ALCILIA: PHILOPARTHEN's Loving Folly. |
Non Deus (ut perhibent) amor est, sed
amaror, et error. AT LONDON. Printed by R. R. for William Mattes,
dwelling in Fleet street, at the sign of the
Hand and Plough.
1595.
[The only copy of the 1595 edition, at present known, is in the City Library, at Hamburg. It was recovered, and reprinted in 1875 by Herr Wilhelm Wagner, Ph.D., in Vol. X. of the Deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft Jahrbuch; copies of this particular text being also separately printed. A limited Subscription edition, of fifty-one copies, was printed by Rev. A. B. Grosart, LL.D., F.S.A., of Blackburn, in 1879: with a fresh collation of the text by B. S. Leeson, Esq., of Hamburg. The present modernized text is based on a comparison of the above two reprints of the 1595 edition with the text of the London edition of 1613 in which some headings therein inserted between [ ], on pp. 256, 276, 278) first occur.]
A Letter written by a Gentleman to the Author, his friend. Friend Philoparthen, IN perusing your Loving Folly, and your Declining from it; I do behold Reason conquering Passion. The infirmity of loving argueth you are a man; the firmness thereof, discovereth a good wit and the best nature: and the falling from it, true virtue. Beauty was always of force to mislead the wisest; and men of greatest perfection have had no power to resist Love. The best are accompanied with vices, to exercise their virtues; whose glory shineth brightest in resisting motives of pleasure, and in subduing affections. And though I cannot altogether excuse your Loving Folly; yet I do the less blame you, in that you loved such a one as was more to be commended for her virtue, than beauty: albeit even for that too, she was so well accomplished with the gifts of Nature as in mine conceit (which, for good cause, I must submit as inferior to yours) there was nothing wanting, either in the one or the other, that might add more to her worth, except it were a more due and better regard of your love; which she requited not according to your deserts, nor answerable to herself in her other parts of perfection. Yet herein it appeareth you have made good use of Reason; that being heretofore lost in youthful vanity, have now, by timely discretion, found yourself! Let me entreat you to suffer these your Passionate Sonnets to be published! which may, peradventure, make others, possessed with the like Humour of Loving, to follow your example, in leaving; and move other Alcilias (if there be any) to embrace deserving love, while they may! Hereby, also, she shall know, and, it may be, inwardly repent the loss of your love, and see how much her perfections are blemished by ingratitude; which will make your happiness greater by adding to your reputation, than your contentment could have been in enjoying her love. At the least wise, the wiser sort, however in censuring them, they may dislike of your errors; yet they cannot but commend and allow of your reformation: and all others that shall with indifferency read them, may reap thereby some benefit, or contentment. Thus much I have written as a testimony of the good will I bear you! with whom I do suffer or rejoice according to the quality of your misfortune or good hap. And so I take my leave; resting, as always, Yours most assured,
Philaretes.
Author ipse f???p???e??? ad
libellum suum. P arve liber Domini vanos dicture labores, Insomnes noctes, sollicitosque dies, Errores varios, languentis tÆdia vitÆ, MÆrores certos, gaudia certa minus, Peruigiles curas, suspiria, vota, querelas, Et quÆcunque pati dura coegit amor. I precor intrepidus, duram comiterque salutans HÆc me ejus causa sustinuisse refer. Te grato excipiet vultu rubicundula, nomen Cum titulo inscriptum viderit esse suum. Forsitan et nostri miserebitur illa doloris, Dicet et, ah quantum deseruisse dolet: Seque nimis soevam, crudelemque ipsa vocabit, Cui non est fidei debita cura meÆ; Quod siquidem eveniet, Domino solaminis illud, Et tibi supremi muneris instar erit. Si quis (ut est Æquum) fatuos damnaverit ignes, PigritiÆ fructus ingeniique levis: Tu Dominum cÆcis tenebris errasse, sed ipsum Erroris tandem pÆnituisse sui, Me quoque re vera nec tot, nec tanta tulisse, Sed ficta ad placitum multa fuisse refer. Ab quanto satius (nisi mens mihi vana) fuisset Ista meo penitus delituisse sinu: Quam levia in lucem prodire, aut luce carentis Insanam Domini prodere stultitiam. Nil amor est aliud, quam mentis morbus et error Nil sapienter agit, nil bene, quisquis amat. Sed non cuique datur sapere, aut melioribus uti, Forte erit alterius, qui meus error erat. Cautior incedit, qui nunquam labitur, atqui Jam proprio evadam cautior ipse malo. Si cui delicto gravior mea poena videtur; Illius in laudes officiosus eris. Te si quis simili qui carpitur igne videbit, Ille suam sortem flebit, et ille meam. AlciliÆ obsequium supplex prÆstare memento, Non minima officii pars erit illa tui. Te fortasse sua secura recondet in arca, Et Solis posthÆc luminis orbus eris. Nil referet, fateor me non prudenter amasse; Ultima deceptÆ sors erit illa spei. Bis proprio Phoebus cursu lustraverat orbem, Conscius erroris, stultitioeque meÆ, A quo primus amor coepit penetrare medullas, Et falsa accensos nutriit arte focos. Desino jam nugas amplecti, seria posthÆc (Ut Ratio monet) ac utiliora sequor.
