OF

:

CONSTANTIA AND PHILETUS.

I SING two constant lovers' various fate,
The hopes and fears that equally attend
Their loves; their rivals' envy, parents' hate:
Ising their woeful life and tragic end.

Aid me, ye gods, this story to rehearse,
This mournful tale, and favour every verse!

In Florence, for her stately buildings fam'd,
And lofty roofs that emulate the sky,
There dwelt a lovely maid, Constantia named,
Fam'd for the beauty of all Italy.

Her, lavish Nature did at first adorn
With Pallas' soul in Cytherea's form:
And, framing her attractive eyes so bright,
Spent all her wit in study, that they might
Keep Earth from chaos and eternal night;
But envious Death destroyed their glorious light.
Expect not beauty then, since she did part;
For in her Nature wasted all her art.

Her hair was brighter than the beams which are
A crown to Phoebus; and her breath so sweet,
It did transcend Arabian odours far,

Or smelling flowers, wherewith the Spring doth greet
Approaching Summer; teeth, like falling snow
For white, were placed in a double row.
Her wit, excelling praise, even all admire;
Her speech was so attractive, it might be
A cause to raise the mighty Pallas' ire,
And stir up envy from that deity.

The maiden lilies at her sight

Wax'd pale with envy, and from thence grew white.

She was in birth and parentage as high
As in her fortune great or beauty rare;
And to her virtuous mind's nobility
The gifts of Fate and Nature doubled were;
That in her spotless soul and lovely face
You might have seen each deity and grace.

The scornful boy, Adonis, viewing her,
Would Venus still despise, yet her desire;
Each who but saw, was a competitor
And rival, scorch'd alike with Cupid's fire.

The glorious beams of her fair eyes did move,
And light beholders on their way to love.
Among her many suitors, a young knight,
'Bove others wounded with the majesty
Of her fair presence, presseth most in sight;
Yet seldom his desire can satisfy

With that blest object, or her rareness see;
For Beauty's guard is watchful Jealousy.
Oft times, that he might see his dearest fair,
Upon his stately jennet he in th' way
Rides by her house; who neighs, as if he were
Proud to be view'd by bright Constantia.

But his poor master, though to see her move
His joy, dares show no look betraying love.

Soon as the Morning left her rosy bed,
And all Heaven's smaller lights were driven away,
She, by her friends and near acquaintance led,
Like other maids, would walk at break of day:
Aurora blush'd to see a sight unknown,
To behold cheeks more beautcous than her own.

Th' obsequious lover follows still her train,
And where they go, that way his journey feigns:
Should they turn back, he would turn back again;
For with his love, his business does remain.

Nor is it strange he should be loth to part
From her, whose eyes had stole away his heart.

Philetus he was call'd, sprung from a race
Of noble ancestors; but greedy Time
And envious Fate had laboured to deface
The glory which in his great stock did shine:
Small his estate, unfitting her degree;

But blinded Love could no such difference see.

Yet he by chance had hit his heart aright,
And dipt his arrow in Constantia's eyes,
Blowing a fire that would destroy him quite,
Unless such flames within her heart should rise.
But yet he fears, because he blinded is,
Though he have shot him right, her heart he'll

miss.

Unto Love's altar therefore he repairs, And offers up a pleasing sacrifice; Entreating Cupid, with inducing prayers,

To look upon and ease his miseries :

Where having wept, recovering breath again,
Thus to immortal Love he did complain:
"Oh, mighty Cupid! whose unbounded sway
Hath often rul'd th' Olympian thunderer;
Woom all cœlestial deities obey;
Whom men and gods both reverence and fear!
Oh force Constantia's heart to yield to love!
Of all thy works the master-piece 'twill prove.

"And let me not affection vainly spend,
But kindle flames in her like those in me;
Yet if that gift my fortune doth transcend,
Grant that her charming beauty 1 may see!

For ever view those eyes, whose charming light, More than the world besides, does please my sight.

