and him she sweetely kist.
With that the shepheard whoop’d for ioy,
Quoth he, ther’s neuer shepheards boy,
that euer was so blist.
Gorbo.
Now by my sheep-hooke here’s a tale alone,
Learne me the same and I will giue thee hier,
This were as good as curds for our Ione,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.
Motto.
Why gentle hodge I will not sticke for that,
when we two meeten here another day,
But see whilst we haue set vs downe to chat,
yon tikes of mine begin to steale away.
And if thou wilt but come vnto our greene,
on Lammas day when as we haue our feast,
Thou shalt sit next vnto our summer Queene,
and thou shalt be the onely welcome guest.
THE NINTH EGLOG.
When cole-blacke night with sable vaile
eclipsd the gladsome light,
Rowland in darkesome shade alone,
bemoanes his wofull plight.
WHAT time the wetherbeaten flockes,
forsooke the fields to shrowd them in the folde,
The groues dispoyl’d of their fayre summer lockes,
the leaueles branches nipt with frostie colde,
The drouping trees their gaynesse all agone,
In mossie mantles doe expresse their moane.
When Phoebus from his Lemmans louely bower,
throughout the sphere had ierckt his angry Iades,
His Carre now pass’d the heauens hie welked Tower,
gan dragge adowne the occidentall slades,
In silent shade of desart all alone,
Thus to the night, Rowland bewrayes his moane.
Oh blessed starres which lend the darknes light,
the glorious paynting of that circled throane,
You eyes of heauen, you lanthornes of the night,
to you bright starres, to you I make my moane,
Or end my dayes, or ease me of my griefe,
The earth is frayle, and yeelds me no reliefe.
And thou fayre Phebe, cleerer to my sight,
then Tytan is when brightest he hath shone,
Why shouldst thou now shut vp thy blessed light,
and sdayne to looke on thy Endymion?
Perhaps the heauens me thus despight haue done,
Because I durst compare thee with their sunne.
If drery sighes the tempests of my brest,
or streames of teares from floods of weeping eyes,
If downe-cast lookes with darksome cloudes opprest,
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,
If these, nor her, nor you, to pittie moue,
There’s neither helpe in you, nor hope in loue.
Oh fayr’st that liues, yet most vnkindest mayd,
O whilome thou the ioy of all my flocke,
Why haue thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayd,
Vnto thy hart more hard then flintie rocke,
And lastly thus depriu’d me of their sight,
From whome my loue deriues both life and light.
Those dapper ditties pend vnto her prayse,
and those sweete straynes of tunefull pastorall,
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish layes,
and recketh as the rustick madrigall,
Her lippes prophane Ideas sacred name,
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.
Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,
wherewith I crown’d her tresses in the prime,
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,
made to disport her in the summer time:
She hates the sports and pastimes I inuent,
And as the toade, flies all my meriment.
With holy verses heryed I her gloue,
and dew’d her cheekes with fountaines of my teares,
And carold her full many a lay of loue,
twisting sweete Roses in her golden hayres.
Her wandring sheepe full safely haue I kept,
And watch’d her flocke full oft when she hath slept.
Oenon neuer vpon Ids hill,
so oft hath cald on Alexanders name,
As hath poore Rowland with an Angels quill,
erected trophies of Ideas fame:
Yet that false shepheard Oenon fled from thee,
I follow her that euer flies from me.
Ther’s not a groue that wonders not my woe,
there’s not a riuer weepes not at my tale:
I heare the ecchoes (wandring too and froe)
resound my griefe in euery hill and dale,
The beasts in field, with many a wosull groane,
The birds in ayre help to expresse my moane.
Where been those lines? the heraulds of my heart,
my plaints, my tears, my vowes, my sighes, my prayers?
O what auayleth fayth, or what my Artes?
O loue, O hope, quite turn’d into despayres:
She stops her eares as Adder to the charmes,
And lets me lye and languish in my harmes.
All is agone, such is my endles griefe,
And my mishaps amended naught with moane,
I see the heauens will yeeld me no reliefe:
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,
And teares I see, doe me auayle no good,
But as great showres increase the rising flood.
With folded armes, thus hanging downe his head,
he gaue a groane as though his heart had broke,
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,
he fetch’d a sigh, but neuer a word he spoke:
For now his heart wax’d cold as any stone,
Was neuer man aliue so woe begone.
With that fayre Cinthya stoups her glittering vayle,
and diues adowne into the Ocean flood,
The easterne brow which erst was wan and pale,
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:
The whistling Larke ymounted on her wings,
To the gray morrow, her good morrow sings.
When this poore shepheard Rowland of the Rocke,
whose faynting legges his body scarse vpheld,
Each shepheard now returning to his flocke,
alone poore Rowland fled the pleasant field,
And in his Coate got to a vechie bed:
Was neuer man aliue so hard bested.
THE LEGEND OF PIERS GAVESTON
To the worthy and honorable Gentleman, Maister Henry Caundish, Esquire.
TIME-ENOBLED GENTLEMAN, and euer-honoured Ma. Caundish, highly esteeming you (in mine owne opinion,) amongst the number of those, who for theyr rare deserts and excellencie of their minds, (in this world-declining age,) haue their names registred in the Catilogue of the most worthiest of this time, as a kinde Maecenas to Schollers, & a fauourer of learning and Arts: which shall engraue your name with the Diamond of Fame in the Christall mirror of Heauen. I present to your iudiciall view, the tragicall discourse, of the life, death, and fortune of PEIRS GAVESTON, whose name hath been obscured so many yeeres, and ouer-past by the Tragaedians of these latter times: assuring my selfe your honourable patronage shall protect him, against the Art-hating humorists of this malicious time, whose enuious thoughts (like Quailes) feed only on poyson, snarling (like doggs) at euery thing which neuer so little disagreeeth from their owne Stoicall dispositions.
Thus confirming my selfe in your fauourable and gracious acceptance of my Muse, which in my loue I euer consecrate to your honorable House, I wish you that happines, which is due to your own worth and good desart.
Your euer affectionate,
Michaell Drayton.
PEIRS GAVESTON.
FROM gloomy shaddowe of eternall night,
Where cole-black darknes keeps his lothsome cel,
And from those Ghostes, who
se eyes abhorre the light,
From thence I come a wofull tale to tell:
Prepare the Stage, I meane to acte my parte,
Sighing the scenes from my tormented hart.
From Stygian lake, to gracelesse soules assign’d,
And from the floud of burning Acheron,
Where sinfull spirites are by the fier refinde,
The fearefull Ghost of wofull Gaueston:
With black-fac’d furies from the graues attended,
Vntill the tenor of my tale be ended.
Wing-footed Fame now sommons me from death,
In Fortunes triumph to aduance my glorie,
The blessed Heauens againe doe lend me breath,
Whilst I reporte this dolefull Tragick storie:
That soule and bodie, which death once did sunder,
Now meete together to reporte a wonder.
O purple-buskind Pallas most diuine
Let thy bright fauchion lend me Cypresse bowes,
Be thou assistinge to this Poet of mine,
And with thy tragicke garland girte his browes,
Pitying my case, when none would heare me weepe
To tell my cares hath layde his owne to sleepe.
You mournfull maydens of the sacred nine,
You destinies which haunt the shades beneath,
To you fayre muses I my playnts resigne,
To you black spirits I my woes bequeath,
With sable pens of direfull ebonie
To pen the processe of my tragedie.
Drawe on the lines which shall report my life
With weeping words distilling from thy pen,
Where woes abound and ioyes are passing rife,
A verie meteor in the eies of men,
Wherein the world a wonder-world may see
Of heauen-bred ioye and hell-nurst miserie.
Declare my ebs, my often swelling tide,
Now tell my calmes, and then report my showres,
My winters stormes, and then my summers pride,
False fortunes smiles, then her dissembling lowres,
The height wherto my glorie did ascend:
Then poynt the period where my ioyes did end.
When famous Edward wore the english crowne
Victorious Long shankes flower of chiualrie,
First of his name that raignd in Albion,
Through worlds renownd to all posteritie:
My youth began, and then began my blis,
Euen in his daies, those blessed daies of his.
O daies, no daies, but little worlds of mirth:
O yeares, no yeares, time sliding with a trice:
O world, no world, a verie heauen on earth:
O earth, no earth, a verie paradice:
A King, a man, nay more then this was hee,
If earthly man, more then a man might bee.
Such a one he was, as Englands Beta is,
Such as she is, euen such a one was he,
Betwixt her rarest excellence and his
Was neuer yet so neare a Sympathy,
To tell your worth, and to giue him his due,
I say my soueraigne, he was like to you.
His court a schoole, where artes were daily red,
And yet a campe where armes were exercised,
Vertue and learning here were nourished,
And stratagems by souldiers still deuised:
Heere skilfull schoolmen were his counsaylors,
Schollers his captaines, captaines Senators.
Here sprang the roote of true gentilitie,
Vertue was clad in gold and crownd with honor,
Honor intitled to Nobilitie,
Admired so of all that looked on her:
Wisedome, not wealth, possessed wisemens roomes,
Vnfitting base insinuating groomes.
Then Machiuels were loth’d as filthie toades,
And good men as rare pearles were richly prized,
The learned were accounted little Gods,
The vilest Atheist as the plague despised:
Desert then gaynd, that vertues merit craues,
And artles Pesants scorn’d as basest slaues.
Pride was not then, which all things ouerwhelms:
Promotion was not purchased with gold,
Men hew’d their honor out of steeled helms:
In those dayes fame with bloud was bought and sold,
No petri-fogger pol’d the poore for pence,
These dolts, these dogs, as traytors banisht hence.
