Poems 2, Poem 16 – Dramatis personae
Lycidas.
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly drown'd in his Paſſage from Cheſter on the Iriſh Seas, 1637. And by occaſion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.
YEt once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-ſear,
I com to pluck your Berries harſh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year▪
Bitter conſtraint, and ſad occaſion dear,
Compels me to diſturb your ſeaſon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer▪
Who would not ſing for Lycidas? he knew
Himſelf to ſing, and build the loſty rhyme.
He muſt not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of ſom melodious tear.
Begin then, Siſters of the ſacred well,
That from beneath the ſeat of Jove doth ſpring,
Begin, and ſomwhat loudly ſweep the ſtring.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuſe,
So may ſom gentle Muſe
With lucky words favour my deſtin'd Urn,
And as he paſſes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my ſable ſhrowd.
For we were nurſt upon the ſelf-ſame hill,
Fed the ſame flock; by fountain, ſhade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her ſultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the freſh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that roſe, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns deſcent had ſlop'd his weſtering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute,
Rough S…tyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel,
From the glad ſound would not be abſent long,
And old Damoetas lov'd to …ear our ſong.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never muſt return▪
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and deſert Caves▪
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o…regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazle Copſes green,
Shall now no more be ſeen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy ſoft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Roſe,
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze.
Or Froſt to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When firſt the White thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loſs to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs when the remorſeleſs deep
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the ſteep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ▪ly,
Nor on the ſhaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva ſpreads her wiſard ſtream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!
Had ye bin there—for what could that have don?
What could the Muſe her ſelf that Orpheus bore,
The Muſe her ſelf, for her inchanting ſon
Whom Univerſal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary viſage down the ſtream was ſent,
Down the ſwift Hebrus to the Letbian ſhore.
Alas! What boots it with unceſſant care
To tend the homely ſlighted Shepherds trade,
And ſtrictly meditate the thankles Muſe,
Were it not better don as others uſe,
To ſport with Amaryllis in the ſhade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the ſpur that the clear ſpirit doth raiſe
(That laſt infirmity of Noble mind)
To ſcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burſt out into ſudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred ſhears,
And ſlits the thin ſpun life. But not the praiſe,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal ſoil,
Nor in the gliſtering foil
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and ſpreds aloft by thoſe pure eyes,
And perfetwitnes of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces laſtly on each deed,
Of ſo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arcthuſe, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-ſliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds.
That ſtrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,
And liſtens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,
What hard miſhap hath doom'd this gentle ſwain?
And queſtion'd every guſt of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his ſtory,
And ſage Hippotades their anſwer brings,
That not a blaſt was from his dungeon ſtray'd,
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her ſiſters play'd.
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipſe, and rigg'd with curſes dark,
That ſunk ſo low that ſacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing ſlow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet ſedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that ſanguine flower inſcrib'd with woe.
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my deareſt pledge?
Laſt came, and laſt did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean lake,
Two maſſy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron ſhuts amain)
He ſhook his Miter'd locks, and ſtern beſpake,
How well could I have ſpar'd for thee young ſwain.
Anow of ſuch as for their bellies ſake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to ſcramble at the ſhearers feaſt,
And ſhove away the worthy bidden gueſt.
Blind mouthes! that ſcarce themſelves know how to hold
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the leaſt
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are ſped;
And when they liſt, their lean and flaſhy ſongs
Grate on their ſcrannel Pipes of wretched ſtraw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But ſwoln with wind, and the rank miſt they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion ſpread:
Beſides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing ſed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to ſmite once, and ſmite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is paſt,
That ſhrunk thy ſtreams; Return Si…ilian Muſe,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither caſt
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thouſand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whiſpers uſe,
Of ſhades and wanton winds, and guſhing brooks,
On whoſe freſh lap the ſwart Star ſparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf ſuck the honie… ſhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primroſe that forſaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Geſſamine,
The white Pink, and the Panſie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.
The Musk-roſe, and the well attir'd Woodbine,
With Cowſlips wan that hang the penſive hed,
And every flower that ſad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty ſhed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To ſtrew the Laureat Herſe where Lycid lies.
For ſo to interpoſe a little eaſe,
Let our frail thoughts dally with falſe ſurmiſe.
Ay me! Whilſt thee the ſhores, and ſounding Seas
Waſh far away, where ere thy bones are hurld,
Whether beyond the ſtormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Viſit'ſt the bottom of the monſtrous world;
Or whether thou to our moiſt vows deny'd,
Sleep'ſt by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great viſion of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more▪
For Lycidas your ſorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So ſinks the day-ſtar in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new ſpangled Ore,
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas ſunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves
Where other groves, and other ſtreams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves,
And hears the unexpreſſive nuptiall Song,
In the bleſt Kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above▪
In ſolemn troops, and ſweet Societies
That ſing, and ſinging in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes▪
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more▪
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the ſhore▪
In thy large recompenſe, and ſhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus ſang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills▪
While the ſtill morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch'd the tender ſtops of various Quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun had ſtretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the Weſtern bay;
At laſt he roſe, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to freſh Woods, and Paſtures new▪
A MASK Of the ſame AUTHOR PRESENTED At LƲDLOW-Caſtle, 1634.