Amoris PrÆludium. [Vel, Epistola ad Amicam.] T O thee, Alcilia! solace of my youth! These rude and scattered rhymes I have addressed! The certain Witness of my Love and Truth, That truly cannot be in words expressed: Which, if I shall perceive thou tak'st in gree, I will, from henceforth, write of none but thee! Here may you find the wounds yourself have made! The many sorrows, I have long sustained! Here may you see that Love must be obeyed! How much I hoped, how little I have gained! That as for you, the pains have been endured; Even so by you, they may, at length, be cured! I will not call for aid to any Muse (It is for learned Poets so to do): Affection must, my want of Art excuse, My works must have their patronage from You! Whose sweet assistance, if obtain I might! I should be able both to speak and write Nemini datur amare simul et sapere. Meanwhile, vouchsafe to read this, as assigned To no man's censure; but to yours alone! Pardon the faults, that you therein shall find; And think the writer's heart was not his own! Experience of examples daily prove "That no man can be well advised, and love!" And though the work itself deserve it not (Such is your Worth, with my great Wants compared!); Yet may my love unfeignÈd, without spot, Challenge so much (if more cannot be spared!). Then, lovely Virgin! take this in good part! The rest, unseen, is sealed up in the heart. Judge not by this, the depth of my affection! Which far exceeds the measure of my skill; But rather note herein your own perfection! So shall appear my want of Art, not will: Wherefore, this now, as part in lieu of greater, I offer as an insufficient debtor!
Sic incipit Stultorum Tragicomedia. I T was my chance, unhappy chance to me! As, all alone, I wandered on my way; Void of distrust, from doubt of dangers free, To pass a grove where Love in ambush lay: Who aiming at me with his feathered dart, Conveyed it by mine eye unto my heart. Where, retchless boy! he let the arrow stick, When I, as one amazÈd, senseless stood. The hurt was great, yet seemÈd but a prick! The wound was deep, and yet appeared no blood! But inwardly it bleeds. Proof teacheth this. When wounds do so, the danger greater is. Pausing a while, and grievÈd with my wound, I looked about, expecting some relief: Small hope of help, no ease of pain I found. Like, all at once, to perish in my grief: When hastily, I pluckÈd forth the dart; But left the head fast fixÈd in my heart. Fast fixÈd in my heart, I left the head, From whence I doubt it will not be removed. Ah, what unlucky chance that way me led? O Love! thy force thou might'st elsewhere have proved! And shewed thy power, where thou art not obeyed! "The conquest's small, where no resist is made." But nought, alas, avails it to complain; I rest resolved, with patience to endure. The fire being once dispersed through every vein, It is too late to hope for present cure. Now Philoparthen must new follies prove, And learn a little, what it is to love!
These Sonnets following were written by the Author (who giveth himself this feigned name of Philoparthen as his accidental attribute), at divers times, and upon divers occasions; and therefore in the form and matter they differ, and sometimes are quite contrary one to another: which ought not to be misliked, considering the very nature and quality of Love; which is a Passion full of variety, and contrariety in itself. Ut vidi, ut perii, ut me malus abstulit error. Nhappy Eyes! that first my heart betrayed, Had you not seen, my grief had not been such! And yet, how may I, justly, you upbraid! Since what I saw delighted me so much? But hence, alas, proceedeth all my smart: Unhappy Eyes! that first betrayed my heart! To seek adventures, as Fate hath assigned, My slender Bark now floats upon the main; Each troubled thought, an Oar; each sigh, a Wind, Whose often puffs have rent my Sails in twain. Love steers the Boat, which (for that sight, he lacks) Is still in danger of ten thousand wracks. What sudden chance hath changed my wonted cheer, Which makes me other than I seem to be? My days of joy, that once were bright and clear, Are turned to nights! my mirth, to misery! Ah, well I ween that somewhat is amiss; But, sooth to say, I know not what it is! What, am I dead? Then could I feel no smart! But still in me the sense of grief reviveth. Am I alive? Ah, no! I have no heart; For she that hath it, me of life depriveth. O that she would restore my heart again; Or give me hers, to countervail my pain! If it be Love, to waste long hours in grief; If it be Love, to wish, and not obtain; If it be Love, to pine without relief; If it be Love, to hope and never gain; Then may you think that he hath truly loved, Who, for your sake! all this and more, hath proved! If that, in ought, mine eyes have done amiss; Let them receive deserved punishment! For so the perfect rule of Justice is, Each for his own deeds, should be praised, or shent. Then, doubtless, is it both 'gainst Law and Sense, My Heart should suffer for mine Eyes' offence. I am not sick, and yet I am not sound; I eat and sleep, and yet, methinks, I thrive not. I sport and laugh, and yet my griefs abound; I am not dead, and yet, methinks, I live not. "What uncouth cause hath these strange passions bred, To make at once, sick, sound, alive, and dead?" Something I want; but what, I cannot say. O, now I know! It is myself I want! My Love, with her, hath ta'en my heart away; Yea, heart and all, and left me very scant. "Such power hath Love, and nought but Love alone, To make divided creatures live in one." Philoparthen. "Come, gentle Death! and strike me with thy dart! Life is but loathsome to a man opprest." Death. "How can I kill thee! when thou hast no heart? That which thou hadst, is in another's breast!" Philoparthen. "Then, must I live, and languish still in pain?" Death. "Yea, till thy Love restore thy heart again!" Were Love a Fire, my tears might quench it lightly; Or were it Water, my hot heart might dry it. If Air, then might it pass away more slightly; Or were it Earth, the world might soon descry it. If Fire nor Water, Air nor Earth it be; What then is it, that thus tormenteth me? To paint her outward shape and gifts of mind, It doth exceed my wit and cunning far. She hath no fault, but that she is unkind. All other parts in her so complete are, That who, to view them throughly would devise, Must have his body nothing else but eyes. Fair is my Love! whose parts are so well framed, By Nature's special order and direction; That She herself is more than half ashamed, In having made a work of such perfection. And well may Nature blush at such a feature; Seeing herself excelled in her creature. Her body is straight, slender, and upright; Her visage comely, and her looks demure Mixt with a cheerful grace that yields delight; Her eyes, like stars, bright, shining, clear and pure: Which I describing, Love bids stay my pen, And says, "It's