CHORUS

The boiling tempest still makes not Sea waters foam: nor still the Northern blast disquiets quiet streams: Nor who his chest to fill sails to the morning beams, on waves wind tosses fast still keeps his ship from home. Nor Jove still down does cast inflamed with bloody ire on man, on tree, on hill, his darts of thundering fire. nor still the heat does last on face of parched plain. nor wrinkled cold does still on frozen furrows reign. But still as long as we in this low world remain, mishaps our daily mates our lives do entertain: and woes which bear no dates still perch upon our heads, none go but straight will be some greater in their steads. Nature made us not free When first she made us live: When we began to be, To be began our woe: Which growing evermore As dying life does grow, Do more and more us grieve, And tire us more and more. No stay in fading states, For more to height they retch, Their fellow Misery's. The more to height do stretch. They cling even to the crown, And threatening furious wise From tyrannizing pates Do often pull it down. In vain on waves untried To shun them go we should To Scythes and Massagetes Who near the Pole reside: In vain to boiling sands Which Phaebus battery beats, For with us still they would Cut seas and compass lands. The darkness no more sure To join with heavy night: The light which guilds the days To follow Titan pure: No more the shadow light The body to ensue: Then wretchedness always Us wretches to pursue. Oh blessed who never breathed, Or whom with pity mou'de, Death from his cradle reau'de, And swaddled in his graven: And blessed also he (As curse may blessing have) Who low and living free No princes charge hath proved. By stealing sacred fire. Prometheus then unwise, prouking Gods to ire, the heap of ills did stir, and sickness pale and cold our end which onward spur, to plague our hands too bold to filch the wealth of skies. In heavens hate since then of ill with ill enchained we raze of mortal men full fraught our breasts have born and thousand thousand woes our heavenly souls now thorn, which free before from those no! earthly passion pained. War and wars bitter cheer now long time with us stay, and fear of hated foe still still increases soar: our harms worse daily grow, less yesterday they were then now, and will be more to morrow then to day. Lament we our mishaps, Drown we with tears our woe: For Lamentable haps Lamented easy grow: and much less torment bring then when they first did spring. We want that woeful song, wherewith wood-musiques Queen does ease her woes, among, fresh springtimes bushes green, on pleasant branch alone renewing ancient moan. We want that moanful found, that prattling Progne makes on fields of Thracian ground, or streams of Thracian Lake's: to empt her breast of pain for Itys by her slain. Though Halcyons do still, bewailing Ceyx lot, the Seas with plainings fill which his dead limbs have God, not ever other graven then tomb of waves to have: And though the bird in death that most Meander loves: so sweetly sighs his breath when death his fury proves, as almost softs his heart, and almost blunts his dart: Yet all the plaints of those, nor all their tearful larmes, cannot content our woes, nor serve to wail the harms, in soul which we, poor we. to feel inforced be. Nor they of Phaebus bred in tears can do so well, they for their brother shed, who into Padus fell, rash guide of chariot clear surveyor of the year. Nor she whom heavenly powers to weeping rock did turn, whose tears distil in showers, and show she yet does mourn, wherewith his top to Skies mount Sipylus does rise. Nor weeping drops which flow from bark of wounded tree, that Mirrhas shame does show with ours compared may be, to quench her loving fire who durst embrace her fire. Nor all the howlings made on Cybels sacred hill By Eunukes of her trade, Who Ȝatys, Ȝatys still with doubled cries resound, which Echo makes rebound. Our plaints no limits stay, nor more then do our woes: both infinitely stray and neither measure knows In meam sure let them plain: Who measnr'd griefs sustain. Oh sweet fertile land, wherein Phaebus did with breath inspire man who men did first begin, formed first of Nilus mire. whence of Arts the eldest kinds, earth's most heavenly ornament, were as from their fountain sent to enlight our misty minds. whose grose sprite from ̄ endless time as in darkened prison pente, never did to knowledge climb. Where the Nile, our father good, fatherlike does never miss yearly us to bring such food, as to life required is: visiting each year this plain, and with fat slime covering it, which his seven mouths do spit, as the season comes again. making thereby greatest grow busy reapers joyful pain, when his floods do highest flow. Wandering Prince of rivers thou, honour of the Aethiops land, of a Lord and master now thou a slave in awe must stand. now of Tiber which is spread less in force, and less in fame reverence thou must the name, whom all other rivers dread, for his children swollen in pride, who by conquest seek to tread round this earth on every side. Now thou must begin to send tribute of thy watery store, as sea paths thy steps shall bend, yearly presents more and more. thy fat skumme, our fruitful corn, pilled from hence with theuish would ̄ ds all unclothed shall leave our lands into foreign country born. which puffed up with such a pray shall thereby the praise adorn of that sceptre Room does sway. Nought thee helps