Fame mourns in that she lost, the ground of her reports,

Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts.

He was--woe worth that word-to each well

thinking mind,

A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,,

Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ,

Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit.

He only like himself, was second unto none, Where death-though life-we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan,

12

16

Their loss, not him wail they, that fill the world with cries,

Death slew not him, but he made death his

ladder to the skies.

Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the

wrong,

Who wishing Death, whom death denies, whose

thread is all too long,

Who tied to wretched life, who look for no relief. Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief.

Heart's ease and only I, like parallels run on,
Whose equal length, keep equal breadth, and

never meet in one,

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Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell,

Shall not run out, though leak they will, for

liking him so well.

Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking

dreams,

Farewell sometime enjoyed joy eclipsed are thy beams,

Farewell self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth,

And farewell friendship's sacred league uniting minds of worth.

And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless

minds,

And all sports, which for live's restore, variety

assigns,

Let all that sweet is, void? in me no mirth may

dwell,

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32

Philip the cause of all this woe, my life 's content, farewell.

36

Now rime, the source of rage, which art no kin to skill,

And endless grief which deads my life, yet knows

not now to kill,

Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to

find,

Salute the stones, that keep the lines, that held

so good a mind.

1593.

Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke.

40

LYCIDAS

YET Once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,

I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

10

Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destin’d Urn,
And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd!
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd

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Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering
wheel.

Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;

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Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damotas lov'd to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,

With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine

o'regrown,

And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,

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Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrobe

wear,

When first the White thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless

deep

Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

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Where your old Bards, the famous Druids lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream. Ay me, I fondly dream!

60

Had ye bin there-for what could that have done?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
Alas! What boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better done as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth
raise

(That last infirmity of Noble mind)

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To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 8
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witness of all judging Jove;

As he pronounces lastly on each deed,