Бесплатный фрагмент - Chloris

TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED SHEPHERD COLIN CLOUT

I

Colin my dear and most entire beloved,

My muse audacious stoops her pitch to thee,

Desiring that thy patience be not moved

By these rude lines, written here you see;

Fain would my muse whom cruel love hath wronged,

Shroud her love labours under thy protection,

And I myself with ardent zeal have longed

That thou mightst know to thee my true affection.

Therefore, good Colin, graciously accept

A few sad sonnets which my muse hath framed;

Though they but newly from the shell are crept,

Suffer them not by envy to be blamed,

But underneath the shadow of thy wings

Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things.

II

Give warmth to these young-hatchèd orphan things,

Which chill with cold to thee for succour creep;

They of my study are the budding springs;

Longer I cannot them in silence keep.

They will be gadding sore against my mind.

But courteous shepherd, if they run astray,

Conduct them that they may the pathway find,

And teach them how the mean observe they may.

Thou shalt them ken by their discording notes,

Their weeds are plain, such as poor shepherds wear;

Unshapen, torn, and ragged are their coats,

Yet forth they wand’ring are devoid of fear.

They which have tasted of the muses’ spring,

I hope will smile upon the tunes they sing.

TO ALL SHEPHERDS IN GENERAL

You whom the world admires for rarest style,

You which have sung the sonnets of true love,

Upon my maiden verse with favour smile,

Whose weak-penned muse to fly too soon doth prove;

Before her feathers have their full perfection,

She soars aloft, pricked on by blind affection.

You whose deep wits, ingine, and industry,

The everlasting palm of praise have won,

You paragons of learnèd poesy,

Favour these mists, which fall before your sun,

Intentions leading to a more effect

If you them grace but with your mild aspect.

And thou the Genius of my ill-tuned note,

Whose beauty urgèd hath my rustic vein

Through mighty oceans of despair to float,

That I in rime thy cruelty complain:

Vouchsafe to read these lines both harsh and bad

Nuntiates of woe with sorrow being clad.

CHLORIS

I

Courteous Calliope, vouchsafe to lend

Thy helping hand to my untunèd song,

And grace these lines which I to write pretend,

Compelled by love which doth poor Corin wrong.

And those thy sacred sisters I beseech,

Which on Parnassus’ mount do ever dwell,

To shield my country muse and rural speech

By their divine authority and spell.Lastly to thee,

O Pan, the shepherds’ king, And you swift-footed

Dryades I call; Attend to hear a swain in verse to sing

Sonnets of her that keeps his heart in thrall!

O Chloris, weigh the task I undertake!

Thy beauty subject of my song I make

II

Thy beauty subject of my song I make,

O fairest fair, on whom depends my life!

Refuse not then the task I undertake,

To please thy rage and to appease my strife;

But with one smile remunerate my toil,

None other guerdon I of thee desire.

Give not my lowly muse new-hatched the foil,

But warmth that she may at the length aspire

Unto the temples of thy star-bright eyes,

Upon whose round orbs perfect beauty sits,

From whence such glorious crystal beams arise,

As best my Chloris’ seemly face befits;

Which eyes, which beauty, which bright crystal beam,

Which face of thine hath made my love extreme.

III

Feed, silly sheep, although your keeper pineth,

Yet like to Tantalus doth see his food.

Skip you and leap, no bright Apollo shineth,

Whilst I bewail my sorrows in yon wood,

Where woeful Philomela doth record,

And sings with notes of sad and dire lament

The tragedy wrought by her sisters’ lord;

I’ll bear a part in her black discontent.

That pipe which erst was wont to make you glee

Upon these downs whereon you careless graze,

Shall to her mournful music tunèd be.

Let not my plaints, poor lambkins, you amaze;

There underneath that dark and dusky bower,

Whole showers of tears to Chloris I will pour.

IV

Whole showers of tears to Chloris I will pour,

As true oblations of my sincere love,

If that will not suffice, most fairest flower,

Then shall my sighs thee unto pity move.

If neither tears nor sighs can aught prevail,

My streaming blood thine anger shall appease,

This hand of mine by vigour shall assail

To tear my heart asunder thee to please.

Celestial powers on you I invocate;

You know the chaste affections of my mind,

I never did my faith yet violate;

Why should my Chloris then be so unkind?

That neither tears, nor sighs, nor streaming blood,

Can unto mercy move her cruel mood.

V

You fawns and silvans, when my Chloris brings

Her flocks to water in your pleasant plains,

Solicit her to pity Corin’s strings,

The smart whereof for her he still sustains.

For she is ruthless of my woeful song;

My oaten reed she not delights to hear.

O Chloris, Chloris! Corin thou dost wrong,

Who loves thee better than his own heart dear.

The flames of Aetna are not half so hot

As is the fire which thy disdain hath bread.

Ah cruel fates, why do you then besot

Poor Corin’s soul with love, when love is fled?

Either cause cruel Chloris to relent,

Or let me die upon the wound she sent!

VI

You lofty pines, co-partners of my woe,

 When Chloris sitteth underneath your shade,

To her those sighs and tears I pray you show,

Whilst you attending I for her have made.

Whilst you attending, droppèd have sweet balm

In token that you pity my distress,

Zephirus hath your stately boughs made calm.

Whilst I to you my sorrows did express,

The neighbour mountains bended have their tops,

When they have heard my rueful melody,

And elves in rings about me leaps and hops,

To frame my passions to their jollity.

Resounding echoes from their obscure caves,

Reiterate what most my fancy craves.

VII

What need I mourn, seeing Pan our sacred king

Was of that nymph fair Syrinx coy disdained?

The world’s great light which comforteth each thing,

All comfortless for Daphne’s sake remained.

If gods can find no help to heal the sore

Made by love’s shafts, which pointed are with fire,

Unhappy Corin, then thy chance deplore,

Sith they despair by wanting their desire.

I am not Pan though I a shepherd be,

Yet is my love as fair as Syrinx was.

My songs cannot with Phœbus’ tunes agree,

Yet Chloris’ doth his Daphne’s far surpass.

How much more fair by so much more unkind,

Than Syrinx coy, or Daphne, I her find!

VIII

No sooner had fair Phœbus trimmed his car,

Being newly risen from Aurora’s bed,

But I in whom despair and hope did war,

My unpenned flock unto the mountains led.

Tripping upon the snow-soft downs I spied

Three nymphs more fairer than those beautys three

Which did appear to Paris on mount Ide.

Coming more near, my goddess I there see;

For she the field-nymphs oftentimes doth haunt,

To hunt with them the fierce and savage boar;

And having sported virelays they chaunt,

Whilst I unhappy helpless cares deplore.

There did I call to her, ah too unkind!

But tiger-like, of me she had no mind.

IX

Unto the fountain where fair Delia chaste

The proud Acteon turnèd to a hart,

I drove my flock, that water sweet to taste,

«Cause from the welkin Phœbus ’gan depart.

There did I see the nymph whom I admire,

Rememb’ring her locks, of which the yellow hue

Made blush the beauties of her curlèd wire,

Which Jove himself with wonder well might view;

Then red with ire, her tresses she berent,

And weeping hid the beauty of her face,

Whilst I amazèd at her discontent,

With tears and sighs do humbly sue for grace;

But she regarding neither tears nor moan,

Flies from the fountain leaving me alone.

X