Showing posts with label Chess. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chess. Show all posts

Saturday 16 March 2019

ROBERT GREENE




Introduction
Robert Greene (1558 – 1592) was an English dramatist, poet, pamphleteer, rake and debauchee. He appears as a minor character in both of Anthony Burgess' Elizabethan novels Nothing Like The Sun (about Shakespeare) and A Dead Man In Deptford (about Marlowe) A graduate of Clare Hall, Cambridge, he eloped with a wealthy woman whom he abandoned after having spent all her money. 

He then went to London, where he lived by writing, associated with "whores, cony-catchers and lewd fellows" and spent money faster than he got it on drunkenness and debauchery. In his short life he wrote six plays, an amount of poetry and numerous pamphlets, mostly love stories and accounts of criminals and swindlers. His "Groatsworth of Wit", published posthumously, is a disguised autobiography, but is best known for the first reference in print to William Shakespeare as a playwright:

". . . there is an upstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tiger's heart wrapped in a Players hide, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Iohannes fac totum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country."

G R E E N S,

GROATS-VVORTH
of Wit,

bought with a
million of Repentance.

Describing the follie of youth, the falshoode of make-
shift flatterers, the miserie of the negligent,
and mischiefes of deceiuing
Courtezans.

Written before his death and published at his dyeing request.
Fœlicem fuisse infaustum.
[image]
L O N D ON
Imprinted for William Wright.
1 5 9 2.


The printer to the gentle readers.
I Haue published heere Gentlemen for your mirth and benefite Greenes groates worth of wit. VVith sundry of his pleasant discourses, ye haue beene before delighted: But now hath death giuen a period to his pen: onely this happened into my handes which I haue published for your pleasures: Accept it fauourably because it was his last birth and not least worth: In my poore opinion. But I will cease to praise that which is aboue my conceipt, and leaue it selfe to speake for it selfe: and so abide your learned censuring.
Yours VV. VV.

To the Gentlemen Readers.
GEntlemen. The Swan sings melodiously before death, that in all his life vseth but a iarring sound. Greene though able inough to write, yet deeplyer searched with sickenes than euer heeretofore, sendes you his Swanne like songe, for that he feares he shal ne[u]er againe carroll to you woonted loue layes, neuer againe discouer to you youths pleasures. How euer yet sickenesse, riot, Incontinence, haue at once shown their extremitie, yet if I recouer, you shall all see, more fresh sprigs, then euer sprang from me, directing you how to liue, yet not diswading ye from loue. This is the last I haue writ, and I feare me the last I shall writ[e]. And how euer I haue beene censured for some of my former bookes, yet Gentlemen I protest, they were as I had speciall information. But passing them, I commend this to your fauourable censures, and like an Embrion without shape, I feare me will be thrust into the world. If I liue to ende it, it shall be otherwise: if not, yet will I commend it to your courtesies, that you may as well be acquainted with my repentant death, as you haue lamented my careles course of life. But as Nemo ante obitum felix, so Acta Exitus probat: Beseeching therefore to be deemed heereof as I deserue, I leaue the worke to your likinges, and leaue you to your delightes.

G R E E N E S.
GROATES-VVORTH
OF WIT.
IN an Iland bounded with the Ocean there was sometime a Cittie situated, made riche by Marchandize, and populous by long peace: the name is not mentioned in the Antiquarie, or els worne out by times Antiquitie, what it was greatly skilles not: but therein thus it happened. An old new made Gentleman herein dwelt, of no small credit, exceeding wealth, and large conscience: he had gathered from many to bestowe vpon one, for though he had two sonnes he estemed but one, that being as himselfe, brought vp to be golds bondman, was therefore held heire apparant of his ill gathered goods.
    The other was a Scholler, and maried to a proper Gentlewoman and therefore least regarded, for tis an old sayd saw: To learning & law, thers no greater foe than they that nothing know: yet was not the father altogether vnlettered, for he had good experience in a Nouerint, and by the vniuersall tearmes therein contained, had driuen many a yoong Gentleman to seeke vnknowen countries, wise he was, for he boare office in his parish and sate as formally in his foxfurd gowne, as if he had been a very vpright dealing Burges: he was religious to, neuer without a booke at his belt, and a bolt in his mouthe, readye to shoote through his sinfull neighbor.
    And Latin hee had some where learned, which though it were but little, yet was it profitable, for he had this Philosophie written in a ring, Tu tibi cura, which precept he curiously onserued, being in selfeloue so religious, as he held it no poynt of charitie to part with any thing, of which hee liuing might make vse.
    But as all mortall things are momenta[r]ie, and no certaintie can bee founde in this vncertaine world: so Gorinius, (for that shall be this Usurers name) after many a gowtie pang that had pincht his exterior partes, many a curse of the people that mou[n]ted into heuens presence, was at last with his last summons, by a deadly disese arrested, wher-against when hee had long contended, and was by Phisitions giuen ouer, hee cald his two sonnes before him: and willing to performe the olde prouerbe Qualis vita finis Ita, he thus prepard himselfe, and admonished them. My sonnes (for so your mother said ye were) and so I assure my selfe one of you is, and of the other I will make no doubt.
    You se the time is com, which I thought would neuer haue approched and we must now be seperated, I feare neuer to meete againe. This sixteene yeares daily haue I liude vexed with disease: and might I liue sixteen more, howe euer miserably, I should thinke it happye. But death is relentlesse, and will not be intreated witles: and knowes not what good my gold might do him: senseles & hath no pleasure in the delightful places I would offer him. In briefe, I thinke he hath with this foole my eldest sonne been brought vp in the vniuersitie, and therefore accounts that in riches is no vertue. But thou my son, (laying then his hand on the yongers head) haue thou another spirit: for without wealth, life is a death: what is gentry if welth be wanting, but bace seruile beggerie? Some comfort yet it is vnto me, to see how many Gallants sprunge of noble parents, haue croucht to Gorinius to haue sight of his gold: O gold, desired golde, admired golde! and haue lost their patrimonies to Gorinius, because they haue not returned by their day that adored creature! How many schollers haue written rimes in Gorinius praise, and receiued (after long capping and reuerence) a sixpeny reward in signe of my superficiall liberality. Breefly my yong Lucanio how I haue beene reuerenst thou seest, when honester men I confesse haue been set farre off: for to be rich is to bee any thing, wise, honest, worshipful, or what not. I tell thee my sonne: when I came first to this Citie my whole wardrop was onely a sute of white sheepe skins, my wealth an olde groat, my wooning, the wide world. At this instant (o griefe to part with it) I haue in ready coine threescore thousand pound, in plate and Iewels xv. thousand; in Bondes and specialties as much, in land nine hundred pound by the yeere: all which, Lucanio I bequeath to thee, onely I reserue for Roberto thy well red brother an olde groat, (being ye stocke I first began with[)] wherewith I wish him to buy a groats-worth of wit: for he in my life hath reprooud my maner of life, and therefore at my death, shall not be contaminated with corrupt gaine. Heere by the way Gentlemen must I digresse to shewe the reason of Gorinius present speach: Roberto being come from the Academie, to visit his father, there was a great feast prouided: where for table talke, Roberto knowing his father and most of the company to be execrable vsurers, inuayed mightely against the abhorred vice, insomuche that hee vrged teares from diuers of their eyes, and compunction in some of their hearts. Dinner being past, he comes to his father, requesting him to take no offence at his liberall speech, seeing what he had vttered was truth. Angry sonne (said he) no by my honesty (and that is som what I may say to you) but vse it still, and if thou canst perswade any of my neighbours from lending vppon vsurie I should haue the more customers: to which when Roberto would haue replyde hee shut himselfe into his studdy, and fell to tell ouer his mony.
    This was Robertos offence: now returne, we to sicke Gorinius, who after he had thus vnequally distributed his goods and possessions, began to ask his sonnes how they liked his bequestes: either seemed agreed, and Roberto vrged him with nothing more than repentance of his [sin: Loke] to thine owne said he, fond boy, & come my Lucanio, let me giue thee good counsell before my death: as for you sir, your bookes are your counsellors, and therefore to them I bequeathe you. Ah Lucanio, my onely comfort, because I hope thou wilt as thy father be a gatherer, let me blesse thee before I dye. Multiply in welth my sonne by anie meanes thou maist, onely flye Alchymie, for therein are more deceites than her beggerlye Artistes haue words; and yet are the wretches more talkatiue then women. But my meaning is, thou shouldest not stand on conscience in causes of profite, but heape treasure vpon treasure, for the time of neede: yet seeme to be deuout, els shalt thou be held vyle: frequent holy exercises graue companie, and aboue al vse the conuersation of yoong Gentlemen, who are so wedded to prodigalitie, that once in a quarter necissitie knocks at their chamber doores: profer them kindnesse to relieue their wants, but be sure of good assurance: giue faire wordes till dayes of paiment come, & then vse my course, spare none: what though they tell of conscience (as a number will talke) looke but into the dealings of the world, and thou shalt see it is but idle words. Seest thou not many perish in the streetes, and fall to theft for neede: whom small succor would releeue, then where is conscience, and why art thou bound to vse it more than other men? Seest thou not daily forgeries periuries, oppressions, rackinges of the poore, raisinges of rents, inhauncing of duties euen by them that should be al conscience, if they ment as they speake: but Lucanio if thou reade well this booke (and with that hee reacht him Machaiuels workes at large) thou shalt se, what tis to be foole-holy as to make scruple of conscience where profit presents it selfe.
    Besides, thou hast an instance by the threed-bare brother heere, who willing to do no wrong, hath lost his childes right: for who woulde wish any thing to him, that knowes not how to vse it.
    So much Lucanio for conscience: & yet I know not whats the reason, but some-what stinges mee inwardly when I speake of it. I, father, said Roberto, it is the worme of conscience, that vrges you at the last houre to remember your life, that eternall life may follow your repentance. Out foole (sayd this miserable father[),] I feele it now, it was onely a stitch. I will forwarde with my exhortation to Lucanio. As I said my sonne, make spoyle of yoong Gallants, by insiuating thy selfe amongst them, & be not mooued to think their Auncestors were famous, but consider thine were obscure, and that thy father was the first Gentleman of the name: Lucanio, thou are yet a Bachelor, and soe keepe thee till thou meete with one that is thy equall, I meane in wealth: regarde not beautie, it is but a bayte to entice thine neighbors eye: and the most faire are commonly most fond, vse not too many familiars, for few prooue frendes, and as easie it is to weigh the wind, as to diue into the thoughts of worldlye glosers. I tell thee Lucanio, I haue seene foure- scoore winters besides the od seuen, yet saw I neuer him, that I esteemed as my friend but gold, that desired creature, whom I haue so deerely loued, and found so firme a frind, as nothing to me hauing it hath beene wanting. No man but may thinke deerly of a true friend, & so do I of it laying it vnder sure locks, and lodging my heart there-with.
    But now (Ah my Lucanio) now must I leaue it, and to thee I leaue with this lessen, loue none but thy selfe, if thou wilt liue esteemd. So turning him to his studdy, where his chiefe treasure lay, he loud cryde out in the wise mans woords, O mors quam amara, O death how bitter is thy memorie to him that hath al pleasures in this life, & so with two or three lamentable grones hee left his life: and to make short worke, was by Lucanio his sonne interd, as the custome is with some solemnitie: But leauing him that hath left the world to him yt censureth of euery worldly man, passe wee to his sonnes: and se how his long laid vp store is by Lucanio lookyd into. The youth was of condition simple, shamfast, & flexible to any counsaile, which Roberto perceiuing, and pondering howe little was lefte to him, grew into an inward contempt of his fathers vnequall legacie, and determinate resolution to worke Lucanio al possible inurie: herevpon thus conuerting the sweetnes of his studdye to the sharpe thirst of reuenge, he (as Enuie is seldome idle) sought out fit companions to effect his vnbrotherly resolution. Neither in such a case is ill company farre to seeke, for ye Sea hath scarce so [many] ioperdies, as populous Citties haue deceiuing Syrens, whose eies are Adamants, whose words are witchcrafts, whose doores lead downe to death. With one of these female serpents Roberto consorts, and they conclude what euer they compassed equally to share to their contentes. This match made, Lucanio was by his brother brought to the bush, where he had scarce pruned his wings but hee was fast limd, and Roberto had what he expected. But that wee may keepe forme, you shall heare howe it fortuned.
    Lucanio being on a time verie pensiue, his brother brake with him in these tearmes. I wonder Lucanio why you are disconsolate, that want not any thinge in the worlde that may worke your content. If wealth may delight a man, you are with that suffic[i]ently furnisht: if credit may procure any comfort, your word I knowe well, is as well accepted as any mans obligation: in this Citie, are faire buildings and pleasant gardens, and cause of solace: of them I am assured you haue your choyse. Consider brother you are yoong, then plod not altogether in meditating on our fathers precepts: which howsoeuer they sauored of profit, were most vnsauerly to one of your yeeres applied. You must not thinke but certaine Marchants of this Citie expect your company, sundry Gentlemen desire your familiarity, and by co[n]uersing with such, you will be accounted a Gentleman: otherwise a pesant, if ye liue thus obscurely. Besides which I had almost forgot, and then had all the rest beene nothing, you are a man by nature furnished with all exquisite proportion, worthy the loue of any courtly lady, be she neuer so amorous: you haue wealth to maintaine her, of women not little longed for: wordes to court her you shall not want, for my selfe will be your secretarie. Brieflie, why stande I to distinguish abilitie in perticularities, when in one word it may be said which no man can gainsay, Lucanio lacketh nothing to delight a wife, nor any thing but a wife to delight him? My yoong maister beeing thus clawd, and puft vp with his owne praise, made no longer delay, but hauing on his holidaie hose hee trickt himselfe vp, and like a fellowe that meant good sooth, hee clapt his brother on the shoulder and said. Faith brother Roberto, and ye say the worde lets go seeke a wife while tis hoat, both of vs together, Ile pay well, and I dare tourne you loose to say as well as any of them all, well Ile doo my best said Roberto and since ye are so forwarde lets goe nowe and try your good fortune.
    With this foorth they walke, and Roberto went directly toward the house where Lamilia (for so wee call the Curtizan) kept her hospitall, which was in the suburbes of the Citie, pleasantly seated, and made more delectable by a pleasaunt garden wherein it was scituate. No soner come they within ken, but Mistris Lamilia like a cunning angler made readye her change of baytes that shee might effect Lucanios bane: and to begin she discouered from her window her beauteous enticing face, and taking a lute in her hand that shee might the rather allure, shee sung this sonnet with a delicious voyce,

