Classic Poem

In Imitation of ANGUILLARA.

Now were the lesser tapers of the Night
Burnt out; the Moone to' her blazing Brothers ray
Yeelding the faint streames of her frailer light;
And now the rosie Messenger of Day
Her purple doores unbarring, restores sight
To the blinde world; fannes the soft mistes away
From sleeping eyes; and to the dayes behest
Rowses up ev'ry bird, and ev'ry beast.

When hapless Ariadne , with the day
Opes her (yet drowzie) eyes; and first her head.
Turnes on that side, where shee supposed lay
The treche'rous man that from her side is fled.
Her loving hand first this, then th' other way
She vaine extendes; in vaine about the bed
Her legg, and arme mooves; whence a cold feare takes her,
That startles ev'ry limbe, and broad awakes her.

Shee rises up; about her shoulders throwes
Her garment, and her widdowed bed forsakes;
With haire unbound, and robe that loosely flowes,
(Led by the rage wherewith her swolne brest akes)
Shrieking as one distraught, shee frantick throwes
Her wilde eyes heere and there; then (speedy) makes
Tow'rd the still shore; and that shee findes bereft
Of the false barke shee late at anchor left.

Now on the wharfe shee pores, now on the Mayne;
But more then shore, and waters cannot see.
A thousand times and more shee calls in vaine;
And the lov'd name repeates incessantly.
Her voyce the rocks receive, and back againe
The sound returne, calling as well as shee.
Theseus she calls; the rocks do Theseus cry;
Yet neither voyce can purchase a reply.

Along the sandy beache a steepe cliffe stands,
Whose vaster limbes th' aspiring forhead straine
To height so aerye', as it the sight expands
Farr ore the broad blue bosome of the Mayne.
To this shee runnes; clambers with legs and hands;
Nor weary rests till she the top attaine.
Hard is th' ascent of the rough craggy stone,
Yet her will makes the difficulty none.

Thence she discovers (for by this the day
His broader light had opte) the swoln sailes spred,
And by the wilde winde now blowne farre away.
From her discolour'd cheekes the warme bloud fled,
Within her vaynes freezes; in her dismay
Shee faints; and falls to th' earth colder then lead;
Yet the same griefe that doth of sence deprive her,
Wakes her againe, and doth anew revive her.

'Twixt griefe, disdaine, and rage divided; thus
She lowde exclaimes; whither (false man) O whither
Fly'st thou disloyall? looke, looke Theseus ,
Looke if that barke that brought us both together,
(And should hold both, and holdes but one of us)
Carry the full freight hence it came with hither.
Cruell! if th' hast with thee my soule, and minde,
Why leav'st thou th' other halfe of me behinde?

Ah canst tho' abide my loyall Spirit to range
So farr (to follow and attend on thee)
From her owne home; and this knowne brest exchange,
For one so willing to be rid of mee?
Thus shee complaines; shreekes, weepes, to' her passions strange
Strange gestures suting of calamity.
But th' heedlesse winde, what ere shee sighing say,
Blowes her vaine breath, and the wing'd barke away.

Feeling her voyce with shriekes growne faint, and hoarce,
Shee waves her ceaselesse armes about her head,
And oft her garment; th' imbark'd eyes to force
Back to the shore; but all was vaine she did.
The farr-sayl'd pine beares on his steady course
So fast, as wholly' almost to blue ayre fled.
Shee waves, and beckons still, till from her sight
Shee findes th' ungratefull sayle is vanisht quite.

Yet still shee gazes; and at length anue
Mournes, and such clowdes of woe her Powres benight,
As, though her eyes redouble could their viewe,
Her swelling teares would scarse alowe them sight.
More weake, her sence the more impatient grue;
Whence with new thought shee leaves the craggy height,
And to the Tent breathlesse her selfe withdrue.
Shee sayes, perhaps yet I may finde him there;
So strives to cozen, and delay her feare.

But there her busiest search can nothing finde,
But death-like silence, and an empty bed;
Whereat (fresh passion tyring on her minde)
With cheekes paler then roses pluckt, and dead,
Downe on that side the Cabane where th' unkinde
And false Athenian late layd his head,
Her head shee layes; and with eyes showring still,
Cross'd armes, and sad groanes, thus repeates her ill.

O faithless man, what have I done alas,
Or wherein ever ill deserv'd of thee,
That in this uncouth solitary place
Thou thus inhumanly abandon'st mee?
Ah whither in this miserable case
Shall I repaire? what can my refuge bee
But death (for end of a state so distrest)
By famine, or by some devowring beast.

