Thule, or Vertues historie To the honorable and vertuous Mistris Amy Audely. By F.R. The first booke.

CANT. 6. (Book 6)

Eronaes craft and filed tung, And pleasing looke and flattring face, Deogines his heart hath stung; Aidon doth finde in wofull case, His mother kept in bondage chaine, In whose defence himselfe is slaine.

THou sacred Muse which with thy siluer spring, A little sprinklest my scarse-moystned brow, Helpe me in ampler field my verse to bring, These deedes doe grow to larger number now, Nor can this little pipe them fully sing, Therefore my limits with my song must grow: The diuers webs are now so diuers spunne, They cannot end so neere as they begunne.

Whither defiled soules thus runne ye mad? Wallowing in filthy shames sinck most obscene: What? see you not how Adrastéa sad, With iron whips inflicting hellish peine, Still houereth ouer, marking what is bad, And like Celaeno clasps her wings vncleane, For ioy that she a subiect fit hath found, On whom reuengement deeply may rebound.

This is Erona had considered than, When she first yeelded her to sinnes delight, And drawne her feete againe when she began, This sorrow had not vext her troubled spright, Now desolate left off that cursed man: But since none other way is found in sight, Vnto her wonted arte she runnes againe, And modestie in poysoned heart doth faine.

After the castle was left desolate, And all betooke them to that wicked way, Faine would she after goe but tis too late, So shall her sleights appeare as bright as day, Therefore she doth inuent all desperate, This path or none for helping to assay, All clad in black like mourning for the dead, Or Pilgrim that is all disquieted.

A hood of black vpon her head she wore, Which fought against the Sunne her forme to shield, And on her backe a mourning gowne she bore, Which loosely flagging swept the verdant field, And at her brest a booke there hung before, Whose backe nor painting clad nor golde did guild; But black it was without and so within, Onely the letters white in all were seen.

Thus is the Ancres gone to seeke her fate, Clad in the cloudes of sorrow and despayre, Which to eclipse these rayes which shinde of late; Yet in this battell of her bewties fayre, Opposde to blacke this white supports more state, Which litle teary dimples doe repayre; So that or now, or neuer so diuine, Doth this fayre Cynthia at her fullest shine.

So long she had the playnes and valleys tras't, That Phoebus gallopt downe the westerne hill, Seeing his fierie torches so to wast, And she then hoping for no lesser ill, Then in some outcast harbour farre displas't, To lye, while night keepes all in silent still; Goes forward seeking for some shady place, To hide her from the view of mens disgrace.

But see an aged man this way doth ride, Vpon a lusty Palfrey fayrely set, Who though his hayres in ages graine are dyde, Proues that his heart the mastery doth get, And that some heate within his breast doth bide, Not full remou'd from out his wonted seat, Euen to this damsell is he come at last Whence fiery dartes into his eyes are cast.

Sometimes he lookes, yet straight lookes back againe, Sorry his heart should be captiu'd with loue, Sometimes he viewes yet not to view doth fayne, He fix'th his eyes, yet streight he doth remoue, His thoughts be gone, yet thoughts he would restraine, Which battle in his flaming brest doth proue: That though he fight and striue with his desire, Dry sticks must needes consume once put to fire.

Faine would he passe, but burning loue denyes, And makes him see he striues against his heart, Therefore this medicine he now applyes, And hopes to win his loue by loues desart, He doth enquire which way her iourney lyes, And if her busines binds not to depart: Euen neere (quoth he) my castle fayre doth stand, Which shall be ready at thy sweet command.

She then replyes a pilgrim mayde I am, And finnes deepe spot farre buried in my brest, Tells me I neuer can cleane purge the same, Except I banish quite the bodies rest, Which still prouokes the soule to endlesse shame, But for this profer and your kinde request, One night with you fayre friend I may remaine, So in the morne I shall returne againe.

Euen as the baited hooke in Thamis waues, Floteth along and swimmeth fast away, As if no gainfull hinderance he craues, And when the fish his guilefull course doth stay, Playing a while his tangled life he saues, But at the last he takes him for a pray: So doth this mayd seeme careles for her gaine, But he shall feele her craft to greater paine.

This Knight now widow'd had a comely wife, Whose fayrenes with his fiercenes badly met, The chastest Vestall liu'd no chaster life Then did this Lady, yet he still did fret, A strangers looke would set them both at strife, He thinks she doth her vowed loue forget, Which made her weary of her prison'd breath, And with a sword her soule vnburdeneth.

