Classic Poem

This being spoken by this water's god,
He straightway in his hand did take his rod,
And struck it on his bank, wherewith the flood
Did such a roaring make within the wood,
That straight the nymph who then sat on her shore,
Knew there was somewhat to be done in store:
And therefore hasting to her brother's spring
She spied what caus'd the waters' echoing.
Saw where fair Marine fast asleep did lie,
Whilst that the god still viewing her sat by:
Who when he saw his sister nymph draw near,
He thus 'gan tune his voice unto her ear:
My fairest sister (for we come
Both from the swelling Thetis' womb)
The reason why of late I strook
My ruling wand upon my brook,
Was for this purpose: Late this maid
Which on my bank asleep is laid,
Was by herself or other wight
Cast in my spring, and did affright
With her late fall the fish that take
Their chiefest pleasure in my lake:
Of all the fry within my deep,
None durst out of their dwellings peep.
The trout within the weeds did scud,
The eel him hid within the mud,
Yea, from this fear I was not free:
For as I musing sat to see
How that the pretty pebbles round
Came with my spring from underground,
And how the waters issuing
Did make them dance about my spring;
The noise thereof did me appall:
That starting upward therewithal,
I in my arms her body caught,
And both to light and life her brought:
Then cast her in a sleep you see.
But, brother, to the cause (quoth she)
Why by your raging waters wild
Am I here called? Thetis' child,
Replied the god, for thee I sent,
That when her time of sleep is spent,
I may commit her to thy gage,
Since women best know women's rage.
Meanwhile, fair nymph, accompany
My spring with thy sweet harmony;
And we will make her soul to take
Some pleasure, which is said to wake,
Although the body hath his rest.
She gave consent, and each of them address'd
Unto their part. The wat'ry nymph did sing
In manner of a pretty questioning:
The god made answer to what she propounded,
Whilst from the spring a pleasant music sounded,
Making each shrub in silence to adore them,
Taking their subject from what lay before them.

Nymph. What's that, compact of earth, infus'd with air;
A certain made full with uncertainties;
Sway'd by the motion of each several sphere;
Who's fed with nought but infelicities;
Endures nor heat nor cold; is like a swan,
That this hour sings, next dies?
God. It is a man.

Nymph. What's he, born to be sick, so always dying,
That's guided by inevitable fate;
That comes in weeping, and that goes out crying;
Whose calendar of woes is still in date;
Whose life's a bubble, and in length a span;
A concert still in discords?
God. 'Tis a man.

Nymph. What's he, whose thoughts are still quell'd in th' event,
Though ne'er so lawful, by an opposite,
Hath all things fleeting, nothing permanent,
And at his ears wears still a parasite:
Hath friends in wealth, or wealthy friends, who can
In want prove mere illusions?
God. 'Tis a man.

Nymph. What's he, that what he is not strives to seem;
That doth support an Atlas-weight of care;
That of an outward good doth best esteem,
And looketh not within how solid they are;
That doth not virtuous, but the richest scan,
Learning and worth by wealth?
God. It is a man.

Nymph. What's that possessor, which of good makes bad;
And what is worst, makes choice still for the best;
That grieveth most to think of what he had,
And of his chiefest loss accounteth least;
That doth not what he ought, but what he can;
Whose fancy's ever boundless?
God. 'Tis a man.

Nymph. But what is it wherein Dame Nature wrought
The best of works, the only frame of Heaven;
And having long to find a present sought,
Wherein the world's whole beauty might be given,
She did resolve in it all arts to summon,
To join with Nature's framing?
God. 'Tis this woman.

Nymph. If beauty be a thing to be admired,
And if admiring draw to it affection,
And what we do affect is most desired,
What wight is he to love denies subjection?
And can his thoughts within himself confine?