In this inhospitable Isle, untrode
By humane foote, accompany' de with none
But such as farr from men have their abode,
(Wilde beasts, and wandring fowles,) thus all alone,
Thus to be left? and under such a loade
Of woe, and none to pitty': or heare my moane?
O falsest man, must I that from the grave
Sav'de thee, for meede this sad requitall have?

When through those errors of the maze I led thee,
T' avoid th' undoubted forfeit of thy life;
And with so timely' advice, and ayde bestedd thee,
As ridde thy land of tribute, thee of strife,
Exchang'd my native shores for those that bredd thee,
Kingdome, and freinds, and all to dye thy wife;
Have I for this, for this (false Theseus )
Have I deserv'd to be requited thus?

If through the doubtfull Laborinth I gave
Thee th' easie meane t' escape, and set thee free,
(Whom from the Minotaure no arte could save
But mine that purchast thy delivery,)
Why dost thou not (an easier boone I crave)
Why dost thou not from hence deliver me?
If from that ravenous beast I savde thee, why
Leav'st thou me heere by ravenous beasts to dye?

Or shall I tell my selfe, this Isle may bee
By men (though barb'rous sure) inhabited,
That may perhaps releeve, and succour mee;
Ere with beasts jawes, or hunger I be dead?
Oh sillyest hope! when all this miserie
By trusting Man is faine upon my head,
Is't possible I can ere be so vaine,
Ere be so madd to trust to Man againe?
Ah false smoth lookes, fain'd vizar of deceipt;
Lewde brest, fowle harbour of impiety;
Bitter-sweete tounge, balefull alluring bayte
Of my ore-credulous simplicity.
Ah Theseus lay' dst thou all these foes in waite
To circumvent so much Integrity?
A great exploit no doubt th' have done: betray'de
The loyall bosome of a silly mayde.

Trecherous sleep; why charmd'st thou so mine eyes,
And in thy soft chaine held'st them fetter'd still,
While the false fugitive did from me rise?
Yee windes too, accessaries to my yll,
Oh how officious (like corrupted spies
Sett to betray me) did y' obey his will?
First th' one surpriz'd, and bound me where I lay;
Th' other then stole, and bore my wealth away.

And thou deceitfull Tent, and faithlesse bedd,
O how ungratfull, how unjust yee bee?
When my Soules treasure I deposited,
And safe intrusted to your custodie,
Was' t not your dues t' have redeliv'red
Into my hands what I delivered yee?
But Theseus , why do' I blame, bed, sleepe, or wind,
Poore under-agents of thy treas' nous minde?

Thou, onely thou' tis reav'st me of my life;
Thou that so late coupled' st my hand with thine,
In signe thou took' st me for thy wedded wife;
And to the Rite summond' st the Powers divine
For records; vowing till Deaths fatall Knife
Thy breath divided, to be ever myne.
Then pluck' st my Virgin flowre; Thou, onely thou
False Man, hast thus abus' de, and left me now.

Thou (my hearts first, next honours, now lives theef)
Thou, thou hast thus amidd these frights, and feares
Left me' on this desolate shore, voyde of reliefe,
A pray for howling Wolves, and greedy Beares.
Farre from the care of a Paternall griefe;
Farr from the comfort of a Mothers teares;
Whom I must never more behold; but dye
Without a freind neere me to close my eye.

Ah Theseus , thou now to thy native shore
Return' st with honour, and immortall praise;
Where (as a god) each one will thee adore,
And circle thy victorious head with Bayse;
When thou shalt tell how to the fatall dore,
(Through th' intricacy of so many wayes)
Thou gott' st; and then having the Monster slaine,
So easy' a meane, found' st to get out againe.

The father to his childe will pointing crye,
Loe yon is Theseus that adventured
His life, to gaine his Countries libertie;
And hath the Land from thrall delivered.
When I that help' t thee to the victory,
Shall here lye dead; perhaps unburied.
Annexe this stratageme to th' other past,
How thou here left' st thy loyall wife at last.

So foule a deede will all the rest deface,
T' have paid such faith with such impiety.
Ah nevermore (for shame) steale for thy grace
From ancient Kings thy fained Pedegree;
Thy mother never was of Pitheus race;
Nor could Egeus ere thy father bee.
Rather the brests of some wilde Panthar fed thee,
Or savadge Tigar in the desert bred thee.

This sigh'd; she leaves the Tent; and the steep cliffe
Again ascendes; diversifies her woes
With fresh plaints; now weepes, now shrieks out her griefe.
Ecco (that from the depths at her cry rose)
Lends (in compassion) all the poore reliefe
She can; meeting her plaints at ev'ry close.
And when her tender hand each th' other beates,
She imitates, and the sad noise repeates.

