Than Neptune's subject now, more than of yore:
As loath to set his burden soone on shore.

"O Neptune! hadst thou kept them still with
thee,

Though both were lost to us, and such as we,
And with those beauteous birds, which on thy brest
Get and bring up, afforded them a rest;
Delos, that long time wand'ring piece of carth,
Had not beene fam'd more for Diana's birth,
Than those few planckes that bore them on the seas,
By the blest issue of two such as these.

"But they were landed: so are not our woes,
Nor ever shall, whilst from an eye there floweś
One drop of moysture: to these present tines
We will relate, and some sad shepheard's rhymes
To after ages may their fates make knowne,
And in their depth of sorrow drowne his owne.
So our relation, and his mournfull verse,
Of teares shall force such tribute to their herse,
That not a private griefe shall ever thrive,
But in that deluge fall, yet this survive.

"Two furlongs from the shore they had not gone,
When from a low cast valley (having on
Each hand a woody hill, whose boughes, unlopt,
Have not alone at all times sadly dropt,
And turn'd their stormes on her dejected brest,
But when the fire of Heaven is ready prest
To warme and further what it should bring forth,
For lowly dales mate mountaines in their worth)
The trees (as screenlike greatnesse) shade his raye,
As it should shine on none but such as they,
Came (and full sadly came) a haplesse wretch,
Whose walkes and pastures once were knowne to
stretch

From east to west, so farre that no dyke ran
For noted bounds, but where the Ocean
Ilis wrathfull billowes thrust, and grew as great
in roles of fish as were the other's neate,
Who, now rejected and depriv'd of all,
Longs (and hath done so long) for funeral.
For as with hanging head I have beheld
A widow vinė, stand, in a naked field,
Unhusbanded, neglected, all forlorne,
Brouz'd on by deere, by cattle cropt and torne,
Unpropt, unsuccoured, by stake or tree,
From wreakefall stormes' impetuous tyranny,
When, had a willing hand lent kind redresse,
Her pregnant bunches might from out the presse
Have sent a liquor, both for taste and show,
No lesse divine than those of Malligo:
Such was this wight, and such she might have beene,
She both th' extreames hath felt of Fortune's teene,
For never have we heard, from times of yore,
One sometime envy'd, and now pitty'd more.
Her object, as her state, is low as earth;
Privation her companion; thoughts of mirth
Irkesome; and in one selfe-same circle turning,
With sodaine sports brought to a house of mourn-
Of others' good her best beliefe is still
And constant to her owne in nought but ill.
The onely enemy and friend she knowes

[ing.

Is Death, who, though deferres, must end her woes.
Her contemplation frightfull as the night.
She never lookes on any living wight
Without comparison; and as the day
Gives us, but takes the gloworme's light away,
So the least ray of blisse on others throwne,
Deprives and blindes all knowledge of her owne.
Her comfort is, (if for her any be)

That none can slow more cause of griefe than she,

Yet somewhat she of adverse fate hath wonne;
Who had undone her, were she not undone.
For those that on the sea of greatnesse ryde
Farre from the quiet shore, and where the tyde
In ebbs and floods is ghess'd, not truely knowne;
Expert of all estates except their owne,
Keeping their station at the helme of state,
Not by their vertues, but auspicious fate,
Subject to calmes of favour, stormes of rage,
Their actions noted as the common stage,
Who, like a man borne blinde, that cannot be
By demonstration showne what 'tis to see,
Live still in ignorance of what they want,
Till misery become the adamant,

And touch them for that poynt, to which, with speede,

None comes so sure as by the hand of neede.
A mirrour strange she in her right hand bore,
By which her friends from flatterers heretofore
She could distinguish well; and by her side,
(As in her full of happinesse) untyde,
Unforc'd, and uncompel'd, did sadly goe
(As if partaker of his mistresse' woe)

A loving spanyell, from whose rugged backe
(The only thing (but death) she moanes to lacke)
She pluckes the hayre, and working them in pleats,
Furthers the suite which modestie intreates.
Men call her Athliot: who cannot be
More wretched made by infelicitie,
Unlesse she here had an immortall breath,
Or living thus, liv'd timerous of death.
"Out of her lowly and forsaken dell
She running came, and cryde to Philocel,
Helpe! helpe! kinde shepheard, helpe! See
yonder, where

A lovely lady, hung up by the hayre,
Struggles, but mildely struggles, with the Fates,
Whose thread of life spun to a thread that mates
Dame Nature's in her haire, stayes them to wonder,
While too fine twisting makes it break in sunder.
So shrinkes the rose that with the flames doth meet,
So gently bowes the virgin parchment sheet,
So rowle the waves up, and fall out againe,
As all her beautious parts, and all in vaine.
Farre, farre above my helpe or hope in trying,
Unknowne, and so more miserably dying,
Sinoth'ring her torments in her panting brest,
She meekely waites the time of her long rest.
Hasten! O hasten then! kinde shepheard, baste !'
"He went with her: and Coelia (that had grac'd
Him past the world besides) seeing the way
He had to goe not farre, rests on the lay.

