The aire repines, the penciue birds are heauie,
The trees to see vs paind no more are leauie.
Ay me, the shepheards let their flocks want feeding, And flockes to see their palie face are sorie,
The nimphes to spie the flockes and shepheards needing
Prepare their teares to heare our tragicke storie: Whilst we surprisde with griefe cannot disclose them,
With sighing wish the world for to suppose them.
He that hath seene the sweete Arcadian boy
Wiping the purple from his forced wound,
His pretie teares betokening his annoy,
His sighes, his cries, his falling on the ground,
The ecchoes ringing from the rockes his fall,
The trees with teares reporting of his thrall.
And Venus starting at her loue-mate's crie
Forcing her birds to hast her chariot on ;
And full of griefe at last with piteous eie
Seene where all pale with death he lay alone,
Whose beautie quaild as wont the lillies droop
When wastfull winter windes doo make them stoop:
Her daintie hand addrest to clawe her deere,
Her roseall lip alied to his pale cheeke,
Her sighes, and then her lookes and heauie chcere,
Her bitter threates, and then her passions mecke,
How on his senseles corpes she lay a crying,
As if the boy were then but new a dying.
He that hath vewd Angelica the faire
Bestraught with fancie nere the Caspian springs:
Renting the tresses of her golden haire,
How on her harpe with pitious notes she sings
Of Roland's ruth, of Medor's false depart,
Sighing each rest from center of her heart.
How now she writes upon a beechen bow
Her Medor's name, and bedlam like againe
Calls all the heauen to witnes of his vow,
And straight againe begins a mournefull straine,
And how in thought of her true faith forsooken
He fled her bowres, and how his league was broken.
Aye me, who markes her harpe hang vp againe
Upon the willowes watered with her teares,
And how she rues to read her Roland's paine,
When but the shadowe of his name appeares ;
Would make more plainings from his eyes to flee
Than teares distill from amber weeping tree.
He that hath knowne the passionate mishappes
That nere Olimpus faire Lucina felt
When as her Latium love her fancie trappes,
How with suspect her inward soule dooth melt:
Or markt the morne, her Cephalus complaining,
May then recount the course of all our paining.
But, tender nimphes, to you belongs no teene;
Then fauor me in flying from this bower
Whereas but care and thought of crosses been,
Leaue me that loose my selfe through fancies power,
Through fancies power which had I leaue to loose it,
No fancie then should fee me for to choose it.
When you are fled the heauen shall lowre for sorrowe,
The day orecast shall be bedtime* with sable
The aire from sea such streaming showres shall borrow
As earth to beare the brunt shall not be able,
And shippes shall safely saile, whereas beforne
The ploughman watcht the reaping of his corne.
Goe you in peace to Neptune's watrie sound,
No more may Glaucus play him with so prettie,
But shun resort where solace nill be found,
And plaine my Scillaes pride; and want of pittie,
Alas, sweet nimphs my godhead's all in vaine,
For why this brest includes immortall paine.
Scilla hath eyes, but too sweete eyes hath Scilla; Scilla hath hands, faire hands but coy in touching; Scilla in wit surpasseth graue Sibilla,
Scilla hath words, but words well storde with grutching;
Scilla a saint in looke, no saint in scorning
Looke saint-like Scilla, least I die with mourning.
Alas, why talke I?—sea-god cease to mourne her,
For in her nay my ioyes are ever ceasing:
Cease life or loue, then shall I neuer blame her;
But neither loue nor life may finde decreasing.
A mortall wound is my immortall being
Which passeth thought, or eyes aduised seeing.
Herewith his faltring tongue by sighs oppressed
Forsooke his office, and his bloud resorted
To feede the heart that wholly was distressed,
Whilst pale (like Pallas' flowre) my knee supported
His feeble head and arme, so full of anguish,
That they which sawe his sorrowes gan to lan-
guish.
Themis, the coyest of this beauteous traine
On hillie toppes the wonderous Moly found,
Which dipt in balmie deaw she gan, to straine,
And brought her present to recure his wound:
Clore she gathered Amaranthus flower,
And Nais Aiax blossom in that stowre.
Some chafe his temples with their louelie hands,
Some sprinkle water on his pale wan cheekes,
Some weepe, some wake, some curse affections bandes,
To see so young, so faire, become so weake;
But not their pitious hearbs, or springs haue working
To ease that heart where wanton loue is lurking.
Naithles though loath to shewe his holy kindness
On euerie one he spent a looke for fauour,
And prayed their pardon, vouching Cupid's blindnes,
(Oh fancies fond that naught but sorrowes sauour);
To see a louely god leaue sea nimphs so:
Who cannot doome upon his deadly woe?
Themis that knewe, that waters long restrained Breake forth with greater billowes than the brookes That swetely float through meades with flowres dis
With cheerefull laies did raise his heauie lookes; And bad him speake and tell what him agreeu'd: For griefes disclos'd (said she) are soone releeu’d.
And as she wisht so all the rest did woe him;
By whose incessant suites at last inuited,
He thus discouered that which did undoo him,
And orderlie his hideous harmes recited,
When first, with fingers wagge he gan to still them,
And thus with drierie tearmes of loue did fill them.
Ah, nimphes (quoth he), had I by reason learnt That secret art which birdes haue gaind by sence, By due foresight misfortune to preuent;
Or could my wit controule mine eyes offence:
You then should smile, and I should tell such stories, As woods, and waues should triumph in our glories.
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