The Shepheards finding no place for them in these garboyles, to which their quiet hearts (whose highest ambition was in keeping themselues vp in goodnes) had at all no aptnes, retired themselues from among the clamorous multitude: and as sorowe desires company, went vp together to the Westerne side of a hill, whose prospect extended it so farre, as they might well discerne many of Arcadias beawtyes. And there looking vpon the Sunnes as then declining race, the poore men sate pensiue of their present miseries, as if they founde a wearines of theyr wofull wordes: till at last good olde Geron (who as he had longest tasted the benefites of Basilius gouernment, so seemed to haue a speciall feeling of the present losse) wiping his eyes and long white bearde bedeawed with greate dropps of teares, began in this sorte to complayne. Alas poore sheepe, sayde hee, which hitherto haue enioyed your fruitefull pasture, in such quietnes, as your wooll amongst other things hath made this Countrie famous, your best dayes are now past: now you must become the vittaile of an armye, and perchaunce an armye of foraine enemyes: you are now not onely to feare home Wolues, but alien Lions; now, I say now, that our right Basilius is deceased. Alas sweete pastures! Shall souldiours that knowe not how to vse you, possesse you? Shall they that can not speake Arcadian language be Lordes ouer your Shepheards? For alas with good cause may we looke for any euill, since Basilius our only strength is taken from vs. To that all the other Shepheards present vttered pittifull voyces, especially the very borne Arcadians. For as for the other, though humanitie moued them to pittie humane cases, especially in a Prince, vnder whome they had founde a refuge of their miseries, and iustice equally administred: yet could they not so naturally feele the liuely touch of sorrowe. Neuerthelesse, of that number one Agelastus, notably noted among them, aswell for his skill in Poetry, as for an austerely mayntayned sorrowfulnes, wherewith hee seemed to despise the workes of nature, framing an vniuersall complaint in that vniuersall mischiefe, vttered it in this sestine.
Since wayling is a bud of causefull sorowe,
Since sorow is the follower of euill fortune,
Since no euill fortune equalls publique damage:
Now Princes losse hath made our damage publique,
Sorow, pay we to thee the rights of Nature,
And inward griefe seale vp with outward wailing. Why should we spare our voice from endlesse wailing,
Who iustly make our hearts the seate of sorow?
In such a case where it appeares that nature
Doth add her force vnto the sting of fortune:
Choosing alas! this our theatre publique,
Where they would leaue trophees of cruell damage, Then since such pow’rs conspir’d vnto our damage
(Which may be know’n, but neuer help’t with wailing)
Yet let vs leaue a monument in publique
Of willing teares, torne haires, & cries of sorrow.
For lost, lost is by blowe of cruell fortune
Arcadias gemme the noblest childe of nature, O nature doting olde, ô blinded nature,
How hast thou torne thy selfe! sought thine owne damage!
In graunting such a scope to filthy fortune,
By thy impes losse to fill the world with wai’ling
Cast thy stepmother eyes vpon our sorowe,
Publique our losse: so, see, thy shame is publique. O that we had, to make our woes more publique,
Seas in our eyes, & brasen tongues by nature,
A yelling voice, & heartes compos’d of sorow,
Breath made of flames, wits knowing nought but damage,
Our sports murdering our selues, our musiques wailing,
Our studies fixt vpon the falles of fortune. No, no, our mischiefe growes in this vile fortune,
That priuate paines can not breath out in publique
The furious inward griefes with hellish wailing:
But forced are to burthen feeble nature
With secret sense of our eternall damage,
And sorow feede, feeding our soules with sorow. Since sorow then concludeth all our fortune
With all our deathes shew me this damage publique.
His nature feares to die who liues still wailing.
It seemed that this complaint of Agelastus had awaked the spirits of the Arcadians, astonished before with exceedingnes of sorow. For hee had scarcely ended, when diuerse of them offred to follow his example, in be wayling the generall losse of that countrie which had bene aswell a nurse to straungers, as a mother to Arcadians . Among the rest one accounted good in that kinde, and made the better by the true feeling of sorowe, roared out a song of lamentation, which (as well as might bee) was gathered vp in this forme:
Since that to death is gone the shepheard hie,
Who most the silly shepheards pipe did pryse,
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie. And you ô trees (if any life there lies
In trees) now through your porous barkes receaue
The straunge resounde of these my causefull cries:
And let my breath vpon your branches cleaue,
My breath distinguish’d into wordes of woe,
That so I may signes of my sorrowe leaue.
