English

Helpless wretch, despair, despair, 2nd Spirit:
Fool to live, why drawst thou air? 1st Spirit:
Friends all are dead, thou hast none. 2nd Spirit:
Those that seem'd, like chaff are blown. 1st Spirit:
Then die, O die,
Die, O die. 2nd Spirit:
Tis better die than live disgrac'd,
Joys and glories all defaced. 1st Spirit:
Thy pride of eyes,
Thy pride of eyes,
Which world of hearts have fired,

To her the lowly nymph (Humblessa hight)
Brought as her office this deformed wight;
To whom the lady courteous semblance shows,
And pitying his estate in sacred thewes,
And letters worthily ycleep'd divine,
Resolv'd t' instruct him: but her discipline
She knew of true effect would surely miss,
Except she first his metamorphosis
Should clean exile: and knowing that his birth
Was to inherit reason, though on earth
Some witch had thus transform'd him, by her skill,
Expert in changing, even the very will,

Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;

When all the cruel torments he had borne,
Galled with chains, and on the rack nigh torn,
Pinching with glowing pincers his own heart,
All lame and restless, full of wounds and smart,
He to the postern creeps, so inward hies,
And from the gate a two-fold path descries,
One leading up a hill, Repentance' way,
And (as more worthy) on the right hand lay:
The other headlong, steep, and liken'd well
Unto the path which tendeth down to hell:
All steps that thither went show'd no returning,

Here stay'd I long; but when to see Aurora
Kiss the perfum'd cheeks of dainty Flora,
Without the vale I trod one lovely morn,
With true intention of a quick return,
An unexpected chance strove to defer
My going back, and all the love of her.
But, maiden, see the day is waxen old,
And 'gins to shut in with the marigold.
The neatherd's kine do bellow in the yard;
And dairy maidens, for the milk prepar'd,
Are drawing at the udder; long ere now
The ploughman hath unyok'd his team from plough.

If you have seen at foot of some brave hill
Two springs arise, and delicately trill
In gentle chidings through an humble dale,
Where tufty daisies nod at every gale,
And on the banks a swain, with laurel crown'd,
Marrying his sweet notes with their silver sound;
When as the spongy clouds swoll'n big with water,
Throw their conception on the world's theatre,
Down from the hills the rained waters roar,
Whilst every leaf drops to augment their store;
Grumbling the stones fall o'er each other's back,

Is Henry dead? alas! and do I live
To sing a screech-owl's note that he is dead?
If any one a fitter theme can give,
Come, give it now, or never to be read.
But let him see it do of horror taste,
Anguish, destruction: could it rend in sunder
With fearful groans
The senseless stones,
Yet should we hardly be enforc'd to wonder,
Our former griefs would so exceed their last.
Time cannot make our sorrows ought completer;
Nor add one grief to make our mourning greater.

England was ne'er engirt with waves till now;

Lovely Idya, the most beauteous
Of all the darlings of Oceanus,
Hesperia's envy and the Western pride,
Whose party-coloured garment Nature dy'd
In more eye-pleasing hues, with richer grain,
Than Iris' bow attending April's rain;
Whose lily white inshaded with the rose
Had that man seen who sung th' Eneidos,
Dido had in oblivion slept, and she
Had given his Muse her best eternity.
Had brave Atrides, who did erst employ
His force to mix his dead with those of Troy,
Been proffer'd for a truce her feigned peace.

Here full of April, veil'd with Sorrow's wing,
For lovely lays, I dreary dirges sing.
Whoso hath seen young lads (to sport themselves)
Run in a low ebb to the sandy shelves;
Where seriously they work in digging wells,
Or building childish sorts of cockle-shells;
Or liquid water each to other bandy;
Or with the pebbles play at handy-dandy,
Till unawares the tide hath clos'd them round,
And they must wade it through or else be drown'd:
May (if unto my pipe he listen well)
My Muse' distress with theirs soon parallel.

After the bear's just death the quick'ning sun
Had twice six times about the zodiac run,
And (as respectless) never cast an eye
Upon the night-enveil'd Cimmerii,
When this brave swain, approved valorous,
In opposition of a tyrannous
And bloody savage being long time gone,
Quelling his rage with faithless Gerion,
Returned from the stratagems of wars,
Enriched with his quail'd foes' bootless scars,
To see the clear eyes of his dearest love,
And that her skill in herbs might help remove