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Had Paris seen this wondrous piece of art,
In every point surpassing curious,
Ungentle star, that domineer'd the day,
You lowring heavens, why did ye oppress
But, wretch! why stand'st thou charging these with guilt
When first thou travell’dst for this trothless man,
But, sovereign Love, immortal and divine,
O mighty Love, what will thy subjects say,
Stand I expostulating this or that,
Fair Iffida, thy page doth follow thee,
From “ The Famous Historie of the Searen Champions of
“ During which time faire Rossalinde (one of the daughters
of the Thracian King, being as then prisoner in the Castle) by chance looked over the walls, and espyed the body of the Gyant headlesse, under whose subjection shee had continued in great servitude for the time of seaven moneths, likewise by him a knight unarmed, as shee thought panting for breath, the which the lady judged to be the knight that had slaine the Gyant Blanderon, and the nian by whom her delivery should be recovered, shee presently descended the walles of the castle, and ran with all speed to the adventurous champion, whom shee found dead. But yet being nothing discouraged of his recovery, feeling as yet a warme bloud in every member, retired back with all speede to the castle, and feteht a boxe of precious balme, the which the Gyant was wont to poure into his wounds after his encounter with any Knight: with which balme this courteous lady chafed every part of the breathlesse champion's bodie, one while washing his stiffe lims with her salt teares the which like pearles fell from her eyes, another while drying them with the tresses of her golden hayre, which hung dangling in the winde, then chafing his livelesse body againe with a balme of a contrary nature, but yet no signe of life could shee espie the dead Knight: which caused her to grow desperate of all hope of his recoverie, Therefore like a loving, meeke, and kinde ladie, considering he had lost his life for her sake, shee intended to beare him company in death, and with her owne hands to finish up her dayes, and to dye upon his breast as Thisbe died upon the brest of her true Pyramus; therefore as the swanne sings a while before ber death, so this sorrowful lady warbled forth this swap-like song over the bodie of the noble champion."
Muses come mourn with doleful melody,
Dead is the Knight for whom I live and die,
I'll lay my breast upon a silver stream,
Farewell, fair woods, where sing the nightingales,
Ring out my ruth, you hollow caves of stone,
Let all the towns of Thrace ring out my knell,
heart a while before I die.
To ease my
PITHIAS'S LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF
[From the very rare old Drama of Damon and Pithias.]
WAKE ye woeful wights
My hapless hap to show :
Ne pen can well descry:
Damon my friend must die.
The loss of worldly wealth
Man's wisdom may restore,
A salve for every sore :
No art can well supply:
friend must die.