SUMMER

What pleasure always lasts: no joy endures: Summer I was, I am not as I was: Harvest and age have whitened my green head: On Autumn now and Winter must I lean. Needs must he fallen, whom none but foes uphold. Thus must the happiest man have his black day. Omnibus unam manes nox, & calcanda semel via laethi. This month have I lain languishing a bed, Looking eke hour to yield my life, and throne; And died I had in deed unto the earth, But that Eliza England's beauteous Queen, On whom all seasons prosperously attend, Forbade the execution of my fate, Until her joyful progress was expired. For her does Summer live, and linger here, And wishes long to live to her content: But wishes are not had when they wish well. I must depart, my death-day is set down: To these two must I leave my wheaten crown. So unto unthrifts rich men leave their lands, Who in and hour consume long labours gains. True is it that divinest Sidney sung, Oh, he is marred, that is for others made. Come near, my friends, for I am near my end. In presence of this Honourable train, Who love me (for I patronise their sports) Mean I to make my final Testament: But first I'll call my officers to count, And of the wealth I gave them to dispose, Know what is left. I may know what to give Vertumnus then, that turnest the year about. Summon them one by one to answer me, First For, the spring, unto whose custody I have committed more then to the rest: The choice of all my fragrant meads and flowers, And what delights soever nature affords. Nay, stay a while, we must confer and talk. For, call to mind I am thy sovereign Lord, And what thou hast, of me thou hast, and holdest. Unto no other end I sent for thee. But to demand a reckoning at thy hands, How well or ill thou hast employed my wealth. How now? is this the reckoning we shall have? Nay, nay, no more; for this is all too much. Presumptuous For, uncivil nurturde boy, Thinkest I will be derided thus of thee? Is this account and reckoning that thou makest? Oh monstrous unthrift, who ever herd the Like? The seas vast throat in so short tract of time, Devoureth nor consumeth half so much. How well mightest thou have lived within thy bounds? Ungracious man, how fondly he argue! Oh vanity it self; Oh wit ill spent! So study thousands not to mend their lives, But to maintain the sin they most affect, To be hels advocates against their own souls. For, since thou givest such praise to beggary, And hast defended it so valiantly, This be thy penance; Thou shalt never appear, Or come abroad, but Lent shall wait on thee: His scarcity may countervail thy waste. Riot may flourish, but finds want at last. Take him away, that knoweth no good way, And lead him the next way to woe and want. Thus in the paths of knowledge many stray, And from the means of life fetch their decay. Vertumnus, call Solstitium. Welcome, Solstitium, thou art one of them, To whose good husbandry we have referred Partly of those small revenues that we have. What hast thou gained us? what hast thou brought in? What dost thou with those balances thou bearest? I Like thy moderation wondrous well: And this thy balance, weighing the white glass And black, with equal poize and steadfast hand, A pattern is to Princes and great men, How to weigh all estates indifferently: The Spiritualty and Temporalty alike, Neither to be too prodigal of smiles, Nor too severe in frowning without cause. If you be wise, you Monarchs of the earth, Have two such glasses still before your eyes; Think as you have a white glass running on, Good days, friends favour, and all things at beck, So this white glass run out (as out it will) The black comes next, your downfall is at hand, Take this of me, for somewhat I have tried; A mighty ebb follows a mighty tied. But say, Solstitium, hadst thou nought beside? Nought but days eyes, and fair looks, gave I thee? But hadst thou always kept thee in my sighed, Thy good deserts, though silent, would have asked. I grieve, no more regard was had of thee: A little sooner hadst thou spoke to me, Thou hadst be herd, but now the time is passed: Death waiteth at the door for thee and me; Let us go measure out our beds in clay: Nought but good deeds hence shall we bear away. Be, as thou Wertenberg, best steward of my hours, And so return unto thy country bowers. Vertumnus, will Solemnizing come before us. I marry, here comes majesty in pomp, Resplendent Solemnizing, chief planet of the heavens, He is our servant, looks he never so big. Hypocrisy, how it can change his shape! How base is pride from his own dunghill put? How I have raised thee, Solemnizing, I list not tell, Out of the Ocean of adversity, To fit in height of honours glorious heaven, To be the eyesore of aspiring eyes, To give the day her life, from thy bright looks, And let nought thrive upon the face of earth, From which thou shalt withdraw thy powerful smiles. What hast thou done deserving such High grace? What industry, or meritorious toil, Canst