Abbildungen der Seite

Or threads which spider's slender foot draws out,
Fastening her light web some old beam about.
Not black, nor golden were they to our view,
Yet although neither mix'd of eithers hue.
Such as in hilly Ida's watery plains,
The cedar tall spoil'd of his bark retains.
And they were apt to curl an hundred ways,
And did to thee no cause of dolour raise.
Nor hath the needle, or the comb's teeth reft them.
The maid that comb'd them ever safely left them.
Oft was she dress'd before mine eyes, yet never,
Snatching the comb to beat the wench, out-drive her
Oft in the morn her hairs not yet digested,
Half sleeping on a purple bed she rested;
Yet seemly like a Thracian Bacchanal,
That tir’d doth rashly on the green grass fall.
When they were slender, and like downy moss,
The troubled hairs, alas, endur'd great loss.
How patiently hot irons they did take,
In crooked trammells crispy curls to make.
I cried, 'tis sin, 'tis sin, these hairs to burn,
They well become thee, then to spare them turn.
Far off be force, no fire to them may reach,
Thy very hairs will the hot bodkin teach.
Lost are the goodly locks, which from their crown,
Phoebus and Bacchus wish'd were hanging down.
Such were they as Diana painted stands,
All naked holding in her wave-moist hands.
Why dost thy ill-comb'd tresses loss lament?
Why in thy glass dost look being discontent?

Be not to see with wonted eyes inclin'd;
To please thyself, thyself put out of mind.
No charmed herbs of any harlot skath'd thee,
No faithless witch in Thessal waters bath'd thee.
No sickness harm'd thee; far be that away,
No envious tongue wrought thy thick locks decay.
By thine own hand and fault thy hurt doth grow,
Thou mad'st thy head with compound poison flow.
Now Germany shall captive hair-tires send thee,
And vanquish'd people curious dressings lend thee.
With some admiring, O thou oft wilt blush
And say he likes me for my borrowed bush.
Praising for me some unknown Guelder dame,
But I remember when it was my fame.
Alas she almost weeps, and her white cheeks,
Dyed red with shame to hide from shame she seeks.
She holds, and views her old locks in her lap;
Aye me ! rare gifts unworthy such a hap.
Sheer up thyself, thy loss thou may'st repair,
and be hereafter seen with native hair.

Elegia 15."

Ad invidos, quod fama poetarum sit perennis. 2N vy, why carpest thou my time is spent so ill 2 And term'st my works fruits of an idle quill 2 »r that unlike the line from whence I come, Var's dusty honors are refus'd being young’ Ior that I study not the brawling laws, or set my voice to sale in every cause ’

[ocr errors]

Thy scope is mortal, mine eternal fame,
That all the world might ever chaunt my name.
Homer shall live while Tenedos stands and ide.
Or to the sea swift Simois doth slide.
Ascreus lives, while grapes with new wine swell,
Or men with crooked sickles corn down fell.
The world shall of Callimachus ever speak,
His art excell'd, although his wit was weak.
For ever lasts high Sophocles' proud vein,
With sun and moon Eratus shall remain.

While bondmen cheat, fathers hoard, bawds whorsh.

And strumpets flatter, shall Menander flourish.
Rude Ennius, and Plautus full of wit,
Are both in Fame's eternal legend writ.
What age of Varro's name shall not be told,
And Jason's Argos, and the fleece of gold :
Lofty Lucretius shall live that hour,
That nature shall dissolve this earthly bower.
Enaeas' war and Tityrus shall be read,

While Rome of all the conquering world is head.

Till Cupid's bow, and fiery shafts be broken,
Thy verses sweet Tibullus shall be spoken.
And Gallus shall be known from East to West,
So shall Lycoris whom he loved best.
Therefore when flint and iron wear away,
Verse is immortal and shall ne'er decay.
To verse let kings give place and kingly shows,
And banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows
Let base conceited wits admire vile things,
Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muses' springs.

About my head be quivering myrtle wound,
And in sad lovers' heads let me be found.
The living, not the dead, can envy bite,
For after death all men receive their right.
Then though death rakes my bones in funeral fire,
I'll live, and as he pulls me down mount higher.

The same by B.I." EN v y, why twit'st thou me, my time's spent ill? And call'st my verse fruits of an idle quill ? “ Or that (unlike the line from whence I sprung) Wars dusty honors I pursue not young’ Or that I study not the tedious laws; And prostitute my voice in every cause? Thy scope is mortal; mine eternal fame, Which through the world shall ever chaunt my name. Homer will live, whilst Tenedos stands, and Ide, Or to the sea, fleet Symois doth slide: And so shall Hesiod too, while vines do bear, Or crooked sickles crop the ripened ear; Callimachus, though in invention low, Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow. No loss shall come to Sophocles' proud vein; With sun and moon Eratus shall remain.

* This version was probably from the pen of Ben Jonson, and if so, we have an additional reason for supposing that the edition which contains it was not published in Marlowe's lifetime, since Jonson was not born until 1574, and had not, we believe, commenced author at the time of Marlowe's death.

While slaves be false, fathers hard, and bawds be
While harlots flatter, shall Menander flourish-
Ennius, though rude, and Accius' high-rear'd strain,
A fresh applause in every age shall gain,
Of Varro's name, what ear shall not be told 2
Of Jason's Argo? and the fleece of gold 2
Then, shall Lucretius' lofty numbers die,
When earth, and seas in fire and flames shall fry.
Tityrus, tillage, Enaeas shall be read,
Whilst Rome of all the conquer'd world is head.
Till Cupid's fires be out, and his bow broken,
Thy verses (neat Tibullus) shall be spoken.
Our Gallus shall be known from East to West,
So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best.
The suffering ploughshear or the flint may wear,
But heavenly poesy no death can fear.
Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,
The banks o'er which gold-bearing Tagus flows.
Kneel hinds to trash : me let bright Phoebus swell,
With cups full flowing from the Muses' well.
The frost-dread myrtle shall impale my head,
And of sad lovers I'll be often read.
“Envy the living, not the dead doth bite,
“For after death all men receive their right.”
Then when this body falls in funeral fire,
My name shall live, and my best part aspire.

« ZurückWeiter »