The pilgrime and heremite in forme of a dialogue, by Master Alexander Craig.

The pilgrime and heremite in forme of a dialogue, by Master Alexander Craig.

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Title page

TO THE RIGHT HONOVRABLE, WYSE, AND VERtuouſlie diſpoſed Gentleman, WILLIAM FORBES of TOLQVHON.

THE PILGRIME AND HEREMITE, In forme of a Dialogue.

§

Poliphila, before Shee writ her Anſvvere, diſputeth vvith her ovvne Deſires, as followeth:

§

The Heremite his Complaint.

§

Her Anſwere, to the Heremite.

§

The Heremite his Teſtament.

§

Polyphila her Complaint, and Teſtament.

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The Poëme.

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§

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THE PILGRIME AND HEREMITE, In forme of a Dialogue,

By Master Alexander Craig,

Imprinted in ABERDENE, By EDWARD RABAN, for David Melvill. 1631.

TO THE RIGHT HONOVRABLE, WYSE, AND VERtuouſlie diſpoſed Gentleman, WILLIAM FORBES of TOLQVHON.

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RIGHT HONOVRABLE,

HAving collected the diſperſed, and long neglected Papers, of this ſubſequent Poëſie, the Poſthumes of a worthie Penne, for preſerving them from periſhing, for the Perfections of the Departed, maker of immortall memorie; who was one of the Faythfull, affectionate, (and re-affected) Favourers of the honourable Houſe of BAMFE, wherevnto Your ſelfe, and Yours, by a faythfull Affection, and affectionate Affinitie, are vnſeparably tied. And alſo, Sir, for the ſingular and ever bound duetie, wherevnto by many Obliedgements; and vnſpeakable Reſpects, I ever acknowledge my ſelfe to be vnterminably tied, to loue, ſerue, and honour, You and Yours, and to doe all that my poſsibilitie can performe, to the eternitie of Your Name, Houſe, and Honour. Herefore, Sir, I haue taken the boldnes, after the Author's expiring, to publiſh, and preſent, his Papers to Your Honours Hands, to paſſe vnder the Patrocinie and Protection of Your honourable Name. Receiue, therefore, Sir, this fatherles Orphane, vnder the Shield and Shadow of Your powerfull protection, & courteous acceptation: and [Page] as hee preſenteth to Your view a wandring Pilgrime, and a retired Heremite, both Deſpiſers of the fleeting Pleaſures, and flitting Ritches of this wretched World, whervpon most wretchedly ſo many doe doate: So, Sir, let the ſame call vs to mynd, what we are here, and what we ſhould ayme to bee heereafter; that as wee are Pilgrimes on earth, wee may bee Citizens in Heaven; this being our way, but Aboue, our natiue Countrey; here our travell, there our reſt; heere our race, there our prize; heere our fight, there our triumph; here our ſeed-time, there our harveſt; and as wandring Pilgrimis here our Innes only, from whence we muſt remoue, but there our home, and manſion place, wherein we muſt remayne. In this eſtate then, Sir, let worldly things be but our Viaticum, which we ſhould vſe, as if we vſed them not: and let vs neyther be cloyed with their loue, nor clogged with their cares; but ſeeke thoſe things that are aboue, & to temper the edge of our eager diſtractions, about many thinges with Martha, let vs with Marie conſider that one thing which is neceſſarie; and requite, in ſome meaſure, that loue which CHRIST IESVS hath carried and kythed towards vs; not as this poore Heremite was with diſdayne of her whom hee affected, but with mutuall tender affection, and a Chriſtian care to keepe His Commandements; whereby we ſhall gayne to our ſelues, more than the greateſt Conquerours, or buſieſt Worldlings, could ever acquire; even a glorious Kingdome, and a Crowne incorruptible. To the advancement whereof, Sir, both of you and yours, after manie and happie dayes heere, as my earneſt Petition to GOD ſhall bee; ſo in all other thinges I haue vowed to remayne

Your Honours, in all ſerviceable and obſequious duetie, ROBERT SKENE.

THE PILGRIME AND HEREMITE,
In forme of a Dialogue.

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§

WHen pale Ladie LVNA, with her lent light,

Through the dawning of the Day was driven to depa [...]

And the cleare chriſtall Sky vaniſhed the Night,

And the red morning roſe from the right airt;

Long ere the fond Childe, with Whip in his hand,

From his ſlight ſleepe awoke, to lighten the Land;

Twixt the Night and the Day,

In my ſleepe as I lay,

Amidſt my Dreame this fray

And fairlie I fand:

Apparelled as a Pilgryme, with Staffe in mine hand,

Foorth the day as I went, vndriven bout a guyde,

Mee thought in a laigh Lay, a cleare Streame, a Strand,

A broade Buſh of Birke trees, by a Brooke ſyde:

And hoping ſome Heremite made there repare,

As faſt as my feete might, forward I fare.

Through a Wood as I ſought,

To a Buſh was I brought,

Which Nature her ſelfe wrought,

Withoutten airts lare.

Through the Wood as I went, halfe will of waine,

A Cell to my ſharpe ſlght can ſhortlie appeare:

A quyet and a colde Caue, a Cabine of ſtone,

I drew me darne to the doore, ſome din to heare.

And as I lent to my Lug, this well I heard,

How long ſhall I lonthed liue? I loue bout reward.

And when I knew by the din,

Some wight was therein,

To waxe bolde I begin,

And no perill ſpar'd.

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As I went through the floore of that colde Caue,

I well eſpyed in the barke where the noyſe ſounded,

An hoarſe hoarie Heremite, grieved and graue,

Whoſe b [...]yling Breaſt naught but blacke ba [...]le abounded,

Whoſe colour, countenance, and pale deadlie hew,

His whole hidden Harmes there and griefes foorth ſhew:

Whoſe tumbling teares

or, without

bout ceaſe,

Lyke floods flowed over his face;

With manie long lowde alace,

And ſad ſighes anew.