"Those who contemn thy sacred deity,

Laugh at thy power, make them thine anger

know:

I faultless am; what honour can it be,
Only to wound your slave and spare your foe ?"
Here tears and sighs speak his imperfect moan,
In language far more moving than his own.
Home he retir'd, his soul he brought not home;
Just like a ship, while every mounting wave,
Toss'd by enraged Boreas up and down,
Threatens the mariner with a gaping grave;
Such did his case, such did his state appear,
Alike distracted between hope and fear.

Thinking her love he never shall obtain,
One morn he haunts the woods, and doth com-

"ease?"

"FASE," straight the reasonable nymph replies. "That nothing can my troubled mind appease ?" "PEACE," Echo answers. "What, is any nigh?" Philetus said. She quickly utters, " I."

"Is't Echo answers? tell me then thy will:" " I WILL," she said. "What shall I get," says he, " By loving still?" To which she answers, " ILL." "Ill! Shall I void of wish'd-for pleasures die?" "I." "Shall not I, who toil in ceaseless pain, "Some pleasure know?" "No," she replies again.

"False and inconstant nymph, thou lyest!" said he; "THOU LYEST," she said; "And I deserv'd her hate, If I should thee believe." "BELIEVE," saith she. "For why? thy idle words are of no weight." "WEIGHT," she answers. "Therefore I'll depart." To which resounding Echo answers, "PART." THEN from the woods with wounded heart he goes, Filling with legions of fresh thoughts his mind. He quarrels with himself, because his woes Spring from himself, yet can no medicine find: He weeps to quench the fires that burn in him, But tears do fall to th' earth, flames are within.

THE SONG.

TO whom shall I my sorrows show?
Not to Love, for he is blind:
And my Philetus doth not know

The inward torment of my mind.
And all these senseless walls, which are
Now round about me, cannot hear;

For, if they could, they sure would weep,
And with my griefs relent:
Unless their willing tears they keep,

Till I from Earth am sent.
Then I believe they 'll all deplore
My fate, since I taught them before.
I willingly would weep my store,

If th' flood would land thy love,
My dear Philetus, on the shore

Of my heart; but, should'st thou prove
Afraid of flames, know the fires are
But bonfires for thy coming there.

THEN tears in envy of her speech did flow
From her fair eyes, as if it seem'd that there
Her burning flame had melted hills of snow,
And so dissolv'd them into many a tear;

Which, Nilus-like, did quickly overflow,
And quickly caus'd new serpent griefs to grow.

Here stay, my Muse; for if I should recite
Her mournful language, I should make you weep
Like her, a flood, and so not see to write
Such lines as I, and th' age requires, to keep
Me from stern Death, or with victorious rhyme
Revenge their master's death, and conquer
Time.

1

By this time, chance and his own industry
Had help'd Philetus forward, that he grew
Acquainted with her brother, so that he
Might, by this means, his bright Constantia view;
And, as time serv'd, show her his misery:
This was the first act in his tragedy.

Thus to himself, sooth'd by his flattering state,
He said; "How shall I thank thee for this gain,
O Cupid! or reward my helping Fate,
Which sweetens all my sorrows, all my pain?
What husbandman would any pains refuse,
To reap at last such fruit, his labour's use?"
But, when he wisely weigh'd his doubtful state,
Secing his griefs link'd like an endless chain
To following woes, he would when 'twas too late
Quench his hot flames, and idle love disdain.
But Cupid, when his heart was set on fire,
Had burnt his wings, who could not then retire.
The wounded youth and kind Philocrates
(So was her brother call'd) grew soon so dear,
So true and constant in their amities,
And in that league so strictly joined were,

That death itself could not their friendship sever,
But, as they liv'd in love, they died together.

If one be melancholy, th' other's sad;
If one be sick, the other's surely ill;
And if Philetus any sorrow had,
Philocrates was partner in it still:
Pylades' soul, and mad Orestes', was

In these, if we believe Pythagoras.

Oft in the woods Philetus walks, and there
Exclaims against his fate, fate too unkind :
With speaking tears his griefs he doth declare,
And with sad sighs instructs the angry wind

To sigh; and did ev'n upon that prevail;
It groan'd to hear Philetus' mournful tale.