Lamilias song.
      Fie fie on blind fancie,
      It hinder youths ioy:
      Faire virgins learne by me,
      To count loue a toy.

    When Loue learned first the A B C of delight,
    And knew no figures, nor conceited phrase:
    He simplie gaue to due desert her right,
    He led not louers in darke winding wayes:
        He plainly wild to loue, or flatly answerd no,
        But now who lists to proue, shall find it nothing so,
      Fie fie then on fancie,
      It hinders youths ioy,
      Faire virgins learne by me,
      To count loue a toy.

    For since he learnd to vse the Poets pen,
    He learnd likewise with smoothing words to faine,
    Witching chast eares with trothles tungs of men,
    And wronged faith with falshood and disdaine.
        He giues a promise now, anon he sweareth no,
        Who listeth for to proue shall find his changings so:
      Fie fie then on fancie,
      It hinders youthes ioy,
      Faire virgins learne by me,
      To count loue a toy.

    While this painted sepulcher was shadowing her corrupting guilt, Hiena-like alluring to destruction, Roberto and Lucanio vnder her windowe kept euen pace with euery stop of her instrument, but especially my yoong Ruffler, (that before time like a bird in a cage, had beene prentise for three liues or one and twentie yeeres at lest to extreame Auarice his deceased father). O twas a world to see how he sometime simperd it, striuing to set a countenance on his new turnd face, that it might seeme of wainscot proofe, to behold her face without blushing: anone he would stroke his bow-bent-leg, as if he ment to shoote loue arrows from his shins: then wypt his chin (for his beard was not yet growen) with a gold wrought handkercher, whence of purpose he let fall a handfull of Angels. This golden shower was no sooner raind, but Lamila ceast her song, and Roberto (assuring himselfe the foole was caught) came to Lucanio (that stood now as one that had stard Medusa in the face) and awaked him from his amazement with these words: What in a traunce brother? whence springs these dumps? are yee amazd at this obiect? or long ye to become loues subiect? Is there not difference betweene this delectable life, and the imprisonment you haue all your life hitherto indured? If the sight and hearing of this harmonious beautie work in you effects of wonder, what will the possession of so diuine an essence, wherein beautie & Art dwell in their perfect excellence. Brother said Lucanio lets vse fewe words, and she be no more then a woman, I trust youle helpe me to win her? and if you doe, well, I say no more, but I am yours till death vs depart, and what is mine shal be yours, world without end Amen.
    Roberto smiling at his simplenes, helpte him to gather vppe his dropt golde, and without anye more circumstance, led him to Lamilias house: for of such places it may be said as of hell.

Noctes atque dies patet atri iannua ditis.
    So their doores are euer open to entice youth to distruction. They were no sooner entred but Lamilia her selfe like a second Helen, court like begins to salute Roberto, yet did her wandring eie glance often at Lucanio: the effect of her intertainment consisted in these tearmes, that to her simple house Signor Roberto was welcome, & his brother the better welcome for his sake: albeit his good report confirmde by his present demeaner were of it selfe enough to giue him deserued entertainement in any place how honourable soeuer: mutuall thankes returnd, they lead this prodigall child into a parlor garnished with goodly portratures of amiable personages: nere which an excellent consert of musike began at their entraunce to play. Lamilia seeing Licanio shamefast, tooke him by the hand, and tenderly wringing him vsed these words: Beleeue me Gentleman, I am very sorie that our rude entertainment is such, as no way may worke your content, for this I haue noted since your first entering that your countenance hath beene heauie, and the face being the glasse of the hart, assures me the same is not quiet: would ye wish any thing heere that might content you, say but the word, and assure ye of present diligence to effect your full delight. Lucanio being so farre in loue, as he perswaded himselfe without her grant hee could not liue, had a good meaninge to vtter his minde but wanting fit wordes, hee stoode like a trewant that lackt a prompter, or a plaier that being out of his part at his first entrance, is faine to haue the booke to speake what he should performe. Which Roberto perceiuing, replied thus in his behalfe: Madame the Sunnes brightnesse daisleth the beholders eies, the maiestie of Gods, amazeth humane men, Tullie Prince of Orators once fainted though his cause were good, and hee that tamed monsters stoode amated at Beauties ornaments: Then blame not this yoong man though hee replied not, for he is blinded with the beautie of your sunne darkening eies, made mute with the celestiall organe of your voyce, and feare of that rich ambush of amber colored darts, whose pointes are leueld against his hart. Well Signor Roberto said shee, how euer you interpret their shape leuell, be sure they are not bent to doo him hurt, and but that modestie blindes vs poore maydens from vttering the inward sorrow of our mindes, perchance the cause of greefe is ours how euer men do colour, for as I am a virgin I protest, (and therewithall shee tainted her cheekes with a vermillion blush) I neuer saw Gentleman in my life in my eie so gratious as is Lucanio onely this is my greefe, that either I am dispised for that he scornes to speak, or els (which is my greater sorrow) I feare he cannot speake. Not speake Gentlewoman quoth Lucanio? that were a iest indeed, yea I thanke God I am sounde of wind and lym, only my hart is not as it was wont, but and you be as good as your word that will soone be well, and so crauing ye of more acquaintance, in token of my plaine meaning receiue this diamond, which my old father loud deerely: and with that deliuered her a ringe wherein was a pointed diamonds of wonderfull worth. Which she accepting with a lowe conge, returnd him a silke Riband for a fauour tyed with a true loues knot, which he fastened vnder a faire Iewel on his Beuer felt.
    After this Diomedis & Glauci permutatio, my yong master waxed crancke, and the musike continuing, was very forward in dauncing, to shew his cunning: and so desiring them to play on a horne-pipe, laid on the pauement lustely with his leaden heeles, coruetting like a steede of Signor Roccoes teaching, and wanted nothing but bels, to bee a hobbyhorse in a morrice. Yet was he soothed in his folly, and what euer he did, Lamilia counted excellent: her praise made him proude, insomuch that if he had not beene intreated, hee would rather haue died in his daunce, then left off to shew his mistris delight. At last reasonably perswaded, seeing the table furnished, he was content to cease, and settle him to his victuals, on which (hauing before labored) he fed lustily, especially of a Woodcocke pie, wherewith Lamilia his caruer, plentifully plied him. Full dishes hauing furnisht empty stomackes, and Lucanio thereby got leisure to talke, falles to discourse of his wealth, his landes, his bondes, his ability, and how himselfe with all he had, was at madame Lamilias disposing: desiring her afore his brother to tell him simply what shee meant. Lamilia replied: My sweet Lucanio, how I esteeme of thee mine eies does witnes, that like handmaides, haue attended thy beautious face, euer since I firste beheld thee: yet seeing loue that lasteth gathereth by degrees his liking: let this for that suffice, if I finde thee firme, Lamilia wilbe faithful: if fleeting, she must of necessity be infortunate: that hauing neuer seene any whome shee could affect, she shoulde be of him iniuriously forsaken. Nay said Lucanio, I dare say my brother here will giue his woord for that[.] I accept your own said Lamlia: for with me your credit is better than your brothers. Roberto brake off their amorous prattle with this speech. sith either of you are of other so fond at the first sight, I doubt not but time will make your loue more firme. Yet madame Lamilia although my brother and you be thus forward, some crosse chaunce may come: for Multa cadunt inter calicem supremaq; labe. And for a warning to teach you both wit, Ile tell you an old wiues tale.
    Before ye goe on with your tale (qd mistres Lamilia) let me giue ye a caueat by the way, which shall be figured in a fable.



Lamilias Fable.
    The Foxe on a time came to visit the Gray, partly for kindered cheefly for craft, and finding the hole emptie of all other company, sauing onely one Badger enquiring the cause of his solitarinesse: hee described the sodaine death of his dam and sire with the rest of his consortes. The Foxe made a Friday face, counterfeiting sorrow: but concludinge that deaths stroke was vneuitable perswaded him to seeke som fit mate wherwith to match. The badger soone agreed, so forth they went, and in their way met with a wa[n]ton ewe stragling from the fold: the Foxe bad the Badger play the tall stripling, and strout on his tiptoes: for (qd he) this ewe is lady of al these lawnds and her brother cheefe belweather of sundry flockes. To be short by the Foxes persuasion there would be a perpetuall league, betweene her harmelesse kindred and al other deuouring beastes, for that the Badger was to them all allied: seduced she yeelded: and the Foxe conducted them to the Bagers habitation. Wher drawing her aside vnder color of exhortation, puld out her throat to satisfie his greedy thirst. Here I shoulde note, a yonge whelpe that viewed their walke, infourmed the shepheardes of what hapned. They followed, and trained the Foxe and Badger to the hole: the Foxe afore had craftely conuaid himselfe away: the shepheards found the Badger rauing for the ewes murther: his lame[n]tation being helde for counterfet, was by the shepherds dog werried. The Foxe escaped: the Ewe was spoiled: and euer since, betweene the Badgers and the dogs hath continued a mortall enmitie: And now be aduised Roberto (qd she), goe forward with your tale, seek not by sly insinuation to turne our mirth to sorrow. Go to Lamilia (qd hee), you feare what I meane not, but howe euer yee take it, Ile forward with my tale.