Her ghost embrued in that crimson gore, Still plaines to Rhadamant with ceaseles cry, For fierce reuenge to make him once deplore, That wrought her that accursed misery, Who deeply moued, wild her weepe no more, And bad reuenge vnto the earth to fly: Where he should get him still desired food, Of cruell torments and new issuing blood.

Now hath he got this fained penitent, To play the pageant of his plotted ill, Who though she seemeth inly to repent, Yet sinnes abyssus there remaineth still, The filthy dregges of shame whose noysome sent, VVith poysened humors shall her louer fill: But since his heart a woing needes must goe, Ile leaue him to his woing and his woe.

Now change thy Myrtle for a Cypresse bow, Put on thy mourning weedes, come mourne my Muse, VVith Ebon dye vailing thy smiling brow, Loth would I tell it, yet I cannot chuse, And tis too late to helpe thy losses now, Floods of my teares cannot thy ioy reduce: Ah good Sir Aidon whose vntimely fate, Makes me to mourne euen fast by pleasures gate.

After this Knight returnde with victorie, Into the country where he first was borne, It chanced as he did arriue full nie His castle, day was fled, and double horne Of Cynthia gan aduance their tops full hie, VVhen wearines their limmes had much for worne, And the Sunnes scorching (now ore-passed heate) VVith labour made their panting hearts to beate.

But now a Christal well they haue espide, In whose cleere streames beauties fayre looking glasse, Phoebe, when in her circuit she did ride, VVould ioy to see the glorie of her face, VVhere they alight, and by the fountaine side Doe lay them downe vpon the pleasant grasse: And while they harke how Zephire soft doth sing, A murmur to their eares these words doth bring.

You goodly boughs of youth which proudly beare Your climing tops vnto the smiling ayre, Thinke how fierce winter shall your garments teare, And with his stormes ore-shadow all your fayre, The goodliest vesture which you ere shall weare, Times aged feathers basely shall impayre, Your ioy the mornings smile, but sable night Shall drowne in sorrowes floods your most delight.

The worlds great pride shall haue a greater fall, Vncertaine men haue no possession sure, He that is neerest death is best of all, The lesser troubles hath he to endure, He that doth sit attirde in princely pall, Cannot the purchase of one day procure; When our ioyes Sunne from Tethis waues doth wade, Tis signe there was, and shall againe be shade.

Therefore thou body which dost pine away, VVhich age hath furrow'd with his iron plow, Reioyce that thou shalt see that glorious day, VVhose bright Sunnes Chariot shall not downward bow, But lighten beames which black night doth obay, So chainde she neuer can from darkenes glow; And while thou drawest this thy fainting breath, VVeepe for to wash thy sinnes, not for thy death.

This mournfull voyce with hoarce and hollow sound, Sayled full gently to their listning eares, VVhose noyse that did from out the caue rebound, Brought to their stonied hearts affrighting feares, At last by earnest thought the Knight hath found, VVhat wracked wight this dolefull musick beares; And knew that this his mother deare had beene, Grieuing her woe, and not her selfe is seene.

Distracted quight about the place he goes, Like Bacchus priests whom holy Thyrse had raught, But now the sound with crying he doth lose, And with the sound the place so much he saught, But then he thinks some wicked forraine foes, His castle haue and her both captiue caught: Therefore vnto the Castle he doth flie, As one intranced in an extasie.

He fiercely knocks against the castle gate, He knocks againe as fury doth him driue, At last one comes, and cryes who dares thus late VVith troubling noyse hither to ariue: No sooner saw he him, but vrgde with hate, (VVith which his passions doe all vainely striue) He with a mighty blow stroke at his head, Thinking euen then t'haue sent his soule to bed.

The other voyding drew his fiery blade, And here (quoth he) goe to thy mothers ghost, His mothers loued name such entry made, As he for thought thereof gan faint almost, In which deepe traunce he doth the Knight inuade, And stroke him deepely to the vtmost cost: Downe falls the Knight as if he dead had bin, The other left him so and entred in.

After Viceina softly followeth, At last she comes, where she doth weeping view The mournfull picture of vngentle death: Nor doth she looke vpon his plight to rue, But with a linnen closely couereth The wound, and doth a litle life renew; VVhere helped by the stopping of his blood, He went with her vnto a ioyning wood.