not a work for mortal men!" The ancient poets write of Graces three, Which meeting all together in one creature, In all points, perfect make the Frame to be; For inward virtues, and for outward feature But smile, Alcilia! and the world shall see That in thine eyes, a hundred Graces be! As Love had drawn his bow, ready to shoot, Aiming at me, with resolute intent; Straight, bow and shaft he cast down at his foot, And said, "Why, needless, should one shaft be spent? I'll spare it then, and now it shall suffice Instead of shafts, to use Alcilia's eyes." Blush not, my Love! for fear lest Phoebus spy! Which if he do, then, doubtless, he will say, "Thou seek'st to dim his clearness with thine eye!" That clearness, which, from East, brings gladsome day: But most of all, lest Jove should see, I dread; And take thee up to heaven like Ganymede. Philoparthen. "What is the cause Alcilia is displeased?" Love."Because she wants that which should most content her." Philoparathen. "O did I know it, soon should she be eased!" Love."Perhaps, thou dost! and that doth most torment her." Philoparthen. "Yet, let her ask! what she desires to have." Love."Guess, by thyself! For maidens must not crave!" My Love, by chance, her tender finger pricked; As, in the dark, I strivÈd for a kiss: Whose blood, I seeing, offered to have licked, But half in anger, she refusÈd this. O that she knew the difference of the smart 'Twixt her pricked finger, and my piercÈd heart! Philoparthen. "I pray thee, tell! What makes my heart to tremble, When, on a sudden, I, Alcilia spy?" Love."Because thy heart cannot thy joy dissemble! Thy life and death are both lodged in her eye." Philoparthen. "Dost thou not her, with self-same passion strike?" Love."O, no! Her heart and thine are not alike." Such are thy parts of body and of mind; That if I should not love thee as I do, I should too much degenerate from Kind, And think the world would blame my weakness too. For he, whom such perfections cannot move, Is either senseless, or not born to love. Alcilia's eyes have set my heart on fire, The pleasing object that my pain doth feed: Yet still to see those eyes I do desire, As if my help should from my hurt proceed. Happy were I, might there in her be found A will to heal, as there was power to wound. Unwise was he, that painted Love a boy; Who, for his strength, a giant should have been. It's strange a child should work so great annoy; Yet howsoever strange, too truly seen. "But what is he? that dares at Love repine; Whose works are wonders, and himself divine!" My fair Alcilia! gladly would I know it, If ever Loving Passion pierced thy heart? O, no! For, then, thy kindness soon would show it! And of my pains, thyself wouldst bear some part. Full little knoweth he that hath not proved, What hell it is to love, and not be loved. Love! Art thou blind? Nay, thou canst see too well! And they are blind that so report of thee! That thou dost see, myself by proof can tell; (A hapless proof thereof is made by me); For sure I am, hadst thou not had thy sight, Thou never couldst have hit my heart so right. Long have I languished, and endured much smart Since hapless I, the Cruel Fair did love; And lodged her in the centre of my heart. Who, there abiding, Reason should her move. Though of my pains she no compassion take; Yet to respect me, for her own sweet sake. In midst of winter season, as the snow, Whose milk white mantle overspreads the ground; In part, the colour of my love is so. Yet their effects, I have contrary found: For when the sun appears, snow melts anon; But I melt always when my sun is gone. The sweet content, at first, I seemed to prove (While yet Desire unfledged, could scarcely fly), Did make me think there was no life to Love; Till all too late, Time taught the contrary. For, like a fly, I sported with the flame; Till, like a fool, I perished in the same. After dark night, the cheerful day appeareth; After an ebb, the river flows again; After a storm, the cloudy heaven cleareth: All labours have their end, or ease of pain. Each creature hath relief and rest, save I, Who only dying, live; and living, die! Sometimes I seek for company to sport, Whereby I might my pensive thoughts beguile; Sometimes, again, I hide me from resort, And muse alone: but yet, alas, the while In changing place, I cannot change my mind; For wheresoe'er I fly, myself I find. Fain would I speak, but straight my heart doth tremble, And checks my tongue that should my griefs reveal: And so I strive my Passions to dissemble, Which all the art I have, cannot conceal. Meritum petere grave. Thus standing mute, my heart with longing starveth! "It grieves a man to ask, what he deserveth." Since you desire of me the cause to know, For which these divers Passions I have proved; Look in your glass! which will not fail to show The shadowed portrait of my best beloved. If that suffice not, look into my heart! Where it's engraven by a new found art. The painful ploughman hath his heart's delight; Who, though his daily toil his body tireth, Yet merrily comes whistling home at night, And sweetly takes the ease his pain requireth: But neither days nor nights can yield me rest; Born to be wretched, and to live opprest! O well were it, if Nature would devise That men with men together might engender, As grafts of trees, one from another rise; Then nought, of due, to women should we render! But, vain conceit! that Nature should do this; Since, well we know, herself a woman is! Upon the altar where Love's fires burnÈd, My Sighs and Tears for sacrifice I offered; When Love, in rage, from me his countenance turnÈd, And did reject what I so humbly proffered. If he, my heart expect, alas, it's gone! "How can a man give that, is not his own?" Alcilia said, "She did not know my mind, Because my words did not declare my love!" Thus, where I merit most, least help I find; And her unkindness all too late I prove. Grant, Love! that She, of whom thou art neglected, May one day love, and little be respected! The Cynic [9] being asked, "When he should love?" Made answer, "When he nothing had to do; Amor est otiogorum negotium. For Love was Sloth!" But he did never prove By his experience, what belonged thereto. For had he tasted but so much as I, He would have soon reformed his heresy. O judge me not, sweet Love, by outward show Though sometimes strange I seem, and to neglect thee! Yet didst thou, but my inward Passions know, Thou shouldst perceive how highly I respect thee! "When looks are fixed, the heart ofttimes doth tremble! "Little loves he, that cannot much dissemble!" Parting from thee! even from myself I part. Thou art the star, by which my life is guided! I have the body, but thou hast the heart! The better part is from itself divided. Thus do I live, and this I do sustain, Till gracious Fortune make us meet again! Open the sluices of my feeble eyes, And let my tears have passage from their fountain! Fill all the