The Fate of the Butterflie

I sing of deadly dolorous debate,Stir’d up through wrathful! Nemesis despight,Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,Drawne into armes and proofe of mortall fightThrough prowd ambition and hart-swelling hate,Whilest neither could the others greater mightAnd sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small iarreTheir wraths at length broke into open warre.

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,That wontst the tragick stage for to direct,In funerall complaints and waylfull tyneReveale to me, and all the meanes detectThrough which sad Clarion did at last declyneTo lowest wretchednes: And is there thenSuch rancour in the harts of mightie men?

Of all the race of silver-winged fliesWhich doo possesse the empire of the aire,Betwixt the centred earth and azure skiesWas none more favourable nor more faire,Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,Then Clarion, the eldest sonne and haireOf Muscaroll, and in his fathers sightOf all alive did seeme the fairest wight.

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fedOf future good, which his yong toward yeares,Full of brave courage and bold hardyhedAbove th’ensample of his equall peares,Did largely promise, and to him fore-red,(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares,)That he in time would sure prove such an one,As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

The fresh yong flie, in whom the kindly fireOf lustfull yongth began to kindle fast,Did much disdaine to subiect his desireTo loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast;But ioy’d to range abroad in fresh attireThrough the wide compas of the ayrie coast,And with unwearied wings each part t’inquireOf the wide rule of his renownned sire.

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,That from this lower tract he dar’d to stieUp to the clowdes, and thence with pineons lightTo mount aloft unto the christall skie,To vew the workmanship of heavens hightWhence down descending he along would flieUpon the streaming rivers, sport to finde,And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

So on a summers day, when season mildeWith gentle calme the world had quieted,And high in heaven Hyperions fierie childeAscending did his beames abroad dispred,Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde,Yong Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehead;After his guize did cast abroad to fare,And theretoo gan his furnitures prepare.

His breastplate first, that was of substance pure,Before his noble heart he firmely bound,That mought his life from yron death assure,And ward his gentle corpes from cruell wound:For it by arte was framed to endureThe bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd**,No lesse than that which Vulcane made to sheildAchilles life from fate of Troyan field.

And then about his shoulders broad he threwAn hairie hide of some wilde beast, whom heeIn salvage forrest by adventure slew,And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee;Which, spredding all his backe with dreadfull vew,Made all that him so horrible did seeThinke him Alcides with the lyons skin,When the Naeméan conquest he did win.

Upon his head, his glistering burganet,The which was wrought by wonderous deviceAnd curiously engraven, he did set:The mettall was of rare and passing price;Not Bilbo** steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,Nor costly oricalche from strange Phoenice;But such as could both Phoebus arrowes ward,And th’hayling darts of heaven beating hard.

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,Strongly outlaunced towards either side,Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:Like as a warlike brigandine, applydeTo fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,The engines which in them sad death doo hyde,So did this flie outstretch his fearefull hornes,Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Lastly his shinie wings, as silver bright,Painted with thousand colours passing farreAll painters skill, he did about him dight:Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arreIn Iris bowe; ne heaven doth shine so bright,Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre;Nor Iunoes bird, in her ey-spotted traine,So manie goodly colours doth containe.

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)The Archer-god, the sonne of Cytheree,That ioyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.Ah! my liege Lord, forgive it unto mee,If ought against thine honour I have tolde;Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.

Full many a ladie faire, in court full oftBeholding them, him secretly envide,And wisht that two such fannes, so silken softAnd golden faire, her Love would her provide;Or that, when them the gorgeous flie had doft,Some one that would with grace be gratifideFrom him would steale them privily away,And bring to her so precious a pray.

Report is that Dame Venus on a day,In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitful ground,Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play,Bad her faire damzels flocking her arowndTo gather flowres, her forhead to array.Emongst the rest a gentle nymph was found,Hight Astery, excelling all the creweIn curteous usage and unstained hewe.

Who, being nimbler ioynted than the rest,And more industrious, gathered more storeOf the fields honour than the others best;Which they in secret harts envying sore,Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiestShe praisd’, that Cupide (as they heard before)Did lend her secret aide in gatheringInto her lap the children of the Spring,

Whereof the goddesse gathering iealous feare,—Not yet unmindfull how not long agoeHer sonne to Psyche secrete love did beare,And long it close conceal’d, till mickle woeThereof arose, and manie a rufull teare,—Reason with sudden rage did overgoe;And, giving hastie credit to th’accuser,Was led away of them that did abuse her.

Eftsoones that damzel by her heavenly mightShe turn’d into a winged butterflie,In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslieHer lap she filled had, that bred her spight,She placed in her wings, for memorieOf her pretended crime, though crime none were:Since which that flie them in her wings doth beare.

Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight,Unto his iourney did himselfe addresse,And with good speed began to take his flight:Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse;And all the champion** he soared light;And all the countrey wide he did possesse,Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie,That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.

The woods, the rivers, and the medowes green.With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,Ne did he leave the mountaines bare unseene,Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights untride.But none of these, how ever sweete they beene,Mote please his fancie nor him cause t’abide:His choicefull sense with everie change doth flit;No common things may please a wavering wit.

To the gay gardins his unstaid desireHim wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:There lavish Nature, in her best attire,Powres forth sweete odors and alluring sights;And Arte, with her contending, doth aspireT’excell the naturall with made delights:And all that faire or pleasant may be foundIn riotous excesse doth there abound.There he arriving round about doth flie,From bed to bed, from one to other border;And takes survey, with curious busie eye,Of every flowre and herbe there set in order;Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,Ne with his feete their silken leaves deface,But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

And evermore with most varietie,And change of sweetnesse, (for all change is sweete,)He casts his glutton sense to satisfie;Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meete,Or of the deaw which yet on them does lie,Now in the same bathing his tender feete:And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.

And then againe he turneth to his play,To spoyle the pleasures of that paradise;The wholsome saulge, and lavender still gray,Ranke-smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes,The roses raigning in the pride of May,Sharpe isope, good for greene wounds remedies,Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime,Sweete marioram, and daysies decking prime:

Coole violets, and orpine growing still,Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill,Dull poppie, and drink-quickning setuale,Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,Sound savorie, and bazil hartie-hale,Fat colworts, and comfórting perseline**,Colde lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.

And whatso else of vertue good or illGrewe in this gardin, fetcht from farre away,Of everie one he takes and tastes at will,And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.Then when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,In the warme sunne he doth himselfe embay,And there him rests in riotous suffisaunceOf all his gladfulnes and kingly ioyaunce.

What more felicitie can fall to creatureThan to enioy delight with libertie,And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,To raine in th’aire from earth to highest skie,To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature,To take whatever thing doth please the eie?Who rests not pleased with such happines,Well worthie he to taste of wretchednes.

But what on earth can long abide in state?Or who can him assure of happie day?Sith morning faire may bring fowle evening late,And least mishap the most blisse alter may!For thousand perills lie in close awaiteAbout us daylie, to worke our decay;That none, except a God, or God him guide,May them avoyde, or remedie provide.

And whatso heavens in their secret doomeOrdained have, how can fraile fleshly wightForecast, but it must needs to issue come?The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,And th’armies of their creatures, all and some,Do serve to them, and with importune mightWarre against us, the vassals of their will.Who then can save what they dispose to spill?

Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thouOf all thy kinde, unhappie happie flie,Whose cruell fate is woven even nowOf loves owne hand, to worke thy miserie!Ne may thee helpe the manie hartie vow,Which thy olde sire with sacred pietieHath powred forth for thee, and th’altars sprentNought may thee save from heavens avengëment!

It fortuned (as heavens had behight*)That in this gardin where yong ClarionWas wont to solace him, a wicked wight,The foe of faire things, th’author of confusion,The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,Had lately built his hatefull mansion;And, lurking closely, in awayte now lay,How he might anie in his trap betray.

But when he spide the ioyous butterflieIn this faire plot dispacing too and fro,Fearles of foes and hidden ieopardie,Lord! how he gan for to bestirre him tho,And to his wicked worke each part applie!His heart did earne** against his hated foe,And bowels so with rankling poyson swelde,That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.

The cause why he this flie so malicedWas (as in stories it is written found)For that his mother which him bore and bred,The most fine-fingred workwoman on ground,Arachne, by his meanes was vanquishedOf Pallas, and in her owne skill confound**,When she with her for excellence contended,That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended.

For the Tritonian goddesse, having hardHer blazed fame, which all the world had fil’d,Came downe to prove the truth, and due rewardFor her prais-worthie workmanship to yeild:But the presumptuous damzel rashly dar’dThe goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,And to compare with her in curious skillOf workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.

Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,But deign’d with her the paragon to make:So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuseWhat storie she will for her tapet** take.Arachne figur’d how love did abuseEuropa like a bull, and on his backeHer through the sea did beare; so lively*** seene,That it true sea and true bull ye would weene.

Shee seem’d still backe unto the land to looke,And her play-fellowes aide to call, and feareThe dashing of the waves, that up she tookeHer daintie feete, and garments gathered neare:But Lord! how she in everie member shooke,When as the land she saw no more appeare,But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe:Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.

