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[By Lodowick Bryskett.]
LYCON. COLIN.
COLIN, well fits thy sad cheare this sad stownd, | |
| This wofull stownd, wherein all things complaine | |
| This great mishap, this greevous losse of owres. | |
| Hear’st thou the Orown? how with hollow sownd | |
| He slides away, and murmuring doth plaine, | 5 |
| And seemes to say unto the fading flowres | |
| Along his bankes, unto the bared trees, | |
| ‘Phillisides is dead’? Up, jolly swaine, | |
| Thou that with skill canst tune a dolefull lay, | |
| Help him to mourn. My hart with grief doth freese, | 10 |
| Hoarse is my voice with crying, else a part | |
| Sure would I beare, though rude: but as I may, | |
| With sobs and sighes I second will thy song, | |
| And so expresse the sorrowes of my hart. | |
| Colin. Ah, Lycon, Lycon! what need skill, to teach | 15 |
| A grieved mynd powre forth his plaints? How long | |
| Hath the pore turtle gon to school (weenest thou) | |
| To learne to mourne her lost make? No, no, each | |
| Creature by nature can tell how to waile. | |
| Seest not these flocks, how sad they wander now? | 20 |
| Seemeth their leaders bell their bleating tunes | |
| In dolefull sound. Like him, not one doth faile | |
| With hanging head to shew a heavie cheare. | |
| What bird (I pray thee) hast thou seen, that prunes | |
| Himselfe of late? Did any cheerfull note | 25 |
| Come to thine eares, or gladsome sight appeare | |
| Unto thine eies, since that same fatall howre? | |
| Hath not the aire put on his mourning coat, | |
| And testified his grief with flowing teares? | |
| Sith, then, it seemeth each thing, to his powre, | 30 |
| Doth us invite to make a sad consort, | |
| Come, let us joyne our mournfull song with theirs. | |
| Griefe will endite, and sorrow will enforce | |
| Thy voice, and Eccho will our words report. | |
| Lycon. Though my rude rymes ill with thy verses frame, | 35 |
| That others farre excell, yet will I force | |
| My selfe to answere thee the best I can, | |
| And honor my base words with his high name. | |
| But if my plaints annoy thee where thou sit | |
| In secret shade or cave, vouchsafe (O Pan) | 40 |
| To pardon me, and here this hard constraint | |
| With patience while I sing, and pittie it. | |
| And eke ye rurall Muses, that do dwell | |
| In these wilde woods, if ever piteous plaint | |
| We did endite, or taught a wofull minde | 45 |
| With words of pure affect his griefe to tell, | |
| Instruct me now. Now, Colin, then goe on, | |
| And I will follow thee, though farre behinde. | |
| Colin. Phillisides is dead. O harmfull death, | |
| O deadly harme! Unhappie Albion, | 50 |
| When shalt thou see emong thy shepheards all, | |
| Any so sage, so perfect? Whom uneath | |
| Envie could touch for vertuous life and skill; | |
| Curteous, valiant, and liberall. | |
| Behold the sacred Pales, where with haire | 55 |
| Untrust she sitts, in shade of yonder hill, | |
| And her faire face bent sadly downe, doth send | |
| A floud of teares to bathe the earth; and there | |
| Doth call the heav’ns despightfull, envious, | |
| Cruell his fate, that made so short an end | 60 |
| Of that same life, well worthie to have bene | |
| Prolongd with many yeares, happie and famous. | |
| The Nymphs and Oreades her round about | |
| Do sit lamenting on the grassie grene, | |
| And with shrill cries, beating their whitest brests, | 65 |
| Accuse the direfull dart that Death sent out | |
| To give the fatall stroke. The starres they blame, | |
| That deafe or carelesse seeme at their request. | |
| The pleasant shade of stately groves they shun; | |
| They leave their cristall springs, where they wont frame | 70 |
| Sweet bowres of myrtel twigs and lawrel faire, | |
| To sport themselves free from the scorching sun. | |
| And now the hollow caves, where horror darke | |
| Doth dwell, whence banisht is the gladsome aire, | |
| They seeke; and there in mourning spend their time | 75 |
| With wailfull tunes, whiles wolves do howle and barke, | |
| And seem to beare a bourdon to their plaint. | |
| Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O dolefull ryme! | |
| Why should my toong expresse thee? Who is left | |
| Now to uphold thy hopes, when they do faint, | 80 |