Robertoes Tale.
    I
N the North partes there dwelt an olde Squier, that had a young daughter his heire; who had (as I know Madame Lamilia you haue had) many youthfull Gentlemen that long time sued to obtaine her loue. But she knowing her own perfections (as women are by nature proud) would not to any of them vouchsafe fauour: insomuch that they perceiuing her relentlesse, shewed themselues not altogether witlesse, but left her to her fortune, when they found her frowardnes. At last it fortuned among other strangers, a Farmers sonne visited her Fathers house: on whom at the first sight she was enamored, he likewise on her. Tokens of loue past betweene them, either acquainted others parentes of their choise, and they kindly gaue their consent. Short tale to make, married they were, and great solemnitie was at the wedding feast. A yong Gentleman, that had beene long a suiter to her, vexing that the Sonne of a Farmer should be so prefered, cast in his minde by what meanes (to marre their merriment) hee might steale away the Bride. Hereupon he confers with an old Beldam, called Mother Gunby, dwelling thereby, whose counsell hauing taken, he fell to his practise, and proceeded thus. In the after noone, when dauncers were verie busie, he takes the Bride by the hande, and after a turne or two, tels her in her eare, he had a secret to impart vnto her, appointing her in any wise in the euening to find a time to confer with him: she promist she would, and so they parted. Then goes hee to the Bridegroome, & with protestations of entire affect, protests that the great sorrow hee takes at that which hee must vtter, whereon depended his especial credit, if it were known the matter by him should be discouered. After the Bridegrooms promise of secrecie, the gentleman tels him, that a frend of his receiued that morning from the Bride a Letter, wherein shee willed him with some sixteene horse to awaite her comming at a Parke side, for that she detested him in her heart as a base countrey hynde, with whom her father compeld her to marry. The Bridegroome almost out of his wits, began to bite his lip. Nay, sayth the Gentleman, if you will by me bee aduised, you shall salue her credit, win her by kindnes, and yet preuent her wanton complot. As how said the Bridegroome? Mary thus saide the Gentleman: In the euening (for till the guests be gone she intends not to gad) get you on horsebacke, and seeme to be of the companie that attends her comming: I am appoynted to bring her from the house to the Parke, and from thence fetch a winding compasse of a mile about, but to turne vnto old Mother Gunbyes house, where her Louer my friend abydes: when she alights, I will conduct her to a chamber farre from his lodging; but when the lights are out, and shee expects her adulterous copesmate, your selfe (as reason is) shall proue her bedfellow, where priuately you may reprooue her, and in the morning earely returne home without trouble. As for the Gentleman my friend, I will excuse her absence to him, by saying, she mockt me with her Mayde in steade of her selfe, whome when I knew at her alighting, I disdained to bring her vnto his presence. The Bridegroome gaue his hand [it] should be so.
    Now by the way you must vnderstand, this Mother Gunby had a daughter, who all that day sate heauily at home with a willow garland, for that the Bridegoome (if hee had dealt faithfully) should haue wedded before any other. But men (Lamilia) are vnconstant, mony now a dayes makes the match, or else the match is marde.
    But to the matter: the Bridegroome and the Gentleman thus agreed[: h]e tooke his time, confered with the Bride, perswaded her that her husband (notwithstanding his faire shew at the marriage) had sworne to his old sweete heart, their neighbour Gunbyes daughter, to bee that night her bedfellow: and if she would bring her Father, his Father, and other friendes to the house at midnight, they should finde it so.
    At this the young Gentlewoman inwardly vext to be by a peasant so abusde, promist if she saw likelyhood of his slipping away, that then she would doo according as he directed.
    All this thus sorting, the old womans daughter was trickly attyrde ready to furnish this pageant, for her old mother prouided all things necessarie.
    Well, Supper past, dauncing ended, and the guests would home, and the Bridegroome pretending to bring some friend of his home, got his horse, and to the Parke side he rode, and staide with the horsemen that attended the Gentleman.
    Anone came Marian like mistris Bride, and mounted behind the Gentleman, away they post, fetch their compasse, & at last alight at an olde wiues house, where sodenly she is conuayd to her chamber, & the bridegroome sent to keep her company, where he had scarse deuisd how to begin his exhortation: but the Father of his Bryde knockt at the chamber doore. At which being somewhat amazed, yet thinking to turne it to a ieast, sith his Wife (as he thought) was in bed with him, hee opened the doore, saying: Father, you are hartily welcome, I wonder how you found vs out heere; this deuise to remooue our selues, was with my wiues consent, that we might rest quietly without the Maides and Batchelors disturbing. But wheres your wife said the gentleman: why heere in bed saide he. I thought (quoth the other ) my daughter had beene your wife, for sure I am to day shee was giuen you in marriage. You are merrely disposed, said the Bridegroome, what thinke you I haue another wife: I thinke but as you speake quoth the Gentleman, for my daughter is below, and you say your wife is in the bed. Below (said he) you are a merry man, and with that casting on a night gowne, hee went downe, where when he saw his wife, the Gentleman his Father, and a number of his friends assembled, he was so confounded, that how to behaue himselfe he knew not; onely he cryde out that he was deceiued. At this the olde woman arises, and making her selfe ignoraunt of all the whole matter, inquires the cause of that sodayne tumult. When she was tolde the new Bridegroome was founde in bed with her daughter, she exclaimed against so great an iniurie. Marian was called in quorum: she iustified, it was by his allurement: he being condemned by al their consents, was iudged vnworthy to haue the Gentlewoman vnto his Wife, and compeld (for escaping of punishment) to marrie Marian: and the young Gentleman (for his care in discouering the Farmers sonnes lewdnes) was recompenst with the Gentlewomans euer during loue.
    Quoth Lamilia, and what of this: Nay nothing saide Roberto, but that I haue told you the effects of sodaine loue: yet the best is, my brother is a maidenly Batchler; and for youe selfe, you haue not beene troubled with many suiters. The fewer the better, said Lucanio. But brother, I con you little thanke for this tale: hereafter I pray you vse other table talke. Lets then end talk, quoth Laimilia, and you (signior Lucanio) and I will go to the Chesse. To Chesse, said he, what meane you by that: It is a game, said she, that the first daunger is but a checke, the worst, the giuing of a mate. Wel, said Roberto, that game yee haue beene at alreadie then, for you checkt him first with your beauty, & gaue him your selfe for mate to him by your bounty. Thats wel taken brother, said Lucanio, so haue we past our game at Chesse. Wil ye play at Tables then, said she: I cannot, quoth he, for I can goe no further with my game, if I be once taken. Will ye play then at cards. I said he, if it bee at one and thirtie. That fooles game, said she: Wele all to hazard, said Roberto, and brother you shall make one for an houre or two: content quoth he. So to dice they went, and fortune so fauored Lucanio, that while they continued square play, hee was no looser. Anone coosonage came about, and his Angels being double winged, flew cleane from before him. Lamilia being the winner, preparde a banquet; which finished, Roberto aduised his brother to departe home, and to furnish himselfe with more Crownes, least hee were outcrackt with new commers.
    Lucanio loath to be outcountenanst, followed his aduise, desiring to attend his retur[n]e, which he before had determined vnrequested: For as soone as his brothers backe was turned, Roberto begins to recken with Lamilia, to bee a sharer as well in the mony deceitfully wonne, as in the Diamond so wilfully giuen. But she, secundum mores meretricis, iested thus with the scholler. Why Roberto, are you so well read, and yet shewe your selfe so shallow witted, to deeme women so weake of conceit, that they see not into mens demerites. Suppose (to make you my stale to catch the woodcocke your brother) that my tongue ouer-running myne intent, I spake of liberall rewarde; but what I promised, theres the point; at least what I part with I will be well aduised. It may be you wil thus reason: Had not Roberto traind Lucanio vnto Lamilias lure, Lucanio had not now beene Lamilias pray: therfore sith by Roberto she possesseth the prize, Roberto merites an equall part. Monstrous absurd if so you reason; as wel you may reason thus: Lamilias dog hath kild her a deere, therefore his Mistris must make him a pastie. No poore pennilesse Poet, thou art beguilde in mee, and yet I wonder how thou couldst, thou hast beene so often beguilde. But it fareth with licentious men, as with the chased Bore in the streame, who being greatly refresht with swimming, neuer feeleth a[n]ie smart vntill hee perish recurelesly wounded with his owne weapons. Reasonlesse Roberto, that hauing but a brokers place, asked a lenders reward. Faithles Roberto, that hast attempted to betray thy brother, irreligiously forsaken thy Wife, deseruedly beene in thy fathers eie an abiect: thinkst thou Lamilia so loose, to consort with one so lewd. No hypocrite, the sweete Gentleman thy brother, I will till death loue, & thee while I liue, loath. This share Lamilai giues thee, other getst thou none.
    As Roberto would haue replide, Lucanio approcht: to whom Lamilia discourst the whole deceipt of his brother, & neuer rested intimating malitious arguments, till Lucanio vtterly refusde Roberto for his brother, & for euer forbad him his house. And when he wold haue yeelded reasons, and formed excuse, Lucanios impatience (vrged by her importunate malice) forbad all reasoning with them that was reasonlesse, and so giuing him Jacke Drums intertainment, shut him out of doores: whom we will follow, & leaue Lucanio to the mercie of Lamilia. Roberto in an extreme extasie rent his haire, curst his destenie, blamd his trechery, but most of all exclaimd against Lamilia: and in her against all enticing Curtizans, in these tearms.

        What meant the Poets in inuectiue verse,
        To sing Medeas shame, and Scillas pride,
        Calipsoes charmes, by which so many dyde?
        Onely for this their vices they rehearse,
        That curious wits which in this world conuerse,
        May shun the dangers and enticing shoes,
        of such false Syrens, those home-breeding foes,
        That from their eies their venim do disperse.
        So soone kils not the Basiliske with sight,
        The Vipers tooth is not so venemous,
        The Adders tung not halfe so dangerous,
        As they that beare the shadow of delight,
    Who chaine blinde youths in tramels of their haire,
    Till wast bring woe, and sorrow hast despaire.
With this he laide his head on his hand, and leant his elbow on the ground sighing out sadly,

Heu patior telis vunera facta meis.

