FRIENDS PASSION, FOR HIS ASTROPHILL.
upon the Death of the Right Honourable SIR PHILLIP SIDNEY Knight, Lord Governour of Flushing *.
As then, no winde at all there blew,
No fwelling cloude accloid the aire;
The skie, like graffe [glaffe] of watchet hew,
Reflected Phoebus golden haire;
The garnifht tree no pendant stird,
No voice was heard of anie bird.
There might you fee the burly Beare,
The Lion king, the Elephant;
The maiden Unicorne was there,
So was Acteons horned plant,
And what of wilde or tame are found,
Were coucht in order on the ground.
Alcides fpeckled poplar tree,
The palme that Monarchs do obtaine,
* This poem, was written by Matthew Roydon, as we are informed in Nafh's Preface to Greene's Arcadia, and in Engl. Parnaffus. The Phoenix Neft, fet foorth by R. S. of the Inner Temple, Gentleman, 4to. 1593. commences alfo with "An Elegie, or friends paffion, for his Aftrophill, &c."
To the two following pieces I am unable to affign their authors; but no reader will imagine them the productions of Spenfer. TODD,
With love-iuice ftaind the mulberie,
The fruit that dewes the poets braine ;
And Phillis philbert there away,
Comparde with mirtle and the bay.
The tree that coffins doth adorne,
With ftately height threatning the skie;
And, for the bed of Love forlorne,
The blacke and dolefull Ebonie ;
All in a circle compaft were,
Like to an ampitheater.
Upon the branches of those trees,
The airie-winged people fat,
Diftinguished in od degrees,
One fort is this, another that,
Here Philomell, that knowes full well
What force and wit in love doth dwell.
The skiebred Eagle, roiall bird,
Percht there upon an oke above;
The Turtle by him never stird,
Example of immortall love.
The fwan that fings, about to dy,
Leaving Meander ftood thereby.
And, that which was of woonder most,
The Phoenix left fweet Arabie;
And, on a Cædar in this coaft,
up her tombe of spicerie, As I coniecture, by the fame
Preparde to take her dying flame.
In midft and center of this plot,
I saw one groveling on the graffe :
A man or stone, I knew not that;
No stone; of man the figure was,
And yet I could not count him one,
More than the image made of stone.
At length I might perceive him reare
His bodie on his elbow end:
Earthly and pale with ghaftly cheare,
Upon his knees he upward tend,
Seeming like one in uncouth ftound,
To be afcending out the ground.
A grievous figh forthwith he throwes,
As might have torne the vitall strings;
Then down his cheeks the teares fo flows,
As doth the streame of many fprings.
So thunder rends the cloud in twaine,
And makes a paffage for the raine.
Incontinent, with trembling found,
He wofully gan to complaine;
Such were the accents as might wound,
And teare a diamond rocke in twaine :
After his throbs did fomewhat stay,
Thus heavily he gan to fay.
O funne! (faid he) feeing the funne,
On wretched me why doft thou shine,
My ftar is falne, my comfort done,
Out is the apple of my eine;
Shine upon those poffeffe delight,
And let me live in endleffe might.
O griefe that lieft upon my foule,
As heavie as a mount of lead,
The remnant of my life controll,
Confort me quickly with the dead;
Halfe of this hart, this fprite, and will,
Di'de in the breft of Aftrophill.
And you, compaffionate of my wo,
Gentle birds, beasts, and fhadie trees,
I am affurde ye long to kno
What be the forrowes ine agreev's ;
Liften ye then to that infu'th,
And heare a tale of teares and ruthe.
You knew, who knew not Aftrophill?
(That I should live to fay I knew,
And have not in poffeffion ftill!)
Things knowne permit me to renew,
Of him you know his merit fuch,
I cannot fay, you heare, too much.
Within these woods of Arcadie,
He chiefe delight and pleasure tooke,
And on the mountaine Parthenie,
Upon the chryftall liquid brooke,
The Mufes met him ev'ry day,
That taught him fing, to write, and say.
When he defcended downe to the mount,
His perfonage feemed most divine,
A thousand graces one might count,
Upon his lovely cheerfull eine;
To heare him fpeake and fweetly smile,
You were in Paradife the while.
A fweet attractive kinde of grace,
A full affurance given by lookes,
Continuall comfort in a face,
The lineaments of Gospell bookes,
I trowe that countenance cannot lie,
Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.
Was never eie did fee that face,
Was never eare did heare that tong,
Was never minde did minde his grace,
That ever thought the travell long;
But eies, and eares, and ev'ry thought,
Were with his sweete perfections caught.
O God, that fuch a worthy man,
In whom fo rare defarts did raigne,
Defired thus, must leave us than,
And we to wifh for him in vaine !
O could the stars, that bred that wit,
In force no longer fixed fit!
Then being fild with learned dew,
The Mufes willed him to love;
That inftrument can aptly fhew,
How finely our conceits will move;
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