Euterpe

Like as the dearling of the summers pryde,Faire Philomele, when winters stormie wrathThe goodly fields, that earst so gay were dydeIn colours divers, quite despoyled hath,All comfortlesse doth hide her chearlesse headDuring the time of that her widowhead,

So we, that earst were wont in sweet accordAll places with our pleasant notes to fill,Whilest favourable times did us affordFree libertie to chaunt our charmes at will,All comfortlesse upon the bared bow,Like wofull culvers**, doo sit wayling now.

For far more bitter storme than winters stowreThe beautie of the world hath lately wasted,And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre,Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted;And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t’abound,Now without fruite or leaves are to be found.

A stonie coldnesse hath benumbd the senceAnd livelie spirits of each living wight,And dimd with darknesse their intelligence,Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night:And monstrous Error, flying in the ayre,Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre.

Image of hellish horrour, Ignorance,Borne in the bosome of the black abysse,And fed with Furies milke for sustenaunceOf his weake infancie, begot amisseBy yawning Sloth on his owne mother Night,—So hee his sonnes both syre and brother hight,—

He, armd with blindnesse and with boldnes stout,(For blind is bold,) hath our fayre light defaced;And, gathering unto him a ragged routOf Faunes and Satyres, hath our dwellings raced,And our chast bowers, in which all vertue rained,With brutishnesse and beastlie filth hath stained.

The sacred springs of horsefoot Helicon,So oft bedeawed with our learned layes,And speaking streames of pure Castalion,The famous witnesse of our wonted praise,They trampled have with their fowle footings trade,And like to troubled puddles have them made.

Our pleasant groves, which planted were with paines,That with our musick wont so oft to ring,And arbors sweet, in which the shepheards swainesWere wont so oft their pastoralls to sing,They have cut downe, and all their pleasaunce mard,That now no pastorall is to bee hard.

In stead of them, fowle goblins and shriek-owlesWith fearfull howling do all places fill,And feeble eccho now laments and howles,The dreadfull accents of their outcries shrill.So all is turned into wildernesse,Whilest Ignorance the Muses doth oppresse.

And I, whose ioy was earst with spirit fullTo teach the warbling pipe to sound aloft,My spirits now dismayd with sorrow dull,Doo mone my miserie in silence soft.Therefore I mourne and waile incessantly,Till please the heavens affoord me remedy.

Therewith shee wayled with exceeding woe,And pitious lamentation did make;And all her sisters, seeing her doo soe,With equall plaints her sorrowe did partake.So rested shee: and then the next in rewBegan her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.