Daphnaida

Whatever man he be whose heavie mynd,With griefe of mournefull great mishap opprest,Fit matter for his cares increase would fynd,Let reade the rufull plaint herein exprest,Of one, I weene, the wofulst man alive,Even sad Alcyon, whose empierced brestSharpe sorrowe did in thousand peeces rive.

But whoso else in pleasure findeth sense,Or in this wretched life doeth take delight,Let him he banisht farre away from hence;Ne let the Sacred Sisters here be hight,Though they of sorrowe heavilie can sing,For even their heavie song would breede delight;But here no tunes save sobs and grones shall ring.

In stead of them and their sweet harmonie,Let those three Fatall Sisters, whose sad handsDoe weave the direfull threeds of destinie,And in their wrath break off the vitall bands,Approach hereto; and let the dreadfull QueeneOf Darknes deepe come from the Stygian strands,And grisly ghosts, to heare this dolefull teene,

In gloomy evening, when the wearie sunAfter his dayes long labour drew to rest,And sweatie steedes, now having overrunThe compast skie, gan water in the west,I walkt abroad to breath the freshing ayreIn open fields, whose flowring pride, opprestWith early frosts, had lost their beautie faire.

There came unto my mind a troublous thought,Which dayly doth my weaker wit possesse,Ne lets it rest untill it forth have broughtHer long borne infant, fruit of heavinesse,Which she conceived hath through meditationOf this worlds vainnesse and life’s wretchednesse,That yet my soule it deepely doth empassion.

So as I muzed on the miserieIn which men live, and I of many most,Most miserable man, I did espieWhere towards me a sory wight did cost,Clad all in black, that mourning did bewray,And Iacob staffe ** in hand devoutly crost,Like to some pilgrim come from farre away.

His carelesse locks, uncombed and unshorne,Hong long adowne, and bearde all overgrowne,That well he seemd to be some wight forlorne:Downe to the earth his heavie eyes were throwne,As loathing light, and ever as he wentHe sighed soft, and inly deepe did grone,As if his heart in peeces would have rent.

Approaching nigh his face I vewed nere,And by the semblant of his countenaunceMe seemd I had his person seene elsewhere,Most like Alcyon seeming at a glaunce;Alcyon he, the iollie shepheard swaine,That wont full merrilie to pipe and daunce,And fill with pleasance every wood and plaine.

Yet halfe in doubt, because of his disguize,I softlie sayd, Alcyon! There-withallHe lookt aside as in disdainefull wise,Yet stayed not, till I againe did call:Then, turning back, he saide, with hollow sound,“Who is it that dooth name me, wofull thrall,The wretchedst man that treads this day on ground?”

“One whom like wofulnesse, impressed deepe,Hath made fit mate thy wretched case to heare,And given like cause with thee to waile and wepe;Griefe finds some ease by him that like does beare.Then stay, Alcyon, gentle shepheard! stay,”Quoth I, “till thou have to my trustie eareCommitted what thee dooth so ill apay.”

“Cease, foolish man!” saide he halfe wrothfully,“To seeke to heare that which cannot be told;For the huge anguish, which doeth multiplyMy dying paines, no tongue can well unfold;Ne doo I care that any should bemoneMy hard mishap, or any weepe that would,But seeke alone to weepe, and dye alone.”

“Then be it so,” quoth I, “that thou are bentTo die alone, unpitied, unplained;Yet, ere thou die, it were convenientTo tell the cause which thee thereto constrained,Least that the world thee dead accuse of guilt,And say, when thou of none shall be maintained,That thou for secret crime thy blood hast spilt.”

“Who life does loath, and longs to be unboundFrom the strong shackles of fraile flesh,” quoth he,“Nought cares at all what they that live on groundDeem the occasion of his death to bee;Rather desires to be forgotten quight,Than question made of his calamitie;For harts deep sorrow hates both life and light.

“Yet since so much thou seemst to rue my griefe,And car’st for one that for himselfe cares nought,(Sign of thy love, though nought for my reliefe,For my reliefe exceedeth living thought,)I will to thee this heavie case relate:Then harken well till it to end be brought,For never didst thou heare more haplesse fate.

