either will bebaste him, or heave the cockscombe ouerboard to feed cods. But courteous Gentlemen that fauqur most backe-bite none, and pardon what is ouerslipt, let such come and welcome, Ile into the stewards room and fetch them a kan of our best beverage. Well Gentlemen you have Euphues Legacie, I fetcht it as farre as the Ilands of Terceras, and therefore read it, censure with favour, and farewell.
This Romance contains more poetry than is extracted in the Helicon; and among the rest, the following:
"Rosader's Second Sonnetto.
"Turne I my looks unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds mine eyes:
If so I looke upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found:
Search I the shade to flie my paine,
He meets me in the shades againe:
Want I to walke in secret grove,
E'en there I meete with sacred love:
If so I bath me in the sacred spring,
E'en on the brink I heare him sing:
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my mone:
If so I mourne, he weepes with me,
And where I am, there will he be.
When as I talke of Rosalind,
The God from coyness waxeth kind:
And seemes in selfe same flame to frie,
Because he loves as well as I:
Sweet Rosalind, for pittie rue:
For why? than Love I am more true:
He if he speede will quickly flie;
But in thy love I live and die."
"First shall the heavens want starry light;
The seas be robbed of their waves;
The day want sunne, and sunne want bright,
The night want shade; the dead men graves:
The April flowers, and leafes, and tree,
Before I false my faith to thee.
First shall the top of highest hills
By humble plaines be overpride,
And poets scorne the Muses quills,
And fish forsake the water glide;
And Iris lose her colour'd weed,
Before I faile thee at thy need.
First direfull hate shall turne to peace,
And love relent in deepe disdaine,
And death his fatall stroke shall cease,
And envie pittie every paine,
And pleasure mourne, and sorrow smile,
Before I talke of any guile.
First Time shall stay his stailesse race,
And Winter blesse his browes with corne,
And snow bemoisten Julies face,
And Winter, Spring, and Summer mourne,
Before my pen by helpe of fame,
Cease to recite thy sacred name."
"Phæbe's Sonnet.
"My Boat doth passe the streights
Of seas incenst with fire,
Fil'd with forgetfulnesse
Amidst the winter's night:
A blind and carelesse boy
(Brought up by fond desire)
Doth guide me in the sea
Of sorrow and despight.
For every oare he sets
A ranke of foolish thoughts,
And cuts (instead of wave)
A hope without distresse.
The winds of iny deepe sighes,
(That thunder still for nought)
Have split my sailes with feare,
With care and heavinesse :
A mighty storme of teares,
A blacke and hideous cloude,
A thousand fierce disdaines,
Doe slacke the haleyards oft,
Till ignorance do pull
And errour haile the shroude.
No starre for safety shines,
No Phoebe from aloft.
Time hath subdued Art, and Joy is slaue to Woe:
Alas (loue guide) be kind: what shall I perish so?"
"Rosader's Description of Rosalind. "Like to the cleare in highest sphere
Where all imperiall glory shines
Of selfe-same colours is her haire,
Whether unfolded, or in twines:
Heigh ho, faire Rosalind.
Her eyes are saphires set in snow,
Resembling heaven by every wink:
The Gods doe feare when as they glow,
And I do tremble when I think:
Heigh ho, would she were mine.
Her cheekes are like the blushing cloude,
That beautifies Aurorae's face;
Or like the silver crimson shroude,
That Phoebus smiling lookes doth grace,
Heigh ho. faire Rosalind.
Her eyes are like to budded roses,
Whom rankes of lillies neighbour nigh,
Within which bounds she balme incloses,
Apt to entice a deitie:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Her necke is like a stately towre,
Where love himself imprison'd lies,
To watch for glances every houre,
From her divine and sacred eies,
Heigh ho, for Rosalind.
Her paps are centers of delight,
Her breasts are robes of heavenly frame,
Where Nature moulds the deaw of light,
To feede perfection with the same;
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
With orient pearle, with rubie red,
With marble white, with saphire blew,
Her body every way is fed,
Yet soft in touch and sweet in view:
Heigh ho, faire Rosalind.
Nature herselfe her shape admires;
The gods are wounded in her sight,
And love forsakes his heavenly fires,
And at her eyes his brand doth light:
Heigh ho, would she were mine!
Then muse not Nymphs tho' I bemoane
The absence of faire Rosalind,
Since for a faire there is a fairer none,
Nor for her vertues so divine:
Heigh ho, faire Rosalind,
Heigh ho, my heart! would God that she were mine."
ANONIMUS, 146, 179, 194, 206
B. E. (Edmund Bolton) 3. 9, 18, 134, 147
B. T. 94
Barnefield, Richard, 83, 126
Bird, M. out of his set songs, 156, 168, 173,
Bolton, Edmund, (see B. E.) 3, 9, 18, 134, 147
Breton, N. 25, 33, 38, 55, 64, 82, 228, 229
Brooke, Christopher, 242
C. H. (Henry Constable) 91, 105, 187, 199
D. I. (John Davis?) 35
D. S E. (Sir Edward Dyer) 53, 88, 112, 154, 183, 231
Dowland, M. John, out of his book of tableture for the lute,
Drayton, Michaell, 16, 27, 91, 114, 189
Dyer, S. E. (see D. S. E.) 53, 88, 112, 154, 183, 231
G. M. F. (Master Fulke Grevile) 181, 182
Greene, Ro. 20, 31, 37, 54, 67, 106, 128
H. W. (Wm. Hunnis?) 68, 70
Howard, L. T. Earle of Surrie, 40, 52
Howell (see Nowell) 213
Hunnis, William (see H. W.) 68, 70
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