Than Neptune's subject now, more than of yore: As loath to set his burden soone on shore.
"O Neptune! hadst thou kept them still with thee,
Though both were lost to us, and such as we, And with those beauteous birds, which on thy brest Get and bring up, afforded them a rest; Delos, that long time wand'ring piece of carth, Had not beene fam'd more for Diana's birth, Than those few planckes that bore them on the seas, By the blest issue of two such as these.
"But they were landed: so are not our woes, Nor ever shall, whilst from an eye there floweś One drop of moysture: to these present tines We will relate, and some sad shepheard's rhymes To after ages may their fates make knowne, And in their depth of sorrow drowne his owne. So our relation, and his mournfull verse, Of teares shall force such tribute to their herse, That not a private griefe shall ever thrive, But in that deluge fall, yet this survive.
"Two furlongs from the shore they had not gone, When from a low cast valley (having on Each hand a woody hill, whose boughes, unlopt, Have not alone at all times sadly dropt, And turn'd their stormes on her dejected brest, But when the fire of Heaven is ready prest To warme and further what it should bring forth, For lowly dales mate mountaines in their worth) The trees (as screenlike greatnesse) shade his raye, As it should shine on none but such as they, Came (and full sadly came) a haplesse wretch, Whose walkes and pastures once were knowne to stretch
From east to west, so farre that no dyke ran For noted bounds, but where the Ocean Ilis wrathfull billowes thrust, and grew as great in roles of fish as were the other's neate, Who, now rejected and depriv'd of all, Longs (and hath done so long) for funeral. For as with hanging head I have beheld A widow vinė, stand, in a naked field, Unhusbanded, neglected, all forlorne, Brouz'd on by deere, by cattle cropt and torne, Unpropt, unsuccoured, by stake or tree, From wreakefall stormes' impetuous tyranny, When, had a willing hand lent kind redresse, Her pregnant bunches might from out the presse Have sent a liquor, both for taste and show, No lesse divine than those of Malligo: Such was this wight, and such she might have beene, She both th' extreames hath felt of Fortune's teene, For never have we heard, from times of yore, One sometime envy'd, and now pitty'd more. Her object, as her state, is low as earth; Privation her companion; thoughts of mirth Irkesome; and in one selfe-same circle turning, With sodaine sports brought to a house of mourn- Of others' good her best beliefe is still And constant to her owne in nought but ill. The onely enemy and friend she knowes
Is Death, who, though deferres, must end her woes. Her contemplation frightfull as the night. She never lookes on any living wight Without comparison; and as the day Gives us, but takes the gloworme's light away, So the least ray of blisse on others throwne, Deprives and blindes all knowledge of her owne. Her comfort is, (if for her any be)
That none can slow more cause of griefe than she,
Yet somewhat she of adverse fate hath wonne; Who had undone her, were she not undone. For those that on the sea of greatnesse ryde Farre from the quiet shore, and where the tyde In ebbs and floods is ghess'd, not truely knowne; Expert of all estates except their owne, Keeping their station at the helme of state, Not by their vertues, but auspicious fate, Subject to calmes of favour, stormes of rage, Their actions noted as the common stage, Who, like a man borne blinde, that cannot be By demonstration showne what 'tis to see, Live still in ignorance of what they want, Till misery become the adamant,
And touch them for that poynt, to which, with speede,
None comes so sure as by the hand of neede. A mirrour strange she in her right hand bore, By which her friends from flatterers heretofore She could distinguish well; and by her side, (As in her full of happinesse) untyde, Unforc'd, and uncompel'd, did sadly goe (As if partaker of his mistresse' woe)
A loving spanyell, from whose rugged backe (The only thing (but death) she moanes to lacke) She pluckes the hayre, and working them in pleats, Furthers the suite which modestie intreates. Men call her Athliot: who cannot be More wretched made by infelicitie, Unlesse she here had an immortall breath, Or living thus, liv'd timerous of death. "Out of her lowly and forsaken dell She running came, and cryde to Philocel, Helpe! helpe! kinde shepheard, helpe! See yonder, where
A lovely lady, hung up by the hayre, Struggles, but mildely struggles, with the Fates, Whose thread of life spun to a thread that mates Dame Nature's in her haire, stayes them to wonder, While too fine twisting makes it break in sunder. So shrinkes the rose that with the flames doth meet, So gently bowes the virgin parchment sheet, So rowle the waves up, and fall out againe, As all her beautious parts, and all in vaine. Farre, farre above my helpe or hope in trying, Unknowne, and so more miserably dying, Sinoth'ring her torments in her panting brest, She meekely waites the time of her long rest. Hasten! O hasten then! kinde shepheard, baste !' "He went with her: and Coelia (that had grac'd Him past the world besides) seeing the way He had to goe not farre, rests on the lay.
