APOLLO

Because I am styled the God of Archery; And where I aim I hit, my prey or enemy, Kill near or far. The monstrous serpent Python (Whose bulk being slain, and hundred acres spread) Had from this bow his wounds, and I my honours: And shall a child boast eminence with me? What alteration's this I feel? a heat Beyond mine own fire, kindled at mine eye. What Beauty's this on earth, transpiercing more, Than can the beams from my celestial Orb? See, I am no Satire, Shepherd, or such as live by grazing herds, Delphos is mine, Pharos, and Tenedos: Thou knowest not who thou fliest, I am Apollo, The only God that speaks by Oracle: Jove is my father, and the Muses nine Are all my daughters: I am Patron held Of Numbers, Raptures, and sweet Poesy. My shafts are ever certain where they aim, (Yet one more certain, which hath pierced me deep) Physic is mine, I first devised that Art, And could it help me, I were then assured: But Love is by no Simples to be cured. Strange prodigy! Less hope is in her stay, Than in her speed: her body's round encompassed With a rough rind, in which her warm heart beats. Her hair is all grown upward into boughs, Here milk white fingers and her arms advanced To great and lesser branches: her fair feet But late so swift, fast rooted in the earth: And I, whom Love late blinded, now may see My Daphne turned into a Laurel tree. Her life still struggles in the churlish bark, And from her lips I feel her breath still flow. One blessed kiss at parting, but in vain, The very tree shrinks from me in disdain. And yet in lasting memory of thee And of my love, thou shalt be ever mine: In all ovatious triumphs and rich shows The Laurel shall ingirt the Conquerors brows. All eminence shall think it graced in thee. Poets, the Muses darlings, shall from thee Receive their honour, and the best esteemed Be crowned Laureate, and no excellence But have it's noble estimate from hence. Emperor's shall prize thy leaves above pure gold: For thou shalt ever wait on victory; And as my youthful and still unshorn hairs (Unchanging) of this golden hew are seen, So shall the boughs and branches still be green, And arm against Jove's lightning. And all these Shall be for our sake by the gods approved, In memory that Daphne we once loved. This submission Hath somewhat calmed us: had you still stood out, Disorder, we had to Confusion turned, And so you all been ruined. But henceforth Morning shall keep her hour, Hours measure day, In a true scope the Day proportion Weeks, Weeks, Months; Months, seasons; to sum up the year. And we our course in that, perfecting time: That nothing in this concordance appear Either preposterous or unseasonable. For which our grace, wherever you shall find This new sprung Laurel, you Aurora I charge, With your moist tears bath her green tender boughs: From whence I will exhale them with my beams. Hours, do you wait upon her gentle growth. Day comfort her: For cheer her with thy spring. Thou Summer give her warmth: and Autumn, thou Dare not to spoil her of her plenteous leaves: Nor Winter thou with thy robustuous gusts, To blait her lasting verdure. These observed, Still flourish under us. And that this unity May last amongst you many fortunate years, End in a Hymn tuned to the chiming Spheres. Howsoever the Minutes go, Run the hours or swift or slow: Seem the Months or short or long, Pass the seasons right or wrong: All we sing that Phœbus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo. Early fallen the Spring or not, Prove the Summer cold or hight: Autumn be it fair or foul, Let the Winter smile or skowle: Still we sing, that Phœbus follow, Semel in anno ridet Apollo. Sweet Nymph stay. I am he That measures out the year; and shun you me Fairest of thy sex, behold the Suns bright eye, That all things sees, by whom you all things spy. Will you in everlasting darkness dwell? Light is heavens emblem, and becomes it well: Where I appear, I comfort and make glad; Be comforted in me, why are you sad? Would you in blindness live? these rays of mine Give that reflect by which your Beauty's shine, For what are artificial lights? when I Appear in fullness they soon faint and die. They only put on counterfeits: my rays False colours find, and give the true the praise. If yours be such, then prove them by my light, The world will censure they are pure and right. What are you better to be lovely born, If not beheld? What's state, if not observed? Or wherefore before Cottages do we Prefer the stately Palace, and the sumptuous roof? What virtue were in jewels without me? Else should they be with pebbles equal prised. Wherefore did Nature make you with bright eyes, Which profit not in night without my beams? Why should the Rose be read? the Lily white? The Violet purple? and the Holly green? All rhese my creatures. But when I decline, And night usurps upon the Universe, Their tincture's not discerned: but white and read Which in your peerless cheeks exceed all flowers, What lustre bear they? When my beams are gone, The fair and foul in darkness seem all one. Dost thou fly me? Love bids me follow, and I must pursue: No vault, no cave or cavern so obscure, Through which I will not pierce, to find thee out, the Antipodes for ever want my rays: To gaze on her, I'll this Meridian keep, And till attain the saint that I adore, Here ever shine, where night shall be no more. I pursue not As Eagles, Doves do; or the Lions, Hearts; Or Wolves, the Lamb. Love is my cause of hast: Run not so fast, lest thou shouldst trip perhaps, And do thy self some damage: the ground's rough, Shouldst thou but slide, and I the Author on't, How much would it offend me? To prevent which, Stay but thy hast, and I will slack my speed. The stars are frighted from the firmament, And at the sighed of our illustrious beams Darkness unto the black Cymmerians fled. Now to our daily progress through the Signs. But stay, what's he that with our honours, armed, (The Bow and quiver, proper sole to us) Braves us upon high Erix Promontory ? I know him now, it's Paphian Venus son, To whom some fools have vowed a deity. I'll know the reason why the bastard brat Dares thus assume my trophies. Morrow Cupid. Why flies my Daphne, knowing it's in vain: Love makes me swifter than thy fear can thee. What are you That murmur thus against our Deity? Are you not all our creatures? though we give you Full sails on earth, do not we steer the helm? Disposing you both where and how we please; And dare you thus rebel? Weak brat resolve me, By whose enticement thou hast been so bold To take to thee the emblem of my power? Is't not sufficient, thou with brainsick toys Canst fill the heads of mad men and of fools, Who'ascribe to thee a godhead, merely usurped? But thou must wear my endue Impresa insculpt, And (about thy shoulders) those known ornaments, Apollinis insignia? (Apollo's Ensigns)