THYRSIS

Think but what cause I have; when ̄ having passed The heats, the colds, the trem bling agonies Of fears, and Hope's, and all the strange assaults Of passion, that a tender heart could feel In the attempt, and pursuit of his love. And then to be undone, when all was done, To perish in the haven, after all Those Ocean sufferings, and even then to have My hopeful Nuptial bed, turned to a graven. Tell thee? alas Palaemon, how can I tell And live? dost thou not see these fields have lost Their glory, since that time Silvia was lost? Silvia, that only decked, that only made Arcadia shine; Silvia who was (ah woe the while) So miserablierent from off the world. So rapt away, as that no sign of her, No piece was left to tell us by what means: Safe only this poor remnant of her veil, Alltorne, and this deer lock of her rend hair; Which holy relics here I keep with me, The sad memorials of her dismal fate. Who sure devoured was upon the shore By ravenous beasts, as she was walking there Alone, it seems; perhaps in seeking me Or else retired to meditate apart The story of our loves, and heavy smart. Long since Palaemon? think you any length Of time can ever have a pour to make A heart of flesh not mourn, not grieve, not pine? That knows, that feels, that thinks as much as mine True, he had such a purpose, but in vain, As o it was best known unto us twain. And hence it grew that gave us both our fears, That made our meeting stealth, our parting tears. Hence was it, that with many a secret wile, We robbed our looks onlookers to beguile This was the cause, o miserable cause, That made her by her self to stray alone, Which else God knows, she never should have done. For had our liberty as open been, As was our loves, Silvia had not been seen Without her Thyrsis, never had we gone But hand in hand, nor ever had mischance Took us asunder; she had always had My body interposed betwixt all harms And her. But ah we had our liberty Laid fast in prison when our loves were free. How do I know the Sun, the day from night? And when in sports with other company, Of Nymph's and shepherd's we have met abroad How would she steal a look: and watch mine eye Which way it went? and when at Barley break It came unto my turn to rescue her, With what and earnest, swift, and nimble pace Would her affection make her feet to run And farther run then to my hand? her raze Had no stop but my bosom where to end. And when we were to break again, how late And loath her tre ̄ bling hand would partly with mine, And with how slow a pace would she set forth To meet the'ncountring party, who contends Attain her, scarce affording him her fingers ends? As fair and sweet as she? Palaemon peace: Ah what can pictures be unto the life, What sweetness can be found in Images? Which all Nymph's else beside her seems to me. She only was a real creaturee, she, Whose memory must take up all of me. Should I another love, then must I have, Another heart, for this is full of her, And evermore shall: here is she drawn At length, and whole, and more, this table is A story, and is all of her; and all Wrought in the liveliest colours of my blood; And can there be a room for others here? Should I disfigure such a piece, and blot The perfectest workmanship love ever wrought. Palaemon no, ah no, it cost too deer, It must remain entire while life remains, The monument of her and of my pains. Yes when there is no spring, no tree, no grove In all Arcadia to record our love: And tell me where we were (the time we were) How we did meet together, what we said; Where we did joy, and where we sat dismayed. And then I may forget her, not before. Till then I must remember one so deer, When every thing I see tells me of her. And you deer Relics of that martyred Saint, My heart adores, you the perpetual books Whereon when tears permit, mine eye still looks: Ah you were with her last, and till my last You must remain with me; you were reserved To tell me she was lost, but yet alas, You cannot tell me how: I would you could. White spotless veil, clean, Like her woman hood, Which whilom covredst the most lovely face That ever eye beheld. Was there no message sent From her by thee? Ah yes, there seems it was; Here is a TO made with her blood, as if She would have written, Thyrsis, I am slain In seeking thee; sure so it should have been, And so I read it, and shall ever so. And thou sweet remnant of the fairest hair, That ever waved with wind. Ah thee I found When her I hoped to find, wrapped in a round, Like to and Oh, the character of woe; As if to say, Oh Thyrsis, I die thine. This much you tell me yet, dumb messengers, Of her last mind; and what you cannot tell That I must think, which is the most extreme Of wofulnesse, that any heart can think. What spirit here haunts me? what no time free? Ah, is it you Palaemon? would to God You would forbear me but a little while: You show your care of me too much in this: Unseasonable love, scarce kindness is. Do good Palaemon, go your way, farewell; And yet Palaemon stay, perhaps you may By charms you have, cause sleep to close mine eyes; For you were wont, I do remember well, To sing me Sonnets, which in passion I Composed in my happier