Virtues History, Canto 3
CANT. 3.
Themistos heares a wofull wight complaine,
And fights against the fearfull Giants twins,
While Erofel doth heare Pitinoes paine,
And to torment him freshly she begins:
Still he repeats his louelove and loues desire,
Still she doth scorch him in a greater fire.
THough fortune feed thee with her delicates,
And starres doe seeme t'aspire vntounto thy blisse,
Trust not the fickle reeling of the fates,
Nor in sond pleasures lap doe lie remisse,
Hell still in op'ning her black rustie gates,
And sends foorth fiends that tempt vsus to amisse:
Therefore about thy soule keepe surest watch,
Least that temptation should thee ouer-match.
Though good Themistos had from heauen sent
A blessed gardian to direct his feete,
Yet cleere he was not, for incontinent
A wicked Lady doth his iourney meete,
And arm'd she was as one for iustice bent:
But she was wanton and for pleasure meete:
At her birth-day fierce warriours angry king,
VVith the fayre Queene of louelove was reuelling.
And Cipribel her name, who now in louelove
With good Themistos, still did tempt to shame,
And with vaine questions did his fancie moue:
But fayre Encrata would her sharply blame,
And with some holy tale her talke remoue,
That she enraged with this Angell dame,
Swelleth with wrath that neuer can be quencht,
So deepe in poysond heart it is indrencht.
She would hauehave rackt her lims ten thousand wayes,
And spred her like the dust vponupon the ground:
But louelove enforcing, she much other sayes,
When soone Themistos had her purpose found,
And seemes to yeeld to her: but with delayes,
Least he should quite enforce a cureles wound:
And still he seekes to turne her path awry,
Into some other iourney lying by.
Now while they passe, loe yond they see a wight,
Beating his breast with huge and ruthles blowes:
Sometimes he staring lookes on heauens light,
And streight himselfe vponupon the earth he throwes:
Then on his haire his fingers doe alight,
And flyes as if he were pursu'd with foes,
And then as burden of his deadly song,
He scricheth that the woods resound along.
His face so pale and skin transparent was,
It seem'd Deaths ghastly looking glasse to be,
And then he cryes, loe yond he comes alas!
The Giant! O now whither shall I flie?
But soone toward him doth Thomistos passe,
And bids him cheare his wofull heart: but he
Refuseth any sparke of least delight,
And with his soule gainst comfort strong doth fight.
O what hauehave you to doe in dead mens graues?
(Quoth he) why trouble you what longs to death?
And hinder my repast, as curses, raues,
And sighs and teares, which feede my lingring breath,
Sorrow within my breast round-vaulted caues
Sings tunes, which most my eares sweet rauisheth:
Goe fondlings to your haples wanton end,
I will on Griefe and blessed Death attend.
Then with a griping gnash he ends his tale,
As though an earthquake all his bow'ls did teare:
But him the Knight bespoke to tell his bale,
And who the authors of his sorrow were.
But he: so shall I cause thee to bewaile,
And I grow worse: for cursed hope may nere
Take me from out my loued sorrowes bands,
For all my soule I yeeld into thy hands.
But since thou needs wilt draw my cursed chance,
I Algiger am calde, that happie of yore,
Till fortune frownd with crabbed countenance,
But now ill luck downe all my triumphs bore:
Yonder two monsters did their strength aduance
Against my house, which fearfull ruin tore,
My friends are slaine, and I am left alone
To be: and there he breathd a deadly grone.
Faine would the Knight more of his tale expresse,
But he to any earthly ioy was dead;
His soule entombed in deepe heauinesse,
Into a pleasing sensles dreame was led.
The Knight full greatly mou'd with his distresse,
Awakt him from his cares most vncouth bed:
But for no treasure that on earth doth lie,
Would he this Knight in way accompanie.
VVhere leauing him, the Knight doth forward goe,
Seeking by any meanes the way to finde:
But soone he found it, for all passers know,
VVith sad experience all that monstrous kinde,
For still they worke the countrie scath and woe,
Leauing each where sad notes of ruth behinde:
And now the Knight arriues vntounto the place,
VVhere his great valour shall their force deface.
He knocks against the posternes of the gate,
VVhen streight foorth steps a beldam dry with age,
VVhen she the Knight espies, then plung'd in hate,
VntoUnto her sonnes she runnes, who all in rage
Come foorth embrued with the spoyle, which late
They made, for safely passe no carriage:
This find hath Policlopon to his name,
That Pantarpazon children of one dame.