Ah (sayes she) could I' in space of a short groane
From hence to thy Ships prowe trensported bee,
That from the hatches thou might' st heare my moane,
And these sad pangs of my affliction see;
Were not thy heart harder then is the stone
I tread upon, sure thou wouldst pitty me.
But though grosse ayre doth from thine eyes withhold me,
With some remorse yet in thy thought behould mee.

Behould yet in thy thought my bitter plaint:
Behould these teares, that with a frequent raine
Drench my torne haire; o' could thy fant'sie paint
To life but the least part of my vast paine,
Knew' st thou how oft this voice (now hoarce and faint)
Hath call'de thee' already, and still calls in vaine;
Thou'ldst restore all, to me of all bereft;
T'whom scarse so much as ev'ne to hope is left.

Ah Theseus , yet returne: do not forget
Thy selfe so much, to be so merciless;
For my desert of thee, relieve me yet,
Before I fall into so great distress.
Ah no! for my desert I' ll not intreate;
Since thou neglect' st it, and my faithfulness.
Yet be it thy owne sword sav'd thy life, not I;
It followes not that I should therefore dye.

O if ere humane pitty one softe beame shed
Into thy bosome, let me not in vaine
Thus still implore thee; but (though far hence fled)
Steare hither that so long' d-for Barke againe.
And if at thy returne thou finde me dead,
Let yet thy haplesse wives colde bones obtaine
This mercy; to be gath' red up by thee,
And in thy native Athens buried be.

While thus th' afflicted one (her shining haire
And faire flesh tearing) desperately mournes;
And in her restless fit of rage, and feare
(Mixt Feaver-like) freezes at once, and burnes;
Th' ever-young god, that late was conquerer
Of Inde , and now thence under sayle returnes,
In happy houre espyes her; and his sayles
Directs toward the rock whereon she wayles.

Soone as the Jove -borne Bacchus his gaze bent
On her sheene forhead, and aluring eyes;
And (with the shrill sighes that her bosome rent)
Observ'd the sweet sad tenor of her cryes;
And understood her linage and descent
Deriv'd from two so supreame dietyes
As Jove himself by Sires ; by mothers side
From the bright God that doth the wing'd Day guide;

He burnes in amorous fire; prayes, perswades, tryes
From their sad moode her sorrowing thoughts to wooe
With all the softest words he can devise:
But findes all vaine that he can say, or doo.
She heedes him not; but still on Theseus cryes.
Yet he, resolv'd to winne, and wed her too,
Summons the Paphian queen; and to her care
Commits the menage of his loves affaire.

Venus , that ever was god Bacchus friend,
(And whom his absence faint, & mirthless makes)
Doth at his call, her best assistance lend;
And to accomplish what she undertakes,
With carefull hand doth to the cure attend
Of th' olde wound (first,) whereof her bosome akes,
Which heald, she' inspires Liaeus eyes, that dart
New fires, which through her eyes inflame her heart.

And for his sake, to do her grace, whom he
Hath chosen for companion of his bed;
Though from Apollo she descended be,
(Whom since her stolne loves he discovered,
She hates;) yet as from her sires forfait free,
She' imbraces her; and from her owne faire head
A bright crowne takes, (for mortall browes unfit,
So rich it was;) and crownes her browes with it:

This Crowne had Vulcan forg'd: Earth's richest myne
The matter gave; which to imbellish more,
He taught the curious hoope all o're to shine
With brightest gemmes the wealthy Orient bore.
So rich a diadem scarse Powre divine,
Much less inferiour Mortall ever wore.
No marvaile; since the great Artificer
Made it of purpose for his wife to weare.

The Cyprian goddesse with her faire hand dries
The wayling mayds drown'd cheekes. Liaeus wooes;
She shuns; but faintly. Faintly' a while denies,
At last yeelds. For alas how can she choose,
Assayl'd by two so powrefull dyeties?
Her minde doth now all thought of Theseus loose.
Bacchus she loves. He marries her. And (night
Once come) both taste the nuptiall beds delight.

And that her fame (although she mortall were)
Might to ensuing times be ever new;
The pleas'd god takes the crowne from her faire haire;
Which as to th' Artick ycie pole he threw,
The diadem through thinne and yeelding ayre
In an uninterrupted circle flew
Up tow'rds Bootes , and the slowe Teeme; where
Arcturus guards the great, and lesser Beare.

As it ascends, each pretious gemme thereon
Redoubled luster by the motion gaines.
A sev'erall Starre is now each sev'erall stone.
Yet so the former shape entyre remaynes,
As still in ev'ry eye that lookes thereon,
The Constellation a crownes forme retaynes,
And when the sullen night on th' earth doth frowne,
Who see's it, calls it Ariadnes Crowne .