    On the other side of the hedge sate one that heard his sorrow, who getting ouer, came towards him, and brake off his passion. When hee approached, hee saluted Roberto in this sort.
    Gentleman, quoth hee (for so you seeme), I haue by chaunce heard you discourse some part of your greefe; which appeareth to be more than you will discouer, or I can conceipt. But if you vouchsafe such simple comfort as my abilitie may yeeld, assure your selfe, that I wil endeuour to doe the best, that either may procure you profit, or bring you pleasure: the rather, for that I suppose you are a scholler, and pittie it is men of learning should liue in lacke.
    Roberto wondring to heare such good wordes, for that this iron age affoordes few that esteeme of vertue; returned him thankfull gratulations, and (vrgde by necessitie) vttered his present griefe, beseeching his aduise how he might be imployed. Why, easily quoth hee, and greatly to your benefite: for men of my profession gette by schollers their whole liuing. What is your profession, sayd Roberto? Truly, sir, saide he, I am a player. A player, quoth Roberto, I tooke you rather for a Gentleman of great liuing, for if by outward habit men should be censured, I tell you you would be taken for a substantiall man. So am I where I dwell (quoth the player) reputed able at my proper cost to build a Windmill. What though the world once went hard with me, when I was faine to carry my playing Fardle a footebacke; Tempora mutantur, I know you know the meaning of it better than I, but I thus conster it; its otherwise now; for my very share in playing apparell will not be sold for two hundred pounds. Truly (said Roberto) tis straunge, that you should so prosper in that vayne practise, for that it seemes to mee your voice is nothing gratious. Nay then, saide the Player, I mislike your iudgement: why, I am as famous for Delphrigus, & the King of Fairies, as euer was any of my time. The twelue labors of Hercules haue I terribly thundred on the Stage, and plaid three Scenes of the Deuill in the Highway to heauen. Haue ye so (saide Roberto?) then I pray you pardon me. Nay more (quoth the Player) I can serue to make a pretie speech, for I was a countrey Author, passing at a Morall, for twas I that pende the Morall of mans witte, the Dialogue of Diues, and for seuen yeers space was absolute Interpreter to the puppets. But now my Almanacke is out of date:

    The people make no estimation,
    Of Morrals teaching education.

    Was not this prettie for a plaine rime extempore? if ye will ye shall haue more. Nay its enough, said Roberto, but how meane you to vse mee? Why sir, in making Playes, said the other, for which you shall be well paid, if you will take the paines.
    Roberto perceiuing no remedie, thought best to respect of his present necessitie, to trie his wit, & went with him willingly: who lodgd him at the Townes end in a house of retayle, where what happened our Poet, you shall after heare. There, by conuersing with bad company, he grew A malo in peius, falling from one vice to an other: and so hauing found a vaine to finger crowns, he grew cranker than Lucanio, who by this time began to droope, being thus dealt with by Lami[l]ia. Shee hauing bewitched him with hir enticing wiles, caused him to consume in lesse than two yeeres that infinite treasure gathered by his father with so many a poore ma[n]s curse. His lands sold, his iewels pawnd, his money wasted, he was casseerd by Lamilia, that had coosened him of all. Then walkt he like one of Duke Humfreys Squires, in a thread-bare cloake, his hose drawne out with his heeles, his shooes vnseamed, least his feete should sweate with heat: now (as witlesse as hee was) hee remembred his Fathers words, his vnkindnes to his brother, his carelesnes of himselfe. In this sorrow hee sate downe on pennilesse bench; where when Opus and Vsus told him by the chimes in his stomacke it was time to fall vnto meate, he was faine with the Camelion to feed vpon the aire, & make patience his best repast.
    While he was at this feast, Lamilia came flaunting by, garnished with the iewels whereof she beguiled him, which sight serued to close his stomacke after his cold cheare. Roberto hearing of his brothers beggery, albeit he had little remorse of his miserable state, yet did he seeke him out, to vse him as a propertie, whereby Lucanio was somewhat prouided for. But being of simple nature, hee serued but for a blocke to whet Robertoes wit on; which the poore foole perceiuing, he forsooke all other hopes of life, and fell to be a notorious Pandar, in which detested course hee continued till death. But Roberto, now famozed for an Arch-plaimaking-poet, his purse like the sea sometime sweld; anon like the same sea fell to a low ebbe; yet seldom he wanted, his labors were so well esteemed. Marry this rule he kept, what euer he fingerd afore hand was the certaine meanes to vnbinde a bargaine, and being asked why he so slightly dealt with them that did him good? It becomes me, saith hee, to be contrarie to the worlde, for commonly when vulgar men receiue earnest, they doe performe, when I am paid any thing afore-hand I breake my promise. He had shift of lodgings, where in euery place his Hostesse writ vp the wofull remembrance of him, his launderesse, and his boy; for they were euer in his houshold, beside retainers in sundry other places. His companie were lightly the lewdest person in the land, apt for pilferie, periurie, forgerie, or any villany. Of these hee knew the casts to cog at Cards, coosin at Dice: by these he learnd the legerdemaines of nips, foystes, connicatchers, crosbyters, lifts, high Lawyers, and all the rabble of that vncleane generation of vipers: and pithily could he paint out their whole courses of craft: So cunning he was in all craftes, as nothing rested in him almost but craftines. How often the Gentlewoman his Wife labored vainely to recall him, is lamentable to note: but as one giuen ouer to all lewdnes, he communicated her sorrowfull lines among his loose truls, that iested at her bootelesse laments. If he could any way get credite on scores, he would then brag his creditors carried stones, comparing euerie round circle to a groning O, procured by a painfull burden. The shamefull ende of sundry his consorts, deseruedly punished for their amisse, wrought no compunction in his heart: of which one, brother to a Brothell he kept, was trust vnder a tree as round as a Ball.
    To some of his swearing companions thus it happened: A crue of them sitting in a Tauerne carowsing, it fortuned an honest Gentleman and his friend, to enter their roome: some of them being acquainted with him, in their domineering drunken vaine would haue no nay, but downe hee must needes sitte with them; beeing placed, no remedie there was, but he must needes keep euen compasse with their vnseemely carowsing. Which he refusing, they fell from high words to sound strokes, so that with much adoe the Gentleman saued his owne, and shifted from their company. Being gone one of these tiplers forsooth lackt a gold Ring, the other sware they see the Gentleman take it from his hande. Upon this the Gentleman was indited before Iudge: these honest men are deposde: whose wisedome weighing the time of the braule, gaue light to the Iury, what power wine-washing poyson had, they according vnto conscience found the Gentleman not guiltie, and God released by that verdict the innocent.
    With his accusers thus it fared: one of them for murther was worthily executed: the other neuer since prospered: the third, sitting not long after vpon a lustie horse, the beast sodenly dyde vnder him: God amend the man.
    Roberto euery day acquainted with these examples, was notwithstanding nothing bettered, but rather hardened in wickednesse. At last was that place iustified, God warneth men by dreams and visions in the night, and by knowne examples in the day, but if hee returne not, hee comes vppon him with iudgement that shall bee felt. For now when the number of deceites caused Roberto bee hatefull almost to all men, his immeasurable drinking had made him the perfect Image of the dropsie, and the loathsome scourge of Lust tyrannized in his bones: lying in extreame pouerty, and hauing nothing to pay but chalke, which now his Host accepted not for currant, this miserable man lay comfortlesly languishing, hauing but one groat left (the iust proportion of his Fathers Legacie) which looking on, he cryd: O now it is too late, too late to buy witte with thee: and therefore will I see if I can sell to carelesse youth what I negligently forgot to buy.
    Heere (Gentlemen) breake I off Robertoes speach; whose life in most parts agreeing with mine, found one selfe punishment as I haue doone. Heereafter suppose me the saide Roberto, and I will goe on with that hee promised: Greene will send you now his groats-worth of wit, that neuer shewed a mites-worth in his life: & though no man now bee by to doe mee good: yet ere I die I will by my repentaunce indeuour to doo all men good.

    Deceiuing world, that with alluring toyes,
    Hast made my life the subiect of thy scorne:
    And scornest now to lend thy fading ioyes,
    To length[en] my life, whom friends haue left forlorne.
    How well are they that die ere they be borne,
        And neuer see thy sleights, which few men shun,
        Till vnawares they helplesse are vndone.
    Oft haue I sung of Loue, and of his fire,
    But now I finde that Poet was aduizde;
    Which made full feasts increasers of desire,
    And prooues weake loue was with the poore despizde.
    For when the life with foode is not suffizde,
        What thought of loue, what motion of delight;
        VVhat pleasance can proceed from such a wight?

    VVitnesse my want, the murderer of my wit;
    My rauisht sence of woonted furie reft;
    VVants such conceit, as should in Poems sit,
    Set downe the sorrow wherein I am left:
    But therefore haue high heauens their gifts bereft:
        Because so long they lent them me to vse,
        And I so long their bountie did abuse.

    O that a yeare were graunted me to liue,
    And for that yeare my former wits restorde:
    VVhat rules of life, what counsell would I giue?
    How should my sinne with sorrow be deplorde?
    But I must die of euery man abhorde.
        Time loosely spent will not againe be woonne,
        My time is loosely spent, and I vndone.

    O horrenda fames, how terrible are thy assaults? But Vermis consientiæ, more wou[n]ding are thy stings. Ah Gentlemen, that liue to read my broken and confused lines, looke not I should (as I was wont) delight you with vaine fantasies, but gather my follies altogether, and as yee would deale with so many parricides, cast them into the fire: call them Telegones, for now they kil their Father, and euery lewd line in them written, is a deep piercing wound to my heart; euery idle hour spent by any in reading them, brings a million of sorrowes to my soule. O that the teares of a miserable man (for neuer any man was yet more miserable) might wash their memorie out with my death; and that those works with mee together might bee interd. But sith they cannot, let this my last worke witnes against them with mee, how I detest them. Blacke is the remembrance of my blacke works, blacker than night, blacker than death, blacker than hell.
    Learne wit by my repentance (Gentlemen) and let these fewe rules following be regarded in your liues.
    1. First in all your actions set God before your eies; for the feare of the Lord is the beginning of wisedome: let his word be a lanterne to your feete, and a light vnto your paths, then shall you stand as firme rocks, and not be mocked.
    2. Beware of looking backe, for God will not bee mocked; of him that hath receiued much, much shal be demaunded.
    3. If thou be single, and canst abstaine, turne thy eies from vanitie; for there is a kinde of women bearing the faces of Angels, but the hearts of Deuils, able to intrap the elect if it were possible.
    4. If thou be married, forsake not the wife of thy youth to follow straunge flesh; for whoremongers and adulterers the Lord will iudge. The doore of a harlot leadeth downe to death, and in her lips there dwels destruction; her face is decked with odors, but shee bringeth a man to a morsell of bread and nakednes: of which myselfe am instance.
    5. If thou be left rich, remember those that want, & so deale, that by thy wilfulnes thy selfe want not: Let not Tauerners and Victuallers be thy Executors; for they will bring thee to a dishonorable graue.
    6. Oppresse no man, for the crie of the wronged ascendeth to the eares of the Lord; neyther delight to encrease by Usurie, least thou loose thy habitation in the euerlasting Tabernacle.
    Beware of building thy house to thy neighbours hurt; for the stones will crie to the timber, We were laide together in bloud: and those that so erect houses, calling them by their names, shall lie in the graue lyke sheepe, and death shall gnaw vpon their soules.
    8. If thou be poore, be also patient, and striue not to grow rich by indirect meanes; for goods so gotten shall vanish away like smoke.
    9. If thou be a Father, maister, or teacher, ioyne good example with good counsaile; else little auaile precepts, where life is different.
    10. If thou be a Sonne or Seruant, despise not reproofe; for though correction be bitter at the first, it bringeth pleasure in the end.
    Had I regarded the first of these rules, or beene obedient to the last: I had not now, at my last ende, beene left thus desolate. But now, though to my selfe I giue Consilium post facta; yet to others they may serue for timely precepts. And therefore (while life giues leaue) I will send warning to my olde consorts, which haue liued as loosely as my selfe, albeit weakenesse will scarce suffer me to write, yet to my fellowe Schollers about this Cittie, will I direct these few insuing lines.

To those Gentlemen his Quondam acquaintance,
that spend their wits in making Plaies, R. G.
wisheth a better exercise, and wisedome
to preuent his extremities.