That with a pious hand hung on the tree Garlands or raptures of sweet poesie) Which by her opened, with unweeting hand, A latle spray she pluckt, whose rich leaves fan'd And chatter'd with the ayre, as who should say, 'Doe not for once, O doe not this bewray! Nor give sound to a tongue for that intent! Who ignorantly sinnes, dyes innocent.'
"By this was Philocel returning backe, And in his band the lady; for whose wrack Nature had cleane forsworne to frame a wight So wholy pure, so truely exquisite :
But more deform'd, and from a rough-hewn mold, Since what is best lives seldome to be old. Within their sight was fayrest Coelia now; Who drawing neere, the life-priz'd golden bough Her love beheld. And, as a inother kinde, What time the new-cloath'd trees, by gusts of winde Unmov'd, stand wistly list'ning to those layes The feather'd quiristers upon their sprayes Chaunt to the merry Spring, and in the even She with her little sonne for pleasure given, To tread the fring'd banckes of an amorous flood, That with her musicke courts a sullen wood, Where ever talking with her onely blisse, That now before and then behinde her is, She stoopes for flowres, the choicest may be had, And bringing them to please her prittie lad, Spyes in his hand some banefull flowre or weed, Whereon he 'gins to smell, perhaps to feede, With a more earnest haste she runs unto him, And puls that from him which might else undoe So to his Cœlia hasted Philocel, And raught the bough away. Hid it: and fell To question if she broke it, or if then An eye beheld her? Of the race of men,'. (Replide she) when I took it from the tree, Assure yourselfe, was none to testifie. But what hath past since in your hand, behold A fellow running yonder over the wold Is well inform'd of. Can there (love) ensue, Tell me! oh, tell me! any wrong to you By what my hand hath ignorantly done?' (Quoth fearefull Colia) Philocel! be wonne By these unfained teares, as I by thine, To make thy greatest sorrowes partly mine!' ⚫ Cleere up these showres (my sun') quoth Philocel, ⚫ The ground it needes not. Nought is so from well, But that reward and kind intreaties may Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.' Thus wisely he supprest his height of woe, And did resolve, since none but they did know Truely who rent it: and the hatefull swaine, That lately past by them upon the plaine, (Whom well he knew did beare to him a hate, Though undeserved, so inveterate, That to his utmost powre he would assay To make his life have ending with that day) Except in his, had seene it in no hand, That he against all throes of Fate would stand, Acknowledge it his deede, and so afford A passage to his heart for justice' sword, Rather than by her losse the world should be Despiz'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.
"Now (with a vow of secrecy from both) Inforcing mirth, he with them homewards go'th; And by the time the shades of mighty woods Began to turne them to the easterne floods, They thither got: where, with undaunted hart, He welcomes both; and freely doth impart VOL VI
Such dainties as a shepheard's cottage yeelds, Tane from the fruitfull woods and fertile fields; No way distracted nor disturb'd at all : And, to prevent what likely might befall His truest Celia, in his apprehending, Thus to all future care gave final ending: Into their cup (wherein, for such sweet girles, Nature would myriades of richest pearles Dissolve, and by her powerfull simples strive To keepe them still on Earth, and still alive) Our swaine infus'd a powder, which they dranke: And to a pleasant roome (set on a banke Neere to his cote, where he did often use At vacant houres to entertaine his Muse) Brought them, and seated on a curious bed Till what he gave in operation sped, And rob'd them of his sight, and him of theirs, Whose new inlightning will be quench'd with
"The glasse of Time had well-nye spent the sand It had to run, ere with impartiall hand Justice must to her upright ballance take him: Which he (afraid it might too soone forsake him) Began to use as quickly as perceive,
And of his love thus tooke his latest leave.