Then was the Souldier prodigall of bloud,
His deedes eternizd by the Poets pen:
Who would not dye to doe his countrey good,
When after death his fame yet liu’d to men?
Then learning liu’d with liberalitie,
And men were crownd with immortalitie.
Graunt pardon then vnto my wandring ghost,
Although I seeme lasciuious in my prayse,
And of perfection though I seeme to boast,
Whilst here on earth I troad this weary maze,
Whilst yet my soule in bodie did abide,
And whilst my flesh was pampred here in pride.
My valiant father was in Gascoygne borne,
A man at armes, and matchles with his launce,
A Souldier vow’d, and to King Edward sworne,
With whom he seru’d in all his wars in Fraunce,
His goods and lands he pawnd and layd to gage
To follow him, the wonder of that age.
And thus himselfe he from his home exil’d,
Who with his sword sought to aduance his fame,
With me his ioy, but then a little child,
Vnto the Court of famous England came,
Whereas the King, for seruice he had done,
Made me a page vnto the Prince his sonne.
My tender youth yet scarce crept from the shell,
Vnto the world brought such a wonderment,
That all perfection seem’d in me to dwell,
And that the heauens me all their graces lent:
Some sware I was the quintessence of nature,
And some an Angell, and no earthly creature.
The heauens had lim’d my face with such a die
As made the curiost eie on earth amazed,
Tempring my lookes with loue and maiestie,
A miracle to all that euer gazed,
So that it seem’d some power had in my birth,
Ordained me his Image here on earth.
O bewtious vernish of the heauens aboue,
Pure grain-dy’d colour of a perfect birth,
O fairest tincture adamant of loue,
Angell-hewd blush the prospectiue of mirth,
O sparkling luster ioying humaine sight,
Liues ioy, hearts fire, Loues nurse, the soules delight.
As purple-tressed Titan with his beames,
The sable cloudes of night in sunder cleaueth
Enameling the earth with golden streames,
When he his crimson Canopie vpheaueth,
Such was my beauties pure translucent rayes,
Which cheerd the Sun, & cleerd the drouping dayes.
My lookes perswading orators of Loue,
My speech diuine infusing harmonie,
And euery worde so well could passion moue,
So were my gestures grac’d with modestie,
As where my thoughts intended to surprize,
I easly made a conquest with mine eyes.
A gracious minde a passing louely eye,
A hand that gaue, a mouth that neuer vaunted,
A chaste desire, a tongue that would not lye,
A lyons heart, a courage neuer daunted,
A sweet conceit in such a cariage placed
As with my gesture all my words were graced.
Such was the worke which nature had begonne,
As promised a gem of wondrous price,
This little star foretold a g
lorious sunne,
This curious plot an earthly paradice,
This globe of bewtie wherin all might see
An after world of wonders here in mee.
As in the Autumnall season of the yeare,
Some death-presaging comet doth arise,
Or some prodigious mete or doth appeare,
Or fearfull Chasma vnto humaine eyes:
Euen such a wonder was I to behold
Where heauen seem’d all her secrets to vnfold.
If cunning’st pensill-man that euer wrought
By skilfull arte of secret sumetry,
Or the diuine Idea of the thought
With rare descriptions of high poesy,
Should all compose a body and a mind,
Such a one seem’d I, the wonder of my kind.
With this fayre bayte I fisht for Edwards loue,
My daintie youth so pleasd his princely eye:
Here sprang the league which time could not remoue,
So deeply grafted in our Infancie,
That frend, nor foe, nor life, nor death could sunder,
So seldome seene, and to the world a wonder.
O heauenly concord, musicke of the minde,
Touching the heart-strings with such harmonie,
The ground of nature, and the law of kinde,
Which in coniunction doe so well agree,
Whose reuolution by effect doth proue,
That mortall men are made diuine by loue.
O strong combining chaine of secrecie,
Sweet ioy of heauen, the Angels oratorie,
The bond of faith, the seale of sanctitie,
The soules true blisse, youths solace, ages glorie,
An endles league, a bond thats neuer broken,
A thing diuine, a word with wonder spoken.
With this fayre Bud of that same blessed Rose,
Edward surnam’d Carnaruan by his birth,
Who in his youth it seem’d that Nature chose
To make the like, whose like was not on earth,
Had not his lust and my lasciuious will
Made him and me the instruments of ill.
With this sweete Prince, the mirror of my blisse,
My souls delight, my ioy, my fortunes pride,
My youth enioyd such perfect happines,
Whil’st tutors care, his wandring yeares did guide,
As his affections on my thoughts attended,
And with my life, his ioyes began and ended.
Whether it were my beauties excellence,
Or rare perfections that so pleasd his eye,
Or some diuine and heauenly influence,
Or naturall attracting Sympathie:
My pleasing youth became his senses obiect,
Where all his passions wrought vpon this subiect.
Collected Works of Michael Drayton Page 11