    IF wofull experience may moue you (Gentlemen) to beware, or vnheard of wretchednes intreate you to take heed; I doubt not but you will looke backe with sorrow on your time past, and indeuour with repentance to spend that which is to come. Wonder not (for with thee wil I first begin), thou famous gracer of Tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with thee (like the foole in his heart) There is no God, should now giue glorie vnto his greatnes: for penetrating is his power, his hand lies heauie vpon me, he hath spoken vnto mee with a voice of thunder, and I haue felt he is a God that can punish enimies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, bee so blinded, that thou shouldst giue no glory to the giuer? Is it pestilent Machiuilian pollicy that thou hast studied? O peeuish follie! What are his rules but meere confused mockeries, able to extirpate in small time the generation of mankind. For if Sic volo, sic iubeo, hold in those that are able to commaund: and if it be lawfull Fas & nefas to do any thing that is beneficiall, onely Tyrants should possesse the earth, and they striuing to exceed in tyrannie, should each to other bee a slaughter man; till the mightiest outliuing all, one stroke were left for Death, that in one age man's life should end. The brother of this Diabolicall Atheisme is dead, and in his life had neuer the felicitie he aemed at: but as he began in craft, liued in feare, and ended in despaire. Quàm inscrutabilia sunt Dei iudicia? This murderer of many brethren, had his conscience seared like Caine: this betrayer of him that gaue his life for him, inherited the portion of Iudas: this Apostata perished as ill as Iulian: and wilt thou my friend be his Disciple? Looke vnto me, by him perswaded to that libertie, and thou shalt find it an infernall bondage. I knowe the least of my demerits merit this miserable death, but wilfull striuing against knowne truth, exceedeth al the terrors of my soule. Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie; for little knowst thou how in the end thou shalt be visited.
    With thee I ioyne yong Iuuenall, that byting Satyrist, that lastlie with mee together writ a Comedie. Sweete boy, might I aduise thee, be aduisde, and get not many enemies by bitter wordes: inueigh against vaine men, for thou canst do it, no man better, no man so wel: thou hast a libertie to reprooue all, and none more; for one being spoken to, all are offended, none being blamed no man is iniured. Stop shallow water still running, it will rage, or tread on a worme and it will turne: then blame not Schollers vexed with sharpe lines, if they reproue thy too much libertie of reproofe.
    And thou no lesse deseruing than the other two, in some things rarer, in nothing inferiour; driuen (as my selfe) to extreme shifts, a little haue I to say to thee: and were it not an idolatrous oth, I would sweare by sweet S. George, thou art vnworthy better hap, sith thou dependest on so meane a stay. Base minded men all three of you, if by my miserie ye be not warned: for vnto none of you (like me) sought those burres to cleaue: those Puppets (I meane) that speake from our mouths, those Anticks garnisht in our colours. Is it not strange that I, to whom they al haue beene beholding: is it not like that you, to whome they all haue beene beholding, shall (were yee in that case that I am now) bee both at once of them forsaken? Yes, trust them not: for there is an vpstart Crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers hart wrapt in a Players hyde, supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blanke verse as the best of you: and being an absolute Iohannes fac totum, is in his owne conceit the onely Shake-scene in a countrey. O that I might intreate your rare wits to be imploied in more profitable courses: & let those Apes imitate your past excellence, and neuer more acquaint them with your admired inuentions. I know the best husband of you all will neuer proue an Usurer, and the kindest of them all will neuer seeke you a kind nurse: yet whilest you may, seeke you better Maisters; for it is pittie men of such rare wits, should be subiect to the pleasure of such rude groomes.
    In this I might insert two more, that both haue writ against these buckram Gentlemen: but let their owne works serue to witnesse against their owne wickednesse, if they perseuere to mainteine any more such peasants. For other new-commers, I leaue them to the mercie of these painted monsters, who (I doubt not) will driue the best minded to despise them: for the rest, it skils not though they make a ieast at them.
    But now returne I againe to you three, knowing my miserie is to you no news: and let me hartily intreate you to bee warned by my harms. Delight not (as I haue done) in irreligious oathes; for from the blasphermers house, a curse shall not depart. Despise drunkennes, which wasteth the wit, and maketh men all equall vnto beasts. Flie lust, as the deathsman of the soule, and defile not the Temple of the holy Ghost. Abhorre those Epicures, whose loose life hath made religion lothsome to your eares: and when they sooth you wit htearmes of Mastership, remember Robert Greene, whome they haue often so flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. Remember Gentlemen, your liues are like so many lighted Tapers, that are with care deliuered to all of you to maintaine: these with wind-puft wrath may be extinguisht, which drunkennes put out, which negligence let fall: for mans time is not of it selfe to short, but it is more shortned by sinne. The fire of my light is now at the last snuffe, and the want of wherwith to sustaine it, there is no substance left for life to feede on. Trust not then (I beseech yee) to such weake staies: for they are as changeable in minde, as in many attyres. Well, my hand is tired, and I am forst to leaue where I would begin; for a whole booke cannot contain their wrongs, which I am forst to knit vp in some few lines of words.

Desirous that you should liue,
though himselfe be dying,
Robert Greene.

    Now to all men I bid farewel in like sort, with this conceited Fable of that olde Comedian Aesope.


    AN Ant and a Grashopper walking together on a Greene, the one carelesly skipping, the other carefully prying what winters prouision was scattered in the way: the Grashopper scorning (as wantons will) this needelesse thrift (as he tearmed it) reprooued him thus:

    The greedie miser thirsteth still for gaine;
    His thrift is theft, his weale works others woe:
    That foole is fond which will in caues remaine,
    VVhen mongst faire sweets he may at pleasure goe.

    To this the Ant perceiuing the Grashoppers meaning, quickly repliyde:

    The thriftie husband spares what vnthrift spends,
    His thrift no theft, for dangers to prouide:
    Trust to thy selfe, small hope in vvant yeeld friendes,
    A caue is better than the deserts wide.

    In short time these two parted, the one to his pleasure, the other to his labour. Anon Haruest grewe on, and reft from the Grashopper his woonted moysture. Then weakly skipt hee to the medowes brinks: where till fell winter he abode. But storms continually powring, hee went for succour to the Ant his olde acquaintance, to whom he had scarce discouered his estate, but the waspish little worme made this reply.

    Pack hence (quoth he) thou idle lazie worme,
    My house doth harbour no vnthriftie mates:
    Thou scornedst to toile, & now thou feelst the storme,
    And starust for foode while I am fed with cates.
        Vse no intreats, I will relentlesse rest,
        For toyling labour hates an idle guest.
    The Grashopper, foodlesse, helplesse, and strengthles, got into the next brooke, and in the yeelding sand digde himselfe a pit: by which hee likewise ingrau'de this Epitaph.
    When Springs greene prime arrayd me with delight,
    And euery power with youthfull vigor fild,
    Gaue strength to worke what euer fancie wild:
    I neuer feard the force of winters spight.
    Whhen first I saw the sunne the day begin,
    And dry the Mornings teares from hearbs and grasse;
    I little thought his chearefull light would passe,
    Till vgly night with darknes enterd in.
        And then day lost I mournd, spring past I wayld,
        But neither teares for this or that auailde.

    Then too too late I praisd the Emmets paine,
    That sought in spring a harbour gainst the heate:
    And in the haruest gathered winters meat,
    Preuenting famine, frosts, and stormy raine.

    My wretched end may warne Greene springing youth,
    To vse delights as toyes that will deceiue,
    And scorne the world before the world them leaue:
    For all worlds trust, is ruine without ruth.
        Then blest are they that like the toyling Ant,
        Prouide in time gainst winters wofull want.

    With this the Grashopper yeelding to the weathers extremit[y], died comfortles without remedy. Like him my selfe: like me, shall al that trust to friends or times inconstancie. Now faint of my last infirmity, beseeching them that shal burie my bodie, to publish this last farewell written with my wretched hand.

Fælicem fuisse infaustum.
A letter written to his wife, found with
this booke after his death.

    THe remembrance of the many wrongs offred thee, and thy vnreproued virtues, adde greater sorrow to my miserable state, than I can vtter or thou conceiue. Neither is it lessended by consideration of thy absence, (though shame would hardly let me beholde thy face) but exceedingly aggrauated, for that I cannot (as I ought) to thy owne selfe reconcile my selfe, that thou mightest witnesse my inward woe at this instant, that haue made thee a wofull wife for so long a time. But equall heauen hath denied that comfort, giuing at my last neede like succour as I haue sought all my life: being in this extremitie as voide of helpe, as thou hast beene of hope. Reason would, that after so long wast, I should not send thee a child to bring thee greater charge: but consider he is the fruit of thy wombe, in whose face regarde not the Fathers faultes so much, as thy owne perfections. He is yet Greene, and may grow straight, if he be carefully tended: otherwise, apt enough (I feare me) to follow his Fathers folly. That I haue offended thee highly I knowe; that thou canst forget my iniuries I hardly beleeue: yet perswade I my selfe, if thou saw my wretched estate thou couldst not but lament it: nay, certainly I know thou wouldst. All my wrongs muster themselues before me, euery euill at once plagues mee. For my contempt of God, I am contemned of men: for my swearing and forswearing, no man will beleeue me: for my gluttony, I suffer hunger: for my drunkennes, thirst: for my adultery, vlverous sores. Thus God hath cast me downe, that I might be humbled: and punished me for example of other sinners: and altogether he suffers me in this world to perish without succor, yet trust I in the world to come to find mercie, by the merites of my Sauiour to whom I commend this, and commit my soule.
Thy repentant husband for his dis-
loyaltie, Robert Greene.
Fælicem fuisse infaustum.

F I N I S.

Wednesday 27 February 2019

The Members of The Fam : Ryan, The Youth






THE PROPAGANDA CAMPAIGN 

The Propaganda Campaign… In the following year, 1592, there’s a kind of government propaganda campaign suggesting Southampton as heir-apparent to the crown: Burghley’s own private secretary publicly dedicates a poem to Southampton –all about a selfish young man living on an island ruled by a Virgin Queen. 
(Not too subtle, I hope.) 

He’s also being touted as a possible new member of the Knights of the Garter, an unprecedented honor for one so young and without any visible achievements. 
[It signifies he must be very special.] 

And that fall the Queen visits Oxford University –a rare appearance! –attending Southampton’s graduation, when a speaker refers to him as “a dynastic Prince of illustrious lineage.” 

And now in 1593, for the first time in print comes the name “William Shakespeare.” 

It appears on the dedication of VENUS AND ADONIS to nineteen-year-old Henry Earl of Southampton. It’s a long highly cultured narrative poem bursting with sex and sensuality –instant bestseller! 

In his dedication the author speaks of himself and the poem as father and child: he calls VENUS AND ADONIS “the first heir of my invention.” 

Oxford’s “invention” in the private sonnets refers to his newly invented method of double-image writing to his royal son… 

Now it also refers to his newly invented pen name –“Shakespeare” –suggesting a warrior shaking his spear … the spear of his pen –fighting for Southampton! 

He calls Southampton “the world’s hopeful expectation,” the same way Prince Hal on stage is called “the hope and expectation of the world” as the future Henry the Fifth. 

“Shakespeare” is publicly calling Southampton a King. 

In the poem itself the goddess Venus tries to seduce the young god Adonis, who will not fall in. 

[That sounds familiar!] 

He runs away only to be attacked and killed by a wild boar. But … there’s a birth. 

From the blood of Adonis on the ground is born a purple flower –a royal flower –and Venus speaks to it as a mother to her child: 

“Thou art next of blood, and ‘tis thy right.” 