Yet ſtoutlie hee ſtart by, and ſtared in my face,

And craved how I there came? or who was my guyde?

By Fortune, quod I, thus fell the caſe,

Through the wild way as I went I wandered aſyde,

And by a private plaine path I came to this Wood,

Wherein I wiſt well ſome Heremite was hid.

But ſince I am heere brought,

If that I offended ought,

By the Blood that mee bought,

I'll obey as yee bid.

A Pilgryme, quod hee, you ſeeme by your weede,

And a ſtrayed ſtranger, if I right weine:

But ſince you are heere come, ſo GOD mot mée ſpéede,

Thou art welcome to ſuch as you haue héere ſeene:

But yet of my treatment I trow yee ſhall tyre,

For neyther haue I Meate, Drinke, good Bed, nor Fyre.

On raw Rootes is my Food,

I drinke of the freſh Flood;

On Fog and greene Graſſe good,

All night lyes my lyre.

Then helde I the Heremite with faire wordes anew,

And for his franke offring great thankes I him gaue:

And when I well tryde that his tale was all trew,

The cauſe of his comming there ſhortlie I craue,

The cauſe of my comming heere, Pilgryme, quod hee,

And with that the ſalt teares fell in his eye:

Alace its for the loue of ane,

For whoſe ſake thus I am ſlaine:

A Martyr héere I remaine

By fatall decrée,

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In faith, friend, quod I then, I ſaw by thy ſong,

When at the colde Caue doore darned I ſtood:

Some Sainct of the Shée ſexe had wrought thee all this wrong;

And thou hadſt long lived in loue, and yet vnlov'd:

And of the long letter this laſt line I heard,

How long ſhall I lothed liue? I loue For bout, vnderſtand withoutbout Reward.

Whereby I well knew,

That thy Dame was vntrue;

Thy pale and wan how

Foorth ſhew thou wasſt ſnat'd.

Alace! quod the Heremite, I lived once to loue;

But now drowned in Deſpare, I ſee my death dieſt:

Though both Will and Wit would, I may not remoue,

I lye in the links of Loue fettered ſo faſt:

And all my Care-ſéeming-Swéets, are ſo mixt with Sowrs,

That each moment almoſt appeareth ten hours.

Thus liue I héere alone,

In this colde Caue of ſtone,

As next neighbour vnto none,

But Trees, Fowls, and Flowrs.

And thus in my darke Den I mynde to remayne,

As bound Bead-man to Her that workes all my woe;

Till Death with his Dart come put mee from payne:

Elſe Atropus cutting quyte the Threed in two,

And on the greene growing Barke of each blooming Tree.

This Diton indorſed ſhall well written bee:

In ſorrow and ſight ſlayne,

For Her heere I remayne,

Who lykes of another ane,

Much more than of mee.

Fond Heremite, quod I then, thy loue would appeare

Too high to bée placed aboue thy degree:

And thy fond fooliſh hope, frozen with feare,

And Fortune, thy Olde Friend, thy New Enemie.

For ſhee whom thou beſt loveſt, as thy ſelfe ſayes,

As reaſonleſſe, and ruethlaſſe, reſpects thee nowayes.

Thy ſyle is her ſight;

Thy duill, her delight;

And thy payne to deſpight,

Shee pleaſantlie playes.

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Whereby it well ſéemes, thy labour is loſt,

And vnto thy graue thou it goe, ere thou get her.

Mad man! why mak'ſt thou thyne enemie thy hoſpe?

Die not a foole, man; for Gods ſake forget her.

For, put caſe, in hope to obtayne thy deſyres,

Thou die heere for want of Bed, Food, and Fyres:

Then who ſhall bee ſeene,

To louk thy dead Eine?

And intombe thee, I weine,

As cuſtome requyres?

Leaue, then, thy Heremitage, and this colde Caue,

And liue no more in loue, ſince thou art not lov'd:

But follow mee, and take part as I haue:

Companie and counſell may doe thee ſome good.

For Don-Diëgo had died in Deſart,

Wert not Rodorico did him there convert.

Thus, it may fall ſo,

That I thy Rodorico,

May finde eaſe to thy woe,

And heale thy hurt Heart.

Speake, Pilgrime, quod hee, of thinges that may bee,

Or that hath appearance, to take ſome effect:

For, ſuch is my faintneſſe, I want force to flee,

Loue, Fortune, Death, haue given ſuch a checke.

Betwixt Wit and Will there is great debate;

The one with the other ſtryving for the ſtate.

Flee Loue, quod my Wit.

Stay, ſayes my Will yet.

So I byde; ſo I flit.

So I loue: ſo I hate.

But where thou wouldſt ſeeme to ſalue all my ſore,

And by thy ſtrait ſtatutes to ſtay all my ſturt,

Meddle with that matter, good Pilgrime, no more,

Since all mine health hangeth on her that mee hurt.

The Coal [...] that mee burnes to the bone, will I blow,

Though Liver, Lungs, and Lights, fly vp in a low,

Since ſhee doeth decree it,

That I die, ſo bee it;

I long till I ſee it.

Let Death bende his Bow.

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Uayne wretch, quod I then, caſt off thy vowed Weed [...],

And wander no more in this wilde Wilderneſſe:

It may bee thy Miſtres, that deare Dame, bee dead,

For whoſe ſwéete ſake daylie that dieſt in diſtreſſe:

Perchance before that thou her againe ſee,

By vote of the Wan-weird [...], that buried ſhee b [...].

Or put caſe, thy Dame deare,

Hath choſen a new Pheare,

Thou wouldſt deſpare to ſee her.

That ſo lightlies thee.

Or contrarywyſe, good Heremite, ſuppone

Thy Miſtres this moment hath good minde of thee;

And for thy long abſence maketh great moane,

And from her heart wiſheth her leile loue to ſee:

Saying in her ſelfe, Would God I wiſt where

My poore pyned Patient doeth make his repare.

Wiſt I well, ſo I thryue,

That hee were yet alyue,

I ſhould bee no wights wyue

For ten yeares, and maire.

