And knew how she escaped had the flood
By meanes of this young swaine that neere her stood.
Whereat, for griefe, she gan againe to faint,
Redoubling thus her cryes and sad complaint:
"Alas! and is that likewise barr'd from me,
Which for all persons else lies ever free?
Will life, nor death, nor aught abridge my paine?
But live still dying, dye to live againe ?
The most unhappy 1! which finde most sure,
The wound of love, neglected, is past cure.
Most cruell god of love! (if such there be)
That still to my desires art contrary!
Why should I not in reason this obtaine,
That as I love, I may be lov'd againe?
Alas! with thee, too, Nature playes her parts,
That frain'd so great a discord 'tweene two harts:
One flyes, and alwaies doth in hate persever ;
The other followes, and in love growes ever.
Why dost thou not extinguish cleane this flame,
And plac't on him that best deserves the same?
Why had not I affected some kinde youth,
Whose everie word had bene the word of truth?
Who might have had to love, and lov'd to have
So true a heart as I to Celand gave.
For Psyche's love 3! if beautie gave thee birth,
Or if thou hast attractive power on Earth,
Dame Venus' sweetest childe, requite this love;
Or Fate yeeld meanes my soule may hence re-
move!"
Once se ing in a spring her drowned eyes,
"O cruell beautie, cause of this!" she cryes;
"Mother of love, (my joye's most fatall knife)
That work'st her death, by whom thyselfe hast
life!"
[saint
The youthfull swaine, that heard this loving So oftentimes to poure forth such complaint, Within his heart such true affection prais'd, And did perceive kinde love and pittie rais'd His minde to sighes; yea, beautie forced this, That all her griefe he thought was likewise his. And having brought her what his lodge affords, Sometime he wept with her, sometime with words Would seeke to comfort; when, alas, poor elfe! He needed then a comforter himselfe. Daily whole troupes of griefe unto him came, For her who languish'd of another flame.
When 'twas another saile her winde did stirre:
But had her sighes and teares bcene for this boy,
Her sorrow had beene lesse, and more ber joy.
Long time in griefe he hid his love-made paines,
And did attend her walkes in woods and plaines;
Bearing a fuell, which her sun-like eyes
Inflam'd, and made his heart the sacrifice.
Yet he, sad swaine! to shew it did not dare;
And she, least he should love, nye dy'd for fore.
She, ever-wailing, blam'd the powers above,
That night nor day give any rest to love.
He prais'd the Heavens in silence, oft was mute,
And thought with tears and sighs to winne his sute.
Once in the shade, when she by sleepe repos'd,
And her cleare eyes 'twixt her faire lids enclos'd;
The shepheard-swaine beganne to hate and curse
That day unfortunate, which was the nurse
Of all his sorrowes. He had given breath
And life to her, which was his cause of death,
See Apuleius' Golden Ass, 4th, 5th, and 6th v.
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But as the queene of rivers, fairest Thames,
That for her buildings other flouds enflames
With greatest envie; or the nymph of Kent,
That statelyest ships to sea hath ever sent;
Some baser groome, for lucre's hellish course,
Her channell having stopt, kept backe her source,
(Fill'd with disdaine) doth swell above her mounds,
And overfloweth all the neighb'ring grounds,
Angry she teares up all that stops her way,
And with more violence runnes to the sea :
So the kind shepheard's griefe (which, long uppent,
Grew more in powre, and longer in extent)
Forth of his heart more violently thrust,
And all his vow'd intentions quickly burst.
Marina hearing sighes, to him drew neere,
And did entreate his cause of griefe to heare:
But had she knowne her beauty was the sting,
That caused all that instant sorrowing;
Silence in bands her tongue had stronger kept,
And sh'ad not ask'd for what the shepheard wept.
The swaine first, of all times, this best did thinke,
To show his love, whilst on the river's brinke
They sate alone, then thought, he next would
move her
With sighes and teares (true tokens of a lover):
And since she knew what helpe from him she found,
When in the river she had else beene drown'd,
He thinketh sure she cannot but grant this,
To give reliefe to him, by whom she is:
By this incited, said: "Whom I adore,'
Sole mistresse of my heart, I thee implore,
Doe not in bondage hold my freedome long;
And since I life or death hold from your tongue,
Suffer my heart to love, yea, dare to hope
To get that good of love's intended scope.
Grant I may praise that light in you I see,
And dying to myselfe, may live in thee.
Faire nymph, surcease this death-alluring languish,
So rare a beautie was not borne for anguish.
Why shouldst thou care for him that cares not for
thee?
Yea, most unworthy wight, seemes to abhorre thee:
And if he be as you doe here paint forth him,
He thinkes you, best of beauties, are not worth him;
That all the joyes of love will not quit cost
For all lov'd freedome which by it is lost.