Then the Queen of Love and Beauty flies away, a goddess riding in her chariot. 

[That sounds familiar, too!] 

A year later, 1594, “Shakespeare” strikes again! It’s another long narrative poem –THE RAPE OF LUCRECE –another blockbuster –and now an even more extraordinary dedication to Southampton: 

THE LOVE I DEDICATE TO YOUR LORDSHIP IS WITHOUT END. WHAT I HAVE DONE IS YOURS, WHAT I HAVE TO DO IS YOURS, BEING PART IN ALL I HAVE, DEVOTED YOURS … YOUR LORDSHIP’S IN ALL DUTY, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.” 

There is no other dedication like that one in all of Elizabethan literature. 

And never again will Oxford use that pen name –“Shakespeare” –to dedicate anything to anyone else, thereby uniquely linking Southampton to “Shakespeare” for all time. 

But the PR campaign fails to move the young Lord Southampton, who winds up paying a huge fine to his guardian Lord Burghley in order not to marry his granddaughter. His rejection of a Cecil alliance leaves his mother the Queen helpless to help him. It also signals the start of a great “power struggle” behind the throne. 


THE POWER STRUGGLE 

The Power Struggle… We’re in the mid-1590s and the big unknown is: 

“When will the Queen die?” 

Elizabeth is in her sixties; 
if she dies right now there’ll be civil war. 

Who will decide the succession? 

Who will be king-maker? 

Burghley is already grooming his son Robert Cecil to take over the government and stock it with his own people in key positions and continue the Cecil influence behind the crown. 

Southampton aligns himself with Robert Devereux, the brilliant, high-strung Second Earl of Essex –several years older and already a great military hero. 

Essex is the current royal favorite –not Elizabeth’s lover, of course, but acting like it to feed her insatiable vanity. 


He’s becoming more popular than the Queen herself –not a good idea. 

The entrenched faction of William and Robert Cecil is being challenged by a rising faction of swashbuckling, young, Renaissance nobles led by Essex and his boon companion Southampton. 

The two factions hate each other. 

Only one will remain standing in the new reign to come. 

The earls are counting on popular acclaim for their military victories against Catholic Spain and the Pope. 

Surely the Queen will take their side and let them shape England’s future —without the Cecils! 



ROBERT CECIL 
Robert Cecil… August 1598 –
Lord Burghley dies at nearly seventy-nine. 

His son Robert Cecil, a short figure known for his cunning and his severely hunched back, is already Principal Secretary; and because of his father, he has her Majesty’s ear and her trust. 



The father had some principles. 
The son has none. 

The Secretary is a busy bureaucrat with spies in every camp. 

He sees all life as a chess game to the death. 

And he sets a trap. 

He convinces the Queen to make Essex her Majesty’s General of an army to put down the eternal Irish rebellion. 

Cecil knows it’s an impossible assignment. 

He also knows the proud earl will accept it. 

SPRING 1599 –

Essex and Southampton leave for Ireland with 15,000 soldiers given a send-off by crowds of cheering citizens. 

Over at the Playhouse the audience erupts with wild patriotic approval at new lines inserted in HENRY THE FIFTH, expressing the personal support of the writer known as “Shakespeare”

WERE NOW THE GENERAL OF OUR GRACIOUS EMPRESS (AS IN GOOD TIME HE MAY) FROM IRELAND COMING, BRINGING REBELLION BROACHED ON HIS SWORD, HOW MANY WOULD THE PEACEFUL CITY QUIT TO WELCOME HIM! 

SEPTEMBER 1599 – 
The Irish campaign is a catastrophe. 

In a land of bewildering bogs and mist, the beleaguered English soldiers are outnumbered and outsmarted. The disintegrating army is tired, diseased, demoralized. 

In desperation Essex meets with the rebel leader the Earl of Tyrone and agrees to a truce. 

Back in London the Queen confers with Cecil and in a fury sends back orders to break the truce and stay there and fight on to the bitter end. 

Essex and Southampton defiantly board a ship and land on English soil and ride three days and nights hell-bent to speak personally with Elizabeth. 

They arrive at dawn at the Palace of Nonesuch, where the Queen has just risen from her bed. 

Essex barges past all the guards into the Palace, 
pushing through the Pike-men and Chamber attendants, 
sword banging against his leg, 
brushing through the Presence Chamber to the Privy Chamber 

… and then charges right on through and without knocking bursts into the royal bedroom! 

Inside is a startled old woman who has not yet put on her thick paint and wig. 

Her gray wrinkled body is still half naked; strands of hair straggle down over a wizened face. 

The Queen is alone, defenseless, at the mercy of a wild man covered with mud, dripping with sweat, and now kneeling to kiss her hand. 

She smiles, pats her general on the head, and calmly suggests he go clean up and come back when she’s more … 
“properly prepared.” 

When he’s gone she puts him under house arrest and the once-great royal favorite will never see his sovereign mistress again, never. 

She bars Southampton from her presence and he, too, will never again see his mother the Queen. Cecil has made all the right moves; now for the end game! 

THE END GAME The End Game… 

FALL 1600 –

Queen Elizabeth turns sixty-seven; Robert Cecil has positioned himself to choose the next monarch when she dies. 

The earls have become increasingly desperate; whispers about rebellion are spreading –rumors of a palace coup against Cecil, led by England’s young nobility. 

EARLY FEBRUARY 1601 –Southampton takes charge of planning for a surprise assault on Whitehall Palace. First move will be to capture Cecil; they’ll probably have to kill him; then Essex and Southampton will rush to see Elizabeth. She’ll come to her senses and call a Parliament on succession; to avoid civil war, she’ll even give up her crown. What if she refuses? Will they have to kill her, too? Members of the Essex faction pay the Lord Chamberlain’s acting company to give a special performance of a royal history play by “Shakespeare” –who, everyone knows, has dedicated his work to Southampton, co-leader of the coming revolt. The play is RICHARD THE SECOND, about a real English monarch forced to give up his crown. The conspirators are brazenly using “Shakespeare” and the public stage for political propaganda. THE GLOBE PLAYHOUSE –A brand new scene has been written and inserted showing King Richard actually handing over his crown, something being suggested for Elizabeth herself. Many conspirators sit right up on the stage behind the actors, cheering them on. That night Cecil sends agents summoning Essex to the Palace; and once again the proud earl does exactly what Robert Cecil knows he will do. He defies him. He won’t go.

Venus and Adonis

'Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo
Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua.'
TO THE
RIGHT HONORABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLY,
EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, AND BARON OF TICHFIELD.
RIGHT HONORABLE,
I KNOW not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burden only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a god-father, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart's content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world's hopeful expectation.

