Trahit sua quemque voluptas. Virgil. LONDON,
Printed by G. S. for Iohn Iaggard, and are
to be solde at his shoppe neere Temple-barre,
at the Signe of the Hand and starre.
1 5 9 8.
To the learned, and accomplisht Gentleman,
Maister Nicholas Blackleech,
of Grayes Inne. T O you, that know the tuch of true Conceat; (Whose many gifts I neede not to repeat) I vvrite these Lines; fruits of vnriper yeares; Wherein my Muse no harder censure feares: Hoping in gentle Worth, you will them take; Not for the gift, but for the giuers sake.
SONNET. I. To his friend Maister R. L. In praise of
Musique and Poetrie. T F Musique and sweet Poetrie agree, As they must needes (the Sister and the Brother) Then must the Loue be great, twixt thee and mee, Because thou lou'st the one, and I the other. Dowland to thee is deare; whose heauenly tuch Vpon the Lute, doeth rauish humaine sense: Spenser to mee; whose deepe Conceit is such, As passing all Conceit, needs no defence. Thou lou'st to heare the sweete melodious sound, That Phoebus Lute (the Queene of Musique) makes: And I in deepe Delight am chiefly drownd, When as himselfe to singing he betakes. One God is God of Both (as Poets faigne) One Knight loues Both, and Both in thee remaine.
SONNET. II.
Against the Dispraysers of Poetrie. T Haucer is dead; and Gower lyes in grave; The Earle of Surrey, long agoe is gone; Sir Philip Sidneis soule, the Heauens haue; George Gascoigne him beforne, was tomb'd in stone, Yet, tho their Bodies lye full low in ground, (As euery thing must dye, that earst was borne) Their liuing fame, no Fortune can confound; Nor euer shall their Labours be forlorne. And you, that discommend sweete Poetrie, (So that the Subiect of the same be good) Here may you see, your fond simplicitie; Sith Kings haue fauord it, of royall Blood. The King of Scots (now liuing) is a Poet, As his Lepanto, and his Furies shoe it. A Remembrance of some English Poets. T Iue Spenser euer, in thy Fairy Queene: Whose like (for deepe Conceit) was neuer seene. Crownd mayst thou bee, vnto thy more renowne, (As King of Poets) with a Lawrell Crowne. And Daniell, praised for thy sweet-chast Verse: Whose Fame is grav'd on Rosamonds blacke Herse. Still mayst thou liue: and still be honored, For that rare Worke, The White Rose and the Red. And Drayton, whose wel-written Tragedies, And sweete Epistles, soare thy fame to skies. Thy learned Name, is Æquall with the rest; Whose stately Numbers are so well addrest. And Shakespeare thou, whose hony-flowing Vaine, (Pleasing the World) thy Praises doth obtaine. Whose Venus, and whose Lucrece (sweete, and chaste) Thy Name in fames immortall Booke haue plac't. Liue euer you, at least in Fame liue euer: Well may the Bodye dye, but Fame dies neuer. An Ode. T S it fell vpon a Day, In the merrie Month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade, Which a groue of Myrtles made, Beastes did leape, and Birds did sing, Trees did grow, and Plants did spring: Euery thing did banish mone, Saue the Nightingale alone. Shee (poore Bird) as all forlorne, Leand her Breast vp-till a Thorne, And there sung the dolefulst Ditty, That to heare it was great Pitty. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry Teru Teru, by and by: That to heare her so complaine, Scarce I could from Teares refraine: For her griefes so liuely showne, Made me thinke vpon mine owne. Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine; None takes Pitty on thy paine: Senslesse Trees, they cannot heere thee; Ruthlesse Beares, they wil not cheer thee. King Pandion, hee is dead: All thy friends are lapt in Lead. All thy fellow Birds doe singe, Carelesse of thy sorrowing. Whilst as fickle Fortune smilde, Thou and I, were both beguilde. Euerie one that flatters thee, Is no friend in miserie: Words are easie, like the winde; Faithfull friends are hard to finde: Euerie man will bee thy friend, Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend: But if store of Crownes be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigall, Bountifull, they will him call. And with such-like flattering, Pitty but hee were a King. If hee bee adict to vice, Quickly him, they will intice. If to Woemen hee be bent, They haue at Commaundement. But if Fortune once doe frowne, Then farewell his great renowne: They that fawnd on him before, Vse his company no more. Hee that is thy friend indeed, Hee will helpe thee in thy neede: If thou sorrowe, hee will weepe; If thou wake, hee cannot sleepe: Thus of euerie griefe, in hart, Hee, with thee, doeth beare a Part. These are certaine Signes, to knowe Faithfull friend, from flatt'ring foe.
Written, at the Request of a Gentleman,
vnder a Gentlewoman's Picture. E Uen as Apelles could not paint Campaspes face aright: Because Campaspes Sun-bright eyes did dimme Apelles sight: Euen so, amazed at her sight, her sight, all sights excelling, Like Nyobe the Painter stoode, her sight his sight expelling, Thus Art and Nature did contend, who should the Victor bee, Till Art by Nature was supprest, as all the worlde may see. An Epitaph vpon the Death, of Sir Philip
Sidney, Knight; Lord-gouernour of Vlissing. T Hat England lost, that Learning lov'd, that euery mouth commended, That fame did prayse, that Prince did rayse, that Countrey do defended, Here lyes the man: lyke to the Swan, who knowing shee shall die, Doeth tune her voice vnto the Spheares, and scornes Mortalitie. Two worthie Earls his vncles were; a Lady was his Mother; A Knight his father; and himselfe a noble Countesse Brother. Belov'd, bewaild; aliue, now dead; of all, with Teares for euer; Here lyes Sir Philip Sidneis Corps, whom cruell Death did seuer, He liv'd for her, hee dyde for her; for whom he dyde, he liued: O graunt (O God) that wee of her, may neuer be depriued.
An Epitaph vpon the Death of his Aunt,
Mistresse Elizabeth Skrymsher. L Oe here beholde the certaine Ende, of euery liuing wight: No Creature is secure from Death, for Death will haue his Right. He spareth none: both rich and poore, both young and olde must die; So fraile is flesh, so short is Life, so sure Mortalitie. When first the Bodye liues to Life, the soule first dies to sinne: And they that loose this earthly Life, a heauenly Life shall winne, If they liue well: as well she liv'd, that lyeth Vnder heere; Whose Vertuous Life to all the Worlde, most plainly did appeere. Good to the poore, friend to the rich, and foe to no Degree: A President of modest Life, and peerelesse Chastitie. Who louing more, Who more belov'd of euerie honest mynde? Who more to Hospitalitie, and Clemencie inclinde Then she? that being buried here, lyes wrapt in Earth below; From whence we came, to whom wee must, and bee as shee is now, A Clodd of Clay: though her pure soule in endlesse Blisse doeth rest; Ioying all Ioy, the Place of Peace, prepared for the blest: Where holy Angells sit and sing, before the King of Kings; Not mynding worldly Vanities, but onely heavenly Things. Vnto which Ioy, Vnto which Blisse, Vnto which Place of Pleasure, God graunt that wee may come at last, t' inioy that heauenly Treasure. Which to obtaine, to liue as shee hath done let us endeuor; That wee may liue with Christ himselfe, (above) that liues for euer.
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