[love

That with a pious hand hung on the tree
Garlands or raptures of sweet poesie)
Which by her opened, with unweeting hand,
A latle spray she pluckt, whose rich leaves fan'd
And chatter'd with the ayre, as who should say,
'Doe not for once, O doe not this bewray!
Nor give sound to a tongue for that intent!
Who ignorantly sinnes, dyes innocent.'

"By this was Philocel returning backe, And in his band the lady; for whose wrack Nature had cleane forsworne to frame a wight So wholy pure, so truely exquisite :

[him :

But more deform'd, and from a rough-hewn mold, Since what is best lives seldome to be old. Within their sight was fayrest Coelia now; Who drawing neere, the life-priz'd golden bough Her love beheld. And, as a inother kinde, What time the new-cloath'd trees, by gusts of winde Unmov'd, stand wistly list'ning to those layes The feather'd quiristers upon their sprayes Chaunt to the merry Spring, and in the even She with her little sonne for pleasure given, To tread the fring'd banckes of an amorous flood, That with her musicke courts a sullen wood, Where ever talking with her onely blisse, That now before and then behinde her is, She stoopes for flowres, the choicest may be had, And bringing them to please her prittie lad, Spyes in his hand some banefull flowre or weed, Whereon he 'gins to smell, perhaps to feede, With a more earnest haste she runs unto him, And puls that from him which might else undoe So to his Cœlia hasted Philocel, And raught the bough away. Hid it: and fell To question if she broke it, or if then An eye beheld her? Of the race of men,'. (Replide she) when I took it from the tree, Assure yourselfe, was none to testifie. But what hath past since in your hand, behold A fellow running yonder over the wold Is well inform'd of. Can there (love) ensue, Tell me! oh, tell me! any wrong to you By what my hand hath ignorantly done?' (Quoth fearefull Colia) Philocel! be wonne By these unfained teares, as I by thine, To make thy greatest sorrowes partly mine!' ⚫ Cleere up these showres (my sun') quoth Philocel, ⚫ The ground it needes not. Nought is so from well, But that reward and kind intreaties may Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.' Thus wisely he supprest his height of woe, And did resolve, since none but they did know Truely who rent it: and the hatefull swaine, That lately past by them upon the plaine, (Whom well he knew did beare to him a hate, Though undeserved, so inveterate, That to his utmost powre he would assay To make his life have ending with that day) Except in his, had seene it in no hand, That he against all throes of Fate would stand, Acknowledge it his deede, and so afford A passage to his heart for justice' sword, Rather than by her losse the world should be Despiz'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.

"Now (with a vow of secrecy from both) Inforcing mirth, he with them homewards go'th; And by the time the shades of mighty woods Began to turne them to the easterne floods, They thither got: where, with undaunted hart, He welcomes both; and freely doth impart VOL VI

Such dainties as a shepheard's cottage yeelds,
Tane from the fruitfull woods and fertile fields;
No way distracted nor disturb'd at all :
And, to prevent what likely might befall
His truest Celia, in his apprehending,
Thus to all future care gave final ending:
Into their cup (wherein, for such sweet girles,
Nature would myriades of richest pearles
Dissolve, and by her powerfull simples strive
To keepe them still on Earth, and still alive)
Our swaine infus'd a powder, which they dranke:
And to a pleasant roome (set on a banke
Neere to his cote, where he did often use
At vacant houres to entertaine his Muse)
Brought them, and seated on a curious bed
Till what he gave in operation sped,
And rob'd them of his sight, and him of theirs,
Whose new inlightning will be quench'd with

teares.

"The glasse of Time had well-nye spent the sand It had to run, ere with impartiall hand Justice must to her upright ballance take him: Which he (afraid it might too soone forsake him) Began to use as quickly as perceive,

And of his love thus tooke his latest leave.