Your honour's in all duty,

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
EVEN as the sun with purple-colour'd face
Had ta'en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheek'd Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laugh'd to scorn;
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor 'gins to woo him.
'Thrice-fairer than myself,' thus she began,
'The field's chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee, with herself at strife,
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.
'Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know:
Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I'll smother thee with kisses;
'And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety,
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty:
A summer's day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.'
With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth's sovereign salve to do a goddess good:
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.
Over one arm the lusty courser's rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blush'd and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.
The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens:--O, how quick is love!--
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove:
Backward she push'd him, as she would be thrust,
And govern'd him in strength, though not in lust.
So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips:
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown,
And 'gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips;
And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken,
'If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.'
He burns with bashful shame: she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks:
He saith she is immodest, blames her 'miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.
Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuff'd or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.
Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace;
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dew'd with such distilling showers.
Look, how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fasten'd in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes:
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.
Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
'Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale:
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is better'd with a more delight.
Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears,
From his soft bosom never to remove,
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rain'd, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.
Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave,
Who, being look'd on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.
Never did passenger in summer's heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn:
'O, pity,' 'gan she cry, 'flint-hearted boy!
'Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?
'I have been woo'd, as I entreat thee now,
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne'er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begg'd for that which thou unask'd shalt have.
'Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His batter'd shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learn'd to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.
'Thus he that overruled I oversway'd,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain:
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obey'd,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O, be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mastering her that foil'd the god of fight!
'Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,--
Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red--
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head:
Look in mine eye-balls, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?
'Art thou ashamed to kiss? then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night;
Love keeps his revels where they are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-vein'd violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.
'The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted:
Make use of time, let not advantage slip;
Beauty within itself should not be wasted:
Fair flowers that are not gather'd in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.
'Were I hard-favour'd, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O'erworn, despised, rheumatic and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?
'Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow;
Mine eyes are gray and bright and quick in turning:
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt.
'Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or, like a fairy, trip upon the green,
Or, like a nymph, with long dishevell'd hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen:
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.
'Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie;
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky,
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me:
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee?
'Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.
'Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear:
Things growing to themselves are growth's abuse:
Seeds spring from seeds and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty.
'Upon the earth's increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.'
By this the love-sick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the mid-day heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them;
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him and by Venus' side.
And now Adonis, with a lazy spright,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o'erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks cries 'Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face: I must remove.'
'Ay me,' quoth Venus, 'young, and so unkind?
What bare excuses makest thou to be gone!
I'll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun:
I'll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I'll quench them with my tears.
'The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And, lo, I lie between that sun and thee:
The heat I have from thence doth little harm,
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.
'Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel,
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth?
Art thou a woman's son, and canst not feel
What 'tis to love? how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind,
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.
'What am I, that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute:
Give me one kiss, I'll give it thee again,
And one for interest, if thou wilt have twain.
'Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dun and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man's complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.'
This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth he wrong;
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause:
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.
Sometimes she shakes her head and then his hand,
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometimes her arms infold him like a band:
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.
'Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer;
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale:
Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.'
At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple:
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple;
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived and there he could not die.
These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Open'd their mouths to swallow Venus' liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!
Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes are more increasing;
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
'Pity,' she cries, 'some favour, some remorse!'
Away he springs and hasteth to his horse.
But, lo, from forth a copse that neighbors by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud:
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.
Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth 'tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.
His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.
Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say 'Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'
What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say'?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.
Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.
Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.
Sometime he scuds far off and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whether he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.
He looks upon his love and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.
Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He veils his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.
His testy master goeth about to take him;
When, lo, the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there:
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.
All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boisterous and unruly beast:
And now the happy season once more fits,
That love-sick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
An oven that is stopp'd, or river stay'd,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage:
So of concealed sorrow may be said;
Free vent of words love's fire doth assuage;
But when the heart's attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.
He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow;
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.
O, what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by and by
It flash'd forth fire, as lightning from the sky.
Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels:
His tenderer cheek receives her soft hand's print,
As apt as new-fall'n snow takes any dint.
O, what a war of looks was then between them!
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing;
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes woo'd still, his eyes disdain'd the wooing:
And all this dumb play had his acts made plain
With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain.
Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prison'd in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe:
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Show'd like two silver doves that sit a-billing.
Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
'O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would thou wert as I am, and I a man,
My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound;
For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee,
Though nothing but my body's bane would cure thee!
'Give me my hand,' saith he, 'why dost thou feel it?'
'Give me my heart,' saith she, 'and thou shalt have it:
O, give it me, lest thy hard heart do steel it,
And being steel'd, soft sighs can never grave it:
Then love's deep groans I never shall regard,
Because Adonis' heart hath made mine hard.'
'For shame,' he cries, 'let go, and let me go;
My day's delight is past, my horse is gone,
And 'tis your fault I am bereft him so:
I pray you hence, and leave me here alone;
For all my mind, my thought, my busy care,
Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.'
Thus she replies: 'Thy palfrey, as he should,
Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire:
Affection is a coal that must be cool'd;
Else, suffer'd, it will set the heart on fire:
The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.
'How like a jade he stood, tied to the tree,
Servilely master'd with a leathern rein!
But when he saw his love, his youth's fair fee,
He held such petty bondage in disdain;
Throwing the base thong from his bending crest,
Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast.
'Who sees his true-love in her naked bed,
Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white,
But, when his glutton eye so full hath fed,
His other agents aim at like delight?
Who is so faint, that dare not be so bold
To touch the fire, the weather being cold?
'Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy;
And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee,
To take advantage on presented joy;
Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee;
O, learn to love; the lesson is but plain,
And once made perfect, never lost again.'
I know not love,' quoth he, 'nor will not know it,
Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it;
'Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it;
My love to love is love but to disgrace it;
For I have heard it is a life in death,
That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath.
'Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish'd?
Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth?
If springing things be any jot diminish'd,
They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth:
The colt that's back'd and burden'd being young
Loseth his pride and never waxeth strong.
'You hurt my hand with wringing; let us part,
And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat:
Remove your siege from my unyielding heart;
To love's alarms it will not ope the gate:
Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flattery;
For where a heart is hard they make no battery.'
'What! canst thou talk?' quoth she, 'hast thou a tongue?
O, would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing!
Thy mermaid's voice hath done me double wrong;
I had my load before, now press'd with bearing:
Melodious discord, heavenly tune harshsounding,
Ear's deep-sweet music, and heart's deep-sore wounding.
'Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love
That inward beauty and invisible;
Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move
Each part in me that were but sensible:
Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see,
Yet should I be in love by touching thee.
'Say, that the sense of feeling were bereft me,
And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch,
And nothing but the very smell were left me,
Yet would my love to thee be still as much;
For from the stillitory of thy face excelling
Comes breath perfumed that breedeth love by
smelling.
'But, O, what banquet wert thou to the taste,
Being nurse and feeder of the other four!
Would they not wish the feast might ever last,
And bid Suspicion double-lock the door,
Lest Jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest,
Should, by his stealing in, disturb the feast?'
Once more the ruby-colour'd portal open'd,
Which to his speech did honey passage yield;
Like a red morn, that ever yet betoken'd
Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field,
Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds,
Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
This ill presage advisedly she marketh:
Even as the wind is hush'd before it raineth,
Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh,
Or as the berry breaks before it staineth,
Or like the deadly bullet of a gun,
His meaning struck her ere his words begun.
And at his look she flatly falleth down,
For looks kill love and love by looks reviveth;
A smile recures the wounding of a frown;
But blessed bankrupt, that by love so thriveth!
The silly boy, believing she is dead,
Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red;
And all amazed brake off his late intent,
For sharply he did think to reprehend her,
Which cunning love did wittily prevent:
Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her!
For on the grass she lies as she were slain,
Till his breath breatheth life in her again.
He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks,
He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard,
He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks
To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr'd:
He kisses her; and she, by her good will,
Will never rise, so he will kiss her still.
The night of sorrow now is turn'd to day:
Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth,
Like the fair sun, when in his fresh array
He cheers the morn and all the earth relieveth;
And as the bright sun glorifies the sky,
So is her face illumined with her eye;
Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix'd,
As if from thence they borrow'd all their shine.
Were never four such lamps together mix'd,
Had not his clouded with his brow's repine;
But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light,
Shone like the moon in water seen by night.
'O, where am I?' quoth she, 'in earth or heaven,
Or in the ocean drench'd, or in the fire?
What hour is this? or morn or weary even?
Do I delight to die, or life desire?
But now I lived, and life was death's annoy;
But now I died, and death was lively joy.
'O, thou didst kill me: kill me once again:
Thy eyes' shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine,
Hath taught them scornful tricks and such disdain
That they have murder'd this poor heart of mine;
And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen,
But for thy piteous lips no more had seen.
'Long may they kiss each other, for this cure!
O, never let their crimson liveries wear!
And as they last, their verdure still endure,
To drive infection from the dangerous year!
That the star-gazers, having writ on death,
May say, the plague is banish'd by thy breath.
'Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted,
What bargains may I make, still to be sealing?
To sell myself I can be well contented,
So thou wilt buy and pay and use good dealing;
Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips
Set thy seal-manual on my wax-red lips.
'A thousand kisses buys my heart from me;
And pay them at thy leisure, one by one.
What is ten hundred touches unto thee?
Are they not quickly told and quickly gone?
Say, for non-payment that the debt should double,
Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
'Fair queen,' quoth he, 'if any love you owe me,
Measure my strangeness with my unripe years:
Before I know myself, seek not to know me;
No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears:
The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast,
Or being early pluck'd is sour to taste.
'Look, the world's comforter, with weary gait,
His day's hot task hath ended in the west;
The owl, night's herald, shrieks, ''Tis very late;'
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest,
And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven's light
Do summon us to part and bid good night.
'Now let me say 'Good night,' and so say you;
If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.'
'Good night,' quoth she, and, ere he says 'Adieu,'
The honey fee of parting tender'd is:
Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace;
Incorporate then they seem; face grows to face.
Till, breathless, he disjoin'd, and backward drew
The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth,
Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew,
Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth:
He with her plenty press'd, she faint with dearth
Their lips together glued, fall to the earth.
Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey,
And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth;
Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey,
Paying what ransom the insulter willeth;
Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high,
That she will draw his lips' rich treasure dry:
And having felt the sweetness of the spoil,
With blindfold fury she begins to forage;
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame's pure blush and honour's wrack.
Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing,
Like a wild bird being tamed with too much handling,
Or as the fleet-foot roe that's tired with chasing,
Or like the froward infant still'd with dandling,
He now obeys, and now no more resisteth,
While she takes all she can, not all she listeth.
What wax so frozen but dissolves with tempering,
And yields at last to every light impression?
Things out of hope are compass'd oft with venturing,
Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission:
Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward,
But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
When he did frown, O, had she then gave over,
Such nectar from his lips she had not suck'd.
Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover;
What though the rose have prickles, yet 'tis pluck'd:
Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast,
Yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
For pity now she can no more detain him;
The poor fool prays her that he may depart:
She is resolved no longer to restrain him;
Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart,
The which, by Cupid's bow she doth protest,
He carries thence incaged in his breast.
'Sweet boy,' she says, 'this night I'll waste in sorrow,
For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch.
Tell me, Love's master, shall we meet to-morrow?
Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?'
He tells her, no; to-morrow he intends
To hunt the boar with certain of his friends.
'The boar!' quoth she; whereat a sudden pale,
Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose,
Usurps her cheek; she trembles at his tale,
And on his neck her yoking arms she throws:
She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck,
He on her belly falls, she on her back.
Now is she in the very lists of love,
Her champion mounted for the hot encounter:
All is imaginary she doth prove,
He will not manage her, although he mount her;
That worse than Tantalus' is her annoy,
To clip Elysium and to lack her joy.
Even as poor birds, deceived with painted grapes,
Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw,
Even so she languisheth in her mishaps,
As those poor birds that helpless berries saw.
The warm effects which she in him finds missing
She seeks to kindle with continual kissing.
But all in vain; good queen, it will not be:
She hath assay'd as much as may be proved;
Her pleading hath deserved a greater fee;
She's Love, she loves, and yet she is not loved.
'Fie, fie,' he says, 'you crush me; let me go;
You have no reason to withhold me so.'
'Thou hadst been gone,' quoth she, 'sweet boy, ere this,
But that thou told'st me thou wouldst hunt the boar.
O, be advised! thou know'st not what it is
With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,
Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,
Like to a mortal butcher bent to kill.
'On his bow-back he hath a battle set
Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes;
His eyes, like glow-worms, shine when he doth fret;
His snout digs sepulchres where'er he goes;
Being moved, he strikes whate'er is in his way,
And whom he strikes his cruel tushes slay.
'His brawny sides, with hairy bristles arm'd,
Are better proof than thy spear's point can enter;
His short thick neck cannot be easily harm'd;
Being ireful, on the lion he will venture:
The thorny brambles and embracing bushes,
As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.
'Alas, he nought esteems that face of thine,
To which Love's eyes pay tributary gazes;
Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips and crystal eyne,
Whose full perfection all the world amazes;
But having thee at vantage,--wondrous dread!--
Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.
'O, let him keep his loathsome cabin still;
Beauty hath nought to do with such foul fiends:
Come not within his danger by thy will;
They that thrive well take counsel of their friends.
When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble,