But if among your selues some one tree growe,
That aptest is to figure miserie,
Let it embassage beare your grieues to showe.
The weeping Mirrhe I thinke will not denie
Her helpe to this, this iustest cause of plaint.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie. And thou poore Earth, whom fortune doth attaint
In Natures name to suffer such a harme,
As for to loose thy gemme, and such a Sainct,
Vpon thy face let coaly Rauens swarme:
Let all the Sea thy teares accounted be:
Thy bowels with all killing mettals arme.
Let golde now rust, let Diamonds waste in thee:
Let pearls be wan with woe their damme doth beare:
Thy selfe henceforth the light doo neuer see.
And you, ô flowers, which sometimes Princes were,
Till these straunge altrings you did hap to trie,
Of Princes losse your selues for tokens reare,
Lilly in mourning blacke thy whitenes die:
O Hyacinthe let Ai be on thee still.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie. O Echo, all these woods with roaring fill,
And doo not onely marke the accents last,
But all, for all reach out my wailefull will:
One Echo to another Echo cast
Sounde of my griefes, and let it neuer ende,
Till that it hath all woods and waters past.
Nay to the heau’ns your iust complaining sende,
And stay the starrs inconstant constant race,
Till that they doo vnto our dolours bende:
And aske the reason of that speciall grace,
That they, which haue no liues, should liue so long,
And vertuous soules so soone should loose their place?
Aske, if in great men good men doo so thronge,
That he for want of elbowe roome must die?
Or if that they be skante, if this be wronge?
Did Wisedome this our wretched time espie
In one true chest to rob all Vertues treasure?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now applie. And if that any counsell you to measure
Your dolefull tunes, to them still playning say,
To well felte griefe, plainte is the onely pleasure.
O light of Sunne, which is entit’led day,
O well thou doost that thou no longer bidest;
For mourning light her blacke weedes may display.
O Phoebus with good cause thy face thou hidest,
Rather then haue thy all beholding eye
Fould with this sight, while thou thy chariot guidest.
And well (methinks) becomes this vaultie skie
A stately tombe to couer him deceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie. O Philomela with thy brest oppressed
By shame and griefe, helpe, helpe me to lament
Such cursed harmes as cannot be redressed.
Or if thy mourning notes be fully spent,
Then giue a quiet eare vnto my playning:
For I to teach the world complainte am bent.
You dimmy clowdes, which well employ your stayning
This cheerefull aire with your obscured cheere,
Witnesse your wofull teares with dayly rayning.
And if, ô Sinne, thou euer didst appeare,
In shape, which by mans eye might be perceaued,
Vertue is dead, now set the triumph here.
Now set thy triumph in this world, bereaued
Of what was good, where now no good doth lie;
And by the pompe our losse will be conceaued.
O notes of mine your selues together tie:
With too much griefe me thinkes you are dissolued.
Your dolefull tunes sweet Muses now applie. Time euer old, and yong is still reuolued
Within it selfe, and neuer tasteth ende:
But mankind is for aye to nought resolued.
The filthy snake her aged coate can mende,
And getting youth againe, in youth doth flourish:
But vnto Man, age euer death doth sende.
The very trees with grafting we can cherish,
So that we can long time produce their time:
But Man which helpeth them, helplesse must perish.
Thus, thus the mindes, which ouer all doo clime,
When they by yeares experience get best graces,
Must finish then by deaths detested crime.
We last short while, and build long lasting places:
Ah let vs all against foule Nature crie:
We Natures workes doo helpe, she vs defaces.
For how can Nature vnto this reply?
That she her child, I say, her best child killeth?
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply. Alas me thinkes, my weakned voice but spilleth,
The vehement course of this iust lamentation:
Me thinkes, my sound no place with sorrow filleth.
