you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world,
and virtue is grateful with beauty and richness adorned.
Neither doubt you a whit, time will your passion utter.
Hardly remains fire hid, where skill is bent to the hiding,
but in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed,
nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing.
Give therefore to the muse great praise in whose very likeness
you do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.
Zelmane:
First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed,
first the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean,
first may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger,
first shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish,
ere that with song of praise I cease her praise to solemnize—
her praise, whence to the world all praise has its only beginning.
But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case.
None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt.
To you my state seems great. By my judgment, your state is blessed.
And yet, neither of us, great or blessed, has regard for himself,
because—weigh this, alas!—great is not great to the greater.70
What, judge you, does a hillock show by the lofty Olympus?
Such my minute greatness does seem, compared to the greatest.
When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of an emmet,71
or when a rich ruby’s just price is the worth of a walnut,
or to the sun small sparks of a candle seem wonders,
then by my high cedar, rich ruby, and only shining sun,
virtue, riches, beauties of mine shall great be reputed.
Oh, no, no. Worthy shepherd, worth can never enter a title
where proofs justly do teach such worth, thus matched, to be nought worth.
Let not a puppet72 abuse thy sprite. Kings’ crowns do not help them
from the cruel headache, nor do shoes of gold heal the gout,
and precious couches full oft are shaked by a fever.
If then a bodily evil by a bodily gloze73 is not hidden,
shall such morning dews be an ease to the heat of a love’s fire?
Dorus:
O glittering miseries of man, if this is the fortune
of those fortune lulls, then small rest rests in a kingdom.
What marvel that a prince transform himself to a pastor,
come from marble bowers (many times the gay harbor of anguish)
unto a silly cabin, though weak, yet stronger against woes.
Now by your words, I begin, most famous lady, to gather
comfort into my soul (I do find). I do find what a blessing
is chanced to my life, that from such muddy abundance
of carking74 agonies to states which still be adherent,75
destiny keeps me aloof. For if all this state—to your virtue
joined, by your beauty adorned—be no means to abolish these griefs,
nor if by that help you can climb up to your fancy
(nor yet fancy so dressed do receive a more plausible hearing),
then do I think, indeed, that it is better to be private
in sorrow’s torments than be tied to the pomps of a palace.
Nurse inward maladies which have not scope to be breathed out
and perforce76 digest all bitter joys of horror
in silence, from a man’s own self with company robbed.
Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I am plunged
into my life’s bondage, yet may I disburden a passion
(oppressed by ruinous conceits) by the help of an out-cry,
not limited to a whispering note, the lament of a courtier,
but sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heavens, do decipher
with bold clamor, unheard, unmarked, what I seek, what I suffer.
And when I meet these trees, in the earth’s fair livery clothed,
ease do I feel (such ease as falls to one wholly diseased)
for that I find in them part of my state represented.
Laurel shows what I seek. By the myrrh is shown how I seek it.
Olive paints me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest.
Myrtle makes my request. My request is crowned with a willow?
Cypress promises help, but a help where comes no recomfort.
Sweet juniper says this, “Though I burn, yet I burn in a sweet fire.”
Yew does make me think what kind of bow the boy77 holds,
which shoots strongly without any noise, and deadly without smart.
Fir trees great and green, fixed on a high hill (but a barren),
are like to my noble thoughts, still new, well placed, to me fruitless.
Fig, which yields most pleasant fruits—its shadow is hurtful.78
Thus are her gifts most sweet, thus more danger to be near her!
Now, when I mark in a palm how it does rise under a burden,
then may I not (and I say) get up, although griefs be so weighty?
Pine is a mast to a ship. To my ship shall hope for a mast serve?
Pine is high (hope is as high), sharp leaved—sharp yet be my hope’s buds.
Elm embraced by a vine? Embracing fancy revives.
Poplar changes its hue from a raising sun to a setting—
thus to my sun do I yield, such looks her beams do afford me.
Old aged oak cut down, of new works serves to the building—
so my desires by my fear, cut down, be the frames of her honor.
Ash makes spears that pierce through shields; her force no repulse takes.
Palms do rejoice to be joined by the match of a male to a female—
and shall sensitive things be so senseless as to resist sense?
Thus be my thoughts dispersed; thus thinking nurses a thinking;
thus both trees and each thing else are the books of my fancy.
But to the cedar, queen of woods, when I lift my tearful eyes,
then do I shape to myself that form which reigns so within me,
and think, there she dwells, and hears what sorrows I utter.
When that noble top nods, I believe she salutes me;
when by the wind it makes a noise, I do think she answers.