Conceit with thy ſelfe, good Heremite, I pray,

If thy Dame bee dead, thou wéep'ſt but in vaine.

Thou art a ſtarke Stocke, heere ſtill for to ſtay,

And mourne for the loſſe that mendes not thy moane.

For if ſhee ſome other reſpect more than thee,

What grace canſt thou get, in duill heere to die:

Or wouldſt thou thy trueth,

Should reape reward of rueth?

Why ſlipſt thou ſo with ſleuth,

The thing that may bee?

Good Pilgrime, ſaide hee then, of theſe two I ſee,

As you ſeeme to conclude, the one muſt bee true:

Shee loathes, or ſhee loues: a mids may not bee,

As to my paines I may prooue by ſignes anew.

For my beloved Loue, my deare daintie Dame,

Deſpiſeth thoſe Elements which ſpell my poore Name.

UUoe is mee, if I mint,

To forge Floods from the Flint,

My true travell ſhall bee tint,

Such Friendſhip to frame.

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But you would ſay, that Death, drierie Death!

Perhaps, hath abrogate my deare Dames dayes:

To looke for a long lyfe then muſt I bee loath,

Whom each froward frowne elſe of Fortune affrayes.

And ſince alyke for her loue I haue tane ſuch payne,

I care not a cuit for her ſake to bee ſlayne.

I ſhall not ſéeme for to ſhrinke,

Of Death, for hey death, to drinke;

Whoſe ſwéete Eyes, with a winke,

May reviue mee agayne.

Let this then appleaſe thee, good Pilgrime, I pray,

That no preſence, abſence, no diſtance of place;

No fond toyes, no new frayes; no tyme, no delay;

No bad chance, no new change, nor contrarie caſe;

No, not the fierce flames that Fortune can ſpit,

Shall make my firme fixed ſayth or fancie to flit.

Yea, let her fléete, let her flow;

Let her doe what ſhee dow,

To gar my griefe aye grow,

I ſhall bee true yet.

Good Heremite, for trueth tolde I oft tymes haue heard,

The leileſt in loue, commeth aye the worſt ſpéede:

And hee that deſerues well to reape beſt reward,

For firme ſayth and friendſhip, ſhall finde nought but feide.

Take tent to the tales tolde of true Troyall Knight,

And hee that hanged him ſelfe, if I reade right.

Yea, though thy ſute thou obtayne,

With one word tint agayne:

Short pleaſure, long payne,

With duile day and night.

But ſince thou delighteſt to liue ſtill in loue,

Advyſe thee on this well, Bee never too true.

Though thou ſweare and ſay thy mynde ſhall not moue,

For Orphus, take Protus, to change aye thy hew.

Was not great Ioue turn'd in a Showre, in a Fyre,

In a Swan, in a Bull, t'obtayne his deſyre?

For hee that loues lighlieſt,

Bee ſure hee ſhall ſpeede beſt:

And hee that loues without reſt,

Shall ſurely get ill hyre.

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Wherefore, in loue if that thou wouldſt come ſpeede,

Thou muſt flee fayth, bee facile, falſe, vntrue.

Ere thou prevayle right, ſo farre as I reide,

There muſt bee a ſympathie twixt her and you.

For I demand, How can right Concord bee,

Whyle you are true, and ſhee both falſe and ſlee?

Shee lykes well another ſho,

Then chooſe new, and change too:

And if you well doe,

Bee as falſe as ſhee.

Alace! quod the Heremite, too late I ſpye the right,

And wronged with woe, ſtill wrongly I frame.

I know that in loue, my Ladie proues but light:

And if that I were wyſe, I would doe the ſame.

But fayth and her remembrance martyres mee maire,

Than did her preſence perfect mee, when I was there.

For whyles grieved, I greete;

Whyles I mourne, till wee meete:

And ſome tymes my poore ſprite

Dies, drowned in deſpare:

And whyles in a rage I reckon with my ſell,

And to and fro diſpute, to daſh my deſyre:

Halfe dead in Deſart, heere why ſhould I dwell,

And pyne with payne, wanting Bed, Food, and Fyre?

Why doe I loſe youths pryme, without all gayne?

Or why mourne I for her that kéepes Diſdayne?

And when that I conclude,

To burne Habite and Hood,

Yet doe I not dde it,

My Uow is ſo vayne.

Curſt bee that fond Uow, that ever it was made:

Curſt bee the firſt cauſe of my hidden payne:

And curſt bee falſe Fortune, that holds mee at feid:

And curſt bee the blinde Boy, that breedes all my baine:

Curſt bee the firſt houre, the tyme, and the place,

That fettred my fond Heart in her fayre Face.

Curſt bee my wicked will:

Nuyte ſpoyling mee of Skill,

And tooke mee captiue, till,

That Groome voyde of grace.

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Unſayde bee that bad word, That Groome voyde of grace,

What but her good graces can grieue mee ſo much?

For I may will ſaye, if Pittie had place,

Of all that on molde moues, there is none ſuch,

Oh! had the tymes paſt in Prayer beene ſpent,

That rueth to my ruethleſſe Loue had beene ſent.

And Cupid, I call on [...]:

Thou hear'ſt, and canſt not ſee:

Haue pittie on poore mee,

And grant myne intent.

Dame Nature, ſayth the wyſe Clerke Empedocles,

Beſtowes, good Heremits, her gifts here and there,

As ſhee well pleaſeth, the beſt is but Claiſe:

Each man muſt bee content, hee gets no maire.

For fayth doeth not affect thy Miſtres faire,

But Beautie, which doeth bring thee to deſpaire.

Of pittie ſince no part

Is hid in her hard heart,

Yet let not the blacke dart

Of duile thee devoure.

And deafe not the good Gods, with thy vayne Sute:

What they haue once done, they will not vndoe.

Loue's lyke a trim Tree, which beareth no Fruite,

But greene leaues, and bloſſoms, and flowriſheth too:

Oft gladning the Gardner, in hope of good gayne;

Yet reapes hee in Harveſt no Fruit for his payne.

