The 21th: and last booke of the Ocean to Scinthia

Sufficeth it to yow my joyes interred,
in simpell wordes that I my woes cumplayne,
Yow that then died when first my fancy erred.
joyes under dust that never live agayne:
If to the livinge weare my muse adressed,
or did my minde her own spirrit still inhold,
weare not my livinge passion so repressed,
as to the dead, the dead did thes unfold,
sume sweeter wordes, sume more becumming vers,
should wittness my myshapp in hygher kynd.
but my loves wounds, my fancy in the hearse,
the Idea but restinge, of a wasted minde,
the blossumes fallen, the sapp gon from the tree.
the broken monuments of my great desires,
from thes so lost what may th'affections bee,
what heat in Cynders of extinguisht fiers?
Lost in the mudd of thos hygh flowinge streames
which through more fayrer feilds ther courses bend,
slayne with sealf thoughts, amased in fearfull dreames,
woes without date, discumforts without end,
from frutfull trees I gather withred leves
and glean the broken eares with misers hands,
who sumetyme did injoy the waighty sheves
I seeke faire floures amidd the brinish sand,
all in the shade yeven in the faire soon dayes
under thos healthless trees I sytt a lone
wher joyfull byrdds singe neather lovely layes
nor phillomen recounts her direfull mone,
No feedinge flockes, no sheapherds cumpanye
that might renew my dollorus consayte
while happy then, while love and fantasye
confinde my thoughts onn that faire flock to waite
no pleasinge streames fast to the ocean wendinge
the messengers sumetymes of my great woe
but all onn yearth as from the colde stormes bendinge,
shrinck from my thoughts in hygh heavens and below.
Oh, hopefull love my object, and invention,
Oh, trew desire the spurr of my consayte
Oh, worthiest spirrit, my minds impulsion
Oh, eyes transpersant my affections bayte
Oh, princely forme, my fancies adamande
Devine consayte, my paynes acceptance,
Oh, all in onn, oh heaven on yearth transparant
the seat of joyes, and loves abundance
Out of that mass of mirakells, my Muse,
gathered thos floures, to her pure sences pleasinge
out of her eyes (the store of joyes) did chuse
equall delights, my sorrowes counterpoysinge
Her regall lookes, my rigarus sythes suppressed
Small dropes of jo[i]es, sweetned great worlds of woes,
one gladsume day a thowsand cares redressed.
Whom Love defends, what fortune overthrowes?
When shee did well, what did ther elce amiss.
When shee did ill what empires could have pleased
no other poure effectinge wo, or bliss.
Shee gave, shee tooke, shee wounded, she appeased.
The honor of her love, love still devisinge
woundinge my mind with contrarye consayte
transferde it sealf sumetyme to her aspiringe
sumetyme the trumpett of her thoughts retrayt
To seeke new worlds, for golde, for prayse, for glory,
to try desire, to try love severed farr
when I was gonn shee sent her memory
more stronge then weare tenthowsand shipps of warr
to call me back, to leve great honors thought
to leve my frinds, my fortune, my attempte
to leve the purpose I so longe had sought
and holde both cares, and cumforts in contempt,
Such heat in Ize, such fier in frost remaynde
such trust in doubt, such cumforts in dispaire
mich like the gentell Lamm, though lately wayned
playes with the dug though finds no cumfort ther,

