« Woods, hills, and rivers, now are desolate, Sith he is gone the which them all did grace; And all the fields do wail their widow state, Sith death their fairest flower did late deface: The fairest flowre in field that ever grew Was Astrophel; that was we all may rue.
"What cruel hand of cursed foe unknown Hath cropt the stalk which bore so fair a flowre? Untimely cropt, before it well were grown, And clean defaced in untimely howre: Great loss to all that ever him did see,
Great loss to all, but greatest loss to me.
"Break now your girlonds, O ye shepherds Lasses! Sith the fair flowre which them adorn'd is gone; The flowre which them adorn'd, is gone to ashes, Never again let lass put girlond on:
In stead of girlond, wear sad cypress now, And bitter elder, broken from the bough.
"Ne ever sing the love-lays which he made; Who ever made such lays of love as he? Ne ever read the riddles which he said Unto your selves, to make you merry glee : Your merry glee is now laid all abed,
Your merry maker now, alas! is dead.
"Death, the devourer of all world's delight, 265 Hath robbed you, and reft fro me my joy;
Both you and me, and all the world, he quight Hath robb`d of joyance, and left sad annoy. Joy of the world, and shepherds' pride, was he; Shepherds, hope never like again to see.
"O Death! that hast us of such riches reft, Tell us, at least, what hast thou with it done? What is become of him whose flowre here left Is but the shadow of his likeness gone? Scarce like the shadow of that which he was, Nought like, but that he like a shade did pass.
"But that immortal spirit, which was deckt With all the dowries of celestial grace,
By soveraign choice from th' heavenly quires select, And lineally deriv'd from angels' race, O what is now of it become? aread: Aye me! can so divine a thing be dead :
"Ah! no: it is not dead, ne can it die, But lives for aye in blissful paradise, Where like a new-born babe it soft doth lie
In bed of lillies, wrapt in tender wise,
And compast all about with roses sweet, And dainty violets from head to feet.
"There thousand birds, all of celestial brood, To him do sweetly carol day and night, And with strange notes, of him well understood, Lull him asleep in angel-like delight;
Whilst in sweet dream to him presented be Immortal beauties, which no eye may see.
"But he them sees, and takes exceeding pleasure Of their divine aspects, appearing plain, And kindling love in him above all measure; Sweet love, still joyous, never feeling pain : For what so goodly form he there doth see He may enjoy, from jealous rancor free.
"There liveth he in everlasting bliss, Sweet Spirit! never fearing more to die, Ne dreading harm from any foes of his, Ne fearing savage beasts' more cruelty,
Whilst we here wretches wail his private lack, 305 And with vain vows do often call him back.
But live thou there still, happy, happy Spirit! And give us leave thee here thus to lament; Not thee that dost thy heaven's joy inherit,
But our own selves, that here in dole are drent. 310 Thus do we weep and wail, and wear our eyes, Mourning in others our own miseries."
Which when she ended had, another swain, Of gentle wit and dainty sweet device, Whom Astrophel full dear did entertain Whilst here he liv'd, and held in passing price, Hight Thestylis, began his mournful tourn, And made the Muses in his song to mourn.
And after him full many other moe,
And every one in order lov'd him best,
'Gan dight themselves t' express their inward woe With doleful layes, unto the time addrest ;
The which I here in order will rehearse,
As fittest flowres to deck his mournful hearse. 324
OF THESTYLIS.
COME forth, ye Nymphs! come forth,
Forsake your watry bowres,
Forsake your mossy caves, And help me to lament;
Help me to tune my doleful notes To gurgling sound
Of Liffie's tumbling streams: Come let salt tears of ours Mix with his waters fresh : O come! let one consent
Joyn us to mourn with wailful plaints
The drery day in which They have from us yrent The noblest plant that might From east to west be found.
Mourn, mourn great Philip's fall! Mourn, we his woful end,
Whom spightful Death hath pluckt Untimely from the tree, Whiles yet his years in flowre Did promise worthy fruit. Ah! dreadful Mars! why didst Thou not thy knight defend?
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