Right ſo her fayre face,

With gifts of ſweet grace,

Tint travell, alace,

Bont fruit makes thee fayne.

Then ſute, ſerue, pray, prayſe, or doe what you can:

Loe, heere I fore-tell thee, thy labour is loſt.

For by the great griefs thou thol'ſt now and than,

To haſte thyne owne death, thou runneſt the Poſt.

Though ſurges of ſorrow full ſwift thee aſſayles,

Thy lawtie in loue, bout lucke, nought avayles.

Though thou beate the Buſh well,

Yet thy foe, without fayle,

Hints the Prey by the tayle,

And prowdlie prevayles,

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So by your ſweete ſelfe I preaſſe now to ſpeake,

Whome by the god of Loue I pray, and beſeike,

Forget the ſame of your force,

On your Man haue remorſe;

Leſt Death him and you divorce,

For hee is ſore ſicke.

Or if a poore man's Plaint may pearce through your Eares?

If Loue anie Lordſhip in your Breaſt may brooke;

Haue pittie on his Paſſions, and ſalt tragicke Teares;

Who Libertie, and Lyfe both, hath loſt with a Looke.

His Helpe muſt bee had from Handes that him hurt:

For ſterne muſt hee ſtay ſtill, till you ſtay his ſtutt.

Then, chooſe one of theſe twa,

Your ſworne Slaue for to ſlay,

Or revert all his wae,

Whome your Beautie hurt.

And then, with a fell Frowne, which had a full force

To over-rule the whole Worlde, with Eterne Might.

Whereby it well ſeemed ſhee had no remorſe

Upon the poore Patient, pyned in ſuch plight.

Faith, Pilgrime, quod ſhes, thou raveſt in a rage,

That ſeekeſt by my ſhame his ſicke ſore to ſwage.

For, in a word to conclude,

I can doe him no good;

Hee is reaft, by the Rood,

Of all his wun Wage.

Though ſometime the day drew, I dare not denye,

That hee in mine Heart had the moſt ſupreame place:

And ſo, till the fond Fates his wealth did envye,

I ſtill, with courteſie, conſidred his caſe.

And truſt mee, Pilgrime, his Paſſions, and Paine,

Ment as neare mine Heart, as ever did mine awne.

Though his caſe now ſeeme ſtrange,

I will not my ſelfe cleange:

His bad chance, and my change,

Hath bred all his paine.

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And as for my Loue, who lyes without releaſe,

Aſſociate for my ſake, with manie ſad Song;

So am I payde in mine hand, with as carefull caſe,

For hee whome I beſt loue, hath wrought mee great wrong.

And like as for his loue, hee reapes but diſdaine,

The Loue whome I like beſt, loathes mee againe.

And as hee liues all alone,

With manie great grievous groane,

So to my ſelfe I bemoane,

My hid piercing paine.

I flee to bee followed, and following, am fled:

I loue, and am loathed, and loath to bee lov'd.

Heere's a ſtrange ſtratageme, that my vaile bred:

I frieze in the hote Flame, and frye in the Flood.

I lacke whome I beſt loue, and choakt am with ſtore:

Yea, haue ſo much, that my mynde can craue no more.

Thus goe thy wayes, whence thou came,

And ſhowe thy ſicke Friende, his Dame

Remaines yet the ſelfe ſame,

That ſhee was before.

I will worke thee no wrong, that no wayes haſt wyte▪

But through the Fieldes on thy Feete friendlie doeſt fate,

To ſeeke to thy ſicke man ſome Salue for his ſyte,

And to cure by thy Craft his curſt kindled Care:

Thou ſhalt walke on thy way, and ſtay on the Stréet,

And carrie him ſhortlie his anſwere in Writ.

And when ſhee the Doore bard,

I ſtoode ſtill yet vnſkard;

And through a hole I heard

This talke of the Sweete.

Poliphila, before Shee writ her Anſvvere, diſputeth vvith her ovvne Deſires, as followeth:

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HOw hard it is, none knowes, ſo well as I▪

Unto a dolefull, and divided Mynde,

To make a well-joind Aunſwere, and Replye,

When all the chiefe and nobleſt partes are pynde.

Then, Shall I bee to Crueltie inclynde?

Or pittie him that prayes, and pleades for Peace▪

If this or that I ſticke in contrare caſe?

I loue the Loue that lightlies mee againe;

And lightlie him that loues mee as his life:

Yea, for my loue with ſlaverie is ſlaine.

His lyfe's the Threed, my crueltie's the Knyfe.

How ſhall I rid this ſtrange and fatall stryfe?

Yet beſt it were, to looke, before I lope:

And not to quite Aſſurance true, for Hope.

O my divided Soule! what ſhall I doe?

Whereon ſhall nowe my Reſolution reſt?

Which is the beſt Adviſe to yeelde vnto?

Of two Extreames, howe ſhall I chooſe the beſt?

Come, Pithiane Prince: I praye, and I proteſt:

Aſſiſt mee nowe, and make no more delay;

But guide mee well, in this my wilſome way.

Then, Heremite, that doeſt in Deſart dwell,

And buyſt my loue, with deare and great expence;

With Toyle, and Tormentes, tedious for to tell;

Bee blythe, and let thy wonted Harmes goe hence:

Thou muſt not die, while I may make defence.

Put then a point and period to thy paine:

Thy long-ſought Loue and Ladie ſhall bee thine.

Yet will I write diſdainfullie to thee:

Thy loving Lines muſt haue a colde Reply.

I will not ſeeme too credulous to bee,

[Page]With haſtie Faith, to truſt, before I trye.

But I avow, I ſhall not ſleepe, nor lye

In anie Bed, till I beholde thy Face,

And boldlie him whome I ſhould brooke, imbrace.

Goe, loueleſſe Lines, vnto my Lover true.

Stay yet, leſt yee procure his farder paine.

God graunt nothing but Good heereof enſue.

Yet ſtay, for why? Yee will bee quite miſtane.

