Classic Poem

THE Argument .

The Earle of Surrey, that renowned Lord ,
Th' old English Glory bravely that restor'd ;
That Prince, and Poet (a Name more divine)
Falling in love with beautious G ERALDINE ,
Of the G ERALDI , which derive their Name
From Florence: whither, to advance her Fame ,
He travels, and in publique Justs maintayn'd
Her Beautie peerelesse, which by Armes he gayn'd:
But staying long, faire Italy to see ,
To let her know, him constant still to bee,
From Tuskany this Letter to her writes ;
Which her Rescription instantly invites.

From learned Florence (long time rich in fame)
From whence thy Race, thy noble grandsirs came,
To famous England , that kind Nurse of mine,
Thy S URREY sends to heav'nly G ERALDINE :
Yet let not Tuscan thinke I doe it wrong,
That I from thence write in my Native Tongue,
That in these harsh-tun'd Cadences I sing,
Sitting so neere the Muses sacred Spring;
But rather thinke it selfe adorn'd thereby,
That England reades the prayse of Italy .
Though to the Tuscans I the smoothnesse grant,
Our Dialect no Majestie doth want,
To set thy praises in as high a Key,
As France , or Spaine , or Germanie , or they.
 What day I quit the Fore-land of faire Kent ,
And that my Ship her course for Flanders bent,
Yet thinke I with how many a heavy looke,
My leave of England and of thee I tooke,
And did intreate the Tide (if it might be)
But to convey me one sigh backe to thee.
Up to the Decke a Billow lightly skips,
Taking my sigh, and downe againe it slips;
Into the Gulfe, it selfe it headlong throwes,
And as a Post to England -ward it goes.
As I sate wondring how the rough Seas stird,
I might farre off perceive a little Bird,
Which as she faine from Shore to Shore would flie,
Had lost her selfe in the broad vastie Skie,
Her feeble Wing beginning to deceive her,
The Seas of life still gaping to bereave her;
Unto the Ship she makes, which she discovers,
And there (poore foole) a while for refuge hovers;
And when at length her flagging Pinnion failes,
Panting she hangs upon the rattling Sailes,
And being forc'd to loose her hold with paine,
Yet beaten off, she straight lights on againe,
And tos'd with flawes, with stormes, with wind, with weather,
Yet still departing thence, still turneth thither:
Now with the Poope, now with the Prow doth beare,
Now on this side, now that, now here, now there:
Me thinks these Stormes should be my sad depart;
The silly helplesse Bird is my poore heart,
The Ship, to which for succour it repaires,
That is your selfe, regardlesse of my cares.
Of every Surge doth fall, or Waves doth rise,
To some one thing I sit and moralize.
 When for thy love I left the Belgicke Shore,
Divine E RASMUS , and our famous M OORE ,
Whose happy presence gave me such delight,
As made a minute of a Winters night;
With whom a while I staid at Roterdame ,
Now so renowned by E RASMUS name.
Yet every houre did seeme a world of time,
Till I had seene that sole-reviving Clime,
And thought the foggie Netherlands unfit,
A watry Soyle to clogge a fiery wit;
And as that wealthy Germany I past,
Comming unto the Emperours Court at last,
Great learn'd A GRIPPA , so profound in Art,
Who the infernall secrets doth impart,
When of thy health I did desire to know,
Me in a Glasse my G ERALDINE did show,
Sicke in thy Bed, and for thou could'st not sleepe,
By a Waxe Taper set the Light to keepe;
I doe remember thou did'st reade that Ode,
Sent backe whil'st I in Thanet made abode,
Where when thou cam'st unto that word of Love,
Even in thine eyes I saw how passion strove;
That Snowie Lawne which covered thy Bed,
Me thought look'd white, to see thy Cheeke so red,
Thy Rosie Cheeke oft changing in my sight,
Yet still was red, to see the Lawne so white;
The little Taper which should give thee light,
Me thought wax'd dimme, to see thine Eye so bright;
Thine Eye againe supply'd the Tapers turne,
And with his Beames more brightly made it burne,
The shrugging Ayre about thy Temples hurles,
And wrapt thy Breath in little clowded curles,
And as it did ascend, it straight did seaze it,
And as it sunke, it presently did raise it;
Canst thou by sicknesse banish beautie so?