thou produce, to prove my gift well plac'de? Some service, or some profit I expect: None is promoted but for some respect. Bade words, bade wit: o, where dwells faith or truth? Ill usury my favours reap from thee, Usurping Solemnizing, the hate of heaven and earth. A bore conjecture, built on perhaps; In laying thus the blame upon the moon, Thou imitatest subtle Pithagoras, Who, what he would the people should believe, The same he wrote with blood upon a glass, And turned it opposite gainst the new moon; Whose beams reflecting on it with full force, Showed all those lines, to them that stood behind, Most plainly writ in circle of the moon, And then he said, Not I, but the new moon Fair Cynthia persuades you this and that; With Like collusion shalt thou not blind me: But for abusing both the moon and me, Long shalt thou be eclipsed by the moon, And long in darkness live, and see no light. A way with him, his doom hath no reverse. Vertumnus, call Oriȝon. 'Twas I, Oriȝon, caused thee to be called. How haps't thou leftest the heavens, to hunt below? As I remember, thou Wertenberg Hireus son, Whom of a huntsman Jove chosen for a star, And thou art called the Dogstar, art thou not? We called thee not, Oriȝon, to this end, To tell a story of dogs qualities. With all thy hunting how are we enrich? What tribute payest thou us for thy high place? A broken staff, a lame right hand I had, If thou Wertenberg all the stay that held me up. Nihil violentum perpetuum. No violence that lives to old age. Ill-governed star, that never boad'st good luck, I banish thee a twelvemonth and a day, Forth of my presence, come not in my sighed, Nor show thy head, so much as in the night. Vertumnus, call Harvest. Harvest, the Baily of my husbandry, What plenty hast thou heaped into our Barns? I hope thou hast sped well thou art so blithe. Since thou art so perverse in answering, Harvest, hear what complaints are brought to me. Thou art accused by the public voice, For and ingrosser of the common store, A Carl, that hast no conscience, nor remorse, But dost impoverish the fruitful earth, To make thy garners rise up to the heavens. To whom givest thou? who feeds at thy board? No alms, but unreasonable gain, Disgests what thy huge iron teeth devour: Small beer, course bred, the hinds and beggars cry, Whilst thou with holdest both the malt and flower, And givest us bran, and water, (fit for dogs.) I must give credit unto what I hear; For other then I hear, attract I nought. I credit thee, and think thou Wertenberg belide. But tell me, hadst thou a good crop this year? But hay alone thou sayest not; but hay-ree. How thrive thy oats, thy barley, and thy wheat? Plough-swains are blunt, and will taunt bitterly. Harvest, when all is done, thou art the man, Thou dost me the best service of them all: Rest from thy labours till the year renews, And let the husbandmen sing of thy praise. Vertumnus, call Bacchus. What, Bacchus: still animus in patinis, no mind but on the pot? It is wines custom, to be full of words. I pray thee, Bacchus, give us vicissitudinem loquendi. I would about thy vintage question thee: How thrive thy vines? hadst thou good store of grapes? That was not well, but all miscarried not? No, keep thy drink, I pray thee, to thy self. Hale him away, he barks Like a wolf, It is his drink, not he that rails on us. Go drag him hence I say when I command. I'll call my servants to account said I? A bade account: worse servants no man hath. Quos credis sides effuge, tutus eris: The proverb I have proved to be too true, Totidem domi hosts habemus, quot servos. And that wise caution of Democritus, Seruns necessariam possessio, non autem dulcis: No where fidelity and labour dwells. Hope, young heads count to built on had I wist. Conscience but few respect, all hunt for gain: Except the Camel have his provender Hung at his mouth, he will not travel on. Tyresia's to Narcissus promised Much prosperous hap, and many golden days, If of his beauty he no knowledge took. Knowledge breeds pride, pride breeds discontent. Black discontent, thou urgest to revenge. Revenge opens not her ears to poor men's prayers. That dolt destruction, is she without doubt, That Hales her forth and feeds her with nought. Simplicity and plainness, you I love: Hence double diligence, thou meanest deceit. Those that now serpentlike creep on the ground, And seem to eat the dust, they crouch so low: If they be disappointed of their pray, Most traitorously will trace their tails and sting. Yea, such as Like the Lapwing built their nests In a men dung, come up by drudgery, Will be the first, that Like that foolish bird, Will follow him with yelling and false cries. Well sung a shepherd (that now sleeps in skies) Dumb swains do love, & not vain chattering pies. In mountains Poets say Echo is hid, For her deformity and monstrous shape: Those mountains are the houses of great Lords, Where Scenter with his hundredth voices sounds A hundredth trumps at