Goe yet: but yet yee ſhall not goe alane:

My ſelfe will followe, with convenient haſte.

God graunt my Uoyage bee not waird in waſte.

Thus endeth her Diſputation.

§

And ſo, in a ſhort ſpace, that ſweete ſeemlie Sainct,

Preſentes mee▪ her Pilgrime, a baile-bearing Bill:

And as in the wilde way ſhee weind I ſhould want,

My Bag, and my Bottle, ſhee pleniſht at will.

A King from her Finger full faire did ſhee take:

And gaue mee, and prayde mee, good Newes to bring backe.

And, having no more to ſay,

But loath I ſhould long ſtay,

Shee weeping went away▪

And not a word ſpake.

Then, when the blacke Night her ſadde Mantle ſhew,

Ill Succeſſour, degenerate from the Day,

UUith the third Foote in hand, I throgh the thrang threw.

Though clad with the darke Clowdes, I went on my way.

And loath to detaine the Lecture too long,

I came to my ſicke Friende; and this was his Song▪

But, when I knew his voice,

I kept my ſelfe full cloſe,

To heare the Layes of his loſſe,

The wilde woods among.

The Heremite his Complaint.

[Page]

SO manie thinges before haue perfect Poets pende, For to expreſſe their piercing paines, and cauſe their Cares bee kende▪

That nought is left, alace, for moſt vnhappie mee,

In Skyes aboue, on earth beneath, nor in the glaſſie Sea.

No Metaphoricke Phraſe, no high Invention braue:

No Allegorie ſweete Conceit, no Theame ſublime and graue:

But all thinges elſe are ſaide, which I can write or ſay:

Thus in effect I wot not how my wracks for to bewray.

And nothing doeth aggrege my griping griefe ſo much,

As that my ſkill ſhould be ſo ſmall, my ſorowes ſhould be ſuch.

Yet all thoſe Poets braue, which were, or yet ſhall bee,

Could I but vtter, as I feele, might all giue place to mee.

And thou whoſe mirth was leaſt, whoſe comfort was diſmaid▪

Whoſe hope was vaine, whoſe faith was ſkorne, whoſe trueth was betraide:

Thou didſt declare thy duile, in braue and daintie dye:

Thou waſt vnhappie then, I graunt, but now vnhappie I.

Thy Poemes did preſent vpon thy pleaſant Page,

Moe Sorrowes than thou ever felt into thy cunning age.

With coſtlie Nurix rare, Sid [...]niane Wares divine,

Thou litſt thy Lines, which makes thy Moanes miraculouſlie to ſhine.

My Paines, like Tagus Sandes, no numbers can bewray:

Or like Auroras tears, which ſhe for Memnon ſheeds each day.

As Starres in froſtie Sky can not bee tolde which ſhynes;

So manie heaps of harms my hart without compaſſion pyns,

Yea, would I preaſſe to tell the torments that I feele,

With travell tint then might I turne Irions fatall wheele.

And to diſgorge theſe griefs which make mee ſigh and ſob,

Were for to weue a new Penelopeian webbe.

My Eyes like Fountaines might in bloodie Fornace frye,

Or like the Lidiane Tubs, whoſe doome is never to bee drye.

My hote and ſmoothred ſighes, no levill courſe can take:

But reſtleſſe round about my heart eſphearicke motion make.

My Thoughtes are now of Bliſſe like ruine Ilion bare:

My ſhape, a reconfuſed maſſe, which flowriſht once ſo faire.

[Page]My Ship, which ſometimes ſaild in draine of hope aright.

On Rockes full colde is rent, in blacke and ſtormie night.

And I, forſaken Soule, a lyfeleſſe lumpe of Lead,

Twixt wind and waue am caſt, whereas no ſtrength can ſtand in ſtead.

My Uentring was my Wracke; my high Deſire, my Fall:

Which made the Naufrage of my Hurt, my Hope, my Hap, and all.

Alace, alace, that I impoſſiblie did preaſſe,

Aboue my Fortunes for to flie, ſo farre to my diſgrace.

Diſgrac'd with Loſſe, with Shame, with Wracke, and endleſſe Wrong:

Theſe are the dolefull Ditties now, and ſubjects of my Song.

Yet dare I not, alace, though I haue cauſe, complaine:

Which makes me ſigh, and ſob, and thus for loue am ſlaine.

But ſince it is my weird, to fall, to waile, to weepe;

Then by my loſſe let others learne a lower courſe to keepe.

Thus endeth the Heremite his Complaint.

§

And when I ſaw that his Song received a full ende,

I ſhowde my ſelfe ſhortlie, and kindlie did kythe.

And when that ſore ſicke man his true Bearer kende,

And ſaw the Face of his Friend, God knowes he was blythe.

Then ſhowde I the blacke Bill, ſubſcryv'd with his Name,

Well written with the hand of his owne deare Dame.

And then, with a glad [...]heare,

When Hope had ceaſſed Feare,

Hee read, that I might heare,

The Will of the ſame.

Her Anſwere, to the Heremite.

THy loving Lines I raſhlie did receiue,

Wherein thy Trueth, thy State, thy Wracke, I ſee:

But at mine handes no ſuccour ſhalt thou haue:

Though Friende to mee, I ſhall bee Foe to thee.

And ſince thy death doeth on my doome depende,

Liue loath'd, or die diſgrac'd, and ſo I ende.

Thus ſhee ſhortly concludes.

§

[Page]

And when hee read theſe bad and noiſome Newes,

Which did refreſh his Woes, his Hurtes, and Harmes:

Whiles red, whiles pale, hee chaunged manie hewes,

And fell downe, in dead-thraw, betwixt my weake Armes.

And when with my ſalt Teares I bath'd his pale Face,

His Sprites, and his Breath, came to their owne place.

Hee cryde then, O Death, ſtay

Thy date, for this halfe day;

That I in writ may bewray

My high great Diſgrace.

The Heremite his Teſtament.