The crystal brooks, which gently run between
The shadowing trees, and, as they through them pass,
Water the earth, and keep the meadows green,
Giving a colour to the verdant grass,

Hearing Philetas tell his woeful state,
In show of grief run murmuring at his fate.

Philomel answers him again, and shows,
In her best language, her sad history,
And in a mournful sweetness tells her woes,
Denying to be pos'd in misery:

Constantia he, she Tereus, Tereus, cries;
With him both grief, and grief's expression, vies.

Philocrates must needs his sadness know,
Willing in ills, as well as joys, to share,
Nor will on them the name of friends bestow,
Who in light sport, not sorrow, partners are.

Who leaves to guide the ship when storms arise,
Is guilty both of sin and cowardice.

But when his noble friend perceiv'd that he
Yielded to tyrant Passion more and more,
Desirous to partake his malady,
He watches him, in hope to cure his sore

By counsel, and recall the poisonous dart,
When it, alas! was fixed in his heart.
When in the woods, places best fit for care,
He to himself did his past griefs recite,
Th'obsequious friend straight follows him, and there
Doth hide himself from sad Philetus' sight;
Who thus exclaims (for a swoln heart would break,
If it for vent of sorrow might not speak):
"Oh! I am lost, not in this desert wood,
But in Love's pathless labyrinth; there I
My health, each joy and pleasure counted good,
Have lost, and, which is more, my liberty;
And now am fore'd to let him sacrifice
My heart, for rash believing of my eyes.

"Long have I staid, but yet have no relief; Long have I lov'd, yet have no favour shown; Because she knows not of my killing grief, And I have fear'd to make my sorrows known.

For why? alas! if she should once but dart
Disdainful looks, 'twould break my captiv'd heart.

"But how should she, cre I impart my love,
Reward my ardent flame with like desire?
But when I speak, if she should angry prove,
Laugh at my flowing tears, and scorn my fire?

Why, he who hath all sorrows borne before,
Needeth not fear to be opprest with more.”

Philocrates no longer can forbear,
Runs to his friend, and sighing, "Oh!" said he,
"My dear Philetus! be thyself, and swear
To rule that passion which now masters thee,
And all thy reason; but, if it can't be,
Give to thy love but eyes, that it may see."
Amazement strikes him dumb; what shall he do?
Should he reveal his love, he fears 'twould prove
A hindrance; and, should he deny to shew,
It might perhaps his dear friend's anger move:
These doubts, like Scylla and Charybdis, stand,
Whilst Cupid, a blind pilot, doth cominand.
At last resolv'd: "How shall I seek," said he,
"T" excuse myself, dearest Philocrates!
That I from thee have hid this secrecy ?
Yet censure not; give me first leave to case [known
My case with words: my grief you should have
Ere this, if that my heart had been my own.

"1 am all love; my heart was burnt with fire
From two bright suns, which do all light disclose;
First kindling in my breast the flame desire:
But, like the rare Arabian bird, there rose,

From my heart's ashes, never quenched Love,
Which now this torment in my soul doth move.
"Oh! let not then my passion cause your hate
Nor let my choice offend you, or detain
Your ancient friendship; 'tis, alas! too late
To call my firm affection back again:

No physic can re-cure my weaken'd state,
The wound is grown too great, too desperate."

"But counsel," said his friend, "a remedy
Which never fails the patient, may at least,
If not quite heal your mind's infirmity,
Assuage your torment, and procure some rest.

But there is no physician can apply
A med'cine ere he know the malady."
"Then hear me," said Philetus; "but why? Stay
I will not toil thee with my history;
For to remember sorrows past away,
Is to renew an old calamity.

He who acquainteth others with his moan,
Adds to his friend's grief, but not cures his own."

"But," said Philocrates, "'tis best, in woe,
'To have a faithful partner of their care;
That burthen may be undergone by two,
Which is perhaps too great for one to bear.

I should mistrust your love, to hide from me
Your thoughts, and tax you of inconstancy."
What shall he do? or with what language frame
Excuse? He must resolve not to deny,
But open his close thoughts and inward flame:
With that, as prologue to his tragedy,

He sigh'd, as if they'd cool his torments' ire,
When they, alas! did blow the raging fire.