But as a boddy violently slayne
retayneath warmth although the spirrit be gonn,
and by a poure in nature moves agayne
till it be layd below the fatall stone
Or as the yearth yeven in cold winter dayes
left for a tyme by her life gevinge soonn,
douth by the poure remayninge of his rayes
produce sume green, though not as it hath dunn.
Or as a wheele forst by the fallinge streame
although the course be turnde sume other way,
douth for a tyme go rounde uppon the beame
till wantinge strenght to move, it stands att stay,
So my forsaken hart, my withered minde
widdow of all the joyes it once possest
my hopes cleane out of sight with forced wind
to kyngdomes strange, to lands farr of addrest
Alone, forsaken, frindless onn the shore
with many wounds, with deaths cold pangs inebrased
writes in the dust as onn that could no more
whom love, and tyme, and fortune had defaced,
of things so great, so longe, so manefolde
with meanes so weake, the sowle yeven then departing
the weale, the wo, the passages of olde
and worlds of thoughts discribde by onn last sythinge,
as if when after Phebus is dessended
and leves a light mich like the past dayes dawninge,
and every toyle and labor wholy ended
each livinge creature draweth to his restinge
wee should beginn by such a partinge light
to write the story of all ages past
and end the same before th'aprochinge night.
Such is agayne the labor of my minde
whose shroude by sorrow woven now to end
hath seene that ever shininge soonn declynde
so many yeares that so could not dissende
but that the eyes of my minde helde her beames
in every part transferd by loves swift thought
farr of or nire, in wakinge or in dreames
Imagination stronge their luster brought
such force her angellike aparance had
to master distance, tyme, or crueltye
such art to greve, and after to make gladd
such feare in love, such love in majestie.
My weery lymes, her memory imbalmed,
my darkest wayes her eyes make clear as day
what stormes so great but Cinthias beames apeasd.
what rage so feirce that love could not allay.
Twelve yeares intire I wasted in this warr
twelve yeares of my most happy younger dayes,
butt I in them, and they now wasted ar
of all which past the sorrow only stayes,
So wrate I once and my mishapp fortolde
my minde still feelinge sorrowfull success
yeven as before a storme the marbell colde
douth by moyste teares tempestious tymes express.
so fealt my hevy minde my harmes att hande
which my vayne thought in vayne sought to recure
att middell day my soonn seemde under land
when any littell cloude did it obscure
and as the Isakells in a winters day
when as the soonn shines with unwounted warme
so did my joyes mealt into secreat teares
so did my hart desolve in wastinge dropps
and as the season of the year outweares
and heapes of snow from of the mountayn topps
with suddayn streames the valle[y]s overflow
so did the tyme draw on my more dispaire
then fludds of sorrow and whole seas of wo
the bancks of all my hope did overbeare
and dround my minde in deapts of missery
sumetyme I died sumetyme I was distract
my sowle the stage of fancies tragedye
then furious madness wher trew reason lackt
wrate what it would, and scurgde myne own consayte.
Oh, hevy hart who cann thee wittnes beare
what tounge, what penn could thy tormentinge treat
but thyne own mourning thoughts which present weare
what stranger minde beleve the meanest part
what altered sence conceve the weakest wo
that tare, that rent, that peirsed thy sadd hart.
And as a man distract, with trebell might
bound in stronge chaynes douth strive, and rage in vayne
till tyrde and breathless, he is forst to rest
fyndes by contention but increas of payne
and fiery heat inflamde in swollen breast.
So did my minde in change of passion
from wo to wrath, from wrath returne to wo,
struglinge in vayne from loves subjection
Therefore all liveless, and all healpless bounde
my fayntinge spirritts sunck, and hart apalde
my joyes and hopes lay bleedinge on the ground
that not longe since the highest heaven scalde,
I hated life and cursed destiney
the thoughts of passed tymes like flames of hell,
kyndled a fresh within my memorye
the many deere achivements that befell
in thos prime yeares and infancy of love
which to discribe weare butt to dy in writinge
ah those I sought, but vaynly, to remove
and vaynly shall, by which I perrish livinge
And though strong reason holde before myne eyes
the Images, and formes of worlds past
teachinge the cause why all thos flames that rize
from formes externall, cann no longer last,
then that thos seeminge bewties hold in pryme.
Loves ground, his essence, and his emperye,
all slaves to age, and vassalls unto tyme
of which repentance writes the tragedye,
But this, my harts desire could not conceve
Whose Love outflew the fastest fliinge tyme
A bewty that cann easely deseave
th'arrest of yeares, and creepinge age outclyme,
a springe of bewties which tyme ripeth not
tyme that butt workes onn frayle mortallety
a sweetness which woes wronges outwipeth not
whom love hath chose for his devinnitye
A vestall fier that burnes, but never wasteth
that looseth nought by gevinge light to all
that endless shines eachwher and endless lasteth
blossumes of pride that cann nor vade nor fall.
Thes weare thos marvelous perfections,
the parents of my sorrow and my envy
most deathfull and most violent infections
Thes be the Tirants that in fetters tye
their wounded vassalls, yet nor kill nor cure,
but glory in their lastinge missery
that as her bewties would our woes should dure
thes be th'effects of pourfull emperye . . .

