Part IV

When once my will was captive by my fate,And I had lost the liberty, which lateMade my life happy; I, who used beforeTo flee from Love (as fearful deer abhorThe following huntsman), suddenly became(Like all my fellow-servants) calm and tame;And view'd the travails, wrestlings, and the smart,The crooked by-paths, and the cozening artThat guides the amorous flock: then whilst mine eyeI cast in every corner, to espySome ancient or modern who had provedFamous, I saw him, who had only lovedEurydice, and found out hell, to callHer dear ghost back; he named her in his fallFor whom he died. Aleaeus there was known,Skilful in love and verse: Anacreon,Whose muse sung nought but love: Pindarus, heWas also there: there I might Virgil see:Many brave wits I found, some looser rhymes,By others writ, hath pleased the ancient times:Ovid was one: after Catullus came:Propertius next, his elegies the nameOf Cynthia bear: Tibullus, and the youngGreek poetess, who is received amongThe noble troop for her rare Sapphic muse.Thus looking here and there (as oft I use),I spied much people on a flowery plain,Amongst themselves disputes of love maintain.Behold Beatrice with Dante; Selvaggia, sheBrought her Pistoian Cino; Guitton may beOffended that he is the latter named:Behold both Guidos for their learning famed:Th' honest Bolognian: the Sicilians firstWrote love in rhymes, but wrote their rhymes the worst.Franceschin and Sennuccio (whom all know)Were worthy and humane: after did goA squadron of another garb and phrase,Of whom Arnaldo Daniel hath most praise,Great master in Love's art, his style, as newAs sweet, honours his country: next, a fewWhom Love did lightly wound: both Peters madeTwo: one, the less Arnaldo: some have hadA harder war; both the Rimbaldos, th' oneSung Beatrice, though her quality was knownToo much above his reach in Montferrat.Alvernia's old Piero, and Girault:Folchetto, who from Genoa was estrangedAnd call'd Marsilian, he wisely changedHis name, his state, his country, and did gainIn all: Jeffray made haste to catch his baneWith sails and oars: Guilliam, too, sweetly sungThat pleasing art, was cause he died so young.Amarig, Bernard, Hugo, and AnselmWere there, with thousands more, whose tongues were helm,Shield, sword, and spear, all their offensive arms,And their defensive to prevent their harms.From those I turn'd, comparing my own woe,To view my country-folks; and there might knowThe good Tomasso, who did once adornBologna, now Messina holds his urn.Ah, vanish'd joys! Ah, life too full of bane!How wert thou from mine eyes so quickly ta'en!Since without thee nothing is in my powerTo do, where art thou from me at this hour?What is our life? If aught it bring of ease,A sick man's dream, a fable told to please.Some few there from the common road did stray;Laelius and Socrates, with whom I mayA longer progress take: Oh, what a pairOf dear esteemed friends to me they were!'Tis not my verse, nor prose, may reach thieir praise;Neither of these can naked virtue raiseAbove her own true place: with them I haveReach'd many heights; one yoke of learning gaveLaws to our steps, to them my fester'd woundI oft have show'd; no time or place I foundTo part from them; and hope, and wish we mayBe undivided till my breath decay:With them I used (too early) to adornMy head with th' honour'd branches, only wornFor her dear sake I did so deeply love,Who fill'd my thoughts; but ah! I daily prove,No fruit nor leaves from thence can gather'd be:The root hath sharp and bitter been to me.For this I was accustomed much to vex,But I have seen that which my anger checks:(A theme for buskins, not a comic stage)She took the God, adored by the rageOf such dull fools as he had captive led:But first, I'll tell you what of us he made;Then, from her hand what was his own sad fate,Which Orpheus or Homer might relate.His winged coursers o'er the ditches leapt,And we their way as desperately kept,Till he had reached where his mother reigns,Nor would he ever pull or turn the reins;But scour'd o'er woods and mountains; none did careNor could discern in what strange world they were.Beyond the place, where old AEgeus mourns,An island lies, Phoebus none sweeter burns,Nor Neptune ever bathed a better shore:About the midst a beauteous hill, with storeOf shades and pleasing smells, so fresh a springAs drowns all manly thoughts: this place doth bringVenus much joy; 't was given her deity,Ere blind man knew a truer god than she:Of which original it yet retainsToo much, so little goodness there remains,That it the vicious doth only please,Is by the virtuous shunn'd as a disease.Here this fine Lord insulteth o'er us allTied in a chain, from Thule to Ganges' fall.Griefs in our breasts, vanity in our arms;Fleeting delights are there, and weighty harms:Repentance swiftly following to annoy:(Such Tarquin found it, and the bane of Troy)All that whole valley with the echoes rungOf running brooks, and birds that gently sung:The banks were clothed in yellow, purple, green,Scarlet and white, their pleasing springs were seen;And gliding streams amongst the tender grass,Thickets and soft winds to refresh the place.After when winter maketh sharp the air,Warm leaves, and leisure, sports, and gallant cheerEnthrall low minds. Now th' equinox hath madeThe day t' equal the night; and Progne hadWith her sweet sister, each their old task ta'en:(Ah! how the faith in fortune placed is vain!)Just in the time, and place, and in the hourWhen humble tears should earthly joys devour,It pleased him, whom th' vulgar honour so,To triumph over me; and now I knowWhat miserable servitude they prove,What ruin, and what death, that fall in love.Errors, dreams, paleness waiteth on his chair,False fancies o'er the door, and on the stairAre slippery hopes, unprofitable gain,And gainful loss; such steps it doth contain,As who descend, may boast their fortune best;Who most ascend, most fall: a wearied rest,And resting trouble, glorious disgrace;A duskish and obscure illustriousness;Unfaithful loyalty, and cozening faith,That nimble fury, lazy reason hath:A prison, whose wide ways do all receive,Whose narrow paths a hard retiring leave:A steep descent, by which we slide with ease,But find no hold our crawling steps to raise:Within confusion, turbulence, annoyAre mix'd; undoubted woe, and doubtful joy:Vulcano, where the sooty Cyclops dwell;Liparis, Stromboli, nor Mongibel,Nor Ischia, have more horrid noise and smoke:He hates himself that stoops to such a yoke.Thus were we all throng'd in so strait a cage,I changed my looks and hair, before my age,Dreaming on liberty (by strong desireMy soul made apt to hope), and did admireThose gallant minds, enslaved to such a woe(My heart within my breast dissolved like snowBefore the sun), as one would side-ways castHis eye on pictures, which his feet hath pass'd.