Which if put from thee, knowes not where to goe,
To make her shift, and for her succour seeke,
To every rivel'd Face, each bankrupt Cheeke.
“If health preserv'd, thou Beautie still do'st cherish,
“If that neglected, Beautie soone doth perish.
Care drawes on Care, Woe comforts Woe againe,
Sorrow breeds Sorrow, one Griefe brings forth twaine:
If live or die, as thou do'st, so doe I,
If live, I live, and if thou die, I die,
One Heart, one Love, one Joy, one Griefe, one Troth,
One Good, one Ill, one Life, one Death to both.
 If H OWARDS bloud thou hold'st as but too vile,
Or not esteem'st of N ORFOLK'S Princely Stile,
If Scotlands Coate no marke of Fame can lend,
That Lyon plac'd in our bright Silver bend,
Which as a Trophy beautifies our Shield,
Since Scottish Bloud discolour'd Floden field;
When the Proud C HEVIOT our brave Ensigne bare,
As a Rich Jewell in a Ladyes Haire,
And did faire Bramstons neighbouring Vallies choke
With Clouds of Canons, fire-disgorged Smoke,
Or S URREYS Earledome insufficient be,
And not a Dower so well contenting thee;
Yet am I one of great A POLLO'S Heires,
The sacred Muses challenge me for theirs.
By Princes, my immortall Lines are sung,
My flowing Verses grac'd with ev'ry Tongue;
The little Children when they learne to goe,
By painefull Mothers daded to and fro,
Are taught my sugred Numbers to rehearse,
And have their sweet Lips season'd with my Verse.
 When Heav'n would strive to doe the best it can,
And put an Angels Spirit into a Man,
The utmost pow'r it hath, it then doth spend,
When to the World a Poet it doth intend.
That little diff'rence 'twixt the Gods and us,
(By them confirm'd) distinguish'd onely thus:
Whom they, in Birth, ordaine to happy dayes,
The Gods commit their glory to our prayse;
T'eternall Life when they dissolve their breath,
We likewise share a second Pow'r by Death.
 When Time shall turne those Amber Lockes to Gray,
My Verse againe shall guild and make them gay,
And tricke them up in knotted Curles anew,
And to thy Autumne give a Summers hiew;
That sacred Pow'r that in my Inke remaines,
Shall put fresh Bloud into thy wither'd Veines,
And on thy Red decay'd, thy Whitenesse dead,
Shall set a White, more White, a Red, more Red:
When thy dimme Sight thy Glasse cannot descry,
Nor thy craz'd Mirrour can discerne thine Eye;
My Verse, to tell th'one what the other was,
Shall represent them both, thine Eye and Glasse:
Where both thy Mirrour and thine Eye shall see,
What once thou saw'st in that, that saw in thee;
And to them both shall tell the simple truth,
What that in purenesse was, what thou in youth.
 If Florence once should lose her old renowne,
As famous Athens , now a Fisher-Towne;
My Lines for thee a Florence shall erect,
Which great A POLLO ever shall protect,
And with the Numbers from my Penne that falls,
Bring Marble Mines, to re-erect those Walls.
Nor beautious S TANHOPE , whom all Tongues report
To be the glory of the English Court,
Shall by our Nation be so much admir'd,
If ever S URREY truely were inspir'd.
And famous W YAT , who in Numbers sings,
To that inchanting Thracian Harpers strings,
To whom P HOEBUS (the Poets God) did drinke
A Bowle of Nectar, fill'd up to the Brinke;
And sweet-tongu'd B RYAN (whom the Muses kept,
And in his Cradle rockt him whilst he slept)
In sacred Verses (most divinely pen'd)
Upon thy prayses ever shall attend.
 What time I came into this famous Towne,
And made the cause of my Arrivall knowne,
Great M EDICES a List (for Triumphs) built;
Within the which, upon a Tree of Gilt,
(Which was with sundry rare Devices set)
I did erect thy lovely Counterfet,
To answere those Italian Dames desire,
Which dayly came thy Beautie to admire:
By which, my Lion, in his gaping Jawes
Held up my Lance, and in his dreadfull Pawes
Reacheth my Gauntlet unto him that dare
A Beautie with my G ERAIDINES compare.
