living wightes in might of magicke spell : Both shield, and sword, and armour all he wrought For this young Prince, when first to armes he fell; But when he dyde, the Faery Queene it brought To Faerie Lond, where yet it may be scene, if sought. XXXVII A gentle youth, his dearely loved squire. His speare of heben wood behind him bare. Whose harmeful head, thi-ise heated in the fire, Had riven many a, brest with pikehead square ; A goodly person, and could menage faire His stubborne steed with curbed canon bitt. Who under him did trample as the aire. And chauft, that any on his backe should sitt; The yron rowels into frothy fome he bitt. XXXVIII Whenas this knight nigh to the lady drew. With lovely court he gan her entertaine; But when he heard her aunswers loth, he knew Some secret sorrow did her heart distrains : Which to allay, and calme her storming paine, Faire feeling words he wisely gan display. And for her humor fitting pvirpose faine, To tempt the cause it selfe for to bewray; Wherewith emnovd, these bleeding words she gan to say: XXXIX ' What worlds delight, or joy of living speach. Can hart, so plungd in sea of sorrowes deep. And heaped with so huge misfortunes, reach ? The carefull cold beginneth for to creep, And in my heart his yron arrow steep, Soone as I thinke upon my bitter bale: Such helplesse harmes yts better hidden keep. Then rip up grief e, where it may not availe ; My last left comfort is, my woes to weepe and waile.' XL 'Ah! lady deare,' quoth then the gentle knight, ' Well may I ween your grief is wondrous great; For wondrous great griefe groneth in my spright, Whiles thus 1 heare you of your sorrowes treat. But, woefull lady, let me you intrete For to unfold the anguish of your hart: Mishaps are maistred by advice discrete. And eoimsell mitigates the greatest smart; , Found never help, who never would his v hurts impart.' XLI ' O but,' quoth she, ' great griefe will not be^ tould. And can more easily be thought then said.' 'Right so,' quoth he; 'but he, that never would. Could never; will to might gives greatest aid.' ' But griefe,' quoth she, ' does greater grow V displaid, / If then it find not helpe, and breeds de- / spaire.' j ' Despaire breeds not,' quoth he, ' where I faith is staid.' 1 ' No faith so fast,' quoth she, • but flesh 1 does paire.' j ' Flesh may empaire,' quoth he, ' but reason I can repaire.' His goodly reason and well guided speach So deepe did settle in her gracious thought, That her perswaded to disclose the breach. Which love and fortune in her heart bad wrought. And said: 'Faire sir, I hope good hap hath brought You to inquere the secrets of my griefe, Or that your wisedome will direct my thought, Or that your prowesse can me yield reliefe: Then heare the story sad, which I shall tell you briefe. BOOK I, CANTO VII 191 XLIII ' The forlorne maiden, whom your eies have seene The laughing stocke of Fortunes mockeries, Am th' onely daughter of a king and queene ; Whose parents deare, whiles equal destinies Did ronne about, and their felicities The favourable heavens did not envy. Did spred their rule through all the terri- tories, Which Phison and Euphrates floweth by. And Gehons golden waves doe wash con- tinually. XLIV ' Till that their eruell cursed enemy, An huge great dragon, horrible in sight. Bred in the loathly lakes of Tartary, With murdrous ravine, and devouringmight. Their kingdom e spoild, and countrey wasted quight: Themselves, for feare into his jawes to fall, He forst to castle strong to take their flight, W^here, fast embard in mighty brasen wall. He has them now fowr years besiegd, to make them thrall. XLV ' Full many knights, adventurous and stout, Have enterprizd that monster to subdew; From every coast, that heaven walks about, Have thither come the noble martial crew, That famous harde atchievements still pur- sew; Yet never any could that girlond win. But all still slironke, and still he greater grew: All they for want of faith, or guilt of sin, The pitteous pray of his flers cruelty have bin. XLVI ' At last, yled with far reported praise, Which flying fame throughout the world had spred. Of doughty knights, whom Fary Land did raise. That noble order hight of Maidenhed, Forthwith to court of Gloriane I sped, Of Gloriane, great queene of glory bright, Whose kingdomes seat Cleopolis is red, There to obtaine some such redoubted knight. That parents deare from tyrants powre de- liver might. XLVII ' Yt was my chaimce (my chaunce was faire and good) There for to find a fresh unproved knight. Whose manly hands imbrewd in guilty blood Had never beene, ne ever by his might Had tbrowne to ground the unregarded right: Yet of his prowesse proofe he since hath made (I witnes am) in many a eruell flght; The groning ghosts of many one dismaide Have felt the bitter dint of his avenging blade. ' And ye, the forlorne reliques of his powre. His biting sword, and his devouring speare. Which have endured many a dreadful! stowre. Can speake his prowesse, that did earst you beare, And well could rule: now he hath left you heare. To be the record of his ruefull losse. And of my dolefuU disaventurous deare: O heavie record of the good Redcrosse, Where have yee left your lord, that could so well you tosse ? XLIX ' Well hoped I, and faire beginnings had. That he my captive languor should re- deeme; Till, all unweeting, an enchaunter bad His sence abusd, and made him to mis- deeme My loyalty, not such as it did seeme, Tliat rather death desire then such despight. Be judge, ye heavens, that all things right esteeme. How I him lov'd, and love with all my might ! So thought I eke of him, and think I thought aright. 'Thenceforth me desolate he quite for- sooke, To wander where wilde fortune would me lead, And other bywaies he himselfe betooke. Where never foote of living wight did tread, 192 THE FAERIE QUEENE That brought not backe the baleful! body dead; In which him chaunced false Duessa meete, Mine onely foe, mine onely deadly dread, Who with her witchcraft, and misseeming sweete, Inveigled him to follow her desires un- meete. 'At last, by subtile sleights she him be- traid Unto his foe, a gyaunt huge and tall; Who him disarmed, dissolute, dismaid, Unwares surprised, and with mighty mall The monster mercilesse him made to fall. Whose fall did never foe before behold; And now in darkesome dungeon, wretched thrall, Remedilesse, for aie he doth him hold; This is my cause of grief e, more great then may be told.' Ere she had ended all, she gan to faint; But he her comforted, and faire bespake: ' Certes, madame, ye have great cause of plaint, That stoutest heart, I weene, could cause to quake. But be. of cheare, and comfort to you take: For tm I have aequitt your captive knight. Assure your selfe, I will you not forsake.' His chearef ull words reviv'd her ehearelesse spright: So forth they went, the dwarfe them guid- ing ever right. CANTO VI II Faire virgin, to redeems her deare, Brings Arthurs to the fight : "Who slayes the gyaunt, wounds the beast, And strips Duessa quight. Ay me! how many perils doe enfold The righteous man, to make him daily fall, W^ere not that Heavenly Grace doth him uphold. And stedfast Truth acquite him out of all ! Her love is firme, her care eontinuall, So oft as he, through his own foolish pride Or weaknes, is to sinfull bands made thrall: Els should this Redcrosse Knight in bands have dyde. For whose deliverance she this Prince doth thether guyd. They sadly traveild thus, untill they came Nigh to a castle builded strong and hye: Then cryde the dwarfe, ' Lo ! yonder is the same. In which my lord, my liege, doth lucklesse ly, Thrall to that gyaunts batefull tyranny: Therefore, deare sir, your mightie powres assay.' The noble knight alighted by and by From loftie steed, and badd the ladie stay. To see what end of fight should him befall that day. Ill So with the squire, th' admirer of his mi