earth, with plaints! the air, with cries! Which may pierce rocks, and reach the highest mountain That so, Love's wrath, by these extremes appeased; My griefs may cease, and my poor heart be eased. "After long sickness, health brings more delight." "Seas seem more calm, by storms once overblown." "The day more cheerful, by the passed night." "Each thing is, by his contrary best known." "Continual ease is pain: Change sometimes meeter." "Discords in music make music sweeter." Fear to offend forbids my tongue to speak, And signs and sighs must tell my inward woe: But (ay the while) my heart with grief doth break, And she, by signs, my sorrow will not know. "The stillest streams we see in deepest fords; And Love is greatest, when it wanteth words." "No pain so great but may be eased by Art." "Though much we suffer, yet despair we should not." "In midst of griefs, Hope always hath some part; And Time may heal, what Art and Reason could not." O what is then this Passion I endure, Which neither Reason, Art, nor Time can cure? Pale Jealousy! Fiend of the eternal Night! Misshapen creature, born before thy time! The Imp of Horror! Foe to sweet Delight! Making each error seem an heinous crime. Ah, too great pity! (were there remedy), That ever Love should keep Thee company! Solstit: brumal. This Sonnet was devised upon the shortest day of the year. The days are now come to their shortest date; And must, in time, by course, increase again. But only I continue at one state, Void of all hope of help, or ease of pain; For days of joy must still be short with me, And nights of sorrow must prolongÈd be. Sleep now, my Muse! and henceforth take thy rest! Which all too long thyself in vain hath wasted. Let it suffice I still must live opprest; And of my pains, the fruit must ne'er be tasted. Then sleep, my Muse! "Fate cannot be withstood." "It's better sleep; than wake, and do no good." Why should I love, since She doth prove ungrateful: Since, for reward, I reap nought but disdain. Love thus to be requited, it is hateful! And Reason would, I should not love in vain. Yet all in vain, when all is out of season, For "Love hath no society with Reason." Heart's Ease and I have been at odds, too long! I follow fast, but still he flies from me! I sue for grace, and yet sustain the wrong; So gladly would I reconcilÈd be. Love! make us one! So shalt thou work a wonder; Uniting them, that were so far asunder. "Uncouth, unkist," our ancient Poet [10] said. And he that hides his wants, when he hath need, May, after, have his want of wit bewrayed; And fail of his desire, when others speed. Then boldly speak! "The worst is at first entering!" "Much good success men miss, for lack of venturing!" Declare the griefs wherewith thou art opprest, And let the world be witness of thy woes! Let not thy thoughts lie buried in thy breast; But let thy tongue, thy discontents disclose! For "who conceals his pain when he is grieved, May well be pitied, but no way relieved." L. Wretched is he that loving, sets his heart On her, whose love, from pure affection swerveth; Ne amor ne signoria vuole compagnia. Who doth permit each one to have a part Of that, which none but he alone deserveth. Give all, or none! For once, of this be sure! "Lordship and Love no partners may endure." Who spends the weary day in pensive thought, And night in dreams of horror and affright; Whose wealth is want; whose hope is come to nought; Himself, the mark for Love's and Fortune's spite: Let him appear, if any such there be! His case and mine more fitly will agree. Fair tree, but fruitless! sometimes full of sap! Which now yields nought at all, that may delight me! Some cruel frost, or some untimely hap Hath made thee barren, only to despite me! Such trees, in vain, with hope do feed Desire; And serve for fuel to increase Love's fire. In company (whiles sad and mute I sit, My thoughts elsewhere, than there I seem to be) Possessed with some deep melancholy fit; One of my friends observes the same in me, And says in jest, which I in earnest prove, "He looks like one, that had lost his First Love!" 'Twixt Hope and Fear, in doubtful balance peazed, My fate, my fortune, and my love depends. Sometimes my Hope is raised, when Love is pleased; Which Fear weighs down, when ought his will offends. The heavens are sometimes clear, and sometimes lower; And "he that loves, must taste both sweet and sour!" Retire, my wandering Thoughts! unto your rest! Do not, henceforth, consume yourselves in vain! No mortal man, in all points, can be blest; What now is mine, may be another's pain. The watery clouds are clear, when storms are past; And "things, in their extremes, long cannot last." LVI. The fire of Love is first bred in the Eye, Visus. Sermo. Tactus. And thence conveys his heat unto the Heart, Where it lies hid, till time his force descry. The Tongue thereto adds fuel for his part; The touch of Lips, which doth succeed the same, Kindles the rest, and so it proves a flame. The tender Sprigs that sprouted in the field, And promised hope of fruit to him that planted; Instead of fruit, doth nought but blossoms yield, Though care, and pain to prune them never wanted: Even so, my hopes do nought but blossoms prove, And yield no fruits to recompense my love. Though little sign of love in show appear; Yet think, True Love, of colours hath no need! It's not the glorious garments, which men wear, That makes them other than they are indeed: "In meanest show, the most affection dwells; And richest pearls are found in simplest shells." Let not thy tongue, thy inward thoughts disclose! Or tell the sorrows that thy heart endures! Martial. Ille dolet vere, qui sine teste dolet. Let no man's ears be witness of thy woes! Since pity, neither help nor ease procures: And "only he is, truly, said to moan, Whose griefs none knoweth but himself alone." A thousand times; I curse these idle rhymes, Which do their Maker's follies vain set forth; Alteri inserviens meipsum conficio. Yet bless I them again, as many times, For that in them, I blaze Alcilia's worth. Meanwhile, I fare, as doth the torch by night, Which wastes itself in giving others light. Enough of this! For all is nought regarded! And She, not once, with my complaints is moved. Die, hapless love! since thou art not rewarded; Yet ere thou die, to witness that I loved! Report my truth! and tell the Fair unkind, That "She hath lost, what none but She shall find! Lovers, lament! You that have truly loved! For Philoparthen, now, hath lost his love: The greatest loss that ever lover proved. O let his hard hap some compassion move! Who had not rued the loss of her so much; But that he knows the world yields no more such. Upon the ocean of conceited error, My weary spirits, many storms have past; Which now in harbour, free from wonted terror, Joy the possession of their rest at last. And, henceforth, safely may they lie at road! And never rove for "Had I wist!" abroad!