Before The Earl of BRIDGEWATER Then Preſident of WALES.
Anno Dom. 1645.
now to offer it up in all rightfull devotion to thoſe fair Hopes, and rare Endowments of your much-promiſing Youth, which give a full aſſurance, to all that know you, of a future excellence. Live ſweet Lord to be the honour of your Name, and receive this as your own, from the hands of him, who hath by many favours been long oblig'd to your moſt honour'd Parents, and as in this repreſentation your attendant Thyrſis, ſo now in all reall expreſſion
Your faithfull, and most humble Servant H. LAWES.
The Còpy of a Letter Writt'n By Sir HENRY WOOTTON, To the Author, upon the following Poem.
From the Colledge, this 13. of April, 1638.
SIR,
IT was a ſpecial favour, when you lately beſtowed upon me here, the firſt taſte of your acquaintance, though no longer then to make me know that I wanted more time to value it, and to enjoy it rightly; and in truth, if I could then have imagined your farther ſtay in theſe parts, which I underſtood afterwards by Mr. H., I would have been bold in our vulgar phraſe to mend my draught (for you left me with an extreme thirſt) and to have begged your converſation again, joyntly with your ſaid learned Friend, at a poor meal or two, that we might have banded together ſom good Authors of the antient time: Among which, I obſerved you to have been familiar.
Since your going, you have charg'd me with new Obligations, both for a very kinde Letter from you dated the ſixth of this Month, and for a dainty peece of entertainment which came therwith. Wherin I ſhould much commend the Tragical part, if the Lyrical did not raviſh me with a certain Dorique delicacy in your Songs and Odes, wherunto I muſt plainly confeſs to have ſeen yet nothing parallel in our Language: Ipſa mollities. But I muſt not omit to tell you, that I now onelyonly owe you thanks for intimating unto me (how modeſtly ſoever) the true Artificer. For the work it ſelf, I had view'd ſom good while before, with ſingular delight, having receiv'd it from our common Friend Mr. R. in the very cloſe of the late R's Poems, Printed at Oxford, wherunto it was added (as I now ſuppoſe) that the Acceſſory might help out the Principal, according to the Art of Stationers, and to leave the Reader Con la bocca dolce.
Now Sir, concerning your travels, wherin I may chalenge a little more priviledge of Diſcours with you; I ſuppoſe you will not blanch Paris in your way; therfore I have been bold to trouble you with a few lines to Mr. M. B. whom you ſhall eaſily find attending the young Lord S. as his Governour, and you may ſurely receive from him good directions for the ſhaping of your farther journey into Italy, where he did reſide by my choice ſom time for the King, after mine own receſs from Venice.
I ſhould think that your beſt Line will be thorow the whole length of France to Marſeilles, and thence by Sea to Genoa, whence the paſſage into Tuſcany is as Diurnal as a Graveſend Barge: I haſten as you do to Florence, or Siena, the rather to tell you a ſhort ſtory from the intereſt you have given me in your ſafety.
At Siena I was tabled in the Houſe of one Alberto Scipioni an old Roman Courtier in dangerous times, having bin Steward to the Duca di Pagliano, who with all his Family were ſtrangled, ſave this onelyonly man that eſcap'd by foreſight of the Tempeſt: With him I had often much chat of thoſe affairs; Into which he took pleaſure to look back from his Native Harbour; and at my departure toward Rome (which had been the center of his experience) I had wonn confidence enough to beg his advice, how I might carry my ſelf ſecurely there, without offence of others, or of mine own conſcience. Signor Arrigo mio (ſayes he) I penſieri ſtretti, & il viſo ſciolto will go ſafely over the whole World: Of which Delphian Oracle (for ſo I have found it) your judgement doth need no commentary; and therfore (Sir) I will commit you with it to the beſt of all ſecurities, Gods dear love, remaining
Your Friend as much at command as any of longer date Henry Wootton.
Poſtſcript.
SIR, I have expreſly ſent this my Foot-boy to prevent your departure without ſom acknowledgement from me of the receipt of your obliging Letter, having my ſelf through ſom buſines, I know not how, neglected the ordinary conveyance. In any part where I ſhall underſtand you fixed, I ſhall be glad, and diligent to entertain you with Home-Novelties; even for ſom fomentation of our friendſhip, too ſoon interrupted in the Cradle.
The Perſons.
The attendant Spirit afterwards in in the habit of Thyrſis.
Comus with his crew.
The Lady.
1. Brother.
2. Brother.
Sabrina the Nymph.
The cheif perſons which preſented, were
The Lord Bracly,
Mr. Thomas Egerton his Brother,
The Lady Alice Egerton.