"Cœlia! thou fairest creature ever eye Beheld, or yet put on mortalitie Coelia, that hast but just so much of earth, As makes thee capable of death! Thou birth Of every virtue, life of every good! Whose chastest sports, and daily taking food, Is imitation of the highest powres, Who to the earth lend seasonable showres, That it may beare, we to their altars bring Things worthy their accept, our offering. I the most wretched creature ever eye Behold, or yet put on mortalitie, Unhappy Philocel! that have of earth Too much to give my sorrowes endlesse birth, The spring of sad misfortunes; in whom lyes No blisse that with thy worth can sympathize, Clouded with woe that hence will never flit, Till Death's eternall night grow one with it, I, as a dying swan that sadly sings Her moanefull dirge unto the silver springs, Which, carelesse of her song, glide sleeping by Without one murmure of kind elegie, Now stand by thee; and as a turtle's mate With lamentations inarticulate,
The neere departure from her love beinones, Spend these my bootless sighs and killing grones. Here as a inan (by Justice' doome) exilde To coasts unknowne, to desarts rough and wilde, Stand I to take my latest leave of thee: Whose happy and heaven-making company Might I enjoy to Libia's continent, Were blest fruition, and not banishment. First of those eyes that have already tane Their leave of me: lamps fitting for the phane Of Heaven's most powre, and which might ne're
But be as sacred as the vestal fire. Then of those plots, where halfe-ros'd lillies be Not one by art, but Nature's industry, From which I goe as one excluded from The taintlesse flowres of blest Elysium. Next from those lips I part, and may there be No one that shall hereafter second me! Guiltlesse of any kisses but their owne, Their sweets but to themselves to all unknowne:
What nymph it was which neere the lonely dell Your shepheard succour'd." Quoth the good old man,
"The last time in her orbe pale Cynthia ran,
For should our swaines divulge what sweets there be | Which rent the branch; and then (if you can) tell Within the sea-clipt bounds of Britanie, We should not from invasions be exempted; But with that prize would all the world be tempted. Then from her heart: O no! let that be never! For if I part from thence I dye for ever. Be that the record of my love and name! Be that to me as is the phoenix' flame! Creating still anew what Justice' doome Must yeeld to dust and a forgotten toombe. Let thy chast love to me (as shadowes run In full extent unto the setting Sun)
Meet with my fall; and when that I am gone, Backe to thyselfe retyre, and there grow one ; If to a second light thy shadow be,
Let him still have his ray of love from me; And if as I, that likewise doe decline, Be mine or his, or else be his and mine. But know no other, nor againe be sped, 'She dyes a virgin that but knowes one bed.'
"And now from all at once my leave I take, With this petition, That when thou shalt wake, My teares already spent may serve for thine! And all thy sorrowes be excus'd by mine! Yea, rather than my losse should draw on hers, (Heare, Heaven, the suite which my sad soule preferres!)
Let this her slumber, like Oblivion's streame, Make her beleeve our love was but a dreame! Let me he dead in her as to the Earth, Ere Nature loose the grace of such a birth. Sleepe, thou sweet soule, from all disquiet free, And since I now beguile thy destiny, Let after patience in thy brest arise, To give his name a life who for thee dyes. He dyes for thee that worthy is to dye, Since now in leaving that sweet harmonie, Which Nature wrought in thee, he drawes not to Enough of sorrow that might streight undoe him. And have for meanes of death his parting hence, So keeping justice still in innocence.'
"Here staid his tongue, and teares anew began. 'Parting knowes more of griefe than absence can.' And with a backward pace, and ling'ring eye, Left, and for ever left, their company.
"By this the curs'd informer of the deede With wings of mischiefe (and those have most speede)
Unto the priests of Pan had made it knowne. And (though with griefe enough) were thither flowne,
With strickt command the officers that be As bands of Justice in her each decree.
I to the prison went, and from him knew (Upon my vow) what now is knowne to you. And that the lady, which he found distrest, Is Fida call'd; a maide not meanely blest By Heaven's endowments, and-Alas! but see, Kind Philocel ingirt with miserie,
More strong than by his bonds, is drawing nigh The place appointed for his tragedie: You may walke thither and behold his fall; While I come neere enough, yet not at all. Nor shall it neede I to my sorrow knit The griefe of knowing with beholding it."
The goddesse went: but, ere she came, did Herselfe from every eye within a cloud, [shrowde Where she beheld the shepheard on his way, Much like a bridegroome on his marriage-day; Increasing not his miserie with feare. Others for him, but he shed not a teare. His knitting sinews did not tremble aught, Nor to unusuall palpitation brought Was or his heart or lyver, nor his eye, Nor tongue, nor colour, show'd a dread to dye. His resolution keeping with his spirit, (Both worthy him that did them both inherit) Held in subjection every thought of feare, Scorning so base an executioner.
Some time he spent in speech; and then began Submissely prayer to the name of Pan, When sodainly this cry came from the plaines: "From guiltlesse blood be free, ye British swaines! Mine be those bonds, and mine the death appointed! Let me be head-long throwne, these limbes disjoy nted!
Or if you needes must burle him from that brim, Except I dye there dyes but part of him. Doe then right justice, and performe your oath ! Which cannot be without the death of both."