[Compare this, with Gascoigne's poem, Vol. I. p. 63.] I N Reason's Court, myself being Plaintiff there, Love was, by process, summoned to appear. That so the wrongs, which he had done to me, Might be made known; and all the world might see: And seeing, rue what to my cost I proved; While faithful, but unfortunate I loved. After I had obtainÈd audience; I thus began to give in evidence. [The Author's Evidence against Love.] "Most sacred Queen! and Sovereign of man's heart! Which of the mind dost rule the better part! First bred in heaven, and from thence, hither sent To guide men's actions by thy regiment! Vouchsafe a while to hear the sad complaint Of him that Love hath long kept in restraint; And, as to you it properly belongs, Grant justice of my undeservÈd wrongs! It's now two years, as I remember well, Since first this wretch, (sent from the nether hell, To plague the world with new-found cruelties), Under the shadow of two crystal Eyes, Betrayed my Sense; and, as I slumbering lay, Feloniously conveyed my heart away; Which most unjustly he detained from me, And exercised thereon strange tyranny. Sometime his manner was, in sport and game, With briars and thorns, to raze and prick the same; Sometime with nettles of Desire to sting it; Sometime with pincons [11] of Despair to wring it; Sometime again, he would anoint the sore, And heal the place that he had hurt before: But hurtful helps! and ministered in vain! Which servÈd only to renew my pain. For, after that, more wounds he added still, Which piercÈd deep, but had no power to kill. Unhappy medicine! which, instead of cure, Gives strength to make the patient more endure! But that which was most strange of all the rest (Myself being thus 'twixt life and death distrest), Ofttimes, when as my pain exceeded measure, He would persuade me that the same was pleasure; My solemn sadness, but contentment meet; My travail, rest; and all my sour, sweet; My wounds, but gentle strokes: whereat he smiled, And by these slights, my careless youth beguiled. Thus did I fare, as one that living died, (For greater pains, I think, hath no man tried) Disquiet thoughts, like furies in my breast Nourished the poison that my spirits possesst. Now Grief, then Joy; now War, then Peace unstable, Nought sure I had, but to be miserable. I cannot utter all, I must confess. Men may conceive more than they can express! But (to be short), which cannot be excused, With vain illusions, Love, my hope abused; Persuading me I stood upon firm ground When, unawares, myself on sands I found. This is the point which most I do enforce! That Love, without all pity or remorse, Did suffer me to languish still in grief Void of contentment, succour, or relief: And when I looked my pains should be rewarded, I did perceive, that they were nought regarded. For why? Alas, these hapless eyes did see Alcilia loved another more than me! So in the end, when I expected most; My hope, my love, and fortune thus were crost." Proceeding further, Reason bad me stay For the Defendant had some thing to say. Then to the Judge, for justice, loud I cried! And so I pausÈd: and Love thus replied. [Love's Reply to the Author.] "Since Reason ought to lend indifferent ears Unto both parties, and judge as truth appears; Most gracious Lady! give me leave to speak, And answer his Complaint, that seeks to wreak His spite and malice on me, without cause; In charging me to have transgressed thy laws! Of all his follies, he imputes the blame To me, poor Love! that nought deserves the same. Himself it is, that hath abusÈd me! As by mine answer, shall well proved be. Fond youth! thou knowest what I for thee effected! Though, now, I find it little be respected. I purged thy wit, which was before but gross. The metal pure, I severed from the dross, And did inspire thee with my sweetest fire That kindled in thee Courage and Desire: Not like unto those servile Passions Which cumber men's imaginations With Avarice, Ambition, and Vainglory; Desire of things fleeting and transitory. No base conceit, but such as Powers above Have known and felt, I mean, th' Instinct of Love; Which making men, all earthly things despise, Transports them to a heavenly paradise. Where thou complain'st of sorrows in thy heart, Who lives on earth but therein hath his part? Are these thy fruits? Are these thy best rewards For all the pleasing glances, sly regards, The sweet stol'n kisses, amorous conceits, So many smiles, so many fair intreats, Such kindness as Alcilia did bestow All for my sake! as well thyself dost know? That Love should thus be used, it is hateful! But 'all is lost, that's done for one ungrateful.' Where he allegeth that he was abusÈd In that he truly loving, was refusÈd: That's most untrue! and plainly may be tried. Who never asked, could never be denied! But he affected rather single life, Than yoke of marriage, matching with a wife. And most men, now, make love to none but heires[ses] Poor love! GOD wot! that poverty empairs. Worldly respects, Love little doth regard. 'Who loves, hath only love for his reward!' The description of a foolhardy Lover. He merits a lover's name, indeed! That casts no doubts, which vain suspicion breed: But desperately at hazard, throws the dice, Neglecting due regard of friends' advice; That wrestles with his fortune and his fate, Which had ordained to better his estate; That hath no care of wealth, no fear of lack, But ventures forward, though he see his wrack; That with Hope's wings, like Icarus doth fly, Though for his rashness, he like fortune try; That, to his fame, the world of him may tell How, while he soared aloft, adown he fell. And so True Love awarded him his doom In scaling heaven, to have made the sea his tomb; That making shipwreck of his dearest fame, Betrays himself to poverty and shame; That hath no sense of sorrow, or repent, No dread of perils far or imminent; But doth prefer before all pomp or pelf, The sweet of love as dearer than himself. Who, were his passage stopped by sword and fire, Would make way through, to compass his Desire. For which he would (though heaven and earth forbad it) Hazard to lose a kingdom, if he had it. These be the things wherein I glory most, Whereof, this my