Which, when each Manly valiant Arme assayes,
After so many brave triumphant dayes,
The glorious Prize upon my Lance I bare,
By Heralds voyce proclaym'd to be thy share;
The shiver'd Staves, here for thy Beautie broke,
With fierce encounters past at ev'ry shocke,
When stormie Courses answer'd Cuffe for Cuffe,
Denting proud Bevers with the Counter-buffe,
Upon an Altar, burnt with holy Flame,
I sacrific'd, as Incense to thy Fame:
Where, as the Phœnix from her spiced fume
Renues her selfe, in that she doth consume;
So from these sacred Ashes live we both,
Ev'n as that one Arabian Wonder doth.
 When to my Chamber I my selfe retire,
Burnt with the Sparkes that kindled all this fire,
Thinking of England , which my Hope containes,
The happie Ile where G ERALDINE remaines;
Of Hunsdon , where those sweet celestiall Eyne
At first did pierce this tender Brest of mine;
Of Hampton Court , and Windsor , where abound
All pleasures that in Paradise were found;
Neere that faire Castle is a little Grove,
With hanging Rocks all cover'd from above,
Which on the Banke of goodly Thames doth stand,
Clipt by the Water from the other Land,
Whose bushie Top doth bid the Sunne for beare,
And checks his proud Beames, that would enter there;
Whose Leaves still mutt'ring, as the Ayre doth breathe,
With the sweet bubbling of the Streame beneath,
Doth rocke the Senses (whilst the small Birds sing)
Lulled asleepe with gentle murmuring;
Where light-foot Fayries sport at Prison-Base,
(No doubt there is some Pow'r frequents the place)
There the soft Poplar and smooth Beech doe beare
Our Names together carved ev'ry where,
And Gordian Knots doe curiously entwine
The Names of H ENRY and of G ERALDINE .
O, let this Grove in happy times to come,
Be call'd, The Lovers bless'd Eliziùm ;
Whither my Mistres wonted to resort,
In Summers heat, in those sweet shades to sport:
A thousand sundry Names I have it given,
And call'd it, Wonder-hider, Cover-Heaven,
The Roofe where Beautie her rich Court doth keepe,
Under whose compasse all the Starres doe sleepe.
There is one Tree, which now I call to minde,
Doth beare these Verses carved in his Rinde:
When G ERALDINE shall sit in thy faire shade ,
Fanne her sweet Tresses with perfumed Aire,
Let thy large Boughes a Canopie be made,
To keepe the Sunne from gazing on my Faire;
And when thy spreading branched Armes be sunke,
And thou no Sap nor Pith shalt more retaine,
Ev'n from the dust of thy unweldie Trunke,
I will renue thee Phœnix-like againe,
And from thy dry decayed Root will bring
A new-borne Stem, another Æ SONS Spring .
 I find no cause, nor judge I reason why,
My Countrey should give place to Lumbardy ;
As goodly flow'rs on Thamesis doe grow,
As beautifie the Bankes of wanton Po ;
As many Nymphs as haunt rich Arnus strand,
By silver Severne tripping hand in hand:
Our shade's as sweet, though not to us so deere,
Because the Sunne hath greater power there:
This distant place doth give me greater woe;
Farre off, my Sighes the farther have to goe.
Ah absence! why thus should'st thou seeme so long?
Or wherefore should'st thou offer Time such wrong,
Summer so soone to steale on Winters Cold,
Or Winters Blasts so soone make Summer old?
Love did us both with one-selfe Arrow strike,
Our Wound's both one, our Cure should be the like;
Except thou hast found out some meane by Art,
Some pow'rfull Med'cine to withdraw the dart;
But mine is fixt, and absence being proved,
It stickes too fast, it cannot be removed.
 Adiew, adiew, from Florence when I goe,
By my next Letters G ERALDINE shall know,
Which if good fortune shall by course direct,
From Venice by some messenger expect;
Till when, I leave thee to thy hearts desire,
By him that lives thy vertues to admire.