Yet have these wounders want which want cumpassion,
yet hath her minde some markes of humayne race
yet will shee bee a wooman for a fashion
so douth shee pleas her vertues to deface
and like as that immortal pour douth seat
an element of waters to allay
the fiery soonn beames that onn yearth do beate
and temper by cold night the heat of day
so hath perfection which begatt her minde
added therto a change of fantasye
and left her the affections of her kynde
yet free from evry yevill but crueltye

But leve her prayse, speak thow of nought but wo
write onn the tale that Sorrow bydds the tell
strive to forgett, and care no more to know
thy cares ar known, by knowinge thos to well,
discribe her now as shee apeeres to thee
not as shee did apeere in dayes fordunn
in love thos things that weare no more may be
for fancy seildume ends wher it begunn.
And as a streame by stronge hand bounded in
from natures course wher it did sumetyme runn
by some small rent or loose part douth beginn
to finde escape, till it a way hath woone
douth then all unawares in sunder teare
the forsed bounds and raginge, runn att large
in th'auncient channells as the[y] wounted weare
such is of weemens love the carefull charge
helde, and mayntaynde with multetude of woes
of longe arections such the suddayne fall
onn houre deverts, onn instant overthrowes
for which our lives, for which our fortunes thrale
so many yeares thos joyes have deerely bought
of which when our fonde hopes do most assure
all is desolvde, our labors cume to nought
nor any marke therof ther douth indure
no more then when small dropps of rayne do fall
uppon the parched grounde by heat up dried
no coolinge moysture is percevde att all
nor any shew or signe of weet douth byde
But as the feildes clothed with leves and floures
the bancks of roses smellinge pretious sweet
have but their bewties date, and tymely houres
and then defast by winters cold, and sleet,
And onn thos withered stalkes no signe remayneth
of thos incarnate bewties erst so pleasinge
so farr as neather frute nor forme of floure
stayes for a wittnes what such branches bare
butt as tyme gave, tyme did agayne devoure
and chandge our risinge joy to fallinge care,
So of affection which our youth presented
when shee that from the soonn reves poure and light
did but decline her beames as discontented
convertinge sweetest dayes to saddest night
all droopes, all dyes, all troden under dust
the person, place, and passages forgotten
the hardest steele eaten with softest ruste.
the firme and sollide tree both rent and rotten,
thos thoughts so full of pleasure and content
that in our absence weare affections foode
ar rased out and from the fancy rent
in highest grace and harts deere care that stood
ar cast for pray to hatred, and to scorne
our deerest treasors and our harts trew joyes
the tokens hunge onn brest, and kyndly worne
ar now elcewhere disposde, or helde for toyes
and thos which then our Jelosye removed
and others for our sakes then valued deere
the on forgot the rest ar deere beloved
when all of ours douth strange or vilde apeere,
Thos streames seeme standinge puddells which before,
Wee saw our bewties in, so weare the[y] cleere
Bellphebes course is now observde no more
that faire resemblance weareth out of date
our Ocean seas are but tempestius waves
and all things bass that blessed wear of late . . .
And as a feilde wherin the stubbell stands
of harvest past, the plowmans eye offends
hee tills agayne or teares them up with hands
and throwes to fire as foylde and frutless ends
and takes delight another seed to sow. . . .
So douth the minde root up all wounted thought
and scornes the care of our remayninge woes
the sorrowes, which themsealvs for us have wrought
ar burnt to Cinders by new kyndled fiers
the ashes ar dispeirst into the ayre
the sythes, the grones of all our past desires
ar cleane outworne, as things that never weare . . .

With youth, is deade the hope of loves returne
who lookes not back to heare our after cryes
wher hee is not, he laughts att thos that murne
whence hee is gonn, hee scornes the minde that dyes,
when hee is absent hee beleves no words
when reason speakes hee careless stopps his ears
whom he hath left hee never grace affords

but bathes his wings in our lamentinge teares,
Unlastinge passion, soune outworne consayte
whereon I built, and onn so dureless trust,
my minde had wounds, I dare not say desaite
weare I resolvde her promis was not Just?
Sorrow was my revendge, and wo my hate
I pourless was to alter my desire
my love is not of tyme, or bound to date
my harts internall heat, and livinge fier
would not, or could be quencht, with suddayn shoures
my bound respect was not confinde to dayes
my vowed fayth not sett to ended houres
I love the bearinge and not bearinge sprayes
which now to others do ther sweetnes send
th'incarnat, snow driven white, and purest asure.
Who from high heaven douth on their feilds dissend
fillinge their barnes with grayne, and towres with treasure,
erringe or never erringe, such is Love
as while it lasteth scornes th'accompt of thos
seekinge but sealf contentment to improve
and hydes if any bee, his inward woes,
and will not know while hee knowes his own passion
the often and unjust perseverance
in deeds of love, and state, and every action
from that first day and yeare of their joyes entrance;

But I unblessed, and ill borne creature
that did inebrase the dust her boddy bearinge
that loved her both, by fancy, and by nature
that drew yeven with the milke in my first suckinge
affection from the parents brest that bare mee
have found her as a stranger so severe,
improvinge my mishapp in each degree
But love was gonn, So would I, my life weare.
a Queen shee was to mee, no more Belphebe
a Lion then, no more a milke white Dove,
a prissoner in her brest I could not bee
shee did untye the gentell chaynes of love
Love was no more the love of hydinge
all trespase, and mischance, for her own glorye
It had bynn such, it was still for th'ell[e]ct
but I must be th'exampell in loves storye
this was of all forpast the sadd effect . . .

But thow my weery sowle and hevy thought
made by her love a burden to my beinge
dust know my error never was forthought
or ever could proceed from sence of Lovinge
of other cause if then it had proceedinge
I leve th'excuse syth Judgment hath bynn geven
the lymes devided, sundred, and a bleedinge
cannot cumplayne the sentence was unyevunn

This did that natures wounder, Vertues choyse
the only parragonn of tymes begettinge
Devin in wordes angellicall in voyse
that springe of joyes, that floure of loves own settinge
Th'Idea remayninge of thos golden ages
that bewtye bravinge heavens, and yearth imbaulminge
which after worthless worlds but play onn stages,
such didsst thow her longe since discribe, yet sythinge
that thy unabell spirrit could not fynde ought
in heavens bewties, or in yearths delighte
for likeness, fitt to satisfy thy thought
Butt what hath it avaylde thee so to write
shee cares not for thy prayse, who knowes not thers
Its now ann Idell labor and a tale
tolde out of tyme that dulls the heerers eares
a marchandize wherof ther is no sale
leve them, or lay them up with thy dispaires
she hath resolvde, and Judged thee longe ago
thy lines ar now a murmeringe to her eares
like to a fallinge streame which passinge sloe
is wount to nurrishe sleap, and quietnes
So shall thy paynfull labors bee perusde
and draw on rest, which sumetyme had regard
but thos her cares, thy errors have excusde
thy dayes foredun have had ther dayes reward,
so her harde hart, so her estranged minde
in which above the heavens, I once reposed
so to thy error have her eares inclined,
and have forgotten all thy past deservinge,
holdinge in minde butt only thyne offence
and only now affecteth thy depravinge
and thincks all vayne that pleadeth thy defence,
Yet greater fancye bewtye never bredd
a more desire the hart bludd never nowrished
her sweetness an affection never fedd
which more in any age hath ever floryshedd
The minde and vertue never have begotten
a firmer love, since love on yearth had poure
a love obscurde, but cannot be forgotten
to great and stronge for tymes Jawes to devour,
contayninge such a fayth as ages wound not
Care, wackfull ever of her good estate
feare, dreadinge loss, which sythes, and joyes not
a memory, of the joyes her grace begate
a lastinge gratfullness, for thos cumforts past
of which the cordiall sweetness cannot dye
thes thoughts knitt up by fayth shall ever last
thes, tyme assayes, butt never cann untye.
Whose life once lived in her perrellike brest
whose joyes weare drawne but from her happines
whose harts hygh pleasure, and whose minds trew rest
proceeded from her fortunes blessedness,
who was intentive, wakefull, and dismayde
in feares, in dreames, in feeverus Jelosye
who longe in sylence served, and obayed
with secret hart, and hydden loyaltye,
which never change to sadd adversetye
which never age, or natures overthrow
which never sickness, or deformetye
which never wastinge care, or weeringe wo,
If subject unto thes she could have bynn. . . .
which never words, or witts mallicious
which never honors bayte, or worlds fame
atchyved by attemptes adventerus,
or ought beneath the soonn, or heavens frame
can so desolve, dissever, or distroye
the essentiall love, of no frayle parts cumpounded
though of the same now buried bee the joy
the hope, the cumfort, and the sweetness ended,
but that the thoughts, and memores of thees
worke a relapps of passion, and remayne
of my sadd harte the sorrow suckinge bees
the wrongs recevde, the scornes perswade in vayne, . . .
And though thes medcines worke desire to end
and ar in others the trew cure of likinge
the salves that heale loves wounds and do amend
consuminge woe, and slake our harty sythinge
the[y] worke not so, in thy minds long deseas
externall fancy tyme alone recurethe
all whose effects do weare away with ease
love of delight while such delight indureth
stayes by the pleasure, but no longer stayes. . . .
But in my minde so is her love inclosde
and is therof not only the best parte
but into it the essence is disposde . . .
Oh love / the more my wo / to it thow art
yeven as the moysture in each plant that growes
yeven as the soonn unto the frosen ground
yeven as the sweetness, to th'incarnate rose
yeven as the Center in each perfait rounde,
as water to the fyshe, to men as ayre
as heat to fier, as light unto the soonn
Oh love it is but vayne, to say thow weare
ages, and tymes, cannot thy poure outrunn. . . .

Thow art the sowle of that unhappy minde
which beinge by nature made an Idell thought
begann yeven then to take immortall kynde
when first her vertues in thy spirrights wrought, . . . .
from thee therfore that mover cannot move
because it is becume thy cause of beinge
what ever error may obscure that love
what ever frayle effect in mortall livinge,
what ever passion from distempered hart
what absence, tyme, or injure[y]s effect,
what faythless frinds, or deipe dissembled art
present, to feede her most unkynde suspect.
& ;though all her thoughts be drawne back to her brest
and noon remayne that call thee to her& ;
Yet as the eayre in deip caves under ground
is strongly drawne when violent heat hath rent
great clefts therin, till moysture do abound
and then the same imprisoned, and uppent,
breakes out in yearthquakes teringe all asunder,
So in the Center of my cloven hart,
my hart, to whom her bewties wear such wounder
Lyes the sharpe poysoned heade of that loves dart
which till all breake and all desolve to dust
thence drawne it cannot bee, or therin knowne
ther, mixt with my hart bludd, the fretting rust
the better part hath eaten, and outgrown. . . .
Butt what of thos, or thes, or what of ought
of that which was, or that which is, to treat?
what I possess is butt the same I sought
my love was falce , my labors weare desayte
nor less then such the[y] ar esteemde to bee,
a fraude bought att the prize of many woes
a guile, wherof the profitts unto mee
coulde it be thought premeditate for thos?
wittness thos withered leves left on the tree
the sorrow worren face, the pensive minde,
the xternall shews what may th'internall bee
cold care hath bitten both the root, and rinde; . . . . .

Butt stay my thoughts, make end, geve fortune way
harshe is the voice of woe and sorrows sounde
cumplaynts cure not, and teares do butt allay
greifs for a tyme, which after more abounde
to seeke for moysture in th'arabien sande
is butt a losse of labor, and of rest
the lincks which tyme did break of harty bands
words cannot knytt, or waylings make a new,
seeke not the soonn in cloudes, when it is sett. . . .
On highest mountaynes wher thos Sedars grew
agaynst whose bancks, the trobled ocean bett
and weare the markes to finde thy hoped port
into a soyle farr of them sealves remove
onn Sestus shore Leanders late resorte
Hero hath left no lampe to guyde her love
Thow lookest for light in vayne, and stormes arise
Shee sleaps thy death, that erst thy danger syth=ed
strive then no more bow down thy weery eyes
eyes, which to all thes woes thy hart have guided

Shee is gonn, Shee is lost, shee is found, shee is ever faire,
Sorrow drawes weakly, wher love drawes not too
Woes cries, sound nothinge, butt only in loves eare
Do then by diinge, what life cannot doo. . . .
Unfolde thy flockes, and leve them to the feilds
to feed onn hylls, or dales, wher likes them best
of what the summer, or the springetyme yeildes
for love, and tyme, hath geven thee leve to rest,
Thy hart which was their folde now in decay
by often stormes, and winters many blasts
all torne and rent becumes misfortunes pray,
falce hope, my shepherds staff now age hath brast
My pipe, which loves own hand, gave my desire
to singe her prayses, and my wo uppon
Dispaire hath often threatned to the fier
as vayne to keipe now all the rest ar gonn.
Thus home I draw, as deaths longe night drawes onn
Yet every foot, olde thoughts turne back myne eyes
constraynt me guides as old age drawes a stonn
agaynst the hill, which over wayghty lyes
for feebell armes, or wasted strenght to move
my steapps ar backwarde, gasinge onn my loss,
my minds affection, and sowles sole love,
not mixte with fance[y]s chafe, or fortunes dross,
to god I leve it, who first gave it me,
and I her gave, and she returnd agayne,
as it was herrs, so lett his mercies bee,
of my last cumforts, the essentiall meane.

But be it so, or not, th'effects, ar past,
her love hath end. my woe must ever last.