Accuser cannot boast: Who was indifferent to his loss or gain; And better pleased to fail, than to obtain. All qualified affections, Love doth hate! And likes him best that's most intemperate. But hence, proceeds his malice and despite; While he himself bars of his own delight. For when as he, Alcilia first affected, (Like one in show, that love little respected) He masqued, disguised, and entertained his thought With hope of that, which he in secret sought; And still forbare to utter his desire, Till his delay receive her worthy hire. And well we know, what maids themselves would have, Men must sue for, and by petition crave. But he regarding more his Wealth, than Will; Hath little care his Fancy to fulfil. Yet when he saw Alcilia loved another; The secret fire, which in his breast did smother, Began to smoke, and soon had proved a flame: If Temperance had not allayed the same. Which, afterward, so quenched he did not find But that some sparks remainÈd still behind. Thus, when time served, he did refuse to crave it; And yet envied another man should have it! As though, fair maids should wait, at young men's pleasure, Whilst they, 'twixt sport and earnest, love at leisure. Nay, at the first! when it is kindly proffered! Maids must accept; least twice, it be not offered! Else though their beauty seem their good t'importune, Yet may they lose the better of their fortune. Thus, as this Fondling coldly went about it; So in the end, he clearly went without it. For while he, doubtful, seemed to make a stay, A Mongrel stole the maiden's heart away; For which, though he lamented much in shew, Yet was he, inward, glad it fell out so. Now, Reason! you may plainly judge by this, Not I, but he, the false dissembler is: Who, while fond hope his lukewarm love did feed, Made sign of more than he sustained indeed: And filled his rhymes with fables and with lies, Which, without Passion, he did oft devise; So to delude the ignorance of such That pitied him, thinking he loved too much. And with conceit, rather to shew his Wit, Than manifest his faithful Love by it. Much more than this, could I lay to his charge; But time would fail to open all at large. Let this suffice to prove his bad intent, And prove that Love is clear and innocent." Thus, at the length, though late, he made an end, And both of us did earnestly, attend The final judgement, Reason should award: When thus she 'gan to speak. "With due regard, The matter hath been heard, on either side. For judgement, you must longer time abide! The cause is weighty, and of great import." And so she, smiling, did adjourn the Court. Little availed it, then, to argue more; So I returned in worse case than before.
Love Deciphered. L Ove and I are now divided, Conceit, by Error, was misguided. Alcilia hath my love despised! "No man loves, that is advised." "Time at length, hath Truth detected." Love hath missed what he expected. Yet missing that, which long he sought; I have found that, I little thought. "Errors, in time, may be redrest," "The shortest follies are the best." Love and Youth are now asunder; Reason's glory, Nature's wonder. My thoughts, long bound, are now enlarged; My Folly's penance is discharged: Thus Time hath altered my estate. "Repentance never comes too late." Ah, well I find that Love is nought But folly, and an idle thought. The difference is 'twixt Love and me, That he is blind, and I can see. Love is honey mixed with gall! A thraldom free, a freedom thrall! A bitter sweet, a pleasant sour! Got in a year, lost in an hour! A peaceful war, a warlike peace! Whose wealth brings want; whose want, increase! Full long pursuit, and little gain! Uncertain pleasure, certain pain! Regard of neither right nor wrong! For short delights, repentance long! Love is the sickness of the thought! Conceit of pleasure, dearly bought! A restless Passion of the mind! A labyrinth of errors blind! A sugared poison! fair deceit! A bait for fools! a furious heat! A chilling cold! a wondrous passion Exceeding man's imagination! Which none can tell in whole, or part, But only he that feels the smart. Love is sorrow mixt with gladness! Fear, with hope! and hope, with madness! Long did I love, but all in vain; I loving, was not loved again: For which my heart sustained much woe. It fits not maids to use men so! Just deserts are not regarded, Never love so ill rewarded! But "all is lost that is not sought!" "Oft wit proves best, that's dearest bought! Women were made for men's relief; To comfort, not to cause their grief. Where most I merit, least I find: No marvel! since that love is blind. Had She been kind, as She was fair, My case had been more strange and rare. But women love not by desert! Reason in them hath weakest part! Then, henceforth, let them love that list, I will beware of "Had I wist!" These faults had better been concealed, Than to my shame abroad revealed. Yet though my youth did thus miscarry, My harms may make others more wary. Love is but a youthful fit, And some men say "It's sign of wit!" But he that loves as I have done; To pass the day, and see no sun: Must change his note, and sing Erravi! Or else may chance to cry Peccavi! The longest day must have his night, Reason triumphs in Love's despite. I follow now Discretion's lore; "Henceforth to like; but love no more!" Then gently pardon what is past! For Love draws onwards to his last. "He walks," they say, "with wary eye; Whose footsteps never tread awry!" My Muse a better work intends: And here my Loving Folly ends. After long storms and tempests past, I see the haven at the last; Where I must rest my weary bark, And there unlade my care and cark. My pains and travails long endured, And all my wounds must there be cured. Joys, out of date, shall be renewed; To think of perils past eschewed. When I shall sit full blithe and jolly, And talk of lovers and their folly. Then Love and Folly, both adieu! Long have I been misled by you. Folly may new adventures try! But Reason says that "Love must die!" Yea, die indeed, although grieve him; For my cold heart cannot relieve him! Yet for her sake, whom once I loved, (Though all in vain, as time hath proved) I'll take the pain, if She consent! To write his Will and Testament.