Yet knowes he not how this vngentle deede VVas wrought, nor who abusde his mothers right; It was a bloody man that did exceede In furious wrath, each word would make him fight: Yet mighty was he, and his happy speede Causde him of any foes to make but light: And still his iawes like smoaky Orcus caue, VVould reeke forth othes when he did curse and raue.

This furious Aiax when the drowsie night Had couerd all things with her pitchy vaile, Comes to this castle where he doth alight, And cries for entry, but his cry doth faile: Then swelling deepe with rage and great despight, The gates with violence he doth assaile: VVhich broken downe, he takes the sleeping Nun, And shuts her in a caue, and roules a stone vpon.

But now good Aidon like the dying swan, Knew that the time of death approached neere: Therefore to sing sweet tunes he now began, The tunes which please the great Creators eare, The cruell fates haue burnt the liuely bran, VVith whose consuming breath and life doth weare Cruell Althea, death rest of vnrest, Leauing the earth-wormes carrying hence the best.

But as his eyes had almost rolde the last, To him his mothers shadow doth appeare, Quoth she; reioyce thou soule worlds woe is past, This burden now no longer shalt thou beare, Our liues account in heauens booke is cast, Throw hence earths cloake, and follow me my deare: This heard, he fix'th his standing eyes on hye, His winged ghost to heauens bower doth flye.

As fayre Creusa in consumed Troy, Fled from Aeneas lifted in the ayre, Rauisht with heauens ouer-pleasing ioy, And left him crying in his loues despayre, Freed from these troubles and the worlds annoy, So hath this ghost now set in starry chayre, Left her that with the shrilnes of her cry, Pierced resisting ayre and stroake the sky.

The greatest woe that heart did euer beare, With grisly tallants gripeth on her soule, Sorrow her inward parts doth fiercely teare, And in griefes couer doth her heart enroule, And when the least relenting doth appeare, Then doth deaths visnomie her peace controule: The Sunne of loue hath set her heart on fire, The smoake is sighs, the flame is her desire.

As when in open field a mounting flame, Halfe-quenched with the clowdes distilling raine, Doubles anon his height, and with the same Yeelds foorth fresh vapours to the clowdes againe, Till they ore-burdned send them whence they came, Rebating so th'aspiring fire amaine: So sighs and teares runne still this weeping sourse, And end themselues, but neuer end their course.

Strike rocky soule (quoth she) a teary showre, From out the hollow of my stony breast, And all thy moysture into riuers powre, For him that did procure thy sweetest rest, And melt in teares vntill thy latest howre, Because thy dearest Deare is now deceast: Then to a Cypresse tree thy shadow turne,* 1.1 And on his tombe shew that thou still doest mourne.

While thou thrice-blessed soule in happy peace, Shalt sing sweet accents rauishing concent, In tunes whose harmony shall neuer cease, But still endure with thy still-during seate, While nothing shall my heart from griefe release, Till with my woe my life shall be expleate: Fayre dayes shall tell me of thy fayrest hue, And clowdy gloome shall bid me euer rue.

This sayd, a shade encompast all the wood, Her darkned sight abroad can nothing see: So by Lyrcaean groue fayre Io stood, Enuellop'd with a shadie Canopee, While she thus masked in this pitchie hood, Was forst the great gods concubine to bee: But at the last at once this clowdy night Is chased by the Sunnes new rising light.

But where before that Sainted Temple lay, Nothing appeares and where the blood did staine, The dyed grasse, there now fayre Roses stay, The damaske colourd in a ruddie graine, That blusheth at the rising of the day, To see her beautie naked all remaine: And purple violets ne'er growing right, But seeke to hide their forme from common sight,

Thus is the Mother and her holy Sonne, The truest types of chastitie and shame, Dead ere new ofspring from their loynes begunne, To propagate fayre vertues sacred name: Which is the reason that th'all-seeing Sunne, Seldome hath seene a chast and spotles Dame: Except Eliza that celestiall wight, And you whose tapers burne pure virgin-light.

But fayre Viceina now doth walke alone, Faine would I bring thee to some lodging place, For curtesie denies to heare thee moane, And thus to leaue thee in this wofull case, Forsaken and accompanide of none: But take it not I pray thee for disgrace, I see some riding here with might and maine, Ile but examine them and come againe.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Alluding to Cyparrisus.