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[By Lodowick Bryskett.]
COME forth, ye Nymphes, come forth, forsake your watry bowres, | |
| Forsake your mossy caves, and help me to lament: | |
| Help me to tune my dolefull notes to gurgling sound | |
| Of Liffies tumbling streames: come, let salt teares of ours | |
| Mix with his waters fresh. O come, let one consent | 5 |
| Joyne us to mourne with wailfull plaints the deadly wound | |
| Which fatall clap hath made; decreed by higher powres; | |
| The dreery day in which they have from us yrent | |
| The noblest plant that might from East to West be found. | |
| Mourne, mourn great Philips fall, mourn we his wofull end, | 10 |
| Whom spitefull Death hath pluct untimely from the tree, | |
| Whiles yet his yeares in flowre did promise worthie frute. | |
| Ah! dreadful Mars, why didst thou not thy knight defend? | |
| What wrathfull mood, what fault of ours hath moved thee | |
| Of such a shining light to leave us destitute? | 15 |
| Thou with benigne aspect sometime didst us behold, | |
| Thou hast in Britons valour tane delight of old, | |
| And with thy presence oft vouchsaft to attribute | |
| Fame and renowme to us for glorious martiall deeds. | |
| But now thy ireful bemes have chill’d our harts with cold; | 20 |
| Thou hast estrang’d thy self, and deignest not our land: | |
| Farre off to others now thy favour honour breeds, | |
| And high disdaine doth cause thee shun our clime (I feare.) | |
| For hadst thou not bene wroth, or that time neare at hand, | |
| Thou wouldst have heard the cry that woful England made; | 25 |
| Eke Zelands piteous plaints and Hollands toren heare | |
| Would haply have appeas’d thy divine angry mynd. | |
| Thou shouldst have seen the trees refuse to yeeld their shade, | |
| And wailing to let fall the honor of their head, | |
| And birds in mournfull tunes lamenting in their kinde. | 30 |
| Up from his tombe the mightie Corineus rose, | |
| Who cursing oft the Fates that this mishap had bred, | |
| His hoary locks he tare, calling the heavens unkinde. | |
| The Thames was heard to roare, the Reyne and eke the Mose, | |
| The Schald, the Danow selfe this great mischance did rue, | 35 |
| With torment and with grief; their fountains pure and cleere | |
| Were troubled, and with swelling flouds declar’d their woes. | |
| The Muses comfortles, the Nymphs with paled hue, | |
| The silvan gods likewise came running farre and neere, | |
| And all with teares bedeawd, and eyes cast up on hie, | 40 |
| ‘O help, O help, ye gods!’ they ghastly gan to crie. | |
| ‘O chaunge the cruell fate of this so rare a wight, | |
| And graunt that natures course may measure out his age!’ | |
| The beasts their foode forsooke, and trembling fearfully, | |
| Each sought his cave or den, this cry did them so fright. | 45 |
| Out from amid the waves, by storme then stirr’d to rage, | |
| This crie did cause to rise th’ old father Ocean hoare, | |
| Who, grave with eld, and full of majestie in sight, | |
| Spake in this wise: ‘Refrain,’ quoth he, ‘your teares and plaints, | |
| Cease these your idle words, make vaine requests no more. | 50 |
| No humble speech nor mone may move the fixed stint | |
| Of destinie or death: such is his will that paints | |
| The earth with colours fresh, the darkest skies with store | |
| Of starry lights: and though your teares a hart of flint | |
| Might tender make, yet nought herein they will prevaile.’ | 55 |
| Whiles thus he said, the noble knight, who gan to feele | |
| His vitall force to faint, and Death with cruell dint | |
| Of direfull dart his mortall bodie to assaile, | |
| With eyes lift up to heav’n, and courage franke as steele, | |
| With cheerfull face, where valour lively was exprest, | 60 |
| But humble mynd, he said: ‘O Lord, if ought this fraile | |
| And earthly carcasse have thy service sought t’ advaunce; | |
| If my desire have bene still to relieve th’ opprest: | |
| If, justice to maintaine, that valour I have spent | |
