SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND MERMEN

MERMAID

Fathoms deep beneath the wave,
Stringing beads of glistering pearl,
Singing the achievements brave
Of many an old Norwegian earl;
Dwelling where the tempest's raving
Falls as light upon our ear,
As the sigh of lover, craving
Pity from his lady dear,
Children of wild Thule, we,
From the deep caves of the sea,
As the lark springs from the lea,

Boy ! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,
And bid the vicar be my guest:
Let all be plac'd in manner due,
A pot, wherein to spit, or spue,
And London Journal , and Free Briton ,
Of use to light a pipe, or * *

*****

*****

This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat:
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write or vote for*.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;

O breake my hart quoth he, O breake and dye,
Whose infant thoughts were nurst with sweete delight;
But now the Inne of care and miserie,
Whose pleasing hope is murthered with despight:
O end my dayes, for now my joyes are done,
Wanting my Peirs , my sweetest Gaveston .

Farewell my Love, companion of my youth,
My soules delight, the subject of my mirth,
My second selfe if I reporte the truth,
The rare and onely Phenix of the earth,

Why doe I quake my down-fall to reporte?
Tell on my ghost, the storie of my woe,
The King commaunds, I must depart the court,
I aske no question, he will have it so:
The Lyons roring, lesser beastes doe feare,
The greatest flye, when he approacheth neare.

My Prince is now appointed to his guarde,
As from a traytor he is kept from me,
My banishment already is preparde,
Away I must, there is no remedie:
On paine of death I may no longer stay,

And thus like slaves we sell our soules to sinne,
Vertue forgot by worldes deceitfull trust,
Alone by pleasure are we entred in,
Now wandring in the labyrinth of lust,
For when the soule is drowned once in vice,
The sweete of sinne, makes hell a paradice.

O Pleasure thou, the very lure of sinne,
The roote of woe, our youthes deceitfull guide,
A shop where all confected poysons been,
The bayte of lust, the instrument of pride,
Inchanting Circes , smoothing cover-guile,

This Edward in the Aprill of his age,
Whil'st yet the Crowne sate on his fathers head,
My Jove with me, his Ganimed , his page,
Frolick as May, a lustie life we led:
He might commaund, he was my Soveraigns sonne,
And what I saide, by him was ever done.

My words as lawes, Autentique he alloude,
Mine yea, by him was never crost with no,
All my conceite as currant he avowde,
And as my shadowe still he served so,
My hand the racket, he the tennis ball,

From gloomie shaddowes of eternall Night,
Shut up in Darknesse, endlesly to dwell,
O, here behold, Me miserable Wight,
Awhile releas'd, my Tragedie to tell,
Let Me have leave my Sorrowes to impart,
Somewhat to ease my sad afflicted Heart.

Goddesse of Armes, and Arts, P ALLAS Divine,
Let thy bright Fauchion lend Me Cypresse Boughes,
Be thou assisting to this Poet of mine,
With Funerall Wreath's ingarlanding His Browes,
Pittying my Woes, when none would heare Me weepe,

Now I will fashion the tale of a fish,
With wise wit singing in measured strains
The song of the Great Whale. Often unwittingly
Ocean-mariners meet with this monster,
Fastitocalon, fierce and menacing,
The Great Sea-Swimmer of the ocean-streams.
Like a rough rock is the Whale's appearance,
Or as if there were swaying by the shore of the sea
A great mass of sedge in the midst of the sand dunes;
So it seems to sailors they see an island,
And they firmly fasten their high-prowed ships
With anchor-ropes to the land that is no land,

Lo! I have learned of the loveliest of lands
Far to the eastward, famous among men.
But few ever fare to that far-off realm
Set apart from the sinful by the power of God.
Beauteous that country and blessed with joys,
With the fairest odors of all the earth;
Goodly the island, gracious the Maker,
Matchless and mighty, who stablished the world.
There ever stand open the portals of heaven
With songs of rapture for blessed souls.
The plain is winsome, the woods are green,
Widespread under heaven. No rain or snow,

What is love once disgrac'd,
But a wanton thought ill plac'd?
Which doth blemish whom it paineth,
And dishonors whom it deigneth,
Seen in higher powers most,
Though some fools do fondly boast
That whoso is high of kin
Sanctifies his lover's sin.
Jove could not hide Io's scape,
Nor conceal Calisto's rape.
Both did fault, and both were fam'd,
Light of loves, whom lust had sham'd.
Let not women trust to men:
They can flatter now and then,
And tell them many wanton tales,
Which do breed their after-bales.