Love's last Will and Testament. M Y spirit, I bequeath unto the air! My Body shall unto the earth repair! My Burning Brand, unto the Prince of Hell; T'increase men's pains that there in darkness dwell! For well I ween, above nor under ground, A greater pain than that, may not be found. My sweet Conceits of Pleasure and Delight, To Erebus! and to Eternal Night! My Sighs, my Tears, my Passions, and Laments, Distrust, Despair; all these my hourly rents, With other plagues that lovers' minds enthral: Unto Oblivion, I bequeath them all! My broken Bow, and Shafts, I give to Reason! My Cruelties, my Slights, and forged Treason, To Womankind! and to their seed, for aye! To wreak their spite, and work poor men's decay. Reserving only for Alcilia's part, Small kindness, and less care of lovers' smart. For She is from the vulgar sort excepted; And had She, Philoparthen's love respected, Requiting it with like affection, She might have had the praise of all perfection. This done; if I have any Faith and Troth; To Philoparthen, I assign them both! For unto him, of right, they do belong Who loving truly, suffered too much wrong. Time shall be sole Executor of my will; Who may these things, in order due fulfil, To warrant this my Testament for good; I have subscribed it, with my dying blood." And so he died, that all this bale had bred. And yet my heart misdoubts he is not dead: For, sure, I fear, should I Alcilia spy; She might, eftsoons, revive him with her eye! Such power divine remaineth in her sight; To make him live again, in Death's despite.
The Sonnets following were written by the Author, after he began to decline from his Passionate Affection; and in them, he seemeth to please himself with describing the Vanity of Love, the Frailty of Beauty, and the sour fruits of Repentance. N Ow have I spun the web of my own woes, And laboured long to purchase my own loss. Too late I see, I was beguiled with shows. And that which once seemed gold, now proves but dross. Thus am I, both of help and hope bereaved. "He never tried that never was deceived. Chi non si fida, non vient ingannato. Once did I love, but more than once repent; When vintage came, my grapes were sour, or rotten. Long time in grief and pensive thoughts I spent; And all for that, which Time hath made forgotten. O strange effects of time! which, once being lost, Make men secure of that they loved most. Thus have I long in th'air of Error hovered, And run my ship upon Repentance's shelf. Truth hath the veil of Ignorance uncovered, And made me see; and seeing, know myself. Of former follies, now, I must repent, And count this work, part of my time ill spent. What thing is Love? "A tyrant of the Mind!" "Begot by heat of Youth; brought forth by Sloth; Nursed with vain Thoughts, and changing as the wind!" "A deep Dissembler, void of faith and troth!" "Fraught with fond errors, doubts, despite, disdain, And all the plagues that earth and hell contain!" Like to a man that wanders all the day Through ways unknown, to seek a thing of worth, And, at the night, sees he hath gone astray; As near his end, as when he first set forth: Such is my case, whose hope untimely crost, After long errors, proves my labour lost. Failed of that hap, whereto my hope aspired, Deprived of that which might have been mine own: Another, now, must have what I desired; And things too late, by their events are known. Thus do we wish for that cannot be got; And when it may, then we regard it not. Ingrateful Love! since thou hast played thy part! (Enthralling him, whom Time hath since made free) It rests with me, to use both Wit and Art, That of my wrongs I may revenged be: And in those eyes, where first thou took'st thy fire! Thyself shalt perish, through my cold desire. "Grieve not thyself, for that cannot be had! And things, once cureless, let them cureless rest!" "Blame not thy fortune, though thou deem it bad! What's past and gone will never be redrest." "The only help, for that cannot be gained, Is to forget it might have been obtained." How happy, once, did I myself esteem! While Love with Hope, my fond Desire did cherish: My state as blissful as a King's did seem, Had I been sure my joys should never perish. "The thoughts of men are fed with expectation." "Pleasures themselves are but imagination." Why should we hope for that which is to come, Where the event is doubtful, and unknown? Such fond presumptions soon receive their doom, When things expected we count as our own; Whose issue, ofttimes, in the end proves nought But hope! a shadow, and an idle thought. In vain do we complain our life is short, (Which well disposed, great matters might effect) While we ourselves, in toys and idle sport, Consume the better part without respect. And careless (as though time should never end it) 'Twixt sleep, and waking, prodigally spend it. Youthful Desire is like the summer season That lasts not long; for winter must succeed: And so our Passions must give place to Reason; And riper years, more ripe effects must breed. Of all the seed, Youth sowed in vain desires, I reaped nought, but thistles, thorns, and briars. "To err and do amiss, is given to men by Kind." "Who walks so sure, but sometimes treads awry?" But to continue still in errors blind, Chi non fa, non falla; chi falla, l'amenda. A bad and bestial nature doth descry. "Who proves not; fails not; and brings nought to end: Who proves and fails, may, afterward, amend." There was but One, and doubtless She the best! Whom I did more than all the world esteem: She having failed, I disavow the rest; For, now, I find "things are not as they seem." "Default of that, wherein our will is crost, Ofttimes, unto our good availeth most." I fare like him who, now his land-hope spent, By unknown seas, sails to the Indian shore; Chi va, e ritorna, fa buon viaggio. Returning thence no richer than he went, Yet cannot much his fortune blame therefore. Since "Whoso ventures forth upon the Main, Makes a good mart, if he return again." Lovers' Conceits are like a flatt'ring Glass, That makes the lookers fairer than they are; Who, pleased in their deceit, contented pass. Such once was mine, who thought there was none fair, None witty, modest, virtuous but She; Yet now I find the Glass abusÈd me. Adieu, fond Love! the Mother of all Error! Replete with hope and fear, with joy and pain. False fire of Fancy! full of care and terror. Shadow of pleasures fleeting, short, and vain! Die, loathÈd Love! Receive thy latest doom! "Night be thy grave! and Oblivion be thy