days, when as Her beams inflamed my spirits, which now are set. And if you can remember it, I pray Sing me the song, which thus begins: Eyes hide my love, Which I did write upon the earnest charge She gave unto me, to conceal our love. It will not be, sleep is no friend of mine, Or such a friend, as leaves a man, when most He needs him. See a new assault: who now? Ah 'tis the boy that was with me erewhiles, That gentle boy; I am content to speak With him, he speaks so prettily, so sweet, And with so good respective modesty: And much resembles one I knew once well: Come hither gentle boy, what hast thou there? Keep it my boy, and wear it on thy head. Nay sure I think, it better will become Thy head then mine; and therefore boy, thou must Needs put it on. No, good my boy, but I entreat thee now Let me but put it on, hold still thy head, It shall not be thy act, but only mine: Let it alone good boy, for if thou sawest How well it did become thee, sure thou wouldst. Now, canst thou sing my boy some gentle song? Weep, why? Why so are none; be not displeased for this; And if you cannot sing, tell me some tale To pass the time. No merry tale my boy, nor yet too sad, But mixed, Like the tragic Comedies. No more could my deer Silvia be from me. And so the self same cause did unto us. What, would not all this move the woman's heart? In troth my boy, and even thy telling it Moves me likewise, thou dost so feelingly Report the same, as if thou hadst be by. But I imagine now how this poor nymph When she received that doom, was comforted? And two years 'tis, since I my Silvia lost. Or else no man; for boy who truly loves, Must ever so; that die will never out: And who but would love truly such a soul? This may be Silvia's case; this may be she; But it is not: let me consider well: The teller, and the circumstance agree. Ah monster man, vile wretch, what hast thou done? Alas, in what a strait am I engaged here? If I pursue revenge, l leave to save. Help, help, you gentle swains, if any now be near, beast Help, help: ah hark cue ̄ Echo helps me cry That monster man Montanus, here hath stabbed A harmless youth, in message sent to me. Now good Palaemon help me hold him up, And see if that we can recover him. Do good Palaemon, make what haste you may Seek out for help, and be not long away. Alas sweet boy, that thou shouldst ever have So hard misfortune, coming unto me, And end thy tale with this sad tragedy; That tale which well resembled Silvia's case, Which thou resemblest; for such brows had she. Such a proportioned face, and such a neck. What have we here, the mole of Silvia too? What and her breasts? what? and her hair? what all? All Silvia? yes, all Silvia, and all dead. And art thou thus returned again to me? Art thou thy self, that strange delivered nymph? And didst thou come to tell me thine escape From death to die before me? had I not Enough to do, to wail reported harms But thou must come to bleed within my arms? Was not one death sufficient for my griefs But that thou must die twice? why thou Wertenberg dead To me before. Why? must thou die again? Ah, better had it be still to be lost Then thus to have be found; yet better found Though thus, then so lost as was thought before. For howsoever, now I have thee yet Though in the saddest fashion that may be. Yet Silvia now I have thee, and will I No more for ever partly with thee again: And we this benefit shall have thereby Though fate would not permit us both to have Onebed, yet Silvia we shall have one graven. And that is something, and much more then I Expected ever could have come to pass. And sure the gods but only sent thee thus To fetch me; and to take me hence with thee; And Silvia so thou shalt. I ready am Accompany thy soul, and that with speed. The strings I feel, are all dissolved, that hold This woeful heart, reserved it seems for this: And well reserved, for this so deer and end. Ah do not so profane that precious sex, Which I must ever reverence for her sake, Who was the glory of her kind; whose heart In all her actions so transparent was As I might see it clear and wholly mine, Always observing truth in one right line. How oft hath she be urged by father's threats, By friends persuasions, and Alexis sighs, And tears and prayers, to admit his love, Yet never could be won? how oft have I Beheld the bravest herdsmen of these plains, (As what brave herdsman was there in the plains Of all Arcadia, that had not his heart Warmed with her beams) to seek to win her love. Ah I remember well (and how can I But ever more remember well) when first Our flame began, when scarce we knew what was The flame we felt, when as we sat and sighed And lookd'vpon each other, and conceived Not what we ailed, yet something we did ail. And yet were well, and yet we were not well, And what was our disease we could not tell. Then would we kiss, then sighs, then look: & thus In that first garden of our simpleness We spent our childhood: but when years began To reap the fruit of knowledge; ah how then Would she with graver looks, with sweet stern brow, Check my presumption and my forwardness, Yet still would give me flowers, stillwould me show What she would have me, yet not