BUt now, and not till now, my Swan-lyke Song I ſing;

And with each word my dying Eyes the bloodie Teares foorth bring.

Not that I loathe, alace, or ſhrinke for to bee ſlaine:

For, what can be ſo ſwéet as death, which puts an end to pain?

My death ſhall bee the Cauſe, thy Honour and Renowne

Shal loſe the conquerd Diademe of Fames immortal Crown.

Yet ſince it is thy Doome, that in diſgrace I die,

Or loathed liue, the choiſe is hard whereas no mids may bee.

And yet of Evils twane, the beſt muſt aye bee tane:

So that I rather chooſe to die, than liue in endleſſe paine.

Long haue I lookt for joy, whence floods of ſorrow ſpring:

The ende whereof, alace, muſt bee my lateſt Will to ſing.

My Tones, are carefull Cryes; my Words are Plaints, alace:

Sad Sorrow muſt the Singer bee, ſince Pittie hath no place.

My Paines are like a Point, amidſt a Circle ſet:

Still in ſuch nearneſſe to my ſelfe, that no reliefe can get.

How can I hope for helpe, ſince Heavens doe mee deſpiſe?

And all the gods aboue are dead'd, with my Complaintes and Cryes.

Earths burden am I thus, whoſe ſighes infect the Aire,

With poiſned breath, procéeding from an heart conſum'd with Care.

For loe, the faithleſſe Fates vnto this ſtate mee calles:

By which the ſtatelie Starres themſelues misfortune tholes.

What reſteth then but Death? ſince Death muſt be the laſt,

To put a period to my paine, for pleaſures hope is paſt.

[Page]Yet A atteſt the gods, ſince firſt our loue began▪

I haue beene the lieleſt aye, and moſt affected man.

I loded thee, alace, thy Soliphermis ſworne:

O Poliphila falſe! my lawtie is forlorne.

My loue, woe's mee, therefore, ſtill thy diſdaine hath beene:

The moſt Extreams that ever were, or ſhall againe bee ſéene.

Thou firſt betrayde mine Heart, then falſifide thy Faith:

And where thou promiſde Lyfe, by Loue, thou haſt decreede my Death.

When that thy Cruelties I call before, and to

The Eyes of my Remembrance, I doubt what I ſhall doe.

Whiles doe I wiſh to liue, not to envye thy loue:

But that I might beholde my wracke, revenged from Aboue.

Or that ſuch wrongs as mine, if ſuch, or worſe, might bee,

Might make mee ſmile at thy Mishaps, as thou haſt done at mee.

Or then that ſometime thou, like that Minoniane Dame,

Mightſt loue, and loathed bee, and ſuffer ſuch like ſhame.

Or that the fatall Sparke, whereon thy Loines might lout,

And mounting much, might make thee pleade, for Peace thy time about.

Yet, whiles againe I thinke, might I my wiſh obtaine,

I could not but bee kinde to thee, for kindneſſe that hath beene.

Thus what I would, I wiſh: but wot not what I would.

Twixt Heate and Colde I frieze, I frye, and fearfull am, and bolde.

Yea, though I bee diſmaide, ſuch is my flaming Fyre,

That Neptunes Kingdome could not quench the Coales of my Deſyre.

Yet whiles I reade the Schrole of Torments which I thole,

Where no Miſchance is mixt to fill a grieved Martyres Roll.

And when I looke the Liues, wherein thy Helliſh Doome,

By thy Chyrographie ſent, That Death ſhould me conſume,

Thus I reſolue at ones, for to obey thy will,

Although my Lyfe the Ranſome bee, thy Furie to fulfill.

Since Contraries, wee ſee, are by Contraries cured:

Then, welcome, Death, to cut the Threed, which hath ſo long endured.

[Page]For why? my Prayers are but Curſes late and aire:

And I beſéech the gods by night, to ſee the Day no maire.

My wiſhes are, that Hilles and Rockes ſhould on mee fall,

To end my endleſſe breath, my lyfe, my loue, and all.

Yet all thoſe wiſhes are but types, that I muſt die,

Which revelations all at once, ſhall now accompliſht bee.

Then loueleſſe dame, adue, whom I haue helde ſo deare:

And welcome, Death, to cut the Threede, which holdes my lyfe in weire.

And, Pilgryme, thou who took'ſt thy way in manie airts,

For me prepare a burial Bed, for Bones, when Breath departs.

Yet recommend mine Heart, vnto my ſometime-Sweet;

Who ſhall, when I am dead and gone, for Grace and Guerdon greet.

And let that place bee nam'd, Strophonius Caue of care:

Where nought but woefull wandring [...]ight [...], vndone w [...] duill, repare.

And let this Caberne colde, wherein I dwelt, to die,

For Miſers, and vnhappie men, a matchleſſe Manſton bee.

Let him whoſe erring ſteps ſhould guide him heere to plaine,

Take paines to recollect my rolls, & ſcattered Skrolls againe.

That theſe my Waylings now, and Sorrowes Children may

Extolde in after comming times, endure, and lieue for aye.

And that the wandring eyes, which reade my ſorrowing ſongs.

When I am dead, may ſay, that ſhee cauſeleſſe hath wrought ſuch wrongs.

The Mountaines high, whoſe poynts doe pierce the aſure Aire;

Whoſe echoes lowde my Commerades make comfort to my Care:

Still mot your hights aryſe, with ſtatelie tops and ſtay,

To match the Alpes, that yee may bee as famous, faire as they,

Yee Ualleyes louelie low, with ſweet and levell lynes,

Where Natures workmanſhip and pryde in Floraes Mantle ſhynes:

Greene mot yee grow for aye, and that ne ſpaits of raine,

No Snowie ſhowres, no partching Sunne, your ſtatelie broydering ſtaine.

And thou, O bleſſed Brooke, which didſt accept my Teares;

And harbered thē within thy heart, ſo manie loathſome yeares▪

[Page]Unto the Ocean great, moſt ſwiftlie mot yee ſlide,

To pay thy debts, bout ſtop or ſtay of contrare ſtreame or tide.

