Page:Works of Edmund Spenser - 1857.djvu/488

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THE TEARES OF THE MUSES.
For all mans life me seemes a tragedy,Full of sad sights and sore catastrophes;First comming to the world with weeping eye, Where all his dayes, like dolorous trophees, 160Are heapt with spoyles of fortune and of feare, And he at last laid forth on balefull beare.
So all with rufull spectacles is fild,Fit for Megera or Persephone;But I that in true tragedies am skild. 165The flowre of wit, finde nought to busie me; Therefore I mourne, and pitifully mone, Because that mourning matter I have none.—
Then gan she wofully to waile, and wring Her wretched hands in lamentable wise; 170And all her sisters, thereto answering, Threw forth lowd shrieks and drerie dolefull cries. So rested she: and then the next in rewBegan her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
THALIA.Where be the sweete delights of Learnings treasure That wont with comick sock to beautefie 176The painted theaters, and fill with pleasureThe listners eyes and eares with melodie;In which I late was wont to raine as queene,And maske in mirth with graces well beseene? 180
O! all is gone; and all that goodly glee,Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits,Is layd abed, and no where now to see;And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits,With hollow browes and griesly countenaunce, 185 Marring my ioyous gentle dalliaunce.
And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme,And brutish Ignorance, yclept of lateOut of dredd darknes of the deepe abysme,Where being bredd, he light and heaven does hateThey in the mindes of men now tyrannize, 191And the faire scene with rudenes foule disguize.
All places they with Follie have possest,And with vaine toyes the vulgar entertaine;But me have banished, with all the rest 195That whilome wont to wait upon my traine. Fine Counterfesaunce, and unhurtfull Sport, Delight and Laughter, deckt in seemly sort.
All these, and all that els the comick stageWith seasoned wit and goodly pleasance graced, 200By which mans life in his likest imágeWas limned forth, are wholly now defaced;And those sweete wits, which wont the like to frame, Are now despizd, and made a laughing game.
And he, the man whom nature selfe bad made 205 To mock her selfe, and truth to imitate,With kindly counter under mimic shade,Our pleasant Willy, ah! is dead of late:With whom all ioy and iolly merimentIs also deaded, and in dolour drent. 210
In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie,Aad scornfull Follie with Contempt is crept, Rolling in rymes of shamelesse ribaudrie Without regard, or due decorum kept;Each idle wit at will presumes to make, 215And doth the learneds taske upon him take.
But that same gentle spirit, from whose penLarge streames of honnie and sweete nectar flowe, Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men, Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe; 220Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell,Than so himselfe to Mockerie to sell.
So am I made the servant of the manie,And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne, Not honored nor cared for of anie; 225But loath'd of losels as a thing forlorne: Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest, Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest.—
Therewith she lowdly did lament and shrike, Pouring forth streames of teares abundantly; 230And all her sisters, with compassion like,The breaches of her singulfs did supplySo rested shee: and then the next in rew Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
EUTERPE.Like as the dearling of the summers pryde, 235 Faire Philomele, when winters stormie wrath The goodly fields, that erst so gay were dyde In colours divers, quite despoyled hath, All comfortlesse doth hide her cheerlesse headDuring the time of that her widowhead: 240
So we, that earst were wont in sweet accord, All places with our pleasant notes to fill, Whilest favourable times did us affordFree libertie to chaunt our charmes at will;All comfortlesse upon the bared bow, 245Like wofull culvers, doo sit wayling now.
For far more bitter storme than winters stowreThe beautie of the world hath lately wasted,And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre,Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted;And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t'abound, 251Now without fruite or leaves are to be found.
A stonie coldnesse hath benumbd the sence And livelie spirits of each living wight,And dimd with darknesse their intelligence, 255Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night: And monstrous error, flying in the ayre,Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre.
Image of hellish horrour, Ignorance, Borne in the bosome of the black abysse, 260And fed with furies milke for »ustenaunce Of his weake infancie, begot amisseBy yawning Slowth on his owne mother Night; So hee his sonnes both syre and brother hight.
He, armd with blindnesse and with boidnes stout, 265(For blind is bold,) hath our fayre light defaced;And, gathering unto him a ragged routOf faunes and satyres, hath our dwellings raced;And our chast bowers, in which all vertue rained, With brutishnesse and beastlie filth hath stained. 270
The sacred springs of horsefoot Helicon, So oft bedeawed with our learned layes, And speaking streames of pure Castalion The famous witnesse of our wonted praise,They trampled have with their fowle footings trade And like to troubled puddles have them made. 276
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