“Whilome I usde (as thou right well doest know)My little flocke on westerns downes to keep,Not far from whence Sabrinaes streame doth flow,And flowrie bancks with silver liquor steepe;Nought carde I then for worldly change or chaunce,For all my ioy was on my gentle sheepe,And to my pype to caroll and to daunce.

“It there befell, as I the fields did rangeFearlesse and free, a faire young Lionesse,White as the native rose before the chaungeWhich Venus blood did in her leaves impresse,I spied playing on the grassie plaineHer youthfull sports and kindlie wantonnesse,That did all other beasts in beawtie staine.the arms of the Duke of Norfolk, the head of the family to which Lady

“Much was I moved at so goodly sight,Whose like before mine eye had seldome seene,And gan to cast how I her compasse might,And bring to hand that yet had never beene:So well I wrought with mildnes and with paine,That I her caught disporting on the greene,And brought away fast bound with silver chaine.

“And afterwardes I handled her so fayre,That though by kind shee stout and salvage were,For being borne an auncient lions hayre,And of the race that all wild beastes do feare,Yet I her fram’d, and wan so to my bent,That shee became so meeke and milde of cheareAs the least lamb in all my flock that went.

“For shee in field, where-ever I did wend,Would wend with me, and waite by me all day;And all the night that I in watch did spend,If cause requir’d, or els in sleepe, if nay,Shee would all night by me or watch or sleepe;And evermore when I did sleepe or play,She of my flock would take full warie keepe.

“Safe then, and safest, were my sillie sheepe,Ne fear’d the wolfe, ne fear’d the wildest beast,All were I drown’d in carelesse quiet deepe:My lovely Lionesse without beheastSo careful was for them and for my good,That when I waked, neither most nor leastI found miscarried, or in plaine or wood.

“Oft did the shepheards which my hap did heare,And oft their lasses, which my luck envyde,Daylie resort to me from farre and neare,To see my Lyonesse, whose praises wydeWere spred abroad; and when her worthinesseMuch greater than the rude report they tryde,They her did praise, and my good fortune blesse.

“Long thus I ioyed in my happinesse,And well did hope my ioy would have no end;But oh! fond man! that in worlds ficklenesseReposedst hope, or weenedst Her thy frendThat glories most in mortall miseries,And daylie doth her changefull counsels bendTo make new matter fit for tragedies.

“For whilest I was thus without dread or dout,A cruel Satyre with his murdrous dart,Greedie of mischiefe, ranging all about,Gave her the fatall wound of deadly smart,And reft from me my sweete companion,And reft from me my love, my life, my hart:My Lyonesse, ah woe is me! is gon!

“Out of the world thus was she reft away,Out of the world, unworthy such a spoyle,And borne to heaven, for heaven a fitter pray;Much fitter then the lyon which with toyleAlcides slew, and fixt in firmament;Her now I seeke throughout this earthly soyle,And seeking misse, and missing doe lament.”

Therewith he gan afresh to waile and weepe,That I for pittie of his heavie plightCould not abstain mine eyes with teares to steepe;But when I saw the anguish of his sprightSome deale alaid, I him bespake againe:“Certes, Alcyon, painfull is thy plight,That it in me breeds almost equall paine,

“Yet doth not my dull wit well understandThe riddle of thy loved Lionesse;For rare it seemes in reason to be skand,That man, who doth the whole worlds rule possesse,Should to a beast his noble hart embase,And be the vassall of his vassalesse;Therefore more plain areade this doubtfull case.”

Then sighing sore, “Daphne thou knew’st,” quoth he;“She now is dead”: no more endur’d to say,But fell to ground for great extremitie;That I, beholding it, with deepe dismayWas much apald, and, lightly him uprearing,Revoked life, that would have fled away,All were my selfe through grief in deadly drearing.

Then gan I him to comfort all my best,And with milde counsaile strove to mitigateThe stormie passion of his troubled brest;But he thereby was more empassionate,As stubborne steed that is with curb restrainedBecomes more fierce and fervent in his gate,And, breaking foorth at last, thus dearnely plained: