Virgils Gnat

We now have playde, Augustus, wantonly,Tuning our song unto a tender Muse,And, like a cobweb weaving slenderly,Have onely playde: let thus much then excuseThis Gnats small poeme, that th’whole historyIs but a iest; though envie it abuse:But who such sports and sweet delights doth blame,Shall lighter seeme than this Gnats idle name.

Hereafter, when as season more secureShall bring forth fruit, this Muse shall speak to theeIn bigger notes, that may thy sense allure,And for thy worth frame some fit poesie:The golden ofspring of Latona pure,And ornament of great Ioves progenie,Phoebus, shall be the author of my song,Playing on yvorie harp with silver strong.

He shall inspire my verse with gentle mood,Of poets prince, whether he woon besideFaire Xanthus sprincled with Chimaeras blood,Or in the woods of Astery abide,Or whereas Mount Parnasse, the Muses brood,Doth his broad forhead like two hornes divide,And the sweete waves of sounding CastalyWith liquid foote doth slide downe easily.

Wherefore ye Sisters, which the glorie beeOf the Pierian streames, fayre Naiades,Go too, and dauncing all in companie,Adorne that god: and thou holie Pales,To whome the honest care of husbandrieReturneth by continuall successe,Have care for to pursue his footing lightThrogh the wide woods and groves with green leaves dight.

Professing thee I lifted am aloftBetwixt the forrest wide and starrie sky:And thou, most dread Octavius, which oftTo learned wits givest courage worthily,O come, thou sacred childe, come sliding soft,And favour my beginnings graciously:For not these leaves do sing that dreadfull stound,When giants bloud did staine Phlegraean ground;

Nor how th’halfe-horsy people, Centaures hight,Fought with the bloudie Lapithaes at bord;Nor how the East with tyranous despightBurnt th’Attick towres, and people slew with sword;Nor how Mount Athos through exceeding mightWas digged downe; nor yron bands abordThe Pontick sea by their huge navy cast,My volume shall renowne, so long since past.

Nor Hellespont trampled with horses feete,When flocking Persians did the Greeks affray:But my soft Muse, as for her power more meete,Delights (with Phoebus friendly leave) to playAn easie running verse with tender feete.And thou, dread sacred child, to thee alwayLet everlasting lightsome glory strive,Through the worlds endles ages to survive.

And let an happie roome remaine for theeMongst heavenly ranks, where blessed soules do rest;And let long lasting life with ioyous glee,As thy due meede that thou deservest best,Hereafter many yeares remembred beAmongst good men, of whom thou oft are blest.Live thou for ever in all happinesse!But let us turne to our first businesse.

The fiery Sun was mounted now on LightUp to the heavenly towers, and shot each whereOut of his golden charet glistering light;And fayre Aurora, with her rosie heare,The hatefull darknes now had put to flight;When as the Shepheard, seeing day appeare,His little goats gan drive out of their stalls,To feede abroad, where pasture best befalls.

To an high mountaines top he with them went,Where thickest grasse did cloath the open hills:They, now amongst the woods and thickets mentNow in the valleies wandring at their wills,Spread themselves farre abroad through each descent;Some on the soft greene grasse feeding their fills,Some, clambring through the hollow cliffes on hy,Nibble the bushie shrubs which growe thereby.

Others the utmost boughs of trees doe crop,And brouze the woodbine twigges that freshly bud;This with full bit doth catch the utmost topOf some soft willow, or new growen stud**;This with sharpe teeth the bramble leaves doth lop,And chaw the tender prickles in her cud;The whiles another high doth overlookeHer owne like image in a christall brooke.

O the great happines which shepheards have,Who so loathes not too much the poore estateWith minde that ill use doth before deprave,Ne measures all things by the costly rateOf riotise, and semblants outward brave!No such sad cares, as wont to macerateAnd rend the greedie mindes of covetous men,Do ever creepe into the shepheards den.

Ne cares he if the fleece which him arayesBe not twice steeped in Assyrian dye;Ne glistering of golde, which underlayesThe summer beames, doe blinde his gazing eye;Ne pictures beautie, nor the glauncing rayesOf precious stones, whence no good commeth by;Ne yet his cup embost with imageryOf Baetus or of Alcons vanity.

Ne ought the whelky pearles esteemeth hee,Which are from Indian seas brought far away:But with pure brest, from carefull sorrow free,On the soft grasse his limbs doth oft display,In sweete spring time, when flowres varietieWith sundrie colours paints the sprincled lay**;There, lying all at ease from guile or spight,With pype of fennie reedes doth him delight.

There he, lord of himselfe, with palme bedight,His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine:There his milk-dropping goats be his delight,And fruitefull Pales, and the forrest greene,And darkesome caves in pleasaunt vallies pight,Wheras continuall shade is to be seene,And where fresh springing wells, as christall neate,Do alwayes flow, to quench his thirstie heate.

O! who can lead then a more happie lifeThan he, that with cleane minde and heart sincere,No greedy riches knowes nor bloudie strife,No deadly fight of warlick fleete doth feare,Ne runs in perill of foes cruell knife,That in the sacred temples he may reareA trophee of his glittering spoyles and treasure,Or may abound in riches above measure.

Of him his God is worshipt with his sythe,And not with skill of craftsman polished:He ioyes in groves, and makes himselfe full blytheWith sundrie flowers in wilde fieldes gathered,Ne frankincens he from Panchaea buyth:Sweete Quiet harbours in his harmeles head,And perfect Pleasure buildes her ioyous bowre,Free from sad cares, that rich mens hearts devowre.

This all his care, this all his whole indevour,To this his minde and senses he doth bend,How he may flow in quiets matchles treasour,Content with any food that God doth send;And how his limbs, resolv’d through idle leisour,Unto sweete sleepe he may securely lend,In some coole shadow from the scorching heat,The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eate.

O Flocks, O Faunes, and O ye pleasaunt SpringsOf Tempe, where the countrey nymphs are rife,Through whose not costly care each shepheard singsAs merrie notes upon his rusticke fifeAs that Ascraean bard, whose fame now ringsThrough the wide world, and leads as ioyfull life;Free from all troubles and from worldly toyle,In which fond men doe all their dayes turmoyle.

In such delights whilst thus his carelesse timeThis shepheard drives, upleaning on his batt,And on shrill reedes chaunting his rustick rime,Hyperion, throwing foorth his beames full hott,Into the highest top of heaven gan clime,And the world parting by an equall lott,Did shed his whirling flames on either side,As the great Ocean doth himselfe divide.

Then gan the shepheard gather into oneHis stragling goates, and drave them to a foord,Whose caerule streame, rombling in pible stone,Crept under mosse as greene as any goord.Now had the sun halfe heaven overgone,When he his heard back from that water foordDrave, from the force of Phoebus boyling ray,Into thick shadowes, there themselves to lay.

Soone as he them plac’d in thy sacred wood,O Delian goddesse, saw, to which of yoreCame the bad daughter of old Cadmus brood,Cruell Agavè, flying vengeance soreOf King Nictileus for the guiltie bloodWhich she with cursed hands had shed before;There she halfe frantick, having slaine her sonne,Did shrowd her selfe like punishment to shonne.

Here also playing on the grassy greene,Woodgods, and Satyres, and swift Dryades,With many Fairies oft were dauncing seene.Not so much did Dan Orpheus represseThe streames of Hebrus with his songs, I weene,As that faire troupe of woodie goddessesStaied thee, O Peneus, powring foorth to thee,From cheereful lookes, great mirth and gladsome glee.

The verie nature of the place, resoundingWith gentle murmure of the breathing ayre,A pleasant bowre with all delight aboundingIn the fresh shadowe did for them prepayre,To rest their limbs with wearines redounding.For first the high palme-trees, with braunches faire,Out of the lowly vallies did arise,And high shoote up their heads into the skyes.

And them amongst the wicked lotos grew,Wicked, for holding guilefully awayUlysses men, whom rapt with sweetenes new,Taking to hoste, it quite from him did stay;And eke those trees, in whose transformed hewThe Sunnes sad daughters waylde the rash decayOf Phaëton, whose limbs with lightening rentThey gathering up, with sweete teares did lament.

And that same tree, in which Demophoon,By his disloyalty lamented sore,Eternall hurte left unto many one:Whom als accompanied the oke, of yoreThrough fatall charmes transferred to such an one:The oke, whose acornes were our foode beforeThat Ceres seede of mortall men were knowne,Which first Triptoleme taught how to be sowne.

Here also grew the rougher-rinded pine,The great Argoan ships brave ornament,Whom golden fleece did make an heavenly signe;Which coveting, with his high tops extent,To make the mountaines touch the starres divine,Decks all the forrest with embellishment;And the blacke holme that loves the watrie vale;And the sweete cypresse, signe of deadly bale.

Emongst the rest the clambring yvie grew,Knitting his wanton armes with grasping hold,Least that the poplar happely should rewHer brothers strokes, whose boughes she doth enfoldWith her lythe twigs, till they the top survew,And paint with pallid greene her buds of gold.Next did the myrtle tree to her approach,Not yet unmindfull of her olde reproach.

But the small birds in their wide boughs embowringChaunted their sundrie tunes with sweete consent;And under them a silver spring, forth powringHis trickling streames, a gentle murmure sent;Thereto the frogs, bred in the slimie scowringOf the moist moores, their iarring voyces bent;And shrill grashoppers chirped them around:All which the ayrie echo did resound.

In this so pleasant place the shepheards flockeLay everie where, their wearie limbs to rest,On everie bush, and everie hollow rocke,Where breathe on them the whistling wind mote best;The whiles the shepheard self, tending his stocke,Sate by the fountaine side, in shade to rest,Where gentle slumbring sleep oppressed himDisplaid on ground, and seized everie lim.

Of trecherie or traines nought tooke he keep,But, looslie on the grassie greene dispredd,His dearest life did trust to careles sleep;Which, weighing down his drouping drowsie hedd,In quiet rest his molten heart did steep,Devoid of care, and feare of all falshedd:Had not inconstant Fortune, bent to ill,Bid strange mischance his quietnes to spill.

For at his wonted time in that same placeAn huge great Serpent, all with speckles pide,To drench himselfe in moorish slime did trace,There from the boyling heate himselfe to hide:He, passing by with rolling wreathed pace,With brandisht tongue the emptie aire did gride,And wrapt his scalie boughts** with fell despight,That all things seem’d appalled at his sight.

Now more and more having himselfe enrolde,His glittering breast he lifteth up on hie,And with proud vaunt his head aloft doth holde;His creste above, spotted with purple die,On everie side did shine like scalie golde;And his bright eyes, glauncing full dreadfullie,Did seeme to flame out flakes of flashing fyre,And with sterne lookes to threaten kindled yre.

Thus wise long time he did himselfe dispaceThere round about, when as at last he spide,Lying along before him in that place,That flocks grand captaine and most trustie guide:Eftsoones more fierce in visage and in pace,Throwing his firie eyes on everie side,He commeth on, and all things in his wayFull stearnly rends that might his passage stay.

Much he disdaines that anie one should dareTo come unto his haunt; for which intentHe inly burns, and gins straight to prepareThe weapons which Nature to him hath lent;Fellie he hisseth, and doth fiercely stare,And hath his iawes with angrie spirits rent,That all his tract with bloudie drops is stained,And all his foldes are now in length outstrained.

Whom, thus at point prepared, to prevent,A litle noursling of the humid ayre,A Gnat, unto the sleepie shepheard went,And marking where his ey-lids twinckling rareShewd the two pearles which sight unto him lent,Through their thin coverings appearing fayreHis little needle there infixing deep,Warnd him awake, from death himselfe to keep.

Wherewith enrag’d, he fiercely gan upstart,And with his hand him rashly bruzing sleweAs in avengement of his heedles smart,That streight the spirite out of his senses flew.And life out of his members did depart:When, suddenly casting aside his vew,He spide his foe with felonous intent,And fervent eyes to his destruction bent.

All suddenly dismaid, and hartles quight,He fled abacke, and, catching hastie holdeOf a yong alder hard beside him pight,It rent, and streight about him gan beholdeWhat god or fortune would assist his might.But whether god or fortune made him boldIts hard to read: yet hardie will he hadTo overcome, that made him lesse adrad.

The scalie backe of that most hideous snakeEnwrapped round, oft faining to retireAnd oft him to assaile, he fiercely strakeWhereas his temples did his creast front tyre;And, for he was but slowe, did slowth off shake,And, gazing ghastly on, (for feare and yreHad blent** so much his sense, that lesse he feard,)—Yet, when he saw him slaine, himselfe he cheard.

By this the Night forth from the darksome bowreOf Herebus her teemed steedes gan call,And laesie Vesper in his timely howreFrom golden Oeta gan proceede withall;Whenas the shepheard after this sharpe stowre**,Seing the doubled shadowes low to fall,Gathering his straying flocke, does homeward fare,And unto rest his wearie ioynts prepare.

Into whose sense so soone as lighter sleepeWas entered, and now loosing everie lim,Sweete slumbring deaw in carelesnesse did steepe,The image of that Gnat appeard to him,And in sad tearmes gan sorrowfully weepe,With grieslie countenaunce and visage grim,Wailing the wrong which he had done of late,In steed of good, hastning his cruell fate.

Said he, “What have I wretch deserv’d, that thusInto this bitter bale I am outcast,Whilest that thy life more deare and preciousWas than mine owne, so long as it did last?I now, in lieu of paines so gracious,Am tost in th’ayre with everie windie blast:Thou, safe delivered from sad decay,Thy careles limbs in loose sleep dost display.

“So livest thou; but my poore wretched ghostIs forst to ferrie over Lethes river,And spoyld of Charon too and fro am tost.Seest thou not how all places quake and quiver,Lightned with deadly lamps on everie post?Tisiphone each where doth shake and shiverHer flaming fire-brond, encountring me,Whose lockes uncombed cruell adders be.

“And Cerberus, whose many mouthes doo bay,And barke out flames, as if on fire he fed,Adowne whose necke, in terrible array,Ten thousand snakes, cralling about his hed,Doo hang in heapes, that horribly affray,And bloodie eyes doo glister firie red,He oftentimes me dreadfullie doth threatenWith painfull torments to be sorely beaten.

“Ay me! that thankes so much should faile of meed,For that I thee restor’d to life againe,Even from the doore of death and deadlie dreed.Where then is now the guerdon of my paine?Where the reward of my so piteous deed?The praise of pitie vanisht is in vaine,And th’antique faith of iustice long agoneOut of the land is fled away and gone.

“I saw anothers fate approaching fast,And left mine owne his safëtie to tender;Into the same mishap I now am cast,And shun’d destruction doth destruction render:Not unto him that never hath trespást,But punishment is due to the offender:Yet let destruction be the punishment,So long as thankfull will may it relent.

“I carried am into waste wildernesse,Waste wildernes, amongst Cymerian shades,Where endles paines and hideous heavinesseIs round about me heapt in darksome glades.For there huge Othos sits in sad distresse,Fast bound with serpents that him oft invades,Far of beholding Ephialtes tide,Which once assai’d to burne this world so wide.

“And there is mournfull Tityus, mindefull yetOf thy displeasure, O Latona faire;Displeasure too implacable was it,That made him meat for wild foules of the ayre:Much do I feare among such fiends to sit;Much do I feare back to them to repayre,To the black shadowes of the Stygian shore,Where wretched ghosts sit wailing evermore.

“There next the utmost brinck doth he abideThat did the bankets of the gods bewray,Whose throat through thirst to nought nigh being dride,His sense to seeke for ease turnes every way:And he that in avengement of his pride,For scorning to the sacred gods to pray,Against a mountaine rolls a mightie stone,Calling in vaine for rest, and can have none.

“Go ye with them, go, cursed damosells,Whose bridale torches foule Erynnis tynde,And Hymen, at your spousalls sad, foretellsTydings of death and massacre unkinde**:With them that cruell Colchid mother dwells,The which conceiv’d in her revengefull mindeWith bitter woundes her owne deere babes to slay,And murdred troupes upon great heapes to lay.

“There also those two Pandionian maides,Calling on Itis, Itis evermore,Whom, wretched boy, they slew with guiltie blades;For whome the Thracian king lamenting sore,Turn’d to a lapwing, fowlie them upbraydes,And flattering round about them still does sore;There now they all eternally complaineOf others wrong, and suffer endles paine.

“But the two brethren borne of Cadmus blood,Whilst each does for the soveraignty contend,Blinde through ambition, and with vengeance wood**,Each doth against the others bodie bendHis cursed steele, of neither well withstood,And with wide wounds their carcases doth rend;That yet they both doe mortall foes remaine,Sith each with brothers bloudie hand was slaine.

“Ah (waladay!) there is no end of paine,Nor chaunge of labour may intreated bee:Yet I beyond all these am carried faine,Where other powers farre different I see,And must passe over to th’Elisian plaine:There grim Persephone, encountring mee,Doth urge her fellow Furies earnestlieWith their bright firebronds me to terrifie.

“There chast Alceste lives inviolate,Free from all care, for that her husbands daiesShe did prolong by changing fate for fate:Lo! there lives also the immortall praiseOf womankinde, most faithfull to her mate,Penelope; and from her farre awayesA rulesse rout of yongmen which her woo’d,All slaine with darts, lie wallowed in their blood.

“And sad Eurydice thence now no moreMust turne to life, but there detained beeFor looking back, being forbid before:Yet was the guilt thereof, Orpheus, in thee!Bold sure he was, and worthie spirite bore,That durst those lowest shadowes goe to see,And could beleeve that anie thing could pleaseFell Cerberus, or Stygian powres appease.

“Ne feard the burning waves of Phlegeton,Nor those same mournfull kingdomes, compassedWith rustle horrour and fowle fashion;And deep digd vawtes; and Tartar coveredWith bloodie night and darke confusion;And iudgement seates, whose iudge is deadlie dred,A iudge that after death doth punish soreThe faults which life hath trespassed before.

“But valiant fortune made Dan Orpheus bolde:For the swift running rivers still did stand,And the wilde beasts their furie did withhold,To follow Orpheus musicke through the land:And th’okes, deep grounded in the earthly molde,Did move, as if they could him understand;And the shrill woods, which were of sense bereav’d,Through their hard barke his silver sound receav’d.

“And eke the Moone her hastie steedes did stay,Drawing in teemes along the starrie skie;And didst, O monthly Virgin, thou delayThy nightly course, to heare his melodie?The same was able, with like lovely lay,The Queene of Hell to move as easilyTo yeeld Eurydice unto her fere,Backe to be borne, though it unlawfull were.

“She, ladie, having well before approovedThe feends to be too cruell and severe,Observ’d th’appointed way, as her behooved,Ne ever did her eysight turne arere,Ne ever spake, ne cause of speaking mooved;But, cruell Orpheus, thou much crueller,Seeking to kisse her, brok’st the gods decree,And thereby mad’st her ever damn’d to be.

“Ah! but sweete love of pardon worthie is,And doth deserve to have small faults remitted;If Hell at least things lightly done amisKnew how to pardon, when ought is omitted:Yet are ye both received into blis,And to the seates of happie soules admitted.And you beside the honourable bandOf great heroës doo in order stand.

“There be the two stout sonnes of AEacus,Fierce Peleus, and the hardie Telamon,Both seeming now full glad and ioyeousThrough their syres dreadfull iurisdiction,Being the iudge of all that horrid hous:And both of them, by strange occasion,Renown’d in choyce of happie marriageThrough Venus grace, and vertues cariage.

“For th’one was ravisht of his owne bondmaide,The faire Ixione captiv’d from Troy:But th’other was with Thetis love assaid,Great Nereus his daughter and his ioy.On this side them there is a yongman layd,Their match in glorie, mightie, fierce, and coy,That from th’Argolick ships, with furious yre,Bett back the furie of the Troian fyre.

“O! who would not recount the strong divorcesOf that great warre, which Troianes oft behelde,And oft beheld the warlike Greekish forces,When Teucrian soyle with bloodie rivers swelde,And wide Sigraean shores were spred with corses,And Simois and Xanthus blood outwelde;Whilst Hector raged, with outragious minde,Flames, weapons, wounds, in Greeks fleete to have tynde.

“For Ida selfe, in ayde of that fierce fight,Out of her mountaines ministred supplies;And like a kindly nourse did yeeld, for spight,Store of firebronds out of her nourseriesUnto her foster children, that they mightInflame the navie of their enemies,And all the Rhetaean shore to ashes turne,Where lay the ships which they did seeke to burne.

“Gainst which the noble sonne of TelamonOppos’d himselfe, and thwarting his huge shield,Them battell bad; gainst whom appeard anonHector, the glorie of the Troian field:Both fierce and furious in contentionEncountred, that their mightie strokes so shrildAs the great clap of thunder, which doth ryveThe railing heavens and cloudes asunder dryve.

“So th’one with fire and weapons did contendTo cut the ships from turning home againeTo Argos; th’other strove for to defendThe force of Vulcane with his might and maine.Thus th’one Aeacide did his fame extend:But th’other ioy’d that, on the Phrygian playneHaving the blood of vanquisht Hector shedd,He compast Troy thrice with his bodie dedd.

“Againe great dole on either partie grewe,That him to death unfaithfull Paris sent;And also him that false Ulysses slewe,Drawne into danger through close ambushment;Therefore from him Laërtes sonne his veweDoth turn aside, and boasts his good eventIn working of Strymonian Rhaesus fall,And efte in Dolons slye surprÿsall.

“Againe the dreadfull Cycones him dismay,And blacke Laestrigones, a people stout;Then greedie Scilla, under whom there bayManie great bandogs, which her gird about;Then doo the AEtnean Cyclops him affray,And deep Charybdis gulphing in and out;Lastly the squalid lakes of Tartarie,And griesly feends of hell him terrifie.

“There also goodly Agamemnon bosts,The glorie of the stock of Tantalus,And famous light of all the Greekish hosts;Under whose conduct most victorious,The Dorick flames consum’d the Iliack posts.Ah! but the Greekes themselves, more dolorous,To thee, O Troy, paid penaunce for thy fall,In th’Hellespont being nigh drowned all.

“Well may appeare by proofe of their mischaunceThe chaungfull turning of mens slipperie state,That none whom fortune freely doth advaunceHimselfe therefore to heaven should elevate:For loftie type of honour through the glaunceOf envies dart is downe in dust prostrate,And all that vaunts in worldly vanitieShall fall through fortunes mutabilitie.

“Th’Argolicke power returning home againe,Enricht with spoyles of th’Ericthonian towre,Did happie winde and weather entertaine,And with good speed the fomie billowes scowre:No signe of storme, no feare of future paine,Which soone ensued them with heavie stowre:Nereïs to the seas a token gave,The whiles their crooked keeles the surges clave.

“Suddenly, whether through the gods decree,Or haplesse rising of some froward starre,The heavens on everie side enclowded bee:Black stormes and fogs are blowen up from farre,That now the pylote can no loadstarre see,But skies and seas doo make most dreadfull warre;The billowes striving to the heavens to reach,And th’heavens striving them for to impeach.

“And, in avengement of their bold attempt,Both sun and starres and all the heavenly powresConspire in one to wreake their rash contempt,And downe on them to fall from highest towres:The skie, in pieces seeming to be rent,Throwes lightning forth, and haile, and harmful showres,That death on everie side to them appeares,In thousand formes, to worke more ghastly feares.

“Some in the greedie flouds are sunke and drent;Some on the rocks of Caphareus are throwne;Some on th’Euboick cliffs in pieces rent;Some scattred on the Hercaean** shores unknowne;And manie lost, of whom no monimentRemaines, nor memorie is to be showne:Whilst all the purchase@ of the Phrigian pray,Tost on salt billowes, round about doth stray.

“Here manie other like heroës bee,Equall in honour to the former crue,Whom ye in goodly seates may placed see,Descended all from Rome by linage due;From Rome, that holds the world in sovereigntie,And doth all nations unto her subdue:Here Fabii and Decii doo dwell,Horatii that in vertue did excell.

“And here the antique fame of stout CamillDoth ever live; and constant Curtius,Who, stifly bent his vowed life to spillFor countreyes health, a gulph most hideousAmidst the towne with his owne corps did fill,T’appease the Powers; and prudent Mutius,Who in his flesh endur’d the scorching flame,To daunt his foe by ensample of the same.

“And here wise Curius, companionOf noble vertues, lives in endles rest;And stout Flaminius, whose devotionTaught him the fires scorn’d furie to detest;And here the praise of either ScipionAbides in highest place above the best,To whom the ruin’d walls of Carthage vow’d,Trembling their forces, sound their praises lowd.

“Live they for ever through their lasting praise!But I, poore wretch, am forced to retourneTo the sad lakes that Phoebus sunnie rayesDoo never see, where soules doo alwaies mourne;And by the wayling shores to waste my dayes,Where Phlegeton with quenchles flames doth burne;By which iust Minos righteous soules doth severFrom wicked ones, to live in blisse for ever.

“Me therefore thus the cruell fiends of hell,Girt with long snakes and thousand yron chaynes,Through doome of that their cruell iudge compell,With bitter torture and impatient paines,Cause of my death and iust complaint to tell.For thou art he whom my poore ghost complainesTo be the author of her ill unwares,That careles hear’st my intollerable cares.

“Them therefore as bequeathing to the winde,I now depart, returning to thee never,And leave this lamentable plaint behinde.But doo thou haunt the soft downe-rolling river,And wilde greene woods and fruitful pastures minde,And let the flitting aire my vaine words sever.”Thus having said, he heavily departedWith piteous crie that anie would have smarted.

Now, when the sloathfull fit of lifes sweete restHad left the heavie Shepheard, wondrous caresHis inly grieved minde full sore opprest;That balefull sorrow he no longer bearesFor that Gnats death, which deeply was imprest,But bends what ever power his aged yearesHim lent, yet being such as through their mightHe lately slue his dreadfull foe in fight.

By that same river lurking under greene,Eftsoones he gins to fashion forth a place,And, squaring it in compasse well beseene**,There plotteth out a tombe by measured space:His yron-headed spade tho making cleene,To dig up sods out of the flowrie grasse,His worke he shortly to good purpose brought,Like as he had conceiv’d it in his thought.

An heape of earth he hoorded up on hie,Enclosing it with banks on everie side,And thereupon did raise full busilyA little mount, of greene turffs edifide;And on the top of all, that passers byMight it behold, the toomb he did provideOf smoothest marble stone in order set,That never might his luckie scape forget.

And round about he taught sweete flowres to growe;The Rose, engrained in pure scarlet die;The Lilly fresh, and Violet belowe;The Marigolde, and cherefull Rosemarie;The Spartan Mirtle, whence sweet gumb does flowe;The purple Hyacinths, and fresh Costmarie,And Saffron, sought for in Cilician soyle,And Lawrell, th’ornament of Phoebus toyle:

Fresh Rhododaphne, and the Sabine flowre,Matching the wealth of th’auncient Frankincence;And pallid Yvie, building his owne bowre;And Box, yet mindfull of his olde offence;Red Amaranthus, lucklesse paramour;Oxeye still greene, and bitter Patience;Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that, in a wellSeeing his beautie, in love with it fell.

And whatsoever other flowre of worth,And whatso other hearb of lovely hewThe ioyous Spring out of the ground brings forth,To cloath her selfe in colours fresh and new,He planted there, and reard a mount of earth,In whose high front was writ as doth ensue: