THE THIRD SCENE'S DESCRIPTION.

Circe, with this speech, deliveringe her wande to Ulysses, rests on the lower parte of the hill, while he going up the hill, and striking the trees with his wande, suddenly two greate gates flew open, makinge, as it were, a large glade through the wood, and along the glade a faire walke; two seeming bricke walles on either side, over which the trees wantonly hunge; a great light (as the Sun's sudden unmaskinge) being seene upon this discovery. At the furthe rend was described an arbour, very curiously done, havinge one entrance under an architreave, borne up by two pillers, with their chapters and bases guilte; the top of the entrance beautifide with postures of Satyres, Wood. nymphs, and other anticke worke; as also the sides and corners: the coveringe archwise interwove with boughes, the backe of it girt round with a vine, and artificially done up in knottes towardes the toppe: beyond it was a woodscene in perspective, the fore part of it opening at Ulysses's approach, the maskers were discovered in severall seates, leaninge as asleepe.

THEIR ATTIRE.

Doublets of greene taffita, cut like oaken leaves, as upon cloth of silver; their skirtes and winges cut into leaves, deepe round hose of the same, both lin'd with sprigge lace spangled; long white sylke stockings; greene pumps, and roses done over with sylver leaves; hattes of the same stuffe, and cut narrowe-brimmed, and risinge smaller compasse at the crowne; white reathe hatbandes; white plumes; egrettes with a greene fall; ruffe bands and cuffes. Ulysses severally came and toucht every one of them with the wand, while this was sunge.

CHOOSE Now amonge this fairest number, Upon whose brestes love would for ever slumber: Choose not amisse, since you may where you wille,

Or blame yourselves for choosinge ille. Then do not leave, though oft the musicke closes, Till lillyes in their cheekes be turned to roses.

CHORUS.

And if it lay in Circe's power,

Your blisse might so persever,
That those you choose but for an hower,
You should enjoy for ever.

The knights, with their ladyes, dance here the old measures, galliards, corantoes, the branles, &c. and then (havinge led them againe to their places) danced their last measure; after which this songe called them awaye.

SONGE.

WHO but Time so hasty were,
To fly away and leave you here.
Here where delight
Might well allure

A very stoicke, from this night
To turne an epicure.

But since he calles away; and Time will soone re

pent, [spente. He staid not longer here, but ran to be more idly

AN ELEGIE,

ON THE BEWAILED DEATH OF

THE TRULY BELOVED AND MOST VERTUOUS

HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES'. WHAT time the world, clad in a mourning robe, A stage made, for a woefull tragedie, When showres of teares from the celestial globe Bewail'd the fate of sea-lov'd Brittanie;

This copy is transcribed from a manuscript in

When sighes as frequent were as various sights, When Hope lay bed-rid, and all pleasures dying, When Envie wept,

And Comfort slept,

When Cruelty itselfe sat almost crying;
Nought being heard but what the minde affrights:
When Autumn had disrob'd the Summer's pride,
Then England's honour, Europe's wonder dide.
O saddest straine that ere the Muses sung!
A text of woe for griefe to comment on;
Teares, sighs and sobs, give passage to my tongue,
Or I shal spend you till the last is gone.
And then my hart, in flames of burning love,
Wanting his moisture, shall to cinders turne,
But first by me,
Bequeathed be,

To strew the place, wherein his sacred urne
Shall be enclos'd. This might in many move
The like effect: (who would not doe it?) when
No grave befits him, but the harts of men.
The man whose masse of sorrowes have been such,
That, by their weight laid on each severall part,
His fountaines are so drie, he but as much
As one poore drop hath left, to ease his hart:
Why should he keepe it? since the time doth call
That he n'ere better can bestow it in?
If so he feares,

That other teares

In greater number greatest prizes winne,
Know, none gives more than he who giveth all:
Then he which hath but one poore teare in store,
Oh let him spend that drop and weepe no more!
Why flowres not Helicon beyond her strands?
Is Henrie dead, and doe the Muses sleepe?
Alas! I see each one amazed stands,
Shallow foords mutter, silent are the deepe:
Faine would they tell their griefes, but know not
where,

All are so full, nought can augment their store.
Then how should they
Their griefes displey

To men so cloide they faine would heare no more, Though blaming those whose plaints they cannot heare?

And with this wish their passions I allow,
May that Muse never speake that's silent now!

Is Henrie dead? alas! and doe I live
To sing a scrich-owle's note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theame can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read:
But let him see it doe of horrour taste,
Anguish, destruction; could it rend in sunder,
With fearefull grones,

The sence!esse stones,
Yet should we hardly be inforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefes would so exceed their last :
Time cannot make our sorrowes aught com-
pleater,

Nor add one griefe to make our mourning greater. England stood ne're engirt with waves till now, Till now it held part with the continent, Aye me! some one, in pittie show me how I might in dolefull numbers so lament,

the Bodleian library, and is inserted here on account of the variations from that printed in the first book of Britannia's Pastorals.

That any one, which lov'd him, hated me, Might dearly love me, for lamenting him; Alas, my plaint,

In such constraint,

Breakes forth in rage, that thoughe my passions swimme,

Yet are they drowned ere they landed be.

Imperfect lines: oh happy were I hurl'd And cut from life, as England from the world. O! happier had we beene, if we had beene Never made happie by enjoying thee, Where hath the glorious eye of Heaven seene A spectacle of greater miserie ?

Time, turn thy course! and bring againe the spring!

Breake Nature's lawes! search the records of old!
If aught e're fell
Might paralel

Sad Albion's case: then note when I unfold
What seas of sorrow she is plunged in:

Where stormes of woe so mainly have beset her, She hath no place for worse, nor hope for better. Brittaine was whilome knowne (by more than fame) To be one of the Islands Fortunate:

What franticke man would give her now that name,
Lying so ruefull and disconsolate?

Hath not her watrie zone in murmuring,
Fil'd every shoare with ecchoes of her crie?
Yes, Thetis raves,
And bids her waves
Bring all the nimphes within her emperie,
To be assistant in her sorrowing.

See where they sadly sit on Isis' shore,
And rend their haires as they would joy no more.

THIRSIS'S PRAISE TO HIS MISTRESS.

BY W. BROWNE.

FROM A COLLECTION OF POEMS, CALLED ENGLAND'S
HELICON; OR, THE MUSES HARMONY.

On a bill that grac'd the plaine
Thirsis sate, a comely swaine,

Comelier swaine nere grac'd a hill:
Whilst his flock, that wandred nie,
Cropt the greene grasse busilic;

Thus he tun'd his oaten quill:
Ver hath made the plesant field
Many several odours yeeld,

Odours aromatical:
From faire Astra's cherrie lip,
Sweeter smells for ever skip,

They in pleasing passen all.
Leavie groves now mainely rìng,
With each sweet bird's sonnetting,

Notes that make the ecchoes long:
But when Astra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,

And are list'ning to her song.

Fairely spreads the damaske rose,
Whese rare mixture doth disclose
Beauties, penrills cannot faine.
Yet, if Astra passe the bush,
Roses have been seen to blush.
She doth all their beauties staine.

Phoebus shining bright in skie,

Gilds the floods, heates mountaines hie
With his beames' all quick'ning fire:
Astra's eyes (most sparkling ones)
Strikes a heat in hearts of stones,

And enflames them with desire.
Fields are blest with flowrie wreath,
Ayre is blest when she doth breath;
Birds make happy ev'ry grove,
She each bird when she doth sing;
Phoebus' heate to Earth doth bring,
She makes marble fall in love.

Those blessinges of the Earth we swaines do call,
Astra can blesse those blessings, Earth and all.

A POEM,

ATTRIBUTED BY PRINCE, IN HIS WORTHIES OF DEVON,

I

TO WILLIAM BROWNE.

OFT have heard of Lydford law,

How, in the morn, they hang and draw,

And sit in judgment after.

At first I wonder'd at it much,

But since I find the reason's such,
As it deserves no laughter.

They have a castle on a hill,
1 took it for an old wind-mill,

The vanes blown down by weather: To lye therein one night, 'tis guess'd, 'Twere better to be ston'd and press'd,

Or hang'd, now choose you whether.
Ten men less room within this cave,
Than five mice in a lanthorn have,

The keepers they are sly ones;
If any could devise by art,
To get it up into a cart,

"Twere fit to carry lyons.

When I beheld it, Lord! thought I,
What justice and what clemency

Hath Lydford! When I saw all,
I know none gladly there would stay,
But rather hang out of the way,

Than tarry for a tryal.