Within his heart such selfe-opinion dwels,
That his conceit in this he thinkes excels;
Accounting women beautie's sugred baites,
That never catch, but fooles, with their deceits:
Who of himself harbours so vaine a thought,
Truely to love could never yet be brought.'
Then love that heart, where lies no faithlesse seed,
That never wore dissimulation's weed:
Who doth account all beauties of the spring,
That jocund summer-daies are ushering,
As foiles to yours. But if this caunot move
Your minde to pittie, nor your heart to love;
Yet, sweetest, grant me love to quench that flame, Which burnes you now. Expel his worthlesse
Cleane roote bim out by me, and in his place
Let him inhabit, that will runne a race
More true in love. It may be for your rest.
And when he sees her, who did love him best,
Possessed by another, he will rate
The much of good he lost, when 'tis too late:
For what is in our powers, we little deeme,
And things posseşt by others, best esteeme.'
If all this gaine you not a shepheard's wife,
Yet give not death to him which gave you life."
Marine the faire, hearing his woing tale,
Perceived well what wall his thoughts did scale,
And answer'd thus: "I pray, sir swaine, what
Is it to me to plucke up by the roote [boote
My former love, and in his place to sow
As ill a seede, for any thing I know?
Rather 'gainst thee I mortall hate retaine,
That seek'st to plant in me new cares, new paine:
Alas! th' hast kept my soule from death's sweet
To give me over to a tyrant's hands; [bands,
Who on his racks will torture by his powre,
This weakned, harmlesse body, every howre.
Be you the judge, and see if reason's lawes
Give recompence of favour for this cause:
You from the streames of death brought life on
shore ;
Releas'd one paine, to give me ten times more.
For love's sake, let my thoughts in this be free;
Object no more your haplesse saving me :
That obligation which you thinke should binde,
Doth still encrease more hatred in my minde;
Yea, I doe think, more thankes to him were due
That would bereave my life, than unto you."
The thunder-stroken swaine lean'd to a tree,
As voyd of sense as weeping Niobe:
Making his teares the instruments to wooe her,
The sea wherein his love should swimme unto her :
And, could there flow from his two-headed fount,
As great a floud as is the Hellespont,
Within that deepe he would as willing wander,
To meet bis Hero, as did ere Leander".
Mean while the nymph withdrew herselfe aside,
And to a grove at hand her steps applide.
With that sad sight (O! had he never seene,
His heart in better case had ever beene)
Against his heart, against the streame he went,
With this resolve, and with a full intent,
When of that streame he had discovered
The fount, the well-spring, or the bubbling head,
He there would sit, and with the well-drop vie,
That it before his eyes would first runne drie:
But then he thought the god that haunts that
lake,
The spoyling of his spring would not well take.
And therefore leaving soone the christall flood,
Did take his way unto the neerest wood:
"See Musæus and Ovid's Epistles; likewise the Testyad, a poem, in six books, begun by Christopher Marlow, and finished by George Chapman ; highly esteemed by Ben Jonson.
• Deæ sanè et nimphæ, plerànque fontibus & fluviis præsunt apud poetas, quæ Ephydriades & Naiades dicta: verum & nobis tamen deum præficere (sic Alpheum Tyberinum, & Rhenum, & id genus alios divos legimus) haud illicitum.
Seating himselfe within a darkesome cave,
(Sach places heavy Saturnists doe crave)
Where yet the gladsome day was never seene,
Nor Phoebus' piercing beams had ever beene,
Fit for the synode house of those fell legions,
That walke the mountains, and Silvanus' regions,
Where Tragedie might have her full scope given,
From inen's aspects, and from the view to Heaven.
Within the same some crannies did deliver
Into the midst thereof a pretty river;
The nymph whereof came by out of the veynes
Of our first mother, having late tane paines
In scouring of her channell all the way,
From where it first beganne to leave the sea.
And in her labour thus farre now had gone,
When comming thro' the cave, she heard that one.
Spake thus: "If I doe in my death persever,
Pittie may that effect, which love could never."
By this she can conjecture 'twas some swaine,
Who, overladen by a maide's disdaine,
Had here (as fittest) chosen out a place,
Where he might give a period to the race
Of his loath'd life: which she (for pittie's sake)
Minding to hinder, div'd into her lake,
And hast'ned where the ever-teeming earth
Unto her current gives a wished birth;
And by her new-delivered river's side,
Upon a banke of flow'rs, iad soone espide
Remond, young Remond, that full well could sing,
And tune his pipe at Pan's-birth carolling:
Who for his nimble leaping, sweetest layes,
A lawrell garland wore on holidayes; :
In framing of whose hand dame Nature swore
There never was his like, nor should be more:
Whose locks (insnaring nets) were like the rayes,
Wherewith the Sunne doth diaper the seas:
Which if they had beene cut, and hung upon
The snow-white cliffes of fertile Albion,
Would have allured more, to be their winner,
Than all the diamonds that are hidden in her.