once with rumor filled: A woman they imagine her to be, Because that sex keeps nothing close they hear: And that's the reason magic writers frame, There are more witches women then of men; For women generally for the most partly, Of secrets more desirous of, then men, Which having God, they have no powerto hold. In these times had Echoes first father's lived, No woman, but a man she had been feigned. (Though women yet will want no news to prate.) For men (mean men) the skumme & dross of all, Will talk and babble of they know not what, Upbraid, deprave, and taunt, they care not whom: Sumises pass for found approved truths: Familiarity and conference, That were the sinews of societies, Are now for underminings only used, And novel wits, that love none but themselves, Think wisdoms height as falsehood slily couched, Seeking each other to overthrow his mate. Oh friendship, thy old temple is defaced. Embracing every guileful courtesy, Hath overgrown fraud-wanting honesty. Examples live but in the idle schools: Sinon bears all the sway in princes courts: Sickness, be thou my souls physician: Bring the Apothecary death with thee. In earth is hell, true hell felicity, Compared with this world the den of wolves. Enough of this, let me go make my will. Ah it is made, although I hold my peace, These two will share betwixt them what I have. The surest way to get my will performed, Is to make my executor my heir: And he, if all be given him and none else, Unfallibly will see it well performed. Lyons will feed, though none bid them go to. Ill grows the tree affords never a grafted. Had I some issue to fit in my throne, My grief would die, death should not hear me groan. But when perforce these must enjoy my wealth, Which thank me not, but enter't as a pray, Bequeathed it is not, but clean cast away. Autumn, be thou successor of my seat: Hold, take my crown: look how he grasps for it. Thou shalt not have it yet: but hold it too; Why should I keep that needs I must forgo? With all my heart: Vertumnus, go for them. To weary out the time until they come, Sing me some doleful ditty to the Lute, That may complain my near approaching death. Adieu, farewell earth's bliss, This world uncertain is, Found are life's lustful joys, Death proves them all but toys, None from his darts can fly, I am sick, I must die. Lord have mercy on us. Rich men, trust not in wealth, Gold cannot buy you health, Physic himself must fade. All things, to end are made, The plague full swift goes hie, I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Beauty is but a flower, Which wrinkles will devour, Brightness falls from the air, Queens have died young, and fair, Dust hath closed Helens eye. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Strength stoops unto the graven, Worms feed on Hector brave, Swords may not fight with fate, Earth still holds open her gate, Come, come, the Bells' do cry. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Wit with his wantonness, Tasteth death's bitterness, Hels executioner, Hath no ears for to hear, What vain art can reply. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Haste therefore eke degree, To welcome destiny: Heaven is our heritage, Earth but a players stage, Mount we unto the sky. I am sick, I must die, Lord have mercy on us. Beshrew me, but thy song hath moved me. Christmas, how chau ̄ ce thou comest not as the rest, Accompanied with some music, or some song? A merry Carol would have graced thee well, Thy ancestors have used it heretofore. What, is't against thy conscience for to sing? Why, thou shouldst spend, thou shouldst not care to get. Christmas is God of hospitality. What reason canst thou give he should be left? Gross-headed sot, how light he makes of state! Winter, is this thy son? hearest how he talks? Christmas, I tell thee plain, thou art a snudge. And Wertenberg not that we love thy father well, Thou shouldst have felt, what longs to Avarice. It is the honour of Nobility, To keep high days and solemn festivals: Then, to set their magnificence to view, To frolic open with their favorites, And use their neighbours with all courtesy, When thou in huggar mugger spendest thy wealth. Amend thy manners, breathe thy rusty gold: Bounty will win thee love, when thou art old. Back-winter, stand forth. Autumn accuseth thee of sundry crimes, Which here thou art to clear, or to confess. Is this the reverence that thou owest to us? Oh scelus inauditum, Oh vox damnatorum! Not raging Haecuba, whose hollow eyes Gave suck to fifty sorrows at one time, That mid wife to so many murders was, Used half the execrations that thou dost. And banished be thou from ̄ my fertile bounds. Winter, imprison him in thy dark Cell, Or with the winds, in bellowing caves of brass, Let stern Hipporlatos lock him up safe, Never to peep forth, but when thou faint and weak Wantest him to aid thee in thy regiment. This is the last stroke, my tongues clock must strike, My last will, which I will