epicures, whose loose life hath made religion loathsome to your ears; and when they sooth you with terms of mastership, remember Robert Greene, whom they have so often flattered, perishes now for want of comfort. Remember, gentlemen, your lives are like so many lighted tapers, that are with care delivered to all of you to maintain; these with wind-puffed wrath may be extinguished, which drunkenness put out, which negligence let fall: for man's time of itself is not so short, but it is more shortened by sin. The fire of my light is now at the last snuff, and the want of wherewith to sustain it, there is no substance left for life to feed on. Trust not then, I beseech ye, to such weak stays: for they are as changeable in mind, as in many attires. Well, my hand is tired, and I am forced to leave where I would begin; for a whole book cannot contain these wrongs, which I am forced to knit up in some few lines of words.

Desirous that you should live, though

himself be dying, Robert Greene.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE1

(1564-1593)

HERO AND LEANDER

FROM THE FIRST SESTIAD

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon.
The outside of her garments were of lawn, 9
The lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;
Her wide sleeves green, and border'd with a
grove,

Where Venus in her naked glory strove
To please the careless and disdainful eyes
Of proud Adonis, that before her lies;
Her kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,
Made with the blood of wretched lovers slain.
Upon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,
From whence her veil reach'd to the ground
beneath;

1 See also p. 165.

40

Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,
And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true; so like was one the other,
As he imagin'd Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rock, there took his rest.
So lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun,
As Nature wept, thinking she was undone,
Because she took more from her than she left,
And of such wondrous beauty her bereft :
Therefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,
Since Hero's time hath half the world been
black.

Amorous Leander, beautiful and young 51
(Whose tragedy divine Musæus sung),
Dwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none
For whom succeeding times make greater

moan.

His dangling tresses, that were never shorn, Had they been cut, and unto Colchos borne, Would have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece

To hazard more than for the golden fleece. Fair Cynthia wished his arms might be her Sphere;

Grief makes her pale, because she moves not there.

His body was as straight as Circe's wand; 61
Jove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.
Even as delicious meat is to the taste,
So was his neck in touching, and surpast
The white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye,
How smooth his breast was, and how white
his belly;

And whose immortal fingers did imprint
That heavenly path with many a curious dint
That runs along his back; but my rude pen
Can hardly blazon forth the loves of men, 70
Much less of powerful gods: Let it suffice
That my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;
Those orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his
That leapt into the water for a kiss
Of his own shadow, and, despising many,
Died ere he could enjoy the love of any.
Had wild Hippolytus Leander seen,
Enamour'd of his beauty had he been.
His presence made the rudest peasant melt,
That in the vast uplandish country dwelt; 80
The barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with
nought,

Was mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.

Some swore he was a maid in man's attire,
For in his looks were all that men desire,
A pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye,
A brow for love to banquet royally;
And such as knew he was a man, would say,
"Leander, thou art made for amorous play;
Why art thou not in love, and loved of all?
Though thou be fair, yet be not thine own
thrall."

So at her presence all surpris'd and tooken,
Await the sentence of her scornful eyes;
He whom she favours lives; the other dies.
There might you see one sigh; another rage;
And some, their violent passions to assuage,
Compile sharp satires; but, alas, too late!
For faithful love will never turn to hate.
And many, seeing great princes were denied,
Pin'd as they went, and thinking on her died.
On this feast-day - O cursed day and hour!-
Went Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower
To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this had Venus none:
The walls were of discolour'd2 jasper-stone,
Wherein was Proteus carved; and over-head
A lively vine of green sea-agate spread,
Where by one hand light-headed Bacchus
hung,

And with the other wine from grapes outwrung.

Of crystal shining fair the pavement was;
The town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass:

140

FROM VENUS AND ADONIS

Thus hoping that Adonis is alive,
Her rash suspect 2 she doth extenuate;3 1010
And that his beauty may the better thrive,
With Death she humbly doth insinuate;

Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs, and
stories;

His victories, his triumphs, and his glories. "O Jove," quoth she, "how much a fool was I To be of such a weak and silly mind To wail his death who lives and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind!

For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again.

"Fie, fie, fond love, thou art so full of fear 1021 As one with treasure laden, hemm'd with thieves;

Trifles, unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves."

Even at this word she hears a merry horn,
Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn.

As falcon to the lure, away she flies;
The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light;
And in her haste unfortunately spies
The foul boar's conquest on her fair delight;
Which seen, her eyes, as murder'd with the
view,

1031

Like stars ashamed of day, themselves withdrew;

Or, as the snail, whose tender horns being hit,

Shrinks backward in his shelly cave with

pain,

And there, all smother'd up, in shade doth sit,
Long after fearing to creep forth again;
So, at his bloody view, her eyes are fled
Into the deep dark cabins of her head:

Where they resign their office and their light
To the disposing of her troubled brain; 1040
Who bids them still consort with ugly night,
And never wound the heart with looks again;
Who, like a king perplexèd in his throne,
By their suggestion gives a deadly groan,
Whereat each tributary subject quakes;
As when the wind, imprison'd in the ground,
Struggling for passage, earth's foundation
shakes,

Which with cold terror doth men's minds confound.

This mutiny each part doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes;

1050

"But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar,
Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave,
Ne'er saw the beauteous livery that he wore;
Witness the entertainment that he gave:

If he did see his face, why then I know
He thought to kiss him, and hath kill'd him

So.

"Tis true, 'tis true; thus was Adonis slain : He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, Who did not whet his teeth at him again, 1113 But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathed unaware the tusk in his soft groin.

"Had I been tooth'd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill'd him first; But he is dead, and never did he bless 1119 My youth with his; the more am I accurst.'

With this, she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood.

She looks upon his lips, and they are pale;
She takes him by the hand, and that is cold;
She whispers in his ears a heavy tale,
As if they heard the woeful words she told;

She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where, lo, two lamps, burnt out, in darkness lies;

Two glasses, where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell'd, And every beauty robb'd of his effect: "Wonder of time," quoth she, "this is my spite,

1132

That, thou being dead, the day should yet be light.

"Since thou art dead, lo, here I prophesy:
Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend:
It shall be waited on with jealousy,
Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end,

Ne'er settled equally, but high or low, 1139
That all love's pleasure shall not match his

woe.

"It shall be fickle, false, and full of fraud, Bud and be blasted in a breathing-while; The bottom poison, and the top o'erstraw'd1 With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile: The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb and teach the fool to speak.

1 o'erstrewed

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves for-
sake

II

Whereon the stars in secret influence com

ment;

When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and check'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit1 of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight, 10
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVII

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your
parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age, to come would say, "This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly
faces."

So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than

tongue,

And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage. 11 And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

XXIX

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends
possess'd,

Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least ;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's

gate;

IC

For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings

That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

1 conception, thought