But let us leave (faire Muse) the bankes of Po,
Thetis forsooke his brave streame long agoe,
And we must after. See in haste she sweepes
Along the Celtie shores, th' Amoric deepes
She now is ent'ring: beare up then a-head
And by that time she hath discovered
Our alabaster rockes, we may discry
And stem with her the coasts of Britany.
There will she anchor cast, to heare the songs
Of English shepheards, whose all tunefull tongues
So pleas'd the Nayades, they did report
Their songs perfection in great Nereus' court;
Which Thetis hearing, did appoint a day
When she would meet them in the British sea,
And thither for each swaine a dolphin bring.
To ride with her, while she would heare him sing.
The time prefixt was come; and now the starre
Of blissful light appear'd, when she her carre
Stai'd in the narrow seas. At Thames' faire
The nymphes and shepheards of the isle resort;
And thence did put to sea with mirthfull rounds,
Whereat the billowes dance above the bounds,
And bearded goates, that on the clouded head
Of any sea-survaying mountaine fed,
Leaving to crop the ivy, list'ning stood
At those sweet ayres which did intrance the flood.
In jocund sort the goddesse thus they met.
And after rev'rence done, all being set
Upon their fenny coursers, round her throne,
And she prepar'd to cut the watry zone
Ingirting Albion; all their pipes were still,
And Colin Clout* began to tune his quill,
With such deepe art that every one was given
To think Apollo (newly slid from Heav'n)
Had tane a human shape to win his love,
Or with the westerne swaines for glory strove.
He sung th' heroicke nights of Faiery-land
In lines so elegant, of such command,
That had the Thracian plaid but half so well
Be had not left Eurydice in Hell.
But e're he ended his melodious song
An host of angels flew the clouds among,
And rapt this swan from his attentive mates,
To make him one of their associates
[praise In Heaven's faire quire: where now he sings the Of Him that is the first and last of dayes, Divinest Spencer, heav'n-bred, happy Muse! Would any power into my braine infuse Thy worth, or all that poets had before, I could not praise till thou deserv'st no more. A dampe of wonder and amazement strooke Thetis' attendants, many a heavy looke
Follow'd sweet Spencer, till the thick'ning ayre Sight's further passage stop'd. A passionate teare Fell from each nymph, no shepheard's cheeke was dry,
A dolefull dirge, and mournefull elegie
Flew to the shore. When mighty Nereus' queene
(In memory of what was heard and seene)
Imploy'd a factor, (fitted well with store
Of richest jemmes, refined Indian ore)
To raise, in honour of his worthy name,
A piramis, whose head (like winged Fame)
Should pierce the clouds, yea seeme the stars to
And Mausolus' great toome might shrowd in his.
Her will had been performance, had not Fate
(That never knew how to commiserate)
Suborn'd curs'd Avarice to lye in waite
For that rich prey: (gold is a taking baite)
Who closely lurking, like a subtile snake,
Under the covert of a thorny brake,
Seiz'd on the factor by fayre Thetis sent,
And rob'd our Colin of his monument.
The English shepheards, sonnes of memory, For satyres change your pleasing melody, Scourge, raile and curse that sacrilegious hand, That more than fiend of Hell, that Stygian brand, All-guilty Avarice: that worst of evill,
That gulfe devouring offspring of a divell:
Heape curse on curse, so direfull and so fell,
Their waight may presse his damned soul to Hell.
Is there a spirit so gentle can refraine
To torture such? O let a satyre's veyne
Mixe with that man! to lash his hellish lym,
Or all our curses will descend on him.
For mine owne part, although I now commerce With lowly shepheards, in as low a verse,
If of my dayes I shall not see an end
Till more yeeres presse me; some few houres ile spend
In rough-hewn satyres, and my busied pen
Shall jerke to death this infamy of men.
And like a fury, glowing coulters bare,
With which-But see how yonder foundlings teare Their fleeces in the brakes; I must go free
Them of their bonds; rest you here merrily
Till my returne; when I will touch a string Shall make the rivers dance, and vallyes ring.
What shepheards on the sea were seene
To entertaine the Ocean's queene,
Remond in search of Fida gone,
And for his love young Doridon,
Their meeting with a wofull swaine,
Mute, and not able to complaine
His metamorphos'd mistresse' wrong;
Is all the subject of this song.
THE Muse's friend (gray-eyde Aurora) yet
Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat,
The milk-white gossamores not upwards snow'd,
Nor was the sharp and useful steering goad
Laid on the strong neckt oxe; no gentle bud
The Sun had dryde; the cattle chew'd the cud
Low leveld on the grasse; no flye's quicke sting
Inforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring
To teare the passive earth, nor lash his taile
About his buttockes broad; the slimy snayle
Might on the wainscot (by his many mazes
Winding meanders and selfe-knitting traces)
Be follow'd, where he stucke, his glittering slime
Not yet wipt off. It was so earely time
The carefull smith had in his sooty forge
Kindled no coale; nor did his hammers urge
His neighbour's patience: owles abroad did flye,
And day as then might plead his infancy.
Yet of faire Albion all the westerne swaines
Were long since up, attending on the plaines,
When Nereus' daughter, with her mirthfull boast,
Should summon them, on their declining coast.
But since her stay was long, for feare the Sunne
Should find them idle, some of them begunne
To leape and wrastle, others threw the barre,
Some from the company removed are,
To meditate the songs they meant to play,
Or make a new round for next holiday;
Some tales of love their love sicke fellowes told : Others were seeking stakes to pitch their fold. This, all alone, was mending of his pipe:
That for his lasse sought fruits most sweet, most ripe.
Here (from the rest) a lovely shepheard's boy
Sits piping on a hill, as if his joy
Would still endure, or else that age's frost
Should never make him thinke what he had lost,
Yonder a shepheardesse knits by the springs,
Her hands still keeping time to what she sings:
Or seeming, by her song, those fairest hands
Were comforted working. Neere the sands
Of some sweet river sits a musing lad,
That moanes the losse of what he sometimes had,
His love by death bereft: when fast by him
An aged swainę takes place, as neere the brim
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