Wonder drew thitherward their drowned eyes, And sorrow Philocel's. Where he espies What he did onely feare, the beauteous maide, His wofuli Cœlia, whom (ere night arraid Last time the world in sute of mournfull blacke, More darke than use, as to bemone their wracke) He at his cottage left in sleepe's soft armes, By powre of simples, and the force of charmes, Which time had now dissolv'd, and made her know For what intent her love had left her so.
She staide not to awake her mate in sleepe,
Those unto judgement brought him: where accus'd Nor to bemone her fate. She scorn'd to weepe,
That with unhappy hand he had abus'd The holy tree; and by the oath of him, Whose eye beheld the separated limb,
All doubts dissolv'd; quicke judgement was award(And but last night) that hither strongly guarded This morne he should be brought; and from yond rocke
(Where every houre new store of mourners flocke) He should be head-long throwne (too hard a doome) To be depriv'd of life; and dead, of toombe. "This is the cause, faire goddesse, that appeares Before you now clad in an old man's teares, Which willingly flow out, and shall doe more Than many winters have seene heretofore." "But, father," (quoth she)" let me understand How you are sure that it was Coolia's hand
Or have the passion that within her lyes So distant from her heart as in her eyes. But rending of her hayre, her throbbing brest Beating with ruthlesse strokes, she onwards prest As an inraged furious lionesse, Through uncouth treadings of the wildernesse In hote pursute of her late missed broode. The name of Philocel speakes every wood, And she begins it still, and still her pace; Her face deckt anger, anger deckt her face. So ran distracted Hecuba along The streets of Troy. So did the people throng With helplesse hands and heavy hearts to see Their wofull ruine in her progenie.
As harmlesse flockes of sheepe that neerely fed, Upon the open plaines wide scattered,
Who backe return'd, and thus with teares began: "The substitutes on Earth of mighty Pan, Have thus decreed; (although the one be free) To cleare themselves from all impuritie, If, who the offender is, no meanes procure, Th' offence is certaine, be their death as sure. This is their doome, (which may all plagues pre- To have the guilty kill the innocent." [vent) Looke as two little lads, (their parents' treasure) Under a tutor strictly kept from pleasure, While they their new-given lesson closely scan, Heare of a message by their father's man, That one of them, but which he hath forgot, Must come along and walke to some faire plot; Both have a hope: their carefull tutor, loth To hinder eyther, or to license both; Sends backe the messenger, that he may know His master's pleasure which of them must goe: While both his schollers stand alike in feare Both of their freedome and abiding there, The servant comes and says, that for that day Their father wils to have them both away: Such was the feare these loving soules were in, That time the messenger had absent bin. But farre more was their joy 'twixt one another In hearing neyther should out-live the other.
Now both intwinde, because no conquest wonne, Yet eyther ruinde: Philocel begun
To arme his love for death: a roabe unfit, Till Hymen's saffron'd weede had usher'd it: My fayrest Colia! come; let thou and I, That long have learn'd to love, now learne to dye; It is a lesson hard, if we discerne it,
Yet none is borne so soone as bound to learne it. Unpartiall Fate layes ope the booke to us, And let us con it, still imbracing thus ; We may it perfect have, and goe before Those that have longer time to read it o're; And we had need begin, and not delay, For 'tis our turne to read it first to-day. Helpe when I misse, and when thou art in doubt Ile be thy prompter, and will helpe thee out. But see how much I erre: vaine metaphor And elocution destinies abhorre. [teares, Could death be staid with words, or wonne with Or mov'd with beauty, or with unripe yeeres; Sure thou couldst doe't: this rose, this sun-like eye, Should not so soone be quell'd, so quickly dye. But we must dye, my love; not thou alone, Nor onely I, but both; and yet but one. Nor let us grieve; for we are marryed thus, And have by death what life denyed us. It is a comfort from him more than due; 'Death severs many, but he couples few.' Life is a flood that keepes us from our blisse, The ferriman to waft us thither, is Death, and none else; the sooner we get o're, Should we not thanke the ferriman the more? Others intreat him for a passage hence, And groane beneath their griefes and impotence, Yet (mercilesse) he lets those longer stay, And sooner takes the happy man away. Some little happinesse have thou and I, Since we shall dye before we wish to dye. Should we here longer live, and have our dayes As full in number as the most of these, And in them meet all pleasures may betide, We gladly might have liv'd, and patient dyde: When now our fewer yeeres, made long by cares, (That without age can snow downe silver haires)
Make all affirme (which doe our griefes discry) We patiently did live, and gladly dye. The difference (my love) that dǝth appeare Betwixt our fates and theirs that see us here, Is onely this: the high all-knowing Powre Conceals from them, but tels us our last howre. For which to Heaven we farre farre more are bound, Since in the howre of death we may be found (By its prescience) ready for the band That shall conduct us to the Holy-land. When those, from whom that houre conceal'd is, Even in their height of sinne be tane away. Besides, to us Justice a friend is knowne, Which neyther lets us dye nor live alone. That we are forc'd to it cannot be held; 'Who feares not Death, denyes to be compell'd.' "O that thou wert no actor in this play, My sweetest Cœlia! or divorc'd away From me in this! O Nature! I confesse I cannot looke upon her heavinesse Without betraying that infirmitie Which at my birth thy hand bestow'd on me. Would I had dyde when I receiv'd my birth! Or knowne the grave before I knew the Earth! Heavens! I but one life did receive from you, And must so short a loane be paid with two? Cannot I dye but like that brutish stem Which have their best-belov'd to dye with them? O let her live! some blest powre heare my cry! Let Coelia live, and I contented dye." [throes!