I know not I, but once in detestation
I haue my selfe, and all what life containeth,
Since Death on Vertues fort hath made inuasion.
One word of woe another after traineth:
Ne doo I care how rude be my inuention,
So it be seene what sorrow in me raigneth.
O Elements, by whose (men say) contention,
Our bodies be in liuing power maintained,
Was this mans death the fruite of your dissention?
O Phisickes power, which (some say) hath restrained
Approch of death, alas thou helpest meagerly,
When once one is for Atropos distrained.
Great be Physitions brags, but aid is beggerly,
When rooted moisture failes, or groweth drie,
They leaue off all, and say, death commes too eagerlie.
They are but words therefore that men do buy
Of any, since God Æsculapius ceased.
Your dolefull tunes sweete Muses now apply. Iustice, iustice is now (alas) oppressed:
Bountifulnes hath made his last conclusion:
Goodnes for best attire in dust is dressed.
Shepheards bewaile your vttermost confusion;
And see by this picture to you presented,
Death is our home, life is but a delusion.
For see alas, who is from you absented?
Absented? nay I say for euer banished
From such as were to dye for him contented?
Out of our sight in turne of hand is vanished
Shepherd of shepherds, whose well setled order
Priuate with welth, publike with quiet garnished.
While he did liue, farre, farre was all disorder;
Example more preuailing then direction,
Far was homestrife, and far was foe from border.
His life a law, his looke a full correction:
As in his health we healthfull were preserued,
So in his sicknesse grew our sure infection.
His death our death. But ah; my Muse hath swarued,
From such deepe plaint as should such woes descrie,
Which he of vs for euer hath deserued.
The stile of heauie hart can neuer flie
So high, as should make such a paine notorious:
Cease Muse therfore: thy dart ô Death applie;
And farewell Prince, whom goodnesse hath made glorious.
Many were readie to haue followed this course, but the day was so wasted, that onely this riming Sestine deliuered by one of great account among them, could obtaine fauour to be heard.
Farewell ô Sunn, Arcadias clearest light:
Farewell ô pearl, the poore mans plenteous treasure:
Farewell ô golden staffe, the weake mans might:
Farewell ô Ioy, the ioyfulls onely pleasure.
Wisdome farewell, the skillesse mans direction:
Farewell with thee, farewell all our affection. For what place now is lefte for our affection,
Now that of purest lampe is quench’d the light,
Which to our darkned mindes was best direction?
Now that the mine is lost of all our treasure?
Now death hath swallow’d vp our worldly pleasure,
We Orphans made, void of all publique might? Orphans in deede, depriu’d of fathers might:
For he our father was in all affection,
In our well-doing placing all his pleasure,
Still studying how to vs to be a light.
As well he was in peace a safest treasure:
In warr his wit & word was our direction. Whence, whence alas, shall we seeke our direction!
When that we feare our hatefull neighbours might,
Who long haue gap’t to get Arcadians treasure.
Shall we now finde a guide of such affection,
Who for our sakes will thinke all trauaile light,
And make his paine to keepe vs safe his pleasure? No, no, for euer gone is all our pleasure,
For euer wandring from all good direction;
For euer blinded of our clearest light;
For euer lamed of our sured might;
For euer banish’d from well plac’d affection;
For euer robd of all our royall treasure. Let teares for him therefore be all our treasure,
And in our wailfull naming him our pleasure:
Let hating of our selues be our affection,
And vnto death bend still our thoughts direction.
Let vs against our selues employ our might,
And putting out our eyes seeke we our light. Farewell our light, farewell our spoiled treasure:
Farewell our might, farewell our daunted pleasure:
Farewell direction, farewell all affection.
The night beganne to cast her darke Canopie ouer them, and they euen wearie with their woes bended homewardes: hoping by sleepe forgetting themselues, to ease their present dolours. When they were mett with a troupe of twentie horse, the chiefe of which asking them for the Kinge, and vnderstanding the hard newes, thereupon stayed among them expecting the returne of a messenger whome with speede he dispatched to Philanax.
The ende of the fourth Booke.