Huge mighty corps they hauehave, which like a tree
March to and fro full gastly to behold:
Their heads with rau'nish iawes foule woluish bee:
Some say a diuell did their dame infold,
Other that with a wolfe lay vgly shee:
But how-soere, all filthie is her mold,
Harpyia she, well worthie such a brood,
At whose birth-time some hagge as midwife stood.
Now with the Knight the elder boy doth fight,
Yawning like Orcus iawes and gaping wide:
But at the first downe in his throte there pight
The speares sharpe poynt which doth full deeply slide,
VVhen streight he parbreakes forth (O lothsome sight)
Great filthie gobbets which doe vpward glide,
And rawish meate and flesh that yet did bleede,
The nourishment on which his vice did feede.
But then Harpya soule doth curse amaine,
VVhen as she sees him groueling on the ground,
And howles and raues, and bids his brother gaine
The full reuengement of that deadly wound:
He thought with meeting blow at first t'haue slaine,
The Knight auoyding, downe it doth rebound:
The hideous beame wherewith this monster fought,
Into the groning earth full deepe is wrought.
VVhen nimbly he diuides his conduit-pipe,
Through which the Lerna of his sinne did flow,
It seem'd for Pluto now his soule was ripe,
VVith such a trice off doth his forhead goe:
The whining dame doth with her apron wipe
His brothers throte, thinking his life to slow:
But all the furies of infernall hell,
Long since within his damned corps doe dwell.
They thus captiu'd, he takes that foggie fiend,
And strips her naked from her antique hew,
And to a spreader both her feete doth binde,
That she might neuer him nor his pursew,
And with a cord doth tye her hands behinde:
Thus is this haggard placed in her mew,
And to the scorching Sunne her face doth turne,
VVho with his beames doth her most feruent burne.
She with her curses gripes heau'ns highest seat,
Accusing them of her deserued paine,
And execrates the Sunne for sending heat,
Bidding him drench his steeds within the maine,
Then gainst the fearfull throane she foule doth bleat:
But all her plaints and curses are in vaine,
Her tortur'd soule to bloomy Ereb fell,
VVhile on her carkasse crowes and rauens dwell.
Here to his spoyles we'le leaue this worthie Knight,
And follow Erofel that flies amaine,
Whom those two brethren did but now affright,
She to her former tricks returnes againe,
Seeking to worke fayre louelove her foule despight;
And that she sooner might her end attaine,
In mans apparell she is fairly clad,
While womans skin and woluish heart she had.
Thus foorth she marched in her way alone,
But that consorted with deceit and guile,
And she in many Sunnes hath painfull gone,
But none she meets whom may her art beguile:
Further she trauailes still, but now anon
A voyce she heard that fits her plotted wile,
And thus it faintly beates the yeelding ayre,
Issuing from pangs of woe and deepe despayre.
Heart leaue to pine, since pining cannot saue,
Soule louelove not her, that doth not louelove thy louelove,
Minde be no longer to that force a slaue,
That can deepe passions, but no merciemercy moue,
You clowdes of sorrow no more issue hauehave,
This tree for all your watring will not proue:
For that fayre plant bout which your waters flow,
In midst of them all barren will not grow.
O she is sick with vnrecur'd disease,
That serpent foule disdaine her sharp doth sting,
And to the cure I proued many wayes;
Of my heart-blood I did a plaister bring,
And kept it warme with sighs, and stroue to please,
And washt it with the wels of sorrowing:
My soules deare garden-plots I did reueale,
Yet by the chiefest herbs she will not heale.
But no, I am diseasd, here lyes the wound;
For when her beautie had the harts in chace,
Which in the pale of louelove were seruants bound,
Then I not able to withdraw my pace,
My selfe by those her arrowes gored found,
Which fly from that fayre bow of her sweet face:
Yet though I feele the arrow in my hart,
It doth deny me leaue to breake the dart.
Therefore thus festring deepe in venom'd skin,
Since my liues Surgeon doth her helpe deny,
And all my sinewes are consum'd within,
No hope remaines on which I may rely,
After this death my soule no life shall win,
But in a second griefe shall ending dy:
So shall her cruell heart be fully pleasde,
My wounds embalmed, and my passions easde.
These and more mournfull words still sighing deepe,
He breathed vainly to the sensles sky,
Which might hauehave brought a stony heart asleepe:
But Erofel arm'd with black crueltie,
Shutteth the gates which pitie vsde to keepe,
And barring foorth the plaints of miserie:
Thus doth she boord the Knight with words of guile,
Which craft and fained sorrow did compile.
