Braue Phoebus chayred in his golden throane,
Beholding him, in this pure Christall glasse,
See here the fayrest fayre that euer was.
Delicious fountaine, liquid christalline,
Mornings vermilion, verdant spring-times pride,
Purest of purest, most refined fine,
With crimson tincture curiously Idy’d,
Mother of Muses, great Apollos bride.
Earths heauen, worlds wonder, hiest house of fame,
Reuiuer of the dead, eye-killer of the liue,
Belou’d of Angels, Vertues greatest name,
Fauors rar’st feature, beauties prospectiue,
Oh that my verse thy vertues could contriue.
That stately Theater on whose fayre stage,
Each morall vertue actes a princely part,
Where euery scene pronounced by a Sage,
Eternizeth diuinest Poets Arte,
Ioyes the beholders eyes, and glads the hearers hart.
The worlds memorials, that sententious booke,
Where euery Comma, points a curious phrase,
Vpon whose method, Angels ioye to looke:
At euery Colon, Wisdomes selfe doth pause,
And euery Period hath his hie applause.
Read in her eyes a Romant of delights,
Read in her words the prouerbs of the wise,
Read in her life the holy vestall rites,
Which loue and vertue sweetly moralize:
And she the Academ of vertues exercise.
But on thy volumes who is there may comment,
When as thy selfe hath Arts selfe vndermined:
Or vndertake to coate thy learned margent,
When learnings lines are euer enterlined,
And purest words, are in thy mouth refined.
Knewest thou thy vertues, oh thou fayr’st of fayrest,
Thou earths sole Phenix, of the world admired,
Vertue in thee repurify’d and rarest,
Whose endles fame by time is not expired,
Then of thy selfe would thy selfe be admired.
But arte wants arte to frame so pure a Myrror,
Where humaine eyes may view thy vertues beautie,
When fame is so surprised with the terror,
wanting to pay the tribute of her duetie,
with colours who can paint out vertues beautie.
But since vnperfect are the perfects colours,
And skill is so vnskilfull how to blaze thee:
Now will I make a myrror of my dolours,
and in my teares then looke thy selfe and prayse thee,
oh happy I, if such a glasse might please thee.
Goe gentle windes and whisper in her eare,
and tell Idea how much I adore her,
And thou my flock, reporte vnto my fayre,
How she excelleth all that went before her,
Tell her the very foules in ayre adore her.
And thou cleare Brooke by whose fayre siluer streame,
Grow those tall Okes where I haue caru’d her name,
Conuay her praise to Neptunes watery Realme,
refresh the rootes of her still growing fame,
and teach the Dolphins to resound her name.
Motto.
Cease shepheard cease, reserue thy Muses store,
Till after time shall teach thy Oaten reede,
Aloft in ayre with Egles wings to sore,
and sing in honor of some worthies deede,
to serue Idea in some better steede.
She sees not shepheard, no she will not see,
her rarest vertues blazond by thy quill,
Nor knowes the effect the same hath wrought in thee,
The very tuch and anuile of thy skill,
and this is that which bodeth all thy ill.
Yet if her vertues glorie shall decay,
Or if her beauties flower shall hap to fall,
Or any cloud eclipse her sun-shine day,
Then looke (Idea) in thy pastorall,
And thou thy vertues vnto minde shalt call,
Rowland.
Shepheard farewell, the skies begin to lowre,
Yon pitchie clowd which hangeth in the West,
I feare me doth presage some sodaine showre,
Come let vs home, for so I think it best,
For all our flocks been laid them downe to rest.
Motto.
And if thou list to come vnto my Coate,
Although (God knowes) my cheere be to too small,
And wealth with me was neuer yet afloate,
Yet take in gree what euer doe befall,
And wee will sit, and sing a mery madrigall.
Rowland.
Per superos iuro testes, pampamque Deorum,
Te Dominam nobis tempus in omne fore.
Motto.
Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem,
Iunctáque semper erunt nomina nostratuis.
THE SIXT EGLOG.
Good Gorbo cals to mind the fame,
of our old Ancestrie:
And Perkin sings Pandoras prayse,
The Muse of Britanye.
Perkin.
ALL haile good Gorbo, yet return’d at last,
What tell me man? how goes the world with thee?
What is it worse then it was wont to be?
Or been thy youthfull dayes already past?
Haue patience man, for wealth will come and goe,
And to the end the world shall ebbe and flowe.
The valiant man, whose thoughts on hie been placed,
And sees sometime how fortune list to rage,
With wisdome still his actions so doth gage,
As with her frownes he no whit is disgraced,
And when she fawnes, and turnes her squinting eye,
Bethinks him then, of her inconstancie.
When as the Cullian, and the viler Clowne,
Who with the swine, on draffe sets his desire,
And thinks no life to wallowing in the myre,
In stormie tempest, dying layes him downe,
Yet tasting weale, the asse begins to bray,
And feeling woe, the beast consumes away.
Gorbo.
