APOLLO

Good Ladies, your conceits in judgement err, Because you see me dumpish, you refer The reason to some secret grief of mine: But you have seen me melancholy many a time, Perhaps it is the glowing weather now, That makes me seem so ill at ease to you. No Ladies, you deceive your selves in me: What likelihood or token do you see, That may persuade it true that you suppose? Alas fair dams, to make my sorrows plain, Would but revive and ancient wound again. Which grating presently upon my mind, Does leave a scar of former woes behind. Good Ladies, though I hope for no relief, I'll show the ground of this my present grief. This time of year, or there about it was, Accursed be the time, ten times alas: When I from Delphos took my journey down, To see the games in noble Sparta Town, There saw I that, wherein I gan to joy, Amilchars son a gallant comely boy, Hight (Hiacinth) full fifteen years of age, Whom I intended to have made my Page, And bore as great affection to the boy, As ever Jove, in Ganymede did joy. Among the games, my self put in a pledge, To try my strength in throwing of the sledge, Which poising with my strained arm I threw So far, that it beyond the other slew. My Hiacinth, delighting in the game, Desierd to prove his manhood in the same: And catching ere the sledge lay still on ground, With violent force, aloft it did rebound Against his head, and battered out his brain: And so alas, my lovely boy was slain. Ladies, I know my sorrows are in vain, And yet from mourning can I not refrain. Alas, no Song will bring The least relief to my perplexed mind. Fair dams I thank you all, No sport nor pastime can release my thrall: My grief's of course, when it the course hath had, I shall be merry, and no longer sad. And please you, you may go, And leave me here to seed upon my woe. I thank you gentle Ladies for your pain. Oh Phœbus wretched thou thus art thou feign With forg'de excuses, to conceal thy pain. Oh Hyacinth, I suffer not these fits For thee my Boy, no, no, another sits Deeper then thou, in closet of my breast: Whose sighed so late, hath wrought me this unrest. And yet no Goddess, nor of heavenly kind She is, whose beauty thus torments my mind. No Fairy Nymph, that haunts these pleasant woods, No Goddess of the flowers, the fields, nor floods: Yet such and one, whom justly I may call A Nymph, as well as any of them all. Eurymine, what heaven affords thee here? So may I say, because thou comest so near? And nearer far unto a heavenly shape, Then she of whom Jove triumphed in the Rape. I'll fit me down, and wake my grief again, To sing a while, in honour of thy name. What seek you pretty Maid? I saw them lately, but they are not here. And hour ago or twain, I saw them feeding all above the plain. Nay stay sweet Nymph with me. But pray you Maid, it will be very good, To take the shade, in this unhaunted wood: This flowering bay with branches large and great, Will shroud you safely, from the parching heat. Oh stay with him, who ̄ conquered thou hast. With him, whose restless thoughts do Beatrice on thee: With him that joys, thy wished face to see. With him whose joys surmount all joys above: If thou wouldst think him worthy of thy love. No Nymph, although I love this laurel tree, My fancy ten times more affects thee: And as the bay is always fresh and green, So shall my love as fresh to thee be seen. Oh stay sweet Nymph, with more advisement view, What one he is, that for thy grace does sue: I am not one that haunts on hills or Rocks, I am no shepherd waiting on my flocks. I am no boisterous Satire, no nor Faun, That am with pleasure of thy beauty drawn. Thou dost not know God wot, thou dost not know, The wight, whose presence thou disdainest so. My father in the highest heavens does dwell: And I am known the son of Jove to be, Whereon the folk of Delphos honour me. By me is known what is, what was, and what shall be, By me are learned the Rules of harmony. By me the depth of Physics lore is found: And power of herbs that grow upon the ground. And thus by circumstances mayest thou see, That I am Phœbus, who does fancy thee. Alas, abandon not thy Lover so. The way overgrown, with shrubs and bushes thick, The sharpened thorns, your tender feet will prick. The brambles round about, your train will lap, The burrs and briers, about your skirts will wrap. Hard speech to him that loves thee so well. I know it, and can tell: and feel it too. I will, by Jove my father, I protest: Provided first, that thy petition be, Not hurtful to thy self, nor harm to me. For so sometime did Phaeton my son, Request a thing, whereby he was undone. He lost his life through craving it, and I Through granting it, lost him my son thereby. Alas, what found desire does move thy mind To wish thee altered from thy native kind? If thou in this thy woman's form canst move, Not men but gods, to sue and seek thy love: Content thy self with nature's bounty than, And covet not to bear the shape of man. And this moreover will I say to thee, Fairer man then may de, thou shalt never be. Nay then my doubtless Deity to prove, Although thereby for ever I lose my Love, I grant thy wish, thou art become a man: I speak no more, then well perform I can. And though thou walk in changed body now, This penance shall be added to thy vow: Thy self a man, shalt love a man, in vain: And loving, wish to be a maid again. If ever I love, sith now I am forsaken, Where next I love, it shall be better taken: But what so ere my fate in loving be, Yet thou mayest vaunt, that Phœbus loved thee. You sacred sisters of fair Hellion, On whom my favours evermore have shone, In this you must have patience with my vow, I cannot grant what you aspire unto. Nor was't my fault, she was transformed so, But her own found desire, as you well know. We told her too, before her vow was passed, That cold repentance would ensue at last. And sith her self did wish the shape of man, She caused the abuse, digest it how she can. Arise deer Nurse's of divinest skill, You sacred Muses of Pernassus hill: Phœbus is conquered by your deer respect, And will no longer clemency neglect. You have not sued nor prayed to me in vain: I grant your wills, she is a maid again. Thalia, near the Cave where she remains The Fairies keep, request them of their pains, And in my name, bid them forthwith provide, From that dark place, to be the Ladies guide. And in the bounty of their liberal mind, To give her clothes according to her kind. Haste again. No time too swift, to ease a Lovers pain. Grave Aramanthus, now I see thy face I call to mind, how tedious a long space Thou hast frequented these sad deserts here, Thy time employed, in heedful mind I bear: The patient sufferance of thy former wrong, Thy poor estate, and sharp exile so long, The honourable port thou borest sometime, Till wronged thou wast, with undeserved crime By them whom thou to honour didst advance, The memory of which thy heavy chance, Provokes my mind to take remorse on thee, Father henceforth, my client shalt thou be: And pass the remnant of thy fleeting time, With Laurel wreathe, amongst the Muses nine. And when thy age hath given place to fate, Thou shalt exchange thy former mortal state: And after death, a palm of fame shalt wear, Amongst the rest that live in honour here. And lastly know, that fair Eurymine Redeemed now from former misery Thy daughter is, whom I for that intent Did hide from thee, in this thy banishment: That so she might the greater scourge sustain, In putting Phœbus to so great a pain. But freely now, enjoy each others sighed: No more Eurymine: abandon quite That borrowed name, as Atlanta, she is called, And here she woman, in her right shape instalde. No more of that, but mutually embrace. Look not so strange, it is thy father's voice. And this thy Love: Atlanta now rejoice. Well lady, you are retransformed now, But I am sure you did repent your vow. The penance was your own, though I did fast The matter is but small. To wear a branch of Laurel in your Caull For Phœbus sake, least else I be forgotten, And think upon me, when you see me not. Nay Gemulo and Silvio, contented be: This night let me entreat you you will take, Such cheer as I and these poor Dams can make. To morrow morn weel bring you on your way. Then Ladies gratulate this happy chance, With some delightful tune and pleasant dance. Mean space, upon his Harp will Phœbus play, So both of them may boast another day And make report, that when their wedding chaunc'te, Phœbus gave music, and the Muses daunc'te.