that you perform: My crown I have disposed already of. Item, I give my withered flowers, and herbs, Unto dead corpses, for to deck them with, My shady walks to great men's servitors, Who in their Master's shadows walk secure, My pleasant open air, and fragrant smells, To Croyden and the grounds abutting round, My heat and warmth to toiling labourers, My long days to bondmen, and prisoners, My short nights to young married souls, My drought and thirst, to drunkards quenchless throats, My fruits to Autumn my adopted heir, My murmuring springs, musicians of sweet sleep, To murmuring malcontents, with their well tun'de cares, Channeled in a sweet falling quaterzaine, Do lull their ears asleep, listening themselves. And finally, Oh words, now cleanse your course, Unto Eliza that most sacred Dame, Whom none but Saints and Angels ought to name; All my fair days remaining, I bequeathe To wait upon her till she be returned. Autumn, I charge thee, when that I am dead, Be pressed and serviceable at her beck, Present her with thy goodliest ripened fruits, Unclothe no Arbours where she ever sat, Touch not a tree, thou thinkest she may pass by. And Winter, with thy wrythen frosty face, Smooth up thy visage when thou lookest on her, Thou never lookest on such bright majesty: A charmed circle draw about her court, Wherein warm days may dance, & no cold come, On seas let winds make war, not vex her rest, Quiet enclose her bed, thought fly her breast. Ah gracious Queen, though Summer pine away, Yet let thy flourishing stand at a stay, First droop this universals aged frame, Ever any malady thy strength should tame: Heaven raise up pillars to uphold thy hand, Peace may have still his temple in thy land. Lo, I have said, this is the total sum. Autumn and Winter, on your faithfulness, For the performance I do firmly build. Farewell, my friends, Summer bids you farewell, Archers, and bowlers, all my followers, A dieu, and dwell with desolation, Silence must be your Master's mansion: Slow marching thus, descend I to the fiends. Weep heavens, mourn earth, here Summer ends. Autumn hath all the Summer's fruitful treasure, Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydens pleasure: Short days, sharp days, long nights come on a pace, Ah who shall hide us, from the Winter's face? Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease, And here we lie God knows, with little ease: From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us. London doth mourn, Lambith is quite forlorn, Trades cry, Woe worth, that ever they were born: The want of Term, is town and Cities harms, Close chambers we do want, to keep us warm, Long banished must we live from our friends: This low built bouse, will bring us to our ends. From winter, plague & pestilence, good Lord deliver us. Thou knowest too much, to know to keep the mean. He that sees all things, oft sees not himself. The Thames is witness of thy tyranny, Whose waves thou hast exhaust for winter showers. The naked channel plains her of thy spite, That laidest her entrails unto open sighed. Unprofitably born to man and beast, Which Like to Nilus yet does hide his head, Some few years since thou lettest overflow these walks, And in the horserace headlong ran at raze, While in a cloud, thou hidest thy burning face: Where was thy care to rid contagious filth, When some men wetshod, (with his waters) drooped? Others that ate the Eels his heat cast up, Sickened and died by them empoisoned. Sleepest thou, or keepest thou then Admetus sheep, Thou drivest not back these flowings to the deep? Winter, with patience unto my grief, I have attended thy invective tale: So much untruth wit never shadowed: Gainst her own bowels thou Arts weapons turnest: Let none believe thee, that will ever thrive: Words have their course, the wind blows where it lists; He erres alone, in error that persists. For thou gainst Autumn such exceptions takest, I grant, his overseer thou shalt be, His treasurer, protector, and his staff, He shall do nothing without thy consent; Provide thou for his weal, and his content. No more of this, I hate it to the death. No such deformer of the soul and sense, As is this swynish damned-borne drunkenness. Bacchus, for thou abusest so earth's fruits, Impris'ned live in cellars and in vaults, Let none commit their counsels unto thee: Thy wrath be fatal to thy dearest friends, Unarmed run upon thy foemans' swords, Never fear any plague, before it fallen: Dropsies, and watery tympanies haunt thee, Thy lungs with surfeiting be putrified, To cause thee have and odious stinking breath, Slaver and drivel Like a child at mouth, Be poor and beggarly in thy old age, Let thy own kinsmen laugh, when thou complaynst, And many tears gain nothing but blind scoffs. This is the guerdon endue to drunkenness; Shame, sickness, misery, follow excess. Believe me, For, but thou art pleasant bent, This humour should import a harmless mind: Knowest thou the reason why I sent for thee?