Yee whiſling windes, likewiſe, which ſwiftlie did receiue,

My Cogiate Sighs, and burie them within your Boſome braue.

Doe thus much once for mee; Take one Sigh to my Dame:

And whiſpering ſweetlie, ſhow that Sainct, thus haue I ſent the ſame.

And if ſhee doe refuſe, which out of doubt I dread,

The newes of No, ſhall bee a Sput, to haſte mee to my dead.

Yee braue and ſtatslie Trees, which circumcituate heere,

Still bloome, and bloſſome, with the change of yearlie changing cheare.

Though I did ryue your Kyndes, & brake your tender Barkes,

By painting Polyphilaes name to your immortall markes:

Agrieue not with your wounds, for I dare well avow,

That I more cruellie haue rent my tender Heart, than you.

But laſt, and by the laiue, thou Holline, graue and greene,

Wherein my Miſtreſſe name, and mine, moſt liuelie may bee ſeene,

I conſecrate to thee my Corpſe, when I am gone,

That by my loſſe I may enlarge thy thornie leaues eachone.

And when I ſhall conſume, and rot about thy roote,

Then ſhall thy Boughs and Branches bloome, and beare a fairer Fruit:

And as thou tak'ſt increaſe, ſo ſhall Her Name, and mine,

Unto thy praiſe, my loſſe, her ſhame, in ſeemelie ſort aye ſhine.

Yee ſavage Citizens, which in this Forreſt bee,

That did exchange your Cruelties, in Courteſies to mee:

Well not yee bee, poore Beaſtes, and that no ſhots of Lead,

No life-bereaving Bow, nor Bolt, procure nor haſte your dead.

And thou ſweete pyping Pan, ye Fawnes, and Satyres rare,

Which were amidſt my matchleſſe moanes, Companions of my care:

Ye Nymphes of Hilles & Dales, of Woods; of Uailes, of Floods;

I bid you all, alace, Good-night, and ſo my Muſe concludes.

For now the Herbinger of Death, muſt life and loue bereaue.

My Heart is faint, and loe, my Soule begins to take her leaue.

And ſo at point of Death, whoſe wiſht approach I feele,

To end my life, I write this laſt Ill-faring word, Fare-well.

So endeth the Teſtament of Stophonius.

§

[Page]

Thus the poore Heremite in midſt of his paine,

Began to repeate his faire Miſtres ſpeach;

Downe betwixt mine Armes fell, in dead thraw againe▪

UUhen no Leid for his life, mee thought, could be Leach.

His Cognate Corpſe as Clay were, like the Lead:

Yea, healthleſſe and helpleſſe, were Heart, Hand, and Head:

I began to bewaile,

And eke for to raile,

On her whoſe faith did faile.

In ſuch time of neede.

Yet in the midſt of my moanes, downe lighted that Dame,

Companied with none, but her Palfray and Page:

And when ſhée ſaw her liele Loue lye deade ere ſhée came,

Her faire Face and rich Robes, ſhée rent in great rage.

And [...]atlings ſhée fell vpon his faint Face,

And great Seas of ſault Teares ſhée ſpent in ſhort ſpace.

And ſéeing her Swéet ſlaine,

No remead did remaine:

Shee thus began to plaine,

Her bad carefull caſe.

Polyphila her Complaint, and Teſtament.

O endleſſe Night of noyſe, which hath no Morrow!

O lowring Heavens, which harmes ſtill haue threat!

Ov'r mantling mee with ſable Clowds of Sorrow!

UUhereas no Starre doeth ſhine earlie nor late.

Although I ſhip from Craig, to ſeeke my Mate,

And from a glorious Garland to my Crowne,

I finde by death my daintie Roſe dung downe.

Yée ſwelling Seas, with waltering UUaues that roll.

To reſolute the weather-beaten Shoare:

They eb, they flow, and changing, Courſes tholl,

And dare tranſcende their bounded banks no more.

But I, alace, whom Duill doeth ſtill devoure,

I finde no entermiſſions to my Moanes,

But ere and late lament my grievous Groanes.

[Page]

How can my wofull Heart, and weeping Eyes,

Beholde the deareſt of my life bereaft?

How can my minde admit the leaſt ſurmyze,

Of anie Hope, that hath but Horrour left?

My Pilote now, by North, nor yet by Eaſt,

Eſpies no Calmes, but Mercie-wanting Stormes;

Pretending Death, in blacke and vglie Formes.

I grouelinges on the Ocean of my pride,

Did miſregard each true and loving Sute.

So mante ſude for favour on each ſide,

Which made my Seede to yeelde much barren Fruite.

Though I bewaile, as nowe, it bringes no buite.

Sighes, Teares, and Uowes, and all are waird in vaine:

Since nothing can redéeme thy life againe.

Aye mee, alace! Alace, and waile-away!

Deare Heert, poore Heart; what reſtes for thy behoue?

Since I procur'd thy death, by my delay,

And did miſtruſt my true and conſtant Loue:

Now ſhall my death, thy preſent death approue.

Though whilſt thou liv'd, to loue thee I was loath;

Yet I am thine beyonde the date of death.

Then let mee die, and bid Delight adue;

Since my delight is with thee dead and gone.

The comming Age ſhall ſay, thy Thiſv [...] true,

Was conſtant ſtill, and lov'd but thee alone.

Wee both ſhall lye vnder one Marble ſtone.

One Graue in ende, ſhall ende our fatall griefe;

Which yeeldes mee nowe, in point of death, reliefe.

Since yeſterday may not bee brought againe,

And Wronges may bee repented, not recall'd:

I will no more in veigh on Death in vaine.

