Davies and Wither, by whose Muses power
A natural day to me seems but an hour,
And could I ever hear their learned lays,
Ages would turn to artificial days.
These sweetly chanted to the Queen of Waves,
She prais'd, and what she prais'd, no tongue depraves
Then base contempt (unworthy our report)
Fly from the Muses and their fair resort,
And exercise thy spleen on men like thee:
Such are more fit to be contemn'd than we.
'Tis not the rancour of a canker'd heart
That can debase the excellence of Art;
Nor great in titles make our worth obey,
Since we have lines far more esteem'd than they.
For there is hidden in a poet's name
A spell that can command the wings of Fame,
And maugre all Oblivion's hated birth,
Begin their immortality on earth;
When he that 'gainst a Muse with hate combines,
May raise his tomb in vain to reach our lines.
Thus Thetis rides along the Narrow Seas
Encompass'd round with lovely naiades,
With gaudy nymphs, and many a skilful swain,
Whose equals earth cannot produce again,
But leave the times and men that shall succeed them
Enough to praise that age which so did breed them.
Two of the quaintest swains that yet have been
Fail'd their attendance on the Ocean's Queen,
Remond and Doridon, whose hapless fates
Late sever'd them from their more happy mates.
For, gentle swains, if you remember well,
When last I sung on brim of yonder dell,
And as I guess it was that sunny morn,
When in the grove there by my sheep were shorn,
I ween I told you, while the shepherds young
Were at their pastral and their rural song,
The shrieks of some poor maid, fallen in mischance,
Invok'd their aid, and drew them from their dance;
Each ran a several way to help the maid;
Some tow'rds the valley, some the green wood stray'd;
Here one the thicket beats, and there a swain
Enters the hidden caves; but all in vain,
Nor could they find the wight whose shrieks and cry
Flew through the gentle air so heavily,
Nor see or man or beast, whose cruel teen
Would wrong a maiden or in grave or green.
Back then return'd they all to end their sport
But Doridon and Remond, who resort
Back to those places which they erst had sought,
Nor could a thicket be by Nature wrought
In such a web, so intricate, and knit
So strong with briars, but they would enter it.
Remond his Fida calls; Fida the woods
Resound again, and Fida speak the floods,
As if the rivers and the hills did frame
Themselves no small delight to hear her name.
Yet she appears not. Doridon would now
Have call'd his love too, but he knew not how;
Much like a man who dreaming in his sleep
That he is falling from some mountain steep
Into a soundless lake, about whose brim
A thousand crocodiles do wait for him,
And hangs but by one bough, and should that break
His life goes with it, yet to cry or speak,
Though fain he would, can move nor voice nor tongue:
So when he Remond heard the woods among
Call for his Fida, he would gladly too
Have call'd his fairest love, but knew not who,
Or what to call; poor lad, that canst not tell,
Nor speak the name of her thou lov'st so well.
Remond by hap near to the arbour found,
Where late the hind was slain, the hurtless ground
Besmear'd with blood; to Doridon he cried,
And tearing then his hair, O hapless tide
(Quoth he), behold! some cursed hand hath ta'en
From Fida this; O what infernal bane,
Or more than hellish fiend enforced this!
Pure as the stream of aged Simois,
And as the spotless lily was her soul!
Ye sacred Powers that round about the pole
Turn in your spheres! O could you see this deed,
And keep your motion? If the eldest seed
Of chained Saturn hath so often been
In hunter's and in shepherd's habit seen
To trace our woods, and on our fertile plains
Woo shepherds' daughters with melodious strains,
Where was he now, or any other power?
So many sev'ral lambs have I each hour,
And crooked horned rams brought to your shrines,
And with perfumes clouded the sun that shines,
Yet now forsaken? to an uncouth state
Must all things run, if such will be ingrate.
Cease, Remond, quoth the boy, no more complain,
Thy fairest Fida lives; nor do thou stain
With vile reproaches any power above,
They all as much as thee have been in love:
Saturn his Rhea; Jupiter had store,
As Iö, Leda, Europa, and more;
Mars enter'd Vulcan's bed, partook his joy;
Phœbus had Daphne, and the sweet-fac'd boy;
Venus, Adonis; and the God of Wit
In chastest bonds was to the Muses knit,
And yet remains so, nor can any sever
His love, but brother-like affects them ever;
Pale, changeful Cynthia her Endymion had,
And oft on Latmus sported with that lad:
If these were subject (as all mortal men)
Unto the golden shafts, they could not then
But by their own affections rightly guess
Her death would draw on thine; thy wretchedness
Charge them respectless; since no swain than thee
Hath offer'd more unto each deity.
But fear not, Remond, for those sacred Powers
Tread on oblivion; no desert of ours
Can be entomb'd in their celestial breasts;
They weigh our off'rings and our solemn feasts,
And they forget thee not: Fida (thy dear)
Treads on the earth; the blood that's sprinkled here
Ne'er fill'd her veins, the hind possess'd this gore;
See where the collar lies she whilom wore.
Some dog hath slain her, or the griping car!
That spoils our plains in digging them for marl.