Before the bull she pictur’d winged Love,With his yong brother Sport, light flutteringUpon the waves, as each had been a dove;The one his bowe and shafts, the other springA burning teade** about his head did move,As in their syres new love both triumphing;And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,And manie Tritons which their homes did sound.

And round about her-worke she did empaleWith a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,Enwoven with an yviewinding trayle:A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres,Such as Dame Pallas, such as Envie pale,That al good things with venemous tooth devowres,Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse brightHer selfe likewise unto her worke to dight.

She made the storie of the olde debateWhich she with Neptune did for Athens trie:Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state,And love in midst with awfull maiestie,To iudge the strife betweene them stirred late:Each of the gods by his like visnomieEathe** to be knowen; but love above them all,By his great lookes and power imperiall.

Before them stands the god of seas in place,Clayming that sea-coast citie as his right,And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,The signe by which he chalengeth the place;That all the gods which saw his wondrous mightDid surely deeme the victorie his due:But seldom seene, foreiudgement proveth true.

Then to herselfe she gives her Aegide shield,And steel-hed speare, and morion * on her hedd,Such as she oft is seene in warlicke field:Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dreddShe smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yieldA fruitfull olyve tree, with berries spredd,That all the gods admir’d; then all the storieShe compast with a wreathe of olyves hoarie.

Emongst those leaves she made a butterflie,With excellent device and wondrous slight,Fluttring among the olives wantonly,That seem’d to live, so like it was in sight:The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,The silken downe with which his backe is dight,His broad outstretched homes, his hayrie thies,His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.

Which when Arachne saw, as overlaidAnd mastered with workmanship so rare,She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid;And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,The victorie did yeeld her as her share;Yet did she inly fret and felly burne,And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne:

That shortly from the shape of womanhed,Such as she was when Pallas she attempted,She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,Pined with griefe of follie late repented:Eftsoones her white streight legs were alteredTo crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted,And her faire face to foule and loathsome hewe,And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.

This cursed creature, mindfull of that oldeEnfestred grudge the which his mother felt,So soone as Clarion he did beholde,His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;And weaving straight a net with mame a foldeAbout the cave in which he lurking dwelt,With fine small cords about it stretched wide,So finely sponne that scarce they could be spide,

Not anie damzell which her vaunteth mostIn skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne,Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boastIn dieper, in damaske, or in lyne,Nor anie skil’d in workmanship embost,Nor anie skil’d in loupes of fingring fine,Might in their divers cunning ever dareWith this so curious networks to compare.

Ne doo I thinke that that same subtil ginThe which the Lemnian god framde craftilie,Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in,That all the gods with common mockerieMight laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin,Was like to this. This same he did applieFor to entrap the careles Clarion,That rang’d each where without suspition.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,That hazarded his health, had he at all,But walkt at will, and wandred too and fro,In the pride of his freedome principall:Litle wist he his fatall future woe,But was secure; the liker he to fall.He likest is to fall into mischaunce,That is regardles of his governaunce.

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)Lay lurking covertly him to surprise;And all his gins, that him entangle might,Drest in good order as he could devise.At length the foolish flie, without foresight,As he that did all daunger quite despise,Toward those parts came flying careleslie,Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Who, seeing him, with secret ioy thereforeDid tickle inwardly in everie vaine;And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store,Was fil’d with hope his purpose to obtaine:Himselfe he close upgathered more and moreInto his den, that his deceiptfull traineBy his there being might not be bewraid,Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spideWhere on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,Full closely creeping by the hinder side,Lyes in ambushment of his hoped pray,Ne stirreth limbe, till, seeing readie tide,He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite awayOne of the litle yonglings unawares;So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyesA well of teares, that all may overflow?Or where shall I finde lamentable cryes,And mournfull tunes enough my griefe to show?Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to deviseNotes sad enough, t’expresse this bitter throw:For loe, the drerie stownd is now arrived,That of all happines hath us deprived.

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell FateOr wicked Fortune faultles him misled,Or some ungracious blast out of the gateOf Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed**,Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)With violent swift flight forth cariedInto the cursed cobweb, which his foeHad framed for his finall overthroe.

There the fond flie, entangled, strugled long,Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.For, striving more, the more in laces strongHimselfe he tide, and wrapt his wingës twaineIn lymie snares the subtill loupes among;That in the ende he breathelesse did remaine,And, all his yongthly forces idly spent,Him to the mercie of th’avenger lent.

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce mightOut of his den, he seized greedelieOn the resistles pray, and, with fell spight,Under the left wing stroke his weapon slieInto his heart, that his deepe-groning sprightIn bloodie streames foorth fled into the aire,His bodie left the spectacle of care.