have me know. Come boy, while I contemplate these re Maines Of my lost love, under this myrtle tree, Record the dolefullest song, the sighingst notes, That music hath to entertain bade thoughts. Let it be all at flats my boy, all graven, The tone that best befits the grief I have. Had sorrow ever fitter place To act his partly, Then is my heart, Where it takes up all the space? Where is no vein To entertain A thought that wears another face. Nor will I sorrow ever have, Therein to be, But only thee, To whom I full possession gave: Thou in thy name Must hold the same, Until thou bring it to the graven. So boy, now leave me to my self, that I May be alone to grief, entire to misery. Now gentle boy Clarindo, hast thou brought My flocks into the field? How? otherwise Palaemon? do not you Hold it to be a most heroic thing To act one man, and do that partly exact? Can there be in the world more worthiness change? Then to be constant? is there any thing Shows more a man? What, would you have me That were to have me base, that were indeed To show a feeble heart, and weakly set. No no Palaemon, I should think my self The most unworthy man of men, should I But let a thought into this heart of mine That might disturb or shake my constancy. And think Palaemon I have combats too, To be the man I am, being built of flesh, And having round about me traitors too That seek to undermine my powers, and steal Into my weaknesses, but that I keep Continual watch and ward upon my self, Least I should be surprised at unawares And taken from my vows with other snares. And even now at this instant I confess, Palaemon, I do feel a certain touch Of comfort, which I fear to entertain, Least it should be some spy, sent as a train To make discovery of what strength I am. Palaemon no. Comfort and I have been So long time strangers, as that now I fear To let it in. I know not how acquaint My self therewith, being used to converse With other humours, that affect me best. Nor do I love to have mixed company Whereto I must of force my self apply. End sure it must Palaeman, but with me: For so I by the Oracle was told That very day wherein I lost the day And light of comfort that can never rise Again to me: when I the fadest man That ever breathed before those Altars fell, And there besought to know what was become Of my deer Siluta, whither dead, or how Rest from the world: but that I could not learn. Yet thus much did that voice divine return: Go youth, reserve thy self, the day will come Thou shalt be happy, and return again. But when shall be that day demanded I, The day thou diest, replied the Oracle. So that you see, it will not be in these But in th'Elizian fields, where I shall joy, The day of death must bring me happiness. In love Palaemon? know you what you say? Do you esteem it light to be in love? How have I been mistaken in the choice Of such a friend, as I held you to be, That seems not, or else does not understand The noblest portion of humanity, The worthiest piece of nature set in man? Ah know that when you mention love, you name A sacred mystery, a Deity, Not understood of creatures built of mud, But of the purest and refined clay Whereto th'eternall fires their spirits convey. And for a woman, which you prize so low, Like men that do forget whence they are men; Know her to be th'especiall creature, made By the Creator of the compliment Of this great Architect the world; to hold The same together, which would otherwise Fallen all asunder: and is nature's chief Vicegerent upon earth, supplies her state. And do you hold it weakness then to love? And love so excellent a miracle As is a worthy woman, ah then let me Still be so weak, still let me love and pine In contemplation of that clean, clear soul, That made mine see that nothing in the world Is so supreamely beautiful as it. Think not it was those colours white and read Laid but on flesh, that could affect me so. But something else, which thought holds under lock And hath no key of words to open it. They are the smallest pieces of the mind That pass this narrow organ of the voice. The great remain behind in that vast orb Ofth apprehension, and are never born. And therefore if your judge cannot reach Unto the understanding of my Case, You do not well to put your self into My Jury, to condemn me as you do. Let ignorant out of their dulness laugh At these my sufferings, I will pity them To have been so ill born, so miscompos'd As not to know what thing it is to love. And I to great Apollo here appeal The sovereign of the Muses, and of all Well tuned affections, and to Cinthia bright, And glorious Lady of clear faithfulness; Who from above look down with blissful beams Upon our humble groves, and joy the hearts Of all the world, to see their mutual loves; They can judge what worthiness there is In worthy love. Therefore Palaemon peace, Unless you did know better what it were. And this be sure, when as that fire goes out In man, he is the miserablest thing On earth, his daylight sets, and is all dark And dull within; no motions of delight, But all oppressed, lies struggling with the weight Of worldly cares: and this old Damon says, Who well had felt what love was in his days.