So said the Sage in his Philofophie,
The Lordly hart inspir’d with noblesse,
With courage doth his crosses still suppresse,
His patience doth his passions mortifie,
when other folke this paine cannot endure,
because they want this med’cine for their cure.
Perkin.
And yet oft times the world I doe admire,
When as the wise and vertuous men I see,
Be hard beset with neede and pouertie,
And lewdest fooles to highest things aspire,
what should I say? that fortune is to blame?
or vnto whome should I impute this shame.
Gorbo.
Vertue and Fortune neuer could agree,
Foule Fortune euer was faire vertues foe,
Blinde Fortune blindly doth her gifts bestowe,
But vertue wise, and wisely doth foresee,
they tall which trust to fortunes fickle wheele,
but staied by vertue, men shall neuer reele.
Perkin.
If so, why should she not be more regarded,
Why should men cherish vice and villanie,
And maintaine sinne and basest rogerie,
And vertue thus so slightly be rewarded,
this shewes that we full deepe dissemblers be,
and all we doe, but meere hypocrisie.
Gorbo.
Where been those Nobles, Perkin, where been they?
Where been those worthies, Perkin, which of yore,
This gentle Ladie did so much adore?
And for her Impes did with such care puruey,
they been yswadled in their winding sheete,
and she (I thinke) is buried at t
heir feete.
Oh worthy world, wherein those worthies liued,
Vnworthy world, of such men so vnworthy,
Vnworthy age, of all the most vnworthy,
Which art of these so worthy men depriued,
and inwardly in vs is nothing lesse,
Than outwardly that, which we most professe.
Perkin.
Nay stay good Gorbo, Vertue is not dead,
Nor all her friends be gone which wonned here,
She liues with one who euer held her deere,
And to her lappe for succour she is fled,
In her sweete bosome, she hath built her nest,
And from the world, euen there she liues at rest.
Vnto this sacred Ladie she was left,
(To be an heire-loome) by her ancestrie,
And so bequeathed by their legacie,
When on their death-bed, life was them berest:
And as on earth together they remayne,
Together so in heauen they both shall raigne.
Oh thou Pandora, through the world renoun’d,
The glorious light, and load starre of our West,
With all the vertues of the heauens possest,
With mighty groues of holy Lawrell cround,
Erecting learnings long decayed fame,
Heryed and hallowed be thy sacred name.
The flood of Helicon, forspent and drie,
Her sourse decayd with foule obliuion,
The fountaine flowes againe in thee alone,
Where Muses now their thirst may satisfie,
And old Apollo, from Pernassus hill,
May in this spring refresh his droughty quill.
The Graces twisting garlands for thy head,
Thy Iuorie temples deckt with rarest flowers,
Their rootes refreshed with diuinest showers,
Thy browes with mirtle all inueloped,
shepheards erecting trophies to thy praise,
lauding thy name in songs and heauenly laies.
Sapphos sweete vaine in thy rare quill is seene,
Minerua was a figure of thy worth,
Mnemosine, who brought the Muses forth,
Wonder of Britaine, learnings famous Queene,
Apollo was thy Syer, Pallas her selfe thy mother,
Pandora thou, our Phoebus was thy brother.
Delicious Larke, sweete musick of the morrow,
Cleere bell of Rhetoricke, ringing peales of loue,
Ioy of the Angels, sent vs from aboue,
Enchanting Syren, charmer of all sorrow,
the loftie subiect a heauenly tale,
Thames fairest Swanne, our summers Nightingale.
Arabian Phenix, wonder of thy sexe,
Louely, chaste, holy, Myracle admired,
With spirit from the highest heauen inspired,
Oh thou alone, whome fame alone respects,
Natures chiefe glory, learnings richest prize,
hie Ioues Empresa, vertues Paradize.
Oh glorie of thy nation, beauty of thy name,
Ioy of thy countrey, blesser of thy birth,
Thou blazing Comet, Angel of the earth,
Oh Poets Goddesse, sun-beame of their fame:
whome time through many worlds hath sought to
thou peerles Paragon of woman kinde. (find,
Thy glorious Image, gilded with the sunne,
Thy lockes adorn’d with an immortall crowne,
Mounted aloft, vpon a Chrystal throne,
When by thy death, thy life shalbe begun:
the blessed Angels tuning to the spheares,
with Gods sweete musick, charme thy sacred eares.
From Fayrie Ile, deuided from the mayne,
To vtmost Thuly fame transports thy name,
To Garamant shall thence conuey the same,
Where taking wing, and mounting vp againe,
from parched banckes on sun-burnt. Affricks shore,
shall flie as farre as erst she came of yore.
And gentle Zephire from his pleasant bower,
Whistling sweete musick to the shepheards rime,
The Ocean billowes duely keeping time,
Playing vpon Neptunus brazen tower:
louers of learning shouting out their cries,
shaking the Center with th’applaudities.