thy horns to hide far from hence in unknown grou ̄ ds, that thy waters wander wide, yearly breaking banks, and bounds. and that thy Skie-coullor'd brooks through a hundred peoples pass, drawing plots for trees and grass with a thousand turn's and crooks. whom all weary of their way thy throats which in wideness pass pour into their mother Sea. Nought so happy hapless life in this world as freedom finds: nought wherein mor sparks are rise to inflame courageous minds. but if force must us enforce needs a yoke to undergo, under foreign yoke to go Still it proves a bondage worse. and doubled subjection see we shall, and feel, and know subject to a stranger grown. From hence forward for a King, whose first being from this place should his breast by nature bring care of country to embrace, We at surly face must quake of some Roman madly bent: who our terror to augment. his Proconsuls axe will shake. driving with our Kings from hence our established government, justice sword, and laws defence. Nothing worldly of such might but more mighty Destiny, by swift Times unbridled flight, makes in end his end to see. every thing Time overthrows, nought to end does steadfast stay. his great sith mows all away as the stalk of tender rose. only immortality of the heavens does it oppose gainst his powerful Deity. One day there will come a day which shall quail they Fortune's flower and thee ruinde low shall lay in some barbarous Princes power. when the pity-wanting fire shall, Oh Room, thy beauty's burn, and to humble ashes turn thy proud wealth and rich attire, those gilded roofs which turretwise, justly making envy mourn, threaten now to pierce Skies. As thy forces fill each land harvest's making here and there, reaping all with ravening hand they find growing any where: from each land so to thy fallen, multitudes repair shall make, from the common spoil to take what to each men share may fallen. fingered all thou shalt behold: no jot left for tokens sake that thou Wertenberg so great of old. Like unto the ancient Troy whence derived thy founders be, conquering foe shall thee enjoy, and a burning pray in thee. for within this turning ball this we see, and see each day: all things fixed ends do stay, ends to first beginnings fallen. & that nought, how strong or stram ̄ ge chaungeles does endure alway, But endureth fatal change. Alas, with what tormenting fire Us martireth this blind desire to stay our life from flying! How ceaselessly our minds does rack, How heavy lies upon our back This dastard fear of dying! Death rather healthful succour gives, Death rather all mishaps relieves That life upon us throweth: And ever to us death unclose The door whereby from cureless woes Our weary soul out goes. What Goddess else more mild then she To bury all our pain can be, What remedy more pleasing? Our pained hearts when dolour stings, And nothing rest, or respite brings, What help have we more easing? Hope which to us does comfort give, And does our fainting hearts revive, Hath not such force in anguish: For promising a vain relief She oft us fails in amid of grief, And helpless lets us languish. But Death who call on her at need Does never with vain semblant feed, But when them sorrow paineth, So rids their souls of all distress Whose heavy weight did them oppress, That not one grief remains. Who fearless and with courage bold Can Acherons black face behold, Which muddy water bears: And crossing over in the way Is not amazed at Perruque grey Old rusty Charon weareth? Who void of dread can look upon The dreadful shades that Room alone, On banks where found no voices: Whom with his firebrands and her Snakes No whit afraid Alecto makes, Nor triple-barking noises: Who freely can himself dispose Of that last hour which all must close, And leave this life at pleasure: This noble freedom more esteems, And in his heart more precious deems, Then crown and kingly treasure, The waves which Boreas blasts turmoil And cause with foaming fury boil, Make not his heart to tremble: Nor brutish broil, when with strong head A rebel people madly led Against their Lords assemble: Nor fearful face of Tyrant wood, Who breathes but threats, & drinks but blood, No, nor the hand which thunder, The hand of Jove which thuder bears, And ribs of rocks in sunder tears, Tears mountains sides in sunder: Nor bloody Marses butchering bans, Whose lightnings desert lay the lands Whom dusty clouds do cover: From of whose armour sunbeam fly, And under them make quaking lie The plains whereon they hover: Nor yet the cruel murth'ing blade Warm in the moisty bowels made Of people pell mell dying In some great City put to sack By savage Tyrant brought to wrack, At his cold mercy lying. How abject him, how base think I, Who wanting courage can not die When needs him thereto calls? From whom the dagger drawn to kill The cureless griefs that vex him still For fear and faintness falls? Oh Antony with thy deer mate Both in misfortunes fortunate! Whose thoughts to death a spiring Shall you protect from victor's rage, Who on each side does you encage, To triumph much desiring. That Caesar may you not offend Nought else but death can you defend, Which his weak force derideth. And all in this round earth contained, Powr'les on them whom once enchained Avernus's prison hideth: Where great Psammetiques ghost does rest, Not with infernal pain possessed, But in sweet fields detained: And old Amasis soul likewise, And all our famous Ptolemy's That whilom on us reigned.