O doe not clowd the heauen of your face,
With mistie vapours which black woe doth spread,
Nor those bright lineaments so much disgrace,
That in their chiefest spring they should be dead:
Sorrow with swiftest wings still flyes apace,
And ioy goes flagging on the plumes of lead:
Driue that away which of it selfe will flie,
You need not open gates to miserie.
What is it louelove? I know that poyson strong,
Yet to resist against his powers assay:
If then you be too weake to daunt his wrong,
Open (if safely) all your storie lay:
And if my helpe you will accept among,
And to my precepts will eftsoones obay,
My greatest ayd to you I will auow,
Within this breast hath louelove been cur'd ere now.
O neuer may (quoth he) my wound feele ease,
I turne with Sisiphus a restles stone:
The flames of hell the furies may appease,
But these heart-burning coales will nere be gone:
Gods may Prometheus from his chaines release,
This vultur euer feedes my heart vponupon:
These euerlasting pangs and weary breath,
VntoUnto my woes giuegive life, to life a death.
But since her name thus sounded by my words,
Doth so much rauish my euen-sleeping soule,
And then Disdaine like many thousand swords,
Rips vp the closed wound which erst was whole,
And neerer end to fainting thought affords,
This Tragick storie here I will vnrole,
The Chronicle of many a wofull thing,
Which in those dayes were done when louelove was king.
VVithin a stately pallace happie dwels
A mightie Lord, whose now-extolled height,
By fortunes ayd the state by much excels,
Of any neighbour Prince or forren Knight
Blest now he is, but not so blessed els,
Had not fayre Nature lent those torches light,
VVhichWhich guide the fortune of each mightie peere,
VVithout whose helpe their fame will nere be cleere.
The fayrest offpring from his loynes proceed,
That euer heau'ns coniur'd should rauish eye,
VVhose very thought my dying soule doth feed,
VVith fainting sight of such felicitie:
Sure some diuine she is, no earthly seed,
No man can sound so sweet a harmonie,
Fairest of faires, burning bright beauties flame,
Heauenly her nature, Bellamy her name.
O let me see the mornes fayre blushing rise,
Or let the doue set forth her fayrest white;
Let heauen vnclose his treasure to the eyes,
And fayrest gemmes present them to my sight,
Or pleasant'st shew that in each colour lyes,
VVith which faind beautie often shineth bright:
These all vnited in one goodly frame,
Can scarse describe the picture of my dame.
Sure Ioue was framing a new starry light,
And seeing heauen full, here made her place:
Heart-plunging thoughts doe rauish with delight,
VVhen I but once doe seeme to view her face;
Me thinks my spirit nere should see the night,
Rapt deeply with the image of her grace:
In vaine I hauehave her fame and praises sung,
My tongue disgraceth her, she grac'th my tung.
Now doth she flourish in her chiefest spring,
(O heauenly spring, though winter to my dayes)
And thirtie Knights there lie a reuelling,
Seeking by valiant acts and sundrie wayes,
VVho to her thoughts may sweetest pleasure bring,
And who may win the sunshine of her rayes:
O rayes which through my heart as thinnest glasse,
VVith pearcing light and brightest edge doe passe.
One time in Iusts a spectacle they made,
When as my eyes the sad spectators were,
Still with my growing sight my hope did fade,
And still my louelove did grow though hope did weare.
Thus pressed with despayres most heauy lade,
Her sight all hopeles, heartles I forbeare:
For when so many woo'd one onelyonly dame,
I thought too late my fancies suing came.
Therefore exposde to sorrow and despayre,
Here will I sing the Dirges of my death:
Sometimes the Nightingale doth here repaire,
Consorting with me in a plaining breath:
Sometimes the turtle robbed of her paire,
In groaning noyse my tune accompaneth,
While pleasant death sweet singing in mine eare,
A part in this my plaining song doth beare.
Thus farre this Swan sung foorth his mournfull plaint,
And much I rue the paine which him doth hold:
For well I know the plague which doth attaint,
This wofull man doth him most heauy fold.
Now Erofel with words which ioy did paint,
Seemed to hauehave his sorrow much controld:
But what she spoke occasion doth deny
To tell, till better time shall bid reply.
Now some will thinke that I am much vnkinde,
To let this wofull wight thus plungedly:
But little doe they know what I doe finde,
That yet remaines more infelicitie,
And she as women wont will hauehave her minde,
Though for his ease I many wayes doe trie:
And though in his defence I strongly stand,
These women needs will hauehave the vpper hand.