Whilst that great engine, on her axeltree,
Doth role about the vaultie circled Globe,
Whilst morning mantleth, in her purple Robe,
Or Tytan poste his sea Queenes bower to see,
whilst Phoebus crowne, adornes the starrie skie,
Pandoras fame so long shall neuer die.
When all our siluer swans shall cease to sing,
And when our groues shall want their Nightingales,
When hils shall heare no more our shepheards tales,
Nor ecchoes with our Roundelayes shall ring,
the little birdes long listning to thy fame,
shall teach their ofspring to record thy name.
Ages shall tell such wonders of thy name,
And thou in death thy due desert shalt haue,
That thou shalt be immortall in thy graue,
Thy vertues adding force vnto thy fame,
so that vertue with thy fames wings shall flie,
and by thy fame shall vertue neuer die.
Vpon thy toombe shall spring a Lawrell tree,
Whose sacred shade shall serue thee for an hearse,
Vpon whose leaues (in golde) ingrau’d this verse,
Dying she liues, whose like shall neuer be,
a spring of Nectar flowing from this tree,
the fountayne of eternali memorie.
To adorne the trrumph of eternitie,
Drawne with the steedes which dragge the golden sunne,
Thy wagon through the milken way shall runne,
Millions of Angels still attending thee,
Millions of Saints shall thy liues prayses sing,
pend with the quill of an Archangels wing.
Gorbo.
Long may Pandora weare the Lawrell crowne,
The ancient glory of her noble Peers,
And as the Egle: Lord renew her yeeres,
Long to vpholde the proppe of our renowne,
long may she be as she hath euer beene,
the lowly handmaide of the Fayrie Queene.
Non mihi mille placent: non sum desertor Amoris:
Tu mihi (si quafides) curaperennis eris.
THE SEVENTH EGLOG.
Borrill an aged shepheard swaine,
with reasons doth reprooue,
Batte a foolish want on boy,
but lately falne in loue.
Batte.
BORILL, why sit’st thou musing in thy coate?
like dreaming Merlyn in his drowsie Cell,
What may it be with learning thou doest doate,
or art inchanted with some Magick spell?
Or wilt thou an Hermites life professe?
And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?
See how faire Flora decks our fields with flowers,
and clothes our groues in gaudie summers greene,
And wanton Uer distils rose-water showers,
to welcome Ceres, haruests hallowed Queene,
Who layes abroad her louely sun-shine haires,
Crown’d with great garlands of her golden eares.
Now shepheards layne their blankets all awaie,
and in their lackets minsen on the plaines,
And at the riuers fishen daie by daie,
now none so frolicke as the shepheards swaines,
Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome caue,
As though a man were buried quicke in graue.
Borrill.
Batte, my coate from tempest standeth free,
when stately towers been often shakt with wind,
And wilt thou Batte, come and sit with me?
contented life here shalt thou
onely finde,
Here mai’st thou caroll Hymnes, and sacred Psalmes,
And hery Pan, with orizons and almes.
And scorne the crowde of such as cogge for pence,
and waste their wealth in sinfull brauerie,
Whose gaine is losse, whose thrift is lewd expence,
and liuen still in golden slauery:
Wondring at toyes, as foolish worldlings doone,
Like to the dogge which barked at the moone.
Here maist thou range the goodly pleasant field,
and search out simples to procure thy heale,
What sundry vertues hearbs and flowres doe yeeld,
gainst griefe which may thy sheepe or thee assaile:
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmeles Hare,
Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.
Or if thou wilt in antique Romants reede,
of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore,
In forraine lands atchieu’d their noble deede,
and been renownd from East to Westerne shore:
Or learne the shepheards nice astrolobie,
To know the Planets moouing in the skie.
Batte.
Shepheard these things been all too coy for mee,
whose lustie dayes should still be spent in mirth,
These mister artes been better fitting thee, (earth:
whose drouping dayes are drawing towards the
What thinkest thou? my iolly peacocks trayne,
Shall be acoyd and brooke so foule a stayne?
These been for such as make them votarie,
and take them to the mantle and the ring,
And spenden day and night in dotarie,
hammering their heads, musing on heauenly thing,
And whisper still of sorrow in their bed,
And done despise all loue and lustie head:
Like to the curre, with anger well neere woode,
who makes his kennel in the Oxes stall,
And snarleth when he seeth him take his foode,
and yet his chaps can chew no hay at all.
Borrill, euen so it fareth now with thee,
And with these wisards of thy mysterie.
Borrill.
Sharpe is the thorne, full soone I see by thee,
bitter the blossome, when the fruite is sower,
And early crook d, that will a Camock bee,
rough is the winde before a sodayne shower:
Pittie thy wit should be so wrong mislead,
And thus be guyded by a giddie head.
Ah foolish else, I inly pittie thee,
misgouerned by thy lewd brainsick will:
The hidden baytes, ah fond thou do’st not see,
nor find’st the cause which breedeth all thy ill:
Thou think’st all golde, that hath a golden shew,
And art deceiu’d, for it is nothing soe.
Such one art thou as is the little flie,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 9