tomb!" Who would be rapt up into the third heaven To see a world of strange imaginations? Who, careless, would leave all at six and seven, Nihil agenda male agere discimus. To wander in a labyrinth of Passions? Who would, at once, all kinds of folly prove; When he hath nought to do, then let him love! What thing is Beauty? "Nature's dearest Minion!" "The Snare of Youth! like the inconstant moon Waxing and waning!" "Error of Opinion!" "A Morning's Flower, that withereth ere noon!" "A swelling Fruit! no sooner ripe, than rotten!" "Which sickness makes forlorn, and time forgotten!" The Spring of Youth, which now is in his prime; Winter of Age, with hoary frosts shall nip! Beauty shall then be made the prey of Time! And sour Remorse, deceitful Pleasures whip! Then, henceforth, let Discretion rule Desire! And Reason quench the flame of Cupid's fire! O what a life was that sometime I led! When Love with Passions did my peace encumber; While, like a man neither alive nor dead, I was rapt from myself, as one in slumber: Whose idle senses, charmed with fond illusion, Did nourish that which bred their own confusion. The child, for ever after, dreads the fire; That once therewith by chance his finger burned. Water of Time distilled doth cool Desire. "And far he ran," they say, "that never turned." After long storms, I see the port at last. Farewell, Folly! For now my love is past! Base servile thoughts of men, too much dejected, That seek, and crouch, and kneel for women's grace! Of whom, your pain and service is neglected; Yourselves, despised; rivals, before your face! The more you sue, the less you shall obtain! The less you win, the more shall be your gain! In looking back unto my follies past; While I the present, with times past compare, And think how many hours I then did waste Painting on clouds, and building in the air: I sigh within myself, and say in sadness, "This thing which fools call Love, is nought but Madness!" "The things we have, we most of all neglect; And that we have not, greedily we crave. The things we may have, little we respect; And still we covet, that we cannot have. Yet, howsoe'er, in our conceit, we prize them; No sooner gotten, but we straight despise them." Who seats his love upon a woman's will, And thinks thereon to build a happy state; Shall be deceived, when least he thinks of ill, And rue his folly when it is too late. He ploughs on sand, and sows upon the wind, That hopes for constant love in Womankind. I will no longer spend my time in toys! Seeing Love is Error, Folly, and Offence; An idle fit for fond and reckless boys, Or else for men deprived of common sense. 'Twixt Lunacy and Love, these odds appear; Th' one makes fools, monthly; th' other, all the year. While season served to sow, my plough stood still; My graffs unset, when other's trees did bloom. I spent the Spring in sloth, and slept my fill; But never thought of Winter's cold to come; Till Spring was past, the Summer well nigh gone; When I awaked, and saw my harvest none. Now Love sits all alone, in black attire; His broken bow, and arrows lying by him; His fire extinct, that whilom fed Desire; Himself the scorn of lovers that pass by him: Who, this day, freely may disport and play; For it is Philoparthen's Holiday. Nay, think not Love! with all thy cunning slight, To catch me once again! Thou com'st too late! Stern Industry puts Idleness to flight: Otia si tellas periere Cupidinis arcus. And Time hath changed both my name and state. Then seek elsewhere for mates, that may befriend thee! For I am busy, and cannot attend thee! Loose Idleness! the Nurse of fond Desire! Root of all ills that do our youth betide; That, whilom, didst, through love, my wrack conspire: I banish thee! and rather wish t'abide All austere hardness, and continual pain; Than to revoke thee! or to love again! The time will come when, looking in a glass, Thy rivelled face, with sorrow thou shalt see! And sighing, say, "It is not as it was! These cheeks were wont more fresh and fair to be! But now, what once made me so much admired Is least regarded, and of none desired!" Though thou be fair, think Beauty but a blast! A morning's dew! a shadow quickly gone! A painted flower, whose colour will not last! Temporis soltus honesta est avaritia. Time steals away, when least we think thereon. Most precious time! too wastefully expended; Of which alone, the sparing is commended. How vain is Youth that, crossed in his Desire, Doth fret and fume, and inwardly repine; As though 'gainst heaven itself, he would conspire; And with his fraility, 'gainst his fate combine, Who of itself continues constant still; And doth us good, ofttimes against our will. In prime of Youth, when years and Wit were ripe, Unhappy Will, to ruin led the way. Wit danced about, when Folly 'gan to pipe; And Will and he together went astray. Nought then but Pleasure, was the good they sought! Which now Repentance proves too dearly bought. He that in matters of delight and pleasure, Can bridle his outrageous affection; Est virtus placitis abstinuisse bonis. And temper it in some indifferent measure, Doth prove himself a man of good direction. In conquering Will, true courage most is shown; And sweet temptations makes men's virtues known. Each natural thing, by course of Kind, we see, Invidia fatorum series summisque negatum staro diu. In his perfection long continueth not. Fruits once full ripe, will then fall from the tree; Or in due time not gathered, soon will rot. It is decreed, by doom of Powers Divine, Things at their height, must thence again decline. Thy large smooth forehead, wrinkled shall appear! Vermillion hue, to pale and wan shall turn! Time shall deface what Youth has held most dear! Yea, these clear Eyes (which once my heart did burn) Shall, in their hollow circles, lodge the night; And yield more cause of terror, than delight! Lo here, the Record of my follies past, The fruits of Wit unstaid, and hours misspent! Quanto piace al mondo, e breue sogno. Full wise is he that perils can forecast, And so, by others' harms, his own prevent. All Worldly Pleasure that delights the Sense, Is but a short Sleep, and Time's vain expense! The sun hath twice his annual course performed, Since first unhappy I, began to love; Whose errors now, by Reason's rule reformed, Conceits of Love but smoke and shadows prove. Who, of his folly, seeks more praise to win; Where I have made an end, let him begin! FINIS.
Daiphantus or The Passions of Love
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