The prince an hundred pounds hath sent
To mend the leads, and planchens rent,
Within this living tomb,

Some forty-five pounds more had paid
The debts of all that shall be laid

'I here till the day of doom. One lyes there for a seam of malt, Another for a peck of salt,

Two sureties for a noble.
If this be true, or else false news,
You may go ask of master Crews',

John Vaughan, or John Doble'.
More, to these men that lye in lurch,
Here is a bridge, there is a church;
Seven ashes, and one oak;
Three houses standing, and ten down.
They say the parson bath a gowne,
But I saw ne'er a cloak.

Whereby you may consider well,
That plain simplicity doth dwell

At Lydford, without bravery.
And in the town both young and grave,
Do love the naked truth to have,

No cloak to hide their knavery.
The people all within this clime,
Are frozen in the winter time,

For sure I do not fain;
And when the summer is begun,
They lye like silk-worms in the sun,
And come to life again.

One told me in king Cæsar's time,
The town was built with stone and lime,
But sure the walls were clay,
And they are fal'n, for aught I see,
And since the houses are got free,
The town is run away.

Oh! Cæsar, if thou there didst reign,
While one house stands come there again;
Come quickly while there is one.

If thou stay but a little fit,

But five years more, they will commit
The whole town to a prison.

To see it thus much griev'd was I,
The proverb saith, "Sorrows be dry,"
So was I at the matter.

Now by good luck, I know not how,
There thither came a strange stray cow,
And we had milk and water.
To nine good stomachs, with our wigg,
At last we got a roasting pigg,

This dyet was our bounds,
And this was just as if 'twere known,
A pound of butter had been thrown,
Among a pack of hounds.
One glass of drink I got by chance,
'Twas claret when it was in France,
But now from it much wider;

I think a man might make as good
With green crabs boyl'd, and Brazil wood,
And half a pint of cyder.

I kiss'd the mayor's hand of the town,
Who, though he weare no scarlet gown,
Honours the rose and thistle.

A piece of coral to the mace,
Which there I saw to serve in place,

Would make a good child's whistle.
At sick o'clock I came away,
And pray'd for those that were to stay
Within a place so arrant.

Wide and ope the winds so roare,

By God's grace I'll come there no more,
Unless by some Tynn warrant.

PREFIXED TO

RICHARD THE THIRD,

MIS CHARACTEr, legend, anD TRAGEDY, A POEM, 4to. 1614. [AMONGST OTHER VERSES BY CHASMAN, BEN JOHNSON, &c.]

TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

So farre as can a swayne (who than a rounde

On oaten-pipe no further boasts his skill)

I dare to censure the shrill trumpets' sound,
Or other music of the sacred hil:

The popular applause hath not so fell

(Like Nile's lowd cataract) possest mine ears But others' songs I can distinguish well

And chant their praise, despised vertue rears: Nor shall thy buskin'd Muse be heard alone

In stately pallaces; the shady woods By me shall learn't, and ecchoes one by one Teach it the hils, and they the silver floods. Our learned shepheards that have us'd to fore Their hasty gifts in notes that wooe the plaines, By rural ditties will be known no more;

But reach at fame by such as are thy straines. And I would gladly (if the sisters spring

Had me inabled) beare a part with thee,
And for sweet groves, of brave' heroes sing,
But since it fits not my weake melodie,

It shall suffice that thou such means do'st give,
That my harsh lines among the best may live.
W. BROWNE, Int. Temp.

MR. WILLIAM DRAYTON, TO HIS NOBLE FRIEND MR. WILLIAM BROWNE;

OF THE EVIL TIME.

DEAR friend, be silent and with patience see,
What this mad time's catastrophe will be;
The world's first wisemen certainly mistook
Themselves, and spoke things quite beside the
book,

And that which they have said of God, untrue,
Or else expect strange judgment to ensue.

This isle is a mere Bedlam, and therein,
We all lie raving mad in every sin,
And him the wisest most men use to call,
Who doth (alone) the maddest thing of all;
He whom the master of all wisdom found,
For a mark'd fool, and so did him propound,
The time we live in, to that pass is brought,
That only he a censor now is thought;
And that base villain, (not an age yet gone)
Which a good man would not have look'd upon,
Now like a god with divine worship follow'd,
And all his actions are accounted hallow'd.

This world of ours, thus runneth upon wheels, Set on the head, bolt upright with her heels; Which makes me think of what the Ethnics told Th' opinion, the Pythagorists uphold, That the immortal soul doth transmigrate; Then I suppose by the strong power of fate, That those which at confused Babel were, And since that time now many a lingering year, Through fools, and beasts, and lunatics have past,

Are here imbodied in this age at last,

And though so long we from that time be gone,
Yet taste we still of that confusion.

For certainly there's scarce one found that now
Knows what t'approve, or what to disallow,
All arsey-versey, nothing is it's own,

But to our proverb, all turn'd upside down;
To do in time, is to do out of season,
And that speeds best, that's done the farthest

from reason,

He's high'st that's low'st, he's surest in that's out, He hits the next way that goes farth'st about,

! Quere? braver !

He getteth up unlike to rise at all,
He slips to ground as much unlike to fall;
Which doth inforce me partly to prefer
The opinion of that mad philosopher,

Who taught, that those all-framing powers above,
(As 'tis suppos'd) made man not out of love
To him at all, but only as a thing,

To make them sport with, which the use to bring,
As men do monkies, puppets, and such tools
Of laughter: so men are but the gods' fools.
Such are by titles lifted to the sky,

As wherefore no man knows, God scarcely why;
The virtuous man depressed like a stone
For that dull sot to raise himself upon;
He who ne'er thing yet worthy man durst do,
Never durst look upon his country's foe,
Nor durst attempt that action which might get
Him fame with men or higher might him set
Than the base beggar (rightly if compar'd);
This drone yet never brave attempt that dar'd,
Yet dares be knighted, and from thence dares
grow

To any title empire can bestow;

For this believe, that impudence is now
A cardinal vertue, and men it allow
Reverence, nay more, men study and invent
New ways, nay glory to be impudent.

Into the clouds the Devil lately got,
And by the moisture doubting much the rot,
A medicine took to make him purge and cast;
Which in a short time began to work so fast,
That he fell to't, and from his backside flew
A rout of rascal a rude ribald crew
Of base plebeians, which no sooner light
Upon the Earth, but with a sudden flight
They spread this isle; and as Deucalion once
Over his shoulder back, by throwing stones
They became men, even so these beasts became
Owners of titles from an obscure name.

He that by riot, of a mighty rent, Hath his late goodly patrimony spent, And into base and wilful begg`ry run, This man as he some glorious act had done, With some great pension, or rich gift reliev'd, When he that hath by industry achiev'd Some noble thing, contemned and disgrac'd, In the forlorn hope of times is plac'd. As though that God had carelessly left all That being hath on this terrestrial ball, To Fortune's guiding, nor would have to do With man, nor aught that doth belong him to, Or at the least God having given more Power to the Devil, than he did of yore, Over this world: the fiend as he doth hate The virtuous man; maligning his estate, All noble things, and would have by his will, To be damn'd with him, using all his skill, By his black hellish ministers to vex All worthy men, and strangly to perplex Their constancy, thereby them so to fright, That they should yeeld them wholly to his might. But of these things I vainly do but tell,

Where Hell is Heaven, and Heav'n is now turn'd
Hell;

Where that which lately blasphemy hath been,
Now godliness, much less accounted sin;
And a long while I greatly marvel'd why
Buffoons and bawds should hourly multiply,
Till that of late I constru'd it, that they
To present thrift had got the perfect way,

When I concluded by their odious crimes,
It was for us no thriving in these times.

As men oft laugh at little babes, when they
Hap to behold some strange thing in their play,
To see them on the sudden strucken sad,
As in their fancy some strange forms they had,
Which they by pointing with their fingers show,
Angry at our capacities so slow,

That by their count'nance we no sooner learn
To see the wonder which they so discern;
So the celestial powers do sit and smile
At innocent and virtuous men, the while
They stand amazed at the world o'er-gone,
So far beyond imagination,

With slavish baseness, that they silent sit
Pointing like children in describing it.

Then, noble friend, the next way to controul These worldly crosses, is to arm thy soul With constant patience: and with thoughts as high As these below, and poor, winged to fly To that exalted stand, whither yet they Are got with pain, that sit out of the way Of this ignoble age, which raiseth none But such as think their black damnation To be a trifle; such, so ill, that when They are advanc'd, those few poor honest men.. That yet are living, into search do run To find what mischief they have lately done, Which so prefers them; say thou he doth rise, That maketh virtue his chief exercise. And in this base world come whatever shall, He's worth lamenting, that for her doth fall.