Him she accosted thus: "Swaine of the wreathe,
Thou art not placed, only here to breathe;
But Nature, in thy framing, showes to me,
Doe good; and surely I myselfe perswade,
Thou never wert for evill action made.
In Heaven's consistory 'twas decreed,
At noone-time come, and are the first, I thinke,
That (running thro' that cave) my waters drinke:
Within this rocke their sits a wofull wight,
As voide of comfort as that cave of light;
And as I wot, occasion'd by the frownes
Of some coy shepheardesse that haunts these
downes.
This I doe know, (whos'ever wrought his care)
He is a man nye treading to despaire.
Then hie thee thither, since 'tis charitie
To save a man; leave here thy flocke with me:
For whilst thou sav'st him from the Stygian bay,
I'le keepe thy lambkins from all beasts of prey."
The neernesse of the danger, (in his thought)
As it doth ever, more compassion wrought:
So that, with reverence to the nymph, he went
With winged speed, and hast'ned to prevent
Th' untimely seisure of the greedy grave:
Breathlesse, at last, he came into the cave;
Where, by a sign directed to the man,
To comfort him he in this sort began:
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Shepheard, all haile! what mean these plaints?
This care
(Th' image of death, true portrait of the grave)
Why dost frequent? and waile thee under ground,
From whence there never yet was pittie found?
Come forth, and show thyselfe unto the light,
Thy griefe to me. If there be ought that might
Give any ease unto thy troubled minde,
We joy as much to give, as thou to finde."
The love-sicke swaine replide: "Remond, thou art
The man alone to whom I would impart
My woes, more willing than to any swaine,
That lives and feeds his sheepe upon the plaine.
But vaine it is, and 'twould increase my woes
By their relation, or to thee or those
That cannot remedie. Let it suffise,
No fond distrust of thee makes me precise
To show my griefe. Leave me then, and forgo
This cave more sad, since I have made it so."
Here teares broke forth. And Remond gan anew:
With such intreaties carnest to pursue
His former suite, that he (though hardly) wan
The shepheard to disclose; and thus began:
"Know briefly, Remond, then, a heavenly face,
Nature's idea, and perfection's grace,
That choisest fruit should come from choisest seede; | Within my breast hath kindled such a fire,
In baser vessels we doc ever put
Basest materials, doe never shut
Those jewels most in estimation set,
But in some curious costly cabinet.
If I may judge by th' outward shape alone,
Within, all vertues have convention:
'For't gives most lustre unto Vertue's feature,
When she appeares cloth'd in a goodly creature.'
Halfe way the hill, neere to those aged trees,
Whose insides are as hives for lab'ring bees,
(As who should say, before their rootes were dead,
For good workes' sake and almes, they harboured
Those whom nought else did cover but the skies :)
A path (untrodden but of beasts) there lies,
Dirceting to a cave in yonder glade,
Where all this forest's citizens, for shade,
7 Julium Cæsarem, spe Margaritaram, Britanniam petisse, scribit Sueton. in Jul. cap. 47. & ex is thoracem factum Veneri genetrici dicâsse. Plin. Hist. Nat. 9. cap. 35. De Margaritis verò nostris consulas Cainden. in Cornub. & Somerset.
That doth consume all things, except desire;
Which daily doth increase, tho' alwaies burning,
And I want teares, but lacke no cause of mourning:
For he whom Love under his colours drawes,
May often want th' effect, but ne're the cause.""
Quoth th' other, "Have thy starres maligne bene
That their predominations sway so much
Over the rest, that with a milde aspect
The lives and loves of shepheards doe affect?
Then doe I thinke there is sonte greater hand,
Which thy endeavours still doth countermand:
Wherefore I wish thee quench the flame, thus
mov'd,
And never love, except thou be belov'd:
For such an humour every woman seiseth,
She loves not him that plaineth, but that pleaseth.
When much thou lovest, most disdaine comes on
[thee;
thee,
And when thou thinkst to hold her, she flyes from
She follow'd, flyes; she fled from, followes post,
And loveth best where she is hated most.
'Tis ever noted, both in maides and wives,
Their hearts and tongues are never relatives.
Know, if you stand on faith, most women's loathing,
'Tis but a word, a character of nothing.
Admit it somewhat, if what we call constance,
Within a heart hath no long time residence,
And in a woman, she becomes alone
Faire to herselfe, but foule to every one.
If in a man it once have taken place,
He is a foole, or doates, or wants a face
To winne a woman, and I thinke it be
No vertue, but a meere necessitie." [" have done,
"Heaven's powers deuy it swaine" (quoth she)
Strive not to bring that in derision,
Which whosoe'er detracts in setting forth,
Doth truly derogate from his owne worth.