| Which thou me gav’st; or if henceforth I might advaunce | 65 |
| Thy name, thy truth, then spare me (Lord) if thou think best; | |
| Forbeare these unripe yeares. But if thy will be bent, | |
| If that prefixed time be come which thou hast set, | |
| Through pure and fervent faith, I hope now to be plast | |
| In th’ everlasting blis which with thy precious blood | 70 |
| Thou purchase didst for us.’ With that a sigh he fet, | |
| And straight a cloudie mist his sences overcast, | |
| His lips waxt pale and wan, like damaske roses bud | |
| Cast from the stalke, or like in field to purple flowre, | |
| Which languisheth being shred by culter as it past. | 75 |
| A trembling chilly cold ran throgh their veines, which were | |
| With eies brimfull of teares to see his fatall howre; | |
| Whose blustring sighes at first their sorrow did declare; | |
| Next, murmuring ensude; at last they not forbeare | |
| Plaine outcries, all against the heav’ns that enviously | 80 |
| Depriv’d us of a spright so perfect and so rare. | |
| The sun his lightsom beames did shrowd, and hide his face | |
| For griefe, whereby the earth feard night eternally: | |
| The mountaines eachwhere shooke, the rivers turn’d their streames, | |
| And th’ aire gan winterlike to rage and fret apace: | 85 |
| And grisly ghosts by night were seene, and fierie gleames | |
| Amid the clouds, with claps of thunder, that did seeme | |
| To rent the skies, and made both man and beast afeard. | |
| The birds of ill presage this lucklesse chance foretold, | |
| By dernfull noise, and dogs with howling made man deeme | 90 |
| Some mischief was at hand: for such they do esteeme | |
| As tokens of mishap, and so have done of old. | |
| Ah! that thou hadst but heard his lovely Stella plaine | |
| Her greevous losse, or seene her heavie mourning cheere, | |
| While she, with woe opprest, her sorrowes did unfold. | 95 |
| Her haire hung lose neglect, about her shoulders twaine, | |
| And from those two bright starres, to him sometime so deere, | |
| Her heart sent drops of pearle, which fell in foyson downe | |
| Twixt lilly and the rose. She wroong her hands with paine, | |
| And piteously gan say: ‘My true and faithfull pheere, | 100 |
| Alas, and woe is me! why should my fortune frowne | |
| On me thus frowardly, to rob me of my joy? | |
| What cruell envious hand hath taken thee away, | |
| And with thee my content, my comfort, and my stay? | |
| Thou onelie wast the ease of trouble and annoy, | 105 |
| When they did me assaile, in thee my hopes did rest. | |
| Alas! what now is left but grief, that night and day | |
| Afflicts this wofull life, and with continuall rage | |
| Torments ten thousand waies my miserable brest? | |
| O greedie envious heav’n, what needed thee to have | 110 |
| Enricht with such a jewell this unhappie age, | |
| To take it back againe so soone? Alas! when shall | |
| Mine eies see ought that may content them, since thy grave | |
| My onely treasure hides, the joyes of my poore hart? | |
| As here with thee on earth I liv’d, even so equall | 115 |
| Methinkes it were with thee in heav’n I did abide: | |
| And as our troubles all we here on earth did part, | |
| So reason would that there of thy most happie state | |
| I had my share. Alas! if thou my trustie guide | |
| Were wont to be, how canst thou leave me thus alone | 120 |
| In darknesse and astray, weake, wearie, desolate, | |
| Plung’d in a world of woe, refusing for to take | |
| Me with thee to the place of rest where thou art gone?’ | |
| This said, she held her peace, for sorrow tide her toong; | |
| And insteed of more words, seemd that her eies a lake | 125 |
| Of teares had bene, they flow’d so plenteously therefro: | |
| And with her sobs and sighs th’ aire round about her roong. | |
| If Venus, when she waild her deare Adonis slaine, | |
| Ought moov’d in thy fiers hart compassion of her woe, | |
| His noble sisters plaints, her sighes and teares emong, | 130 |
