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.
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.
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.
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,
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
[...] [...]
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.