It is a thing which Heaven to all hath lent
To be their vertue's chiefest orn iment:
Which whoso wants, is well compar'd to these
False tables, wrought by Alcibiades ;
Which noted well of all, were found t' have bin
Most faire without, but most deform'd within.
Then shepheard know that I intend to be
As true to one, as he is false to me."
"To one?" (quoth he) "why so? Maides pleasure take
To see a thousand languish for their sake:
Women desire for lovers of each sort,
And why not you? Th' amorous swaine for sport;
The lad that drives the greatest flocke to field,
Will buskins, gloves, and other fancies yeeld;
The gallant swaine will save you from the jawes
Of ravenous bears, and from the lyon's pawes.
Beleeve what I propound; doe many chuse,
'The least hearbe in the field serves for some use.""
Nothing perswaded, nor asswag'd by this,
Was fairest Marine, or her heavinesse :
But prais'd the shepheard as he ere did hope,
His silly sheepe should fearelesse have the scope
Of all the shadowes that the trees do lend,
From Raynard's stealth, when Titan doth ascend,
And runne his mid-way course; to leave her there,
And to his bleating charge againe repaire.
He condescended; left her by the brooke,
And to the swaine and's sheepe himselfe betooke.
He gone: she with herselfe thus gan to saine;
"Alas poore Marine, think'st thou to attaine
His love by sitting here? or can the fire
Be quencht with wood? can we allay desire
By wanting what's desired? O that breath,
The cause of life, should be the cause of death!
That who is shipwrackt on love's hidden shelfe,
Doth live to others, dyes unto herselfe.
Why might I not attempt by death as yet
To gaine that freedom, which I could not get,
Being hind'red heretofore; a time as free,
A place as fit offers itselfe to me,
Whose seed of ill is growne to such a height,
That makes the earth groane to support his weight.
Who so is lull'd asleepe with Midas' treasures,
And onely feares by death to lose life's pleasures;
Let them feare death: but since my fault is such,
And onely fault, that I have lov'd too much,
On joyes of life why should I stand! for those
Which I neere had, I surely cannot lose.
Admit a while I to those thoughts consented,
'Death can be but deferred, not prevented.'"
They represented a god or goddess without, and a Silenus or deformed piper within. Erasmus has a curious dissertation on Sileni Alcibiades.Adag. p. 667. Edit. R. Stephens.
I shall goe on and first in diff'ring stripe,
The floud-god's speech thus tune on oaten pipe.
"Or mortall, or a power above,
Inrag'd by fury, or by love,
Or both, I know not, such a deede,
Thou would'st effected, that I blede
To thinke thereon: alas! poore elfe,
What, growne a traitour to thyselfe?
This face, this haire, this band so pure
Were not ordain'd for nothing sure.
Nor was it meant so sweet a breath
Should be expos'd by such a death;
But rather in some lover's brest
Be given up, the place that best
Befits a lover yeeld his soule.
Nor should those mortals ere controule
The gods, that in their wisdome sage
Appointed have what pilgrimage
Each one should runne: and why should men
Abridge the journey set by them?
But much I wonder any wight
If he did turne his outward sight
Into his inward, dar'd to act
Her death, whose body is compact
Of all the beauties ever Nature
Laid up in store for earthly creature.
No savage beast can be so cruell
To rob the Earth of such a jewell.
Rather the stately unicorne
Would in his brest enraged scorne,
That maides committed to his charge
By any beast in forrest large
Shoul'd so be wrong'd. Satyres rude
Durst not attempt, or ere intrude
With such a minde the flowry balkes
Where harmelesse virgines have their walkes.
Would she be wonne with me to stay,
My waters should bring from the sea
The corrall red, as tribute due,
And roundest pearles of orient hue:
Or in the richer veines of ground
Should seeke for her the diamond,
And whereas now unto my spring
They nothing else but gravell bring,
They should within a mine of gold
In piercing manner long time hold,
And having it to dust well wrought,
By them it hither should be brought;
With which ile pave and over-spread
My bottome, where her foote shall tread.
The best of fishes in my flood
Shall give themselves to be her food.
The trout, the dace, the pike, the breame,
The eele, that loves the troubled streame,
The miller's thumbe, the hiding loach,
The perch, the ever-nibling roach,
The shoales with whom is Tavie fraught,
The foolish gudgeon quickly caught,
And last the little minnow-fish,
Whose chief delight in gravell is.
"In right she cannot me despise
Because so low mine empire lyes.
For I could tell how Nature's store
Of majesty appeareth more
In waters, than in all the rest
Of elements. It seem'd her best.
To give the waves most strength and powre:
For they doe swallow and devoure
The earth; the waters quence and kill
The flames of fire: and mounting still
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