Part I

It was the time when I do sadly payMy sighs, in tribute to that sweet-sour day,Which first gave being to my tedious woes;The sun now o'er the Bull's horns proudly goes,And Phaeton had renew'd his wonted race;When Love, the season, and my own ill case,Drew me that solitary place to find,In which I oft unload my charged mind:There, tired with raving thoughts and helpless moan,Sleep seal'd my eyes up, and, my senses gone,My waking fancy spied a shining light,In which appear'd long pain, and short delight.A mighty General I then did see,Like one, who, for some glorious victory,Should to the Capitol in triumph go:I (who had not been used to such a showIn this soft age, where we no valour have,But pride) admired his habit, strange and brave,And having raised mine eyes, which wearied were,To understand this sight was all my care.Four snowy steeds a fiery chariot drew;There sat the cruel boy; a threatening yewHis right hand bore, his quiver arrows held,Against whose force no helm or shield prevail'd.Two party-colour'd wings his shoulders ware;All naked else; and round about his chairWere thousand mortals: some in battle ta'en,Many were hurt with darts, and many slain.Glad to learn news, I rose, and forward press'dSo far, that I was one amongst the rest;As if I had been kill'd with loving painBefore my time; and looking through the trainOf this tear-thirsty king, I would have spiedSome of my old acquaintance, but descriedNo face I knew: if any such there were,They were transform'd with prison, death, and care.At last one ghost, less sad than th' others, came,Who, near approaching, call'd me by my name,And said: "This comes of Love." "What may you be,"I answer'd, wondering much, "that thus know me?For I remember not t' have seen your face."He thus replied: "It is the dusky placeThat dulls thy sight, and this hard yoke I bear:Else I a Tuscan am; thy friend, and dearTo thy remembrance." His wonted phraseAnd voice did then discover what he was.So we retired aside, and left the throng,When thus he spake: "I have expected longTo see you here with us; your face did seemTo threaten you no less. I do esteemYour prophesies; but I have seen what careAttends a lover's life; and must beware.""Yet have I oft been beaten in the field,And sometimes hurt," said I, "but scorn'd to yield."He smiled and said: "Alas! thou dost not see,My son, how great a flame's prepared for thee."I knew not then what by his words he meant:But since I find it by the dire event;And in my memory 'tis fix'd so fast,That marble gravings cannot firmer last.Meanwhile my forward youth did thus inquire:"What may these people be? I much desireTo know their names; pray, give me leave to ask.""I think ere long 'twill be a needless task,"Replied my friend; "thou shalt be of the train,And know them all; this captivating chainThy neck must bear, (though thou dost little fear,)And sooner change thy comely form and hair,Than be unfetter'd from the cruel tie,Howe'er thou struggle for thy liberty;Yet to fulfil thy wish, I will relateWhat I have learn'd. The first that keeps such state,By whom our lives and freedoms we forego,The world hath call'd him Love; and he (you know,But shall know better when he comes to beA lord to you, as now he is to me)Is in his childhood mild, fierce in his age;'Tis best believed of those that feel his rage.The truth of this thou in thyself shalt find,I warn thee now, pray keep it in thy mind.Of idle looseness he is oft the child;With pleasant fancies nourish'd, and is styledOr made a god by vain and foolish men:And for a recompense, some meet their bane;Others, a harder slavery must endureThan many thousand chains and bolts procure.That other gallant lord is conquerorOf conquering Rome, led captive by the fairEgyptian queen, with her persuasive art,Who in his honours claims the greatest part;For binding the world's victor with her charms,His trophies are all hers by right of arms.The next is his adoptive son, whose loveMay seem more just, but doth no better prove;For though he did his loved Livia wed,She was seduced from her husband's bed.Nero is third, disdainful, wicked, fierce,And yet a woman found a way to pierceHis angry soul. Behold, Marcus, the graveWise emperor, is fair Faustina's slave.These two are tyrants: Dionysius,And Alexander, both suspicious,And yet both loved: the last a just rewardFound of his causeless fear. I know y' have heardOf him, who for Creuesa on the rockAntandrus mourn'd so long; whose warlike strokeAt once revenged his friend and won his love:And of the youth whom Phaedra could not moveT' abuse his father's bed; he left the place,And by his virtue lost his life (for baseUnworthy loves to rage do quickly change).It kill'd her too; perhaps in just revengeOf wrong'd Theseus, slain Hippolytus,And poor forsaken Ariadne: thusIt often proves that they who falsely blameAnother, in one breath themselves condemn:And who have guilty been of treachery,Need not complain, if they deceived be.Behold the brave hero a captive madeWith all his fame, and twixt these sisters led:Who, as he joy'd the death of th' one to see,His death did ease the other's misery.The next that followeth, though the world admireHis strength, Love bound him. Th' other full of ireIs great Achilles, he whose pitied fateWas caused by Love. Demophoon did not hateImpatient Phyllis, yet procured her death.This Jason is, he whom Medea hathObliged by mischief; she to her father provedFalse, to her brother cruel; t' him she lovedGrew furious, by her merit over-prized.Hypsipyle comes next, mournful, despised,Wounded to see a stranger's love prevailMore than her own, a Greek. Here is the frailFair Helena, with her the shepherd boy,Whose gazing looks hurt Greece, and ruin'd Troy.'Mongst other weeping souls, you hear the moanOenone makes, her Paris being gone;And Menelaus, for the woe he hadTo lose his wife. Hermione is sad,And calls her dear Orestes to her aid.And Laodamia, that hapless maid,Bewails Protesilaus. Argia provedTo Polynice more faithful than the loved(But false and covetous) Amphiaraus' wife.The groans and sighs of those who lose their lifeBy this kind lord, in unrelenting flamesYou hear: I cannot tell you half their names.For they appear not only men that love,The gods themselves do fill this myrtle grove:You see fair Venus caught by Vulcan's artWith angry Mars; Proserpina apartFrom Pluto, jealous Juno, yellow-hair'dApollo, who the young god's courage dared:And of his trophies proud, laugh'd at the bowWhich in Thessalia gave him such a blow.What shall I say?--here, in a word, are allThe gods that Varro mentions, great and small;Each with innumerable bonds detain'd,And Jupiter before the chariot chain'd."