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At last she her advised, that he which made For he by words could call out of the sky
Both sun and moon, and make them him obe
Whenso him list his enemies to fray ;
That to this day, for terror of his fame,
But wond'rously begotten and begone
They here arriving, stay'd awhile without,
Ne durst adventure rashly in to wend,
But of their first intent’gan make new doubt
For dread of danger, which it might portend,
Until the hardy maid (with love to friend)
First entering, the dreadful mage there found
Deep busied 'bout work of wond'rous end,
And writing strange characters in the ground
With which the stubborn fiends he to
BELPHOEBE FINDS TIMIAS WOUNDED, AND CO
VEYS HIM TO HER DWELLING.
BOOK III. CANTO V.
Of some wild beast, which, with her arrows ke
She wounded had, the same along did trace
And made more haste the life to have bereave
But ah ! her expectation greatly was deceived. Before that Merlin died, he did intend
Shortly she came whereas that woeful squire, A brazen wall in compass to compile
With blood deformed, lay in deadly swouud ;
In whose fair eyes, like lamps of quenched fire
Spoil'd of their rosy red, were waxen pale and wa
That could have made a rock of stone to rue
Or rive in twain ; which when that lady brigli
Besides all hope, with melting eyes did view,
All suddenly abash’d, she changed hue,
And with stern horror backward 'gan to start
But when she better him beheld, she grew
Full of soft passion and unwonted smart ;
Meekly she bowed down, to weet if life
By this her damsels, which the former chace Yet in his frozen members did remain,
Had undertaken after her, arrived, And feeling by his pulse's beating rife
As did Belphæbe, in the bloody place, That the weak soul her seat did yet retain, And thereby deem'd the beast had been deprived She cast to comfort him with busy pain.
Of life whom late their lady's arrow rived ; His double-folded neck she rear'd upright,
Forthy the bloody tract they follow'd fast, And rubb’d his temples and each trembling vein; And every one to run the swiftest striv'd ; His mailed haberjon she did undight,
But two of them the rest far overpast, And from his head his heavy burganet did light. And where their lady was arrived at the last. Into the woods thenceforth in haste she went, Where, when they saw that goodly boy with blood To seek for herbs that mote him remedy,
Defouled, and their lady dress his wound, For she of herbs had great intendiment,
They wonder'd much, and shortly understood Taught of the nymph which from her infancy How him in deadly case their lady found, Her nursed had in true nobility;
And rescued out of the heavy stound: There, whether it divine tobacco were,
Eftsoons his warlike courser, which was stray'd Or panacea, or polygony,
Far in the woods, whiles that he lay in swownd, She found, and brought it to her patient dear, She made those damsels search; which being stay'd, Who all this while lay bleeding out his heart-blood They did him set thereon, and forthwith them con
The sovereign weed, betwixt two marbles plain,
Into that forest far they thence him led,
By this he had sweet life recur'd again.
Beside the same a dainty place there lay, And groaning inly deep, at last his eyes,
Planted with myrtle trees and laurels green, His watery eyes, drizzling like dewy rain,
In which the birds sang many a lovely lay He up 'gan lift toward the azure skies,
Of God's high praise, and of theirsweet loves teen, From whence descend all hopeless remedies : As it an earthly paradise had been ; Therewith he sigh'd ; and turning him aside,
In whose enclosed shadow there was pight The goodly maid, full of divinities,
A fair pavilion, scarcely to be seen, And gifts of heavenly grace, he by him spied, The which was all within most richly dight, Her bow and gilden quiver lying him beside. That greatest princes living it mote well delight. “Mercy, dear Lord !” said he,“ what grace is this Thither they brought that wounded squire, and laid That thou hast shewed to me, sinful wight, In easy couch his feeble limbs to rest : To send thine angel from her bower of bliss He rested him a while, and then the maid To comfort me in my distressed plight ?
His ready wound with better salves new drest; Angel, or goddess, do I call thee right?
Daily she dressed him, and did the best What service may I do unto thee meet,
His grievous hurt to guarish that she might, That hast from darkness me return'd to light, That shortly he his dolour had redrest, And with thy heavenly salves and med'cines sweet
And his foul sore reduced to fair plight; Hast drest my sinfulwounds? I kiss thy blessed feet.”
It she reduced, but himself destroyed quite. Thereat she blushing said, “Ah! gentle Squire,
O foolish physic, and unfruitful pain, Nor goddess I, nor angel, but the maid
That heals up one, and makes another wound; And daughter of a woody nymph, desire
She his hurt thigh to him recured again, No service but thy safety and aid,
But hurt his heart, the which before was sound, Which if thou gain, I shall be well apaid.
Through an unwary dart, which did rebound We mortal wights, whose lives and fortunes be
From her fair eyes and gracious countenance : To common accidents still open laid,
What boots it him from death to be unbound, Are bound with common bond of frailty,
To be captived in endeless durànce
Thus warred he long time against his will,
For, when as day the heaven doth adorn,
Like as the culver, on the bared bough,
POETRY OF UNCERTAIN AUTHORS
THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
THE SOUL'S ERRAND.
FROM DAVISON'S " POETICAL RHAPSODY."
Tuis bold and spirited poem has been ascribed that Joshua uses the beautiful original merely to several authors, but to none on satisfactory a text, and has the conscience to print his o authority. It can be traced to MS. of a date as stuff in a way that shows it to be interpolate early as 1593, when Francis Davison, who pub- Among those additions there occur some su lished it in his Poetical Rhapsody, was too young execrable stanzas as the following: to be supposed, with much probability, to have written it; and as Davison's work was a compi
Say, soldiers are the sink
Of sin to all the realm, lation, his claims to it must be very doubtful.
Giv'n all to whore and drink, Sir Egerton Brydges has published it among Sir
To quarrel and blaspheme. Walter Raleigh's poems, but without a tittle of evidence to show that it was the production of
Tell townsmen, that because that that great man. Mr. Ellis gives it to Joshua
They prank their brides so proud,
Too many times it draws that Sylvester, evidently by mistake. Whoever looks
Which makes them beetle-brow'd. at the folio vol. of Sylvester's poems, will see
Ohe jam satis !
THE SOUL'S ERRAND.
Go, Soul, the body's guest,
Tell Fortune of her blindness,
Tell Arts they have no soundness,
Go, tell the Court it glows,
Tell Faith it's fled the city,
And when thou hast, as I
FROM DAVISON'S RHAPSODY. EDIT. 1608.
Tell them that brave it most,
Tell Zeal it lacks devotion, Tell Love it is but lust, Tell Time it is but motion, Tell Flesh it is but dust ; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.
The golden sun that brings the day,
Tell Age it daily wasteth,
But thou, my sun, more bright than he
I heard the praise of Beauty's grace,
Tell Wit how much it wrangles
But now thy beams have clear'd my sight,
FROM WILBYE'S MADRIGALS.
And when my will is done, then Cynthia shine,
good lady, All other nights and days in honour of that night, Lady, your words do spite me, That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark and Yet your sweet lips so soft kiss and delight me shady,
Your deeds my heart surcharged with overjoyin Wherein my love had eyes that lighted my delight. Your taunts my life destroying ;
Since both have force to kill me,
Knights fight with swords and lances,
Fight you with smiling glances,
So, like swans of Meander, The gentle season of the year
My ghost from hence shall wander,
Singing and dying, singing and dying.
There is a jewel which no Indian mine can bu And yet mine eyes augment their showers.
No chemic art can counterfeit ;
It makes men rich in greatest poverty, The meads are mantled all with green,
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The trembling leaves have clothed the treen,
The homely whistle to sweet music's strain ; The birds with feathers new do sing;
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, But I, poor soul, whom wrong doth rack, That much in little—all in nought-Content. Attire myself in mourning black, Whose leaf doth fall amidst his spring.
Change me, 0 heaven ! into the ruby stone And as you see the scarlet rose
That on my love's fair locks doth hang in gold, In his sweet prime his buds disclose,
Yet leave me speech to her to make my moan, Whose hue is with the sun revived ;
And give me eyes her beauty to behold: So, in the April of mine age,
Or if you will not make my flesh a stone, My lively colours do assuage,
Make her hard heart seem flesh, that now is Because my sunshine is deprived.