| Would sure have made thee milde, and inly rue her paine. | |
| Aurora halfe so faire her selfe did never show, | |
| When from old Tithons bed shee weeping did arise. | |
| The blinded archer-boy, like larke in showre of raine, | |
| Sat bathing of his wings, and glad the time did spend | 135 |
| Under those cristall drops which fell from her faire eies, | |
| And at their brightest beames him proynd in lovely wise. | |
| Yet sorie for her grief, which he could not amend, | |
| The gentle boy gan wipe her eies, and clear those lights, | |
| Those lights through which his glory and his conquests shine. | 140 |
| The Graces tuckt her hair, which hung like threds of gold, | |
| Along her yvorie brest, the treasure of delights. | |
| All things with her to weep, it seemed, did encline, | |
| The trees, the hills, the dales, the caves, the stones so cold. | |
| The aire did help them mourne, with dark clouds, raine, and mist, | 145 |
| Forbearing many a day to cleare it selfe againe; | |
| Which made them eftsoones feare the daies of Pirrha shold | |
| Of creatures spoile the earth, their fatall threds untwist. | |
| For Phœbus gladsome raies were wished for in vaine, | |
| And with her quivering light Latonas daughter faire, | 150 |
| And Charles-waine eke refus’d to be the shipmans guide. | |
| On Neptune warre was made by Aeolus and his traine, | |
| Who, letting loose the winds, tost and tormented th’ aire, | |
| So that on ev’ry coast men shipwrack did abide, | |
| Or else were swallowed up in open sea with waves, | 155 |
| And such as came to shoare were beaten with despaire. | |
| The Medwaies silver streames, that wont so still to slide, | |
| Were troubled now and wrothe: whose hidden hollow caves | |
| Along his banks, with fog then shrowded from mans eye, | |
| Ay ‘Phillip!’ did resownd, aie ‘Phillip!’ they did crie. | 160 |
| His nimphs were seen no more (thogh custom stil it craves) | |
| With haire spred to the wynd themselves to bath or sport, | |
| Or with the hooke or net, barefooted wantonly, | |
| The pleasant daintie fish to entangle or deceive. | |
| The shepheards left their wonted places of resort; | 165 |
| Their bagpipes now were still; their loving mery layes | |
| Were quite forgot; and now their flocks men might perceive | |
| To wander and to straie, all carelesly neglect: | |
| And in the stead of mirth and pleasure, nights and dayes | |
| Nought els was to be heard, but woes, complaints, and mone. | 170 |
| But thou (O blessed soule) doest haply not respect | |
| These teares we shead, though full of loving pure affect, | |
| Having affixt thine eyes on that most glorious throne, | |
| Where full of majestie the High Creator reignes: | |
| In whose bright shining face thy joyes are all complete; | 175 |
| Whose love kindles thy spright; where, happie alwaies one, | |
| Thou liv’st in blis that earthly passion never staines; | |
| Where from the purest spring the sacred nectar sweete | |
| Is thy continuall drinke; where thou doest gather now | |
| Of well emploied life th’ inestimable gaines. | 180 |
| There Venus on thee smiles, Apollo gives thee place, | |
| And Mars in reverent wise doth to thy vertue bow, | |
| And decks his fiery sphere, to do thee honour most. | |
| In highest part whereof, thy valour for to grace, | |
| A chaire of gold he setts to thee, and there doth tell | 185 |
| Thy noble acts arew, whereby even they that boast | |
| Themselves of auncient fame, as Pirrhus, Hanniball, | |
| Scipio, and Cæsar, with the rest that did excell | |
| In martiall prowesse, high thy glorie do admire. | |
| All haile, therefore, O worthie Phillip immortall, | 190 |
| The flowre of Sydneyes race, the honour of thy name! | |
| Whose worthie praise to sing my Muses not aspire, | |
| But sorrowfull and sad these teares to thee let fall, | |
| Yet wish their verses might so farre and wide thy fame | |
| Extend, that envies rage, nor time, might end the same. | 195 |
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