I fear'd thy fortune, and my joints did tremble.
'Didst thou not mark my face? was it not white?
Saw'st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye?
Grew I not faint? and fell I not downright?
Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie,
My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest,
But, like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast.
'For where Love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel;
Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny,
And in a peaceful hour doth cry 'Kill, kill!'
Distempering gentle Love in his desire,
As air and water do abate the fire.
'This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy,
This canker that eats up Love's tender spring,
This carry-tale, dissentious Jealousy,
That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring,
Knocks at my heat and whispers in mine ear
That if I love thee, I thy death should fear:
'And more than so, presenteth to mine eye
The picture of an angry-chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain'd with gore;
Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed
Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head.
'What should I do, seeing thee so indeed,
That tremble at the imagination?
The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed,
And fear doth teach it divination:
I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.
'But if thou needs wilt hunt, be ruled by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on thy well-breath'd horse keep with thy
hounds.
'And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns the wind and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musets through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.
'Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer:
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:
'For there his smell with others being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.
'By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To harken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.
'Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious brier his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never relieved by any.
'Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe.
'Where did I leave?' 'No matter where,' quoth he,
'Leave me, and then the story aptly ends:
The night is spent.' 'Why, what of that?' quoth she.
'I am,' quoth he, 'expected of my friends;
And now 'tis dark, and going I shall fall.'
'In night,' quoth she, 'desire sees best of all
'But if thou fall, O, then imagine this,
The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips,
And all is but to rob thee of a kiss.
Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips
Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn,
Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn.
'Now of this dark night I perceive the reason:
Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine,
Till forging Nature be condemn'd of treason,
For stealing moulds from heaven that were divine;
Wherein she framed thee in high heaven's despite,
To shame the sun by day and her by night.
'And therefore hath she bribed the Destinies
To cross the curious workmanship of nature,
To mingle beauty with infirmities,
And pure perfection with impure defeature,
Making it subject to the tyranny
Of mad mischances and much misery;
'As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood:
Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn'd despair,
Swear nature's death for framing thee so fair.
'And not the least of all these maladies
But in one minute's fight brings beauty under:
Both favour, savour, hue and qualities,
Whereat the impartial gazer late did wonder,
Are on the sudden wasted, thaw'd and done,
As mountain-snow melts with the midday sun.
'Therefore, despite of fruitless chastity,
Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns,
That on the earth would breed a scarcity
And barren dearth of daughters and of sons,
Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night
Dries up his oil to lend the world his light.
'What is thy body but a swallowing grave,
Seeming to bury that posterity
Which by the rights of time thou needs must have,
If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity?
If so, the world will hold thee in disdain,
Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain.
'So in thyself thyself art made away;
A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife,
Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay,
Or butcher-sire that reaves his son of life.
Foul-cankering rust the hidden treasure frets,
But gold that's put to use more gold begets.'
'Nay, then,' quoth Adon, 'you will fall again
Into your idle over-handled theme:
The kiss I gave you is bestow'd in vain,
And all in vain you strive against the stream;
For, by this black-faced night, desire's foul nurse,
Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse.
'If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues,
And every tongue more moving than your own,
Bewitching like the wanton mermaid's songs,
Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown
For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear,
And will not let a false sound enter there;
'Lest the deceiving harmony should run
Into the quiet closure of my breast;
And then my little heart were quite undone,
In his bedchamber to be barr'd of rest.
No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan,
But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone.
'What have you urged that I cannot reprove?
The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger:
I hate not love, but your device in love,
That lends embracements unto every stranger.
You do it for increase: O strange excuse,
When reason is the bawd to lust's abuse!
'Call it not love, for Love to heaven is fled,
Since sweating Lust on earth usurp'd his name;
Under whose simple semblance he hath fed
Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame;
Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves,
As caterpillars do the tender leaves.
'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,
But Lust's effect is tempest after sun;
Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain,
Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done;
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies;
Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
'More I could tell, but more I dare not say;
The text is old, the orator too green.
Therefore, in sadness, now I will away;
My face is full of shame, my heart of teen:
Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended,
Do burn themselves for having so offended.'
With this, he breaketh from the sweet embrace,
Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast,
And homeward through the dark laund runs apace;
Leaves Love upon her back deeply distress'd.
Look, how a bright star shooteth from the sky,
So glides he in the night from Venus' eye.
Which after him she darts, as one on shore
Gazing upon a late-embarked friend,
Till the wild waves will have him seen no more,
Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend:
So did the merciless and pitchy night
Fold in the object that did feed her sight.
Whereat amazed, as one that unaware
Hath dropp'd a precious jewel in the flood,
Or stonish'd as night-wanderers often are,
Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood,
Even so confounded in the dark she lay,
Having lost the fair discovery of her way.
And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans,
That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled,
Make verbal repetition of her moans;
Passion on passion deeply is redoubled:
'Ay me!' she cries, and twenty times 'Woe, woe!'
And twenty echoes twenty times cry so.
She marking them begins a wailing note
And sings extemporally a woeful ditty;
How love makes young men thrall and old men dote;
How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty:
Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe,
And still the choir of echoes answer so.
Her song was tedious and outwore the night,
For lovers' hours are long, though seeming short:
If pleased themselves, others, they think, delight
In such-like circumstance, with suchlike sport:
Their copious stories oftentimes begun
End without audience and are never done.
For who hath she to spend the night withal
But idle sounds resembling parasites,
Like shrill-tongued tapsters answering every call,
Soothing the humour of fantastic wits?
She says ''Tis so:' they answer all ''Tis so;'
And would say after her, if she said 'No.'
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high,
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar-tops and hills seem burnish'd gold.
Venus salutes him with this fair good-morrow:
'O thou clear god, and patron of all light,
From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow
The beauteous influence that makes him bright,
There lives a son that suck'd an earthly mother,
May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.'
This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove,
Musing the morning is so much o'erworn,
And yet she hears no tidings of her love:
She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn:
Anon she hears them chant it lustily,
And all in haste she coasteth to the cry.
And as she runs, the bushes in the way
Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face,
Some twine about her thigh to make her stay:
She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace,
Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache,
Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake.
By this, she hears the hounds are at a bay;
Whereat she starts, like one that spies an adder
Wreathed up in fatal folds just in his way,
The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder;
Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds
Appals her senses and her spirit confounds.
For now she knows it is no gentle chase,
But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud,
Because the cry remaineth in one place,
Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud:
Finding their enemy to be so curst,
They all strain courtesy who shall cope him first.
This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear,
Through which it enters to surprise her heart;
Who, overcome by doubt and bloodless fear,
With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part:
Like soldiers, when their captain once doth yield,
They basely fly and dare not stay the field.
Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy;
Till, cheering up her senses all dismay'd,
She tells them 'tis a causeless fantasy,
And childish error, that they are afraid;
Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more:--
And with that word she spied the hunted boar,
Whose frothy mouth, bepainted all with red,
Like milk and blood being mingled both together,
A second fear through all her sinews spread,
Which madly hurries her she knows not whither:
This way runs, and now she will no further,
But back retires to rate the boar for murther.
A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways;
She treads the path that she untreads again;
Her more than haste is mated with delays,
Like the proceedings of a drunken brain,
Full of respects, yet nought at all respecting;
In hand with all things, nought at all effecting.
Here kennell'd in a brake she finds a hound,
And asks the weary caitiff for his master,
And there another licking of his wound,
'Gainst venom'd sores the only sovereign plaster;
And here she meets another sadly scowling,
To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling.
When he hath ceased his ill-resounding noise,
Another flap-mouth'd mourner, black and grim,
Against the welkin volleys out his voice;
Another and another answer him,
Clapping their proud tails to the ground below,
Shaking their scratch'd ears, bleeding as they go.
Look, how the world's poor people are amazed
At apparitions, signs and prodigies,
Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed,
Infusing them with dreadful prophecies;
So she at these sad signs draws up her breath
And sighing it again, exclaims on Death.
'Hard-favour'd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean,
Hateful divorce of love,'--thus chides she Death,--
'Grim-grinning ghost, earth's worm, what dost thou mean
To stifle beauty and to steal his breath,
Who when he lived, his breath and beauty set
Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet?
'If he be dead,--O no, it cannot be,
Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it:--
O yes, it may; thou hast no eyes to see,
But hatefully at random dost thou hit.
Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart
Mistakes that aim and cleaves an infant's heart.
'Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke,
And, hearing him, thy power had lost his power.
The Destinies will curse thee for this stroke;
They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck'st a flower:
Love's golden arrow at him should have fled,
And not Death's ebon dart, to strike dead.
'Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokest such weeping?
What may a heavy groan advantage thee?
Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping
Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see?
Now Nature cares not for thy mortal vigour,
Since her best work is ruin'd with thy rigour.'
Here overcome, as one full of despair,
She vail'd her eyelids, who, like sluices, stopt
The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair
In the sweet channel of her bosom dropt;
But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain,
And with his strong course opens them again.
O, how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow!
Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye;
Both crystals, where they view'd each other's sorrow,
Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry;
But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain,
Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again.
Variable passions throng her constant woe,
As striving who should best become her grief;
All entertain'd, each passion labours so,
That every present sorrow seemeth chief,
But none is best: then join they all together,
Like many clouds consulting for foul weather.
By this, far off she hears some huntsman hollo;
A nurse's song ne'er pleased her babe so well:
The dire imagination she did follow
This sound of hope doth labour to expel;
For now reviving joy bids her rejoice,
And flatters her it is Adonis' voice.
Whereat her tears began to turn their tide,
Being prison'd in her eye like pearls in glass;
Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside,
Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass,
To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground,
Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown'd.
O hard-believing love, how strange it seems
Not to believe, and yet too credulous!
Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes;
Despair and hope makes thee ridiculous:
The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely,
In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly.
Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought;
Adonis lives, and Death is not to blame;
It was not she that call'd him, all-to naught:
Now she adds honours to his hateful name;
She clepes him king of graves and grave for kings,
Imperious supreme of all mortal things.
'No, no,' quoth she, 'sweet Death, I did but jest;
Yet pardon me I felt a kind of fear
When as I met the boar, that bloody beast,
Which knows no pity, but is still severe;
Then, gentle shadow,--truth I must confess,--
I rail'd on thee, fearing my love's decease.
''Tis not my fault: the boar provoked my tongue;
Be wreak'd on him, invisible commander;
'Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong;
I did but act, he's author of thy slander:
Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet
Could rule them both without ten women's wit.'
Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect she doth extenuate;
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;
Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and stories
His victories, his triumphs and his glories.
'O Jove,' quoth she, 'how much a fool was I
To be of such a weak and silly mind
To wail his death who lives and must not die
Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!
For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,
And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.
'Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear
As one with treasure laden, hemm'd thieves;
Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear,
Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.'
Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.
As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the view,
Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;
Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,
Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with pain,
And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:
Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain;
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who like a king perplexed in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,
Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation shakes,
Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.
This mutiny each part doth so surprise
That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;
And, being open'd, threw unwilling light
Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench'd
In his soft flank; whose wonted lily white
With purple tears, that his wound wept, was drench'd:
No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed,
But stole his blood and seem'd with him to bleed.
This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth;
Over one shoulder doth she hang her head;
Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth;
She thinks he could not die, he is not dead:
Her voice is stopt, her joints forget to bow;
Her eyes are mad that they have wept til now.
Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly,
That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three;
And then she reprehends her mangling eye,
That makes more gashes where no breach should be:
His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled;
For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled.
'My tongue cannot express my grief for one,
And yet,' quoth she, 'behold two Adons dead!
My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone,
Mine eyes are turn'd to fire, my heart to lead:
Heavy heart's lead, melt at mine eyes' red fire!
So shall I die by drops of hot desire.
'Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!
What face remains alive that's worth the viewing?
Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast
Of things long since, or any thing ensuing?
The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim;
But true-sweet beauty lived and died with him.
'Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear!
Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you:
Having no fair to lose, you need not fear;
The sun doth scorn you and the wind doth hiss you:
But when Adonis lived, sun and sharp air
Lurk'd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair:
'And therefore would he put his bonnet on,
Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep;
The wind would blow it off and, being gone,
Play with his locks: then would Adonis weep;
And straight, in pity of his tender years,
They both would strive who first should dry his tears.
'To see his face the lion walk'd along
Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him;
To recreate himself when he hath sung,
The tiger would be tame and gently hear him;
If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey
And never fright the silly lamb that day.
'When he beheld his shadow in the brook,
The fishes spread on it their golden gills;
When he was by, the birds such pleasure took,
That some would sing, some other in their bills
Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries;
He fed them with his sight, they him with berries.
'But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:
If he did see his face, why then I know
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him so.
''Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain:
He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear,
Who did not whet his teeth at him again,
But by a kiss thought to persuade him there;
And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine
Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.
'Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess,
With kissing him I should have kill'd him first;
But he is dead, and never did he bless
My youth with his; the more am I accurst.'
With this, she falleth in the place she stood,
And stains her face with his congealed blood.
She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;
She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes,
Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;
Two glasses, where herself herself beheld
A thousand times, and now no more reflect;
Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd,
And every beauty robb'd of his effect:
'Wonder of time,' quoth she, 'this is my spite,
That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.
'Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,
Ne'er settled equally, but high or low,
That all love's pleasure shall not match his woe.
'It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud,
Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while;
The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd
With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile:
The strongest body shall it make most weak,
Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.
'It shall be sparing and too full of riot,
Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures;
The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet,
Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures;
It shall be raging-mad and silly-mild,
Make the young old, the old become a child.
'It shall suspect where is no cause of fear;
It shall not fear where it should most mistrust;
It shall be merciful and too severe,
And most deceiving when it seems most just;
Perverse it shall be where it shows most toward,
Put fear to valour, courage to the coward.
'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'
By this, the boy that by her side lay kill'd
Was melted like a vapour from her sight,
And in his blood that on the ground lay spill'd,
A purple flower sprung up, chequer'd with white,
Resembling well his pale cheeks and the blood
Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.
She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell,
Comparing it to her Adonis' breath,
And says, within her bosom it shall dwell,
Since he himself is reft from her by death:
She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears
Green dropping sap, which she compares to tears.
'Poor flower,' quoth she, 'this was thy fathers guise--
Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire--
For every little grief to wet his eyes:
To grow unto himself was his desire,
And so 'tis thine; but know, it is as good
To wither in my breast as in his blood.
'Here was thy father's bed, here in my breast;
Thou art the next of blood, and 'tis thy right:
Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest,
My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night:
There shall not be one minute in an hour
Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love's flower.'
Thus weary of the world, away she hies,
And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid
Their mistress mounted through the empty skies
In her light chariot quickly is convey'd;
Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen
Means to immure herself and not be seen.