But make all Womens cowrage to bee bolde:

And in the Tymes to come, it ſhall bee tolde;

Though thou till death didſt ſerue and honour mee,

I after death haue ſought, and followde thee,

And, Pilgrim [...], nowe, I praye, and I proteſt,

[Page]Before I ende this laſt exequall Act,

Let mee bee bolde to make this ſmall Requeſt;

That for thy vmwhile Friend [...] ſome paines thou take:

Firſt, In this place, a private Graue gar make;

And let vs lye interd conjunctlie there,

Where nought but Fawnes, and Satyres make repare;

Next, When thou comſt into my natiue Land,

Wherein my Loue, and loueleſſe I was borne;

If anie of our Tragicke death demand,

With Pittie ſpeake, I praye, and not with Scorne.

This Practicks rars, which ſeldome was beforne,

Which when my deare and loving Friendes ſhall heare,

My Tragicke ends will coſt them manie a Teare.

Thus endeth her Complaynt.

§

And ſo when that rare Pearle departed out of paine,

Upon the colde dead Corpſe of her leile Loue,

Unto my elſe hurt Heart did heape Harmes againe,

And layde new weight on my braſt Breaſt aboue.

To ſee him and her gaſpe, ſtill no wriſht my care.

I wiſt not whom to helpe, him, or her there.

While I ſtoode in this doubt,

The Heremite lookt out,

And gaue a faint ſhout,

Twixt hope, and deſpare.

This is the Worldes moſt wondrous worthie Might,

Moſt matchleſſe of all, that may on molde moue.

Halowed bee the Heavens, that ſhowde mee this ſight.

And lent mee this light, to looke on my leile loue.

Now am I glad, and vngriev'd, to Graue though I goe:

Thy travell and toyle doeth reward well my woe.

For wilt thou belieue mee,

My Maker miſchieue mee,

If thou canſt agrieue mee,

I ſtill loue thee ſo.

I come, quod the Cleare then, to cure all thy care,

Though the Faites had forſworne to fang thee my Feire.

[Page]Bee biythe then, my deare heart, and mourns thou no maire,

For Peace, ſaith the Proverbe, puts end to all weire.

Goe leaue then thy Hermitage, and thy cold Caue,

Where Wolfe, Lyon, wilde Beare, thy blood ſtill doe craue,

And with the good God's grace,

Thou ſhalt in a ſhort ſpace,

For all thy loſſe ſtnde releaſe,

And firſt Health receiue.

Then franklie the Frieke fuire, with her helpe and mine,

And to her Palfray hee paſt, although with great paine:

And tooke on that ſwéet Sainct, that méeke Iem divine;

That miracle which gods made, as next vnto naine.

Then blythlie the Bairue blent, and hyde haſtie Hame,

Throgh ſhéene Shawes, & donke Dailes, with his deare Dame.

And ſo with Adew dry,

Through the Wood could they hye,

As wee twind, they and I,

I woke of my Dreame.

Heere endeth the fatalitie of the loyall Lover Soliphereus, and of his ſweete Ladie Polyphila.

The Poëme.

AS perfect Poets eye-tymes haue tane paine,

And ſearch'd the Secrets of each high Engyne,

By baſe and lowlie Subjects to exclaime,

High Myſteries, both morall and divine:

Even ſo into this worthleſſe Worke of mine,

Which at Friends bidding boldlie I ſet foorth;

Some things may ſéeme obſcure, though little worth.

For as the Heremite leaues his deareſt Dame,

And takes delight in colde Deſart to dwell:

Syn [...] of his Lot, and of him ſelfe, thinkes ſhame,

And ſtill deſpaires, and ſtill doeth loathe him ſell:

So wretched man, exchanging Heaven with Hell,

Forgetting GOD, in Darkneſſe doeth remaine,

And ſtill deſpaires, to get Reliefs againe.

[Page]

And as the painfull Pilgryme, now and than,

With Arguments, and pithie reaſons ſtrong,

Would faine reduce the Heremite, if hée can,

And make him to beholde his woefull wrong:

And as the Woods, and ſavage Beaſtes among,

So with him bydes, and recomforts his Care:

Syne holds him vp, from dying in Deſpare.

And as in ende, hée mooues him for to wryte;

Syne ſhowes his Sutes vnto his Miſtres Eyes:

Wherein, yée ſée, ſhée tooke no ſmall delyte,

Becauſe in him ſome ſigne of Trueth ſhée ſtes.

Shée cures his Cares, and all his ſicke Diſeaſe:

Yea, heales his hurt, and heartlie by the hand,

Shée home-ward leades him, to her natiue Land.

So ſinfull man, firſt by the helpe of Faith,

Deſpiſeth Sinne, repents, and ſore doeth pray,

That GOD in Mercie would avert His wrath,

And make His bred diſpleaſure to decay.

And when the ſicke converted would away,

From worldlie eaſe, with haſte hee maketh ſpeede:

Then comes the LORD, to helpe His owne at neede.

Hee cures our cares, Hee helpes vs to bee haile:

Hee makes our ſorie Soules for to rejoyce.

If wee in Him confyde. Hee will not faile,

To free vs from the force of all our Foes.

And at the laſt, with great diſgrace of thoſe,

That loving LORD, ſhall take vs by the Hand,

And with Him leads vs, to the HOME LAND.

FINIS.

§

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Orpheus Fiddle.

[Page]

Information about this book

Title statement

The pilgrime and heremite in forme of a dialogue, by Master Alexander Craig.

Craig, Alexander, 1567?-1627.

Edition statement

1631

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2006-02 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A69157

ID [STC]

STC 5957

ID [STC]

ESTC S105267

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99840996

ID [PROQUEST]

99840996

ID [VID]

5552

Availability

This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal. The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.

Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A69157)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 5552)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1475-1640 ; 954:02)

Source

— The pilgrime and heremite in forme of a dialogue, by Master Alexander Craig., Craig, Alexander, 1567?-1627., Skene, Robert, fl. 1631..

Extent

[36] p.

By Edward Raban, for David Melvill,. Imprinted in Aberdene :: 1631.. (Editor's dedication signed: Robert Skene.) (Signatures: [par.]² A⁴ [B⁴] C-D⁴.) (Only known copy lacks quire B.) (Reproduction of the original in the Henry E. Huntington Library and Art Gallery.)

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