My Philocel," (quoth she)" neglect these Ask not for me, nor adde not to my woes! Can there be any life when thou art gone? Nay, can there be but desolation? Art thou so cruell as to wish my stay, To waite a passage at an unknowne day? Or have me dwell within this vale of woe, Excluded from those joyes which thou shalt know? Envy not me that blisse! I will assay it,
My love deserves it, and thou canst not stay it. Justice! then take thy doome; for we entend, Except both live, no life; one life, one end.”
Thus with imbraces, and exhorting other, With teare-dew'd kisses that had powre to smother, Their soft and ruddy lips close joyn'd with eyther, That in their deaths their soules might meet to- gether,
With prayers as hopefull as sincerely good, Expecting death, they on the cliffe's edge stood; And lastly were (by one oft forcing breath) Throwne from the rocke into the armes of Death.
Faire Thetis, whose command the waves obey, Loathing the losse of so much worth as they, Was gone before their fall; and by her powre The billows (mercilesse, us'd to devoure, And not to save) she made to swell up high, Even at the instant when the tragedy
Of those kinde soules should end: so to receive them,
And keepe what crueltie would faine bereave them. Her hest was soone perform'd: and now they lay Imbracing on the surface of the sea, Voyd of all sence; a spectacle so sad, That Thetis, nor no nymph which there she had, Touch'd with their woes, could for a while refraine, But from their heavenly eyes did sadly raine
Such showres of teares, (so powrefull, since divine)
That ever since the sea doth taste of bryne. With teares, thus, to make good her first intent, She both the lovers to her chariot hent:
Recalling life that had not cleerely tane Full leave of his or her more curious phane, And with her praise, sung by these thankfull payre, Steer'd on her coursers (swift as fleeting ayre) Towards her pallace, built beneath the seas: Proud of her journey, but more proud of these.
By that time Night had newly spred her robe Over our halfe-part of this massie globe, She wonne that famous isle which Jove did please To honour with the holy Druydes.
And as the westerne side she stript along, Heard (and so staid to heare) this heavy song:
"O HEAVEN! what may I hope for in this cave? A grave. But who to me this last of helpes shall retch? A wretch. Yes: Night.
Shall none be by pittying so sad a wight?
Small comfort can befall in heavy plight To me, poore maide, in whose distresses be Nor hope, nor helpe, nor one to pittie me, But a cold grave, a wretch, and darksome night. "To digge that grave what fatall thing appeares ? Thy teares. Rough seas.
What bell shall ring me to that bed of ease?
And who for mourners hath my fate assign'd? Each winde.
Can any be debarr'd from such I finde? When to my last rites gods no other send To make my grave, for knell, or mourning friend, Than mine owne teares, rough seas, and gusts of winde.
"Teares must rey grave dig: but who bringeth Thy woes. What monument will Heaven my body spare?
And what the epitaph when I am gone?
Most miserable I, and like me none Both dying, and in death, to whom is lent Nor spade, nor epitaph, nor monument, Excepting woes, ayre, and oblivion."
The end of this gave life unto a grone, As if her life and it had beene but one; Yet she, as carelesse of reserving cyther, If possible would leave them both together. It was the faire Marina, almost spent With griefe and feare of future famishment. For (haplesse chance) but the last rosie morne The willing redbrest, flying through a thorne, Against a prickle gor'd his tender side, And in an instant, so, poore creature dyde. Thetis, much mov'd with those sad notes she heard,
Her freeing thence to Triton soone referr'd; Who found the cave as soone as set on shore, And by his strength removing from the dore A weighty stone, brought forth the fearefull mayde, Which kindly led where his faire mistresse staid; And with the rest steer'd on to Thetis' court, Was entertain'd as well became her sort, For whose release from imminent decay,
My Muse a while will here keepe holy-day.
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