| Lycon unfortunate? What spitefull fate, | |
| What lucklesse destinie, hath thee bereft | |
| Of thy chief comfort, of thy onely stay? | |
| Where is become thy wonted happie state, | |
| (Alas!) wherein through many a hill and dale, | 85 |
| Through pleasant woods, and many an unknowne way, | |
| Along the bankes of many silver streames, | |
| Thou with him yodest, and with him didst scale | |
| The craggie rocks of th’ Alpes and Appenine, | |
| Still with the Muses sporting, while those beames | 90 |
| Of vertue kindled in his noble brest, | |
| Which after did so gloriously forth shine? | |
| But (woe is me!) they now yquenched are | |
| All suddeinly, and death hath them opprest. | |
| Loe Father Neptune, with sad countenance, | 95 |
| How he sitts mourning on the strond now bare, | |
| Yonder, where th’ Ocean with his rolling waves | |
| The white feete washeth (wailing this mischance) | |
| Of Dover cliffes. His sacred skirt about | |
| The sea-gods all are set; from their moist caves | 100 |
| All for his comfort gathered there they be. | |
| The Thamis rich, the Humber rough and stout, | |
| The fruitfull Severne with the rest are come | |
| To helpe their lord to mourne, and eke to see | |
| The dolefull sight, and sad pomp funerall | 105 |
| Of the dead corps passing through his kingdome. | |
| And all their heads, with cypres gyrlonds crown’d, | |
| With wofull shrikes salute him, great and small. | |
| Eke wailfull Eccho, forgetting her deare | |
| Narcissus, their last accents doth resownd. | 110 |
| Colin. Phillisides is dead. O lucklesse age, | |
| O widow world! O brookes and fountains cleere, | |
| O hills, O dales, O woods, that oft have rong | |
| With his sweet caroling, which could asswage | |
| The fiercest wrath of tygre or of beare; | 115 |
| Ye Silvans, Fawnes, and Satyres, that emong | |
| These thickets oft have daunst after his pipe; | |
| Ye Nymphs and Nayades with golden heare, | |
| That oft have left your purest cristall springs | |
| To harken to his layes, that coulden wipe | 120 |
| Away all griefe and sorrow from your harts: | |
| Alas! who now is left that like him sings? | |
| When shall you heare againe like harmonie? | |
| So sweet a sownd who to you now imparts? | |
| Loe where engraved by his hand yet lives | 125 |
| The name of Stella, in yonder bay tree. | |
| Happie name, happie tree! faire may you grow, | |
| And spred your sacred branch, which honor gives | |
| To famous emperours, and poets crowne. | |
| Unhappie flock, that wander scattred now, | 130 |
| What marvell if through grief ye woxen leane, | |
| Forsake your food, and hang your heads adowne? | |
| For such a shepheard never shall you guide, | |
| Whose parting hath of weale bereft you cleane. | |
| Lycon. Phillisides is dead. O happie sprite, | 135 |
| That now in heav’n with blessed soules doest bide, | |
| Looke down a while from where thou sitst above, | |
| And see how busie shepheards be to endite | |
| Sad songs of grief, their sorrowes to declare, | |
| And gratefull memory of their kynd love. | 140 |
| Behold my selfe with Colin, gentle swaine, | |
| (Whose lerned muse thou cherisht most whyleare) | |
| Where we, thy name recording, seeke to ease | |
| The inward torment and tormenting paine, | |
| That thy departure to us both hath bred; | 145 |
| Ne can each others sorrow yet appease. | |
| Behold the fountains now left desolate, | |
| And withred grasse with cypres boughes bespred; | |
| Behold these floures which on thy grave we strew; | |
| Which, faded, shew the givers faded state, | 150 |
| (Though eke they shew their fervent zeale and pure) | |
| Whose onely comfort on thy welfare grew. | |
| Whose praiers importune shall the heav’ns for ay, | |
| That to thy ashes rest they may assure; | |
| That learnedst shepheards honor may thy name | 155 |
| With yeerly praises, and the Nymphs alway | |
| Thy tomb may deck with fresh and sweetest flowres; | |
| And that for ever may endure thy fame. | |
| Colin. The sun (lo!) hastned hath his face to steep | |
| In western waves; and th’ aire with stormy showres | 160 |
| Warnes us to drive homewards our silly sheep. | |
Lycon, lett ’s rise, and take of them good keep.
Virtute summa: cætera fortuna.
L. B. | |
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