Erato

Ye gentle Spirits breathing from above,Where ye in Venus silver bowre were bred,Thoughts halfe devine, full of the fire of love,With beawtie kindled, and with pleasure fed,Which ye now in securitie possesse,Forgetfull of your former heavinesse,—

Now change the tenor of your ioyous layes,With which ye use your loves to deifie,And blazon foorth an earthlie beauties praiseAbove the compasse of the arched skie:Now change your praises into piteous cries,And eulogies turne into elegies.

Such as ye wont, whenas those bitter stoundsOf raging love first gan you to torment,And launch your hearts with lamentable woundsOf secret sorrow and sad languishment,Before your loves did take you unto grace;Those now renew, as fitter for this place.

For I that rule in measure moderateThe tempest of that stormie passion,And use to paint in rimes the troublous stateOf lovers life in likest fashion,Am put from practise of my kindlie** skill,Banisht by those that love with leawdnes fill.

Love wont to be schoolmaster of my skill,And the devicefull matter of my song;Sweete love devoyd of villanie or ill,But pure and spotles, as at first he sprongOut of th’Almighties bosome, where he nests;From thence infused into mortall brests.

Such high conceipt of that celestiall fire,The base-borne brood of Blindnes cannot gesse,Ne ever dare their dunghill thoughts aspireUnto so loftie pitch of perfectnesse,But rime at riot, and doo rage in love,Yet little wote what doth thereto behove.

Faire Cytheree, the mother of delightAnd queene of beautie, now thou maist go pack;For lo! thy kingdoms is defaced quight,Thy scepter rent, and power put to wrack;And thy gay sonne, that winged God of Love,May now goe prune his plumes like ruffed dove.

And ye three twins, to light by Venus brought,The sweete companions of the Muses late,From whom whatever thing is goodly thoughtDoth borrow grace, the fancie to aggrate,Go beg with us, and be companions still,As heretofore of good, so now of ill.

For neither you nor we shall anie moreFinde entertainment or in court or schoole:For that which was accounted heretoforeThe learneds meed is now lent to the foole;He sings of love and maketh loving layes,And they him heare, and they him highly prayse.

With that she powred foorth a brackish floodOf bitter teares, and made exceeding mone;And all her sisters, seeing her sad mood,With lowd laments her answered all at one.So ended she: and then the next in rewBegan her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.

To whom shall I my evill case complaine,Or tell the anguish of my inward smart,Sith none is left to remedie my paine,Or deignes to pitie a perplexed hart;But rather seekes my sorrow to augmentWith fowle reproach, and cruell banishment?

For they to whom I used to applieThe faithfull service of my learned skill,The goodly off-spring of loves progenie,That wont the world with famous acts to fill,Whose living praises in heroick style,It is my chiefe profession to compyle,—

They, all corrupted through the rust of time,That doth all fairest things on earth deface,Or through unnoble sloth, or sinfull crime,That doth degenerate the noble race,Have both desire of worthie deeds forlorne,And name of learning utterly doo scorne.

Ne doo they care to have the auncestrieOf th’old heroes memorizde anew;Ne doo they care that late posteritieShould know their names, or speak their praises dew,But die, forgot from whence at first they sprong,As they themselves shalbe forgot ere long.

What bootes it then to come from gloriousForefathers, or to have been nobly bredd?What oddes twixt Irus and old Inachus,Twixt best and worst, when both alike are dedd,If none of neither mention should make,Nor out of dust their memories awake?

Or who would ever care to doo brave deed,Or strive in vertue others to excell,If none should yeeld him his deserved meed,Due praise, that is the spur of doing well?For if good were not praised more than ill,None would choose goodnes of his owne freewill.

Therefore the nurse of vertue I am hight,And golden trompet of eternitie,That lowly thoughts lift up to heavens hight,And mortall men have powre to deifie:Bacchus and Hercules I raisd to heaven,And Charlemaine amongst the starris seaven.

But now I will my golden clarion rend,And will henceforth immortalize no more,Sith I no more finde worthie to commendFor prize of value, or for learned lore:For noble peeres, whom I was wont to raise,Now onely seeke for pleasure, nought for praise.

Their great revenues all in sumptuous prideThey spend, that nought to learning they may spare;And the rich fee which poets wont divideNow parasites and sycophants doo share:Therefore I mourne and endlesse sorrow make,Both for my selfe and for my sisters sake.

With that she lowdly gan to waile and shrike,And from her eyes a sea of teares did powre;And all her sisters, with compassion like,Did more increase the sharpnes of her showre.So ended she: and then the next in rewBegan her plaint, as doth herein ensew.