"Cœlia! thou fairest creature ever eye
Beheld, or yet put on mortalitie
Coelia, that hast but just so much of earth,
As makes thee capable of death! Thou birth
Of every virtue, life of every good!
Whose chastest sports, and daily taking food,
Is imitation of the highest powres,
Who to the earth lend seasonable showres,
That it may beare, we to their altars bring
Things worthy their accept, our offering.
I the most wretched creature ever eye
Behold, or yet put on mortalitie,
Unhappy Philocel! that have of earth
Too much to give my sorrowes endlesse birth,
The spring of sad misfortunes; in whom lyes
No blisse that with thy worth can sympathize,
Clouded with woe that hence will never flit,
Till Death's eternall night grow one with it,
I, as a dying swan that sadly sings
Her moanefull dirge unto the silver springs,
Which, carelesse of her song, glide sleeping by
Without one murmure of kind elegie,
Now stand by thee; and as a turtle's mate
With lamentations inarticulate,

The neere departure from her love beinones,
Spend these my bootless sighs and killing grones.
Here as a inan (by Justice' doome) exilde
To coasts unknowne, to desarts rough and wilde,
Stand I to take my latest leave of thee:
Whose happy and heaven-making company
Might I enjoy to Libia's continent,
Were blest fruition, and not banishment.
First of those eyes that have already tane
Their leave of me: lamps fitting for the phane
Of Heaven's most powre, and which might ne're

expire,

But be as sacred as the vestal fire.
Then of those plots, where halfe-ros'd lillies be
Not one by art, but Nature's industry,
From which I goe as one excluded from
The taintlesse flowres of blest Elysium.
Next from those lips I part, and may there be
No one that shall hereafter second me!
Guiltlesse of any kisses but their owne,
Their sweets but to themselves to all unknowne:

X

What nymph it was which neere the lonely dell Your shepheard succour'd." Quoth the good old man,

"The last time in her orbe pale Cynthia ran,

Meet with my fall; and when that I am gone,
Backe to thyselfe retyre, and there grow one ;
If to a second light thy shadow be,

Let him still have his ray of love from me;
And if as I, that likewise doe decline,
Be mine or his, or else be his and mine.
But know no other, nor againe be sped,
'She dyes a virgin that but knowes one bed.'

"And now from all at once my leave I take, With this petition, That when thou shalt wake, My teares already spent may serve for thine! And all thy sorrowes be excus'd by mine! Yea, rather than my losse should draw on hers, (Heare, Heaven, the suite which my sad soule preferres!)

Let this her slumber, like Oblivion's streame,
Make her beleeve our love was but a dreame!
Let me he dead in her as to the Earth,
Ere Nature loose the grace of such a birth.
Sleepe, thou sweet soule, from all disquiet free,
And since I now beguile thy destiny,
Let after patience in thy brest arise,
To give his name a life who for thee dyes.
He dyes for thee that worthy is to dye,
Since now in leaving that sweet harmonie,
Which Nature wrought in thee, he drawes not to
Enough of sorrow that might streight undoe him.
And have for meanes of death his parting hence,
So keeping justice still in innocence.'

[him

"Here staid his tongue, and teares anew began. 'Parting knowes more of griefe than absence can.' And with a backward pace, and ling'ring eye, Left, and for ever left, their company.

"By this the curs'd informer of the deede With wings of mischiefe (and those have most speede)

Unto the priests of Pan had made it knowne. And (though with griefe enough) were thither flowne,

With strickt command the officers that be
As bands of Justice in her each decree.

I to the prison went, and from him knew
(Upon my vow) what now is knowne to you.
And that the lady, which he found distrest,
Is Fida call'd; a maide not meanely blest
By Heaven's endowments, and-Alas! but see,
Kind Philocel ingirt with miserie,

More strong than by his bonds, is drawing nigh
The place appointed for his tragedie:
You may walke thither and behold his fall;
While I come neere enough, yet not at all.
Nor shall it neede I to my sorrow knit
The griefe of knowing with beholding it."

The goddesse went: but, ere she came, did
Herselfe from every eye within a cloud, [shrowde
Where she beheld the shepheard on his way,
Much like a bridegroome on his marriage-day;
Increasing not his miserie with feare.
Others for him, but he shed not a teare.
His knitting sinews did not tremble aught,
Nor to unusuall palpitation brought
Was or his heart or lyver, nor his eye,
Nor tongue, nor colour, show'd a dread to dye.
His resolution keeping with his spirit,
(Both worthy him that did them both inherit)
Held in subjection every thought of feare,
Scorning so base an executioner.

Some time he spent in speech; and then began Submissely prayer to the name of Pan, When sodainly this cry came from the plaines: "From guiltlesse blood be free, ye British swaines! Mine be those bonds, and mine the death appointed! Let me be head-long throwne, these limbes disjoy nted!

Or if you needes must burle him from that brim,
Except I dye there dyes but part of him.
Doe then right justice, and performe your oath !
Which cannot be without the death of both."

Wonder drew thitherward their drowned eyes,
And sorrow Philocel's. Where he espies
What he did onely feare, the beauteous maide,
His wofuli Cœlia, whom (ere night arraid
Last time the world in sute of mournfull blacke,
More darke than use, as to bemone their wracke)
He at his cottage left in sleepe's soft armes,
By powre of simples, and the force of charmes,
Which time had now dissolv'd, and made her know
For what intent her love had left her so.

She staide not to awake her mate in sleepe,

That with unhappy hand he had abus'd The holy tree; and by the oath of him, Whose eye beheld the separated limb,

[ed,

All doubts dissolv'd; quicke judgement was award(And but last night) that hither strongly guarded This morne he should be brought; and from yond rocke

(Where every houre new store of mourners flocke) He should be head-long throwne (too hard a doome) To be depriv'd of life; and dead, of toombe. "This is the cause, faire goddesse, that appeares Before you now clad in an old man's teares, Which willingly flow out, and shall doe more Than many winters have seene heretofore." "But, father," (quoth she)" let me understand How you are sure that it was Coolia's hand

Or have the passion that within her lyes
So distant from her heart as in her eyes.
But rending of her hayre, her throbbing brest
Beating with ruthlesse strokes, she onwards prest
As an inraged furious lionesse,
Through uncouth treadings of the wildernesse
In hote pursute of her late missed broode.
The name of Philocel speakes every wood,
And she begins it still, and still her pace;
Her face deckt anger, anger deckt her face.
So ran distracted Hecuba along
The streets of Troy. So did the people throng
With helplesse hands and heavy hearts to see
Their wofull ruine in her progenie.

As harmlesse flockes of sheepe that neerely fed,
Upon the open plaines wide scattered,

Who backe return'd, and thus with teares began:
"The substitutes on Earth of mighty Pan,
Have thus decreed; (although the one be free)
To cleare themselves from all impuritie,
If, who the offender is, no meanes procure,
Th' offence is certaine, be their death as sure.
This is their doome, (which may all plagues pre-
To have the guilty kill the innocent." [vent)
Looke as two little lads, (their parents' treasure)
Under a tutor strictly kept from pleasure,
While they their new-given lesson closely scan,
Heare of a message by their father's man,
That one of them, but which he hath forgot,
Must come along and walke to some faire plot;
Both have a hope: their carefull tutor, loth
To hinder eyther, or to license both;
Sends backe the messenger, that he may know
His master's pleasure which of them must goe:
While both his schollers stand alike in feare
Both of their freedome and abiding there,
The servant comes and says, that for that day
Their father wils to have them both away:
Such was the feare these loving soules were in,
That time the messenger had absent bin.
But farre more was their joy 'twixt one another
In hearing neyther should out-live the other.

Now both intwinde, because no conquest wonne, Yet eyther ruinde: Philocel begun

To arme his love for death: a roabe unfit,
Till Hymen's saffron'd weede had usher'd it:
My fayrest Colia! come; let thou and I,
That long have learn'd to love, now learne to dye;
It is a lesson hard, if we discerne it,

Yet none is borne so soone as bound to learne it.
Unpartiall Fate layes ope the booke to us,
And let us con it, still imbracing thus ;
We may it perfect have, and goe before
Those that have longer time to read it o're;
And we had need begin, and not delay,
For 'tis our turne to read it first to-day.
Helpe when I misse, and when thou art in doubt
Ile be thy prompter, and will helpe thee out.
But see how much I erre: vaine metaphor
And elocution destinies abhorre.
[teares,
Could death be staid with words, or wonne with
Or mov'd with beauty, or with unripe yeeres;
Sure thou couldst doe't: this rose, this sun-like eye,
Should not so soone be quell'd, so quickly dye.
But we must dye, my love; not thou alone,
Nor onely I, but both; and yet but one.
Nor let us grieve; for we are marryed thus,
And have by death what life denyed us.
It is a comfort from him more than due;
'Death severs many, but he couples few.'
Life is a flood that keepes us from our blisse,
The ferriman to waft us thither, is
Death, and none else; the sooner we get o're,
Should we not thanke the ferriman the more?
Others intreat him for a passage hence,
And groane beneath their griefes and impotence,
Yet (mercilesse) he lets those longer stay,
And sooner takes the happy man away.
Some little happinesse have thou and I,
Since we shall dye before we wish to dye.
Should we here longer live, and have our dayes
As full in number as the most of these,
And in them meet all pleasures may betide,
We gladly might have liv'd, and patient dyde:
When now our fewer yeeres, made long by cares,
(That without age can snow downe silver haires)