Was (O sad hap, and hour unfortunate!)
With violent swift flight forth carried
Into the cursed cobweb which his foe
Had framed for his final overthrow.
There the fond Fly entangled, struggled long, 425
Himself to free thereout; but all in vain;
For striving more, the more in laces strong
Himself he tide, and wrapt his winges twain
In limy snares the subtil loops among,
That in the end he breathless did remain,
And all his youthly forces idly spent,
Him to the mercy of th' avenger lent.
Which when the griesly tyrant did espy,
Like a grim lion rushing with fierce might
Out of his den, he seized greedily
On the resistless prey, and with fell spight,
Under the left wing strook his weapon sly
Into his heart, that his deep-groaning spright
In bloody streams forth fled into the air,
His body left the spectacle of care.
To the right noble Lady,
MARY,
Daughter to the most illustrious Prince,
GEORGE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.
MOST noble Lady! I have presumed to present this Poem to your honourable hand, encouraged only by the worth of the famous Author, (for I am certainly assured, by the ablest and most knowing men, that it must be a work of Spenser's, of whom it were pity that any thing should be lost) and doubting not but your Ladyship will graciously accept, though from a mean hand, this humble present, since the man that offers it is a true honourer and observer of your self and your princely family, and shall ever remain
The humblest of your devoted servants,
Accipe facundi culicem studiose Maronis,
Ne nugis positis, arma virumque canas.
SEE here that stately Muse that erst could raise
In lasting numbers great Eliza's praise,
And dress fair Vertue in so rich attire,
That even her foes were forced to admire
And court her heavenly beauty! She that taught
The Graces grace, and made the Vertues thought
More vertuous than before, is pleased here
To slack her serious flight, and feed your ear
With love's delightsom toys: do not refuse
These harmless sports; 'tis learned Spenser's Muse;
But think his loosest poems worthier than
The serious follies of unskilful men.
CANTO I.
The Argument.
The youthly spepherds wonning here,
And beauties rare dispiaid, appear;
What exercise he chief affects,
His name and scornful love neglects.
IN Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?)
When harmless Troy yet felt not Græcian spite,
An hundred shepherds wonn'd, and in the dale,
While their fair flocks the three-leav'd pastures bite,
The shepherds boys, with hundred sportlings light,
Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste:
Ah, foolish Lads! that strove with lavish waste
So fast to spend the time that spends your time as fast.
II.
Amongst the rest, that all the rest excell'd,
A dainty boy there wonn'd, whose harmless years
Now in their freshest budding gently swell'd;
His nymph-like face ne'er felt the nimble sheers,
Youth's downy blossom through his cheek appears;
His lovely limbs (but love he quite discarded)
Were made for play (but he no play regarded) 15
And fit love to reward, and with love be rewarded.
III.
High was his fore-head, arch'd with silver mould,
(Where never anger churlish wrinkle dighted)
His auburn locks hung like dark threds of gold,
That wanton airs (with their fair length incited)
To play amongst their wanton curles delighted; 21
His smiling eyes with simple truth were stor❜d:
Ah! how should truth in those thief eyes be stor❜d,
Which thousand loves had stoln, and never one re-
His lilly-cheek might seem an ivory plain,
More purely white than frozen Appenine,
Where lovely Bashfulness did sweetly reign,
In blushing scarlet cloth'd in purple fine.
A hundred hearts had this delightful shrine,
(Still cold it self) inflam'd with hot desire,
That well the face might seem in divers tire,
To be a burning snow, or else a freezing fire.
His cheerful looks and merry face would prove (If eyes the index be where thoughts are read) A dainty play-fellow for naked Love;
Of all the other parts enough is said,
That they were fit twins for so fair a head:
Thousand boys for him, thousand maidens dy'd;
Die they that list, for such his rigorous pride,
He thousand boys (ah, Fool!) and thousand maids
[deny'd.
His joy was not in musick's sweet delight,
(Though well his hand had learnt that cunning art)
Or daintier songs to daintier ears t'indite,
But through the plains to chase the nimble hart
With well-tun'd hounds; or with his certain dart
The tusked boar or savage bear to wound;
Mean time his heart with monsters doth abound;
Ah, Fool! to seek so far what nearer might be found.
|