Astrophel and Stella: Fift Song

While fauour fed my hope, delight with hope was brought,Thought waited on delight, and speech did follow thought:Then grew my tongue and pen records vnto thy glorie:I thought all words were lost, that were not spent of thee:I thought each place was darke but where thy lights would be,And all eares worse then deafe, that heard not out thy storie. I said, thou wert most faire, and so indeede thou art:I said, thou art most sweete, sweete poyson to my heart:I said, my soule was thine (O that I then had lied)I said, thin eyes were starres, thy breasts the milk'n way,Thy fingers Cupids shafts, thy voice the Angels lay:And all I said so well, as no man it denied. But now that hope is lost, vnkindnes kils delight,Yet thought and speech doe liue, though metamorphos'd quite:For rage now rules the raines, which guided were by pleasure.I think now of thy faults, who late thought of thy praise,That speech falles now to blame which did thy honour raise,The same key op'n can, which can locke vp a treasure. Thou then whome partiall heauens conspir'd in one to frame,The proofe of beauties worth, th'enheritrix of fame,The mansion seate of blisse, and just excuse of Louers:See now those feathers pluckt wherewith thou flewst most hie,See what clouds of reproch shall dark thy honours skie,Whose owne fault casts him downe, hardly high seat recouers. And O my Muse, though oft you hold her in your lap,And then a heau'nly child gaue her Ambrosian pap:And to that braine of hers your hidnest gifts infused,Since she disdaining me, doth you in me disdaine:Suffer not her to laugh, while both we suffer paine:Princes in subjects wrong'd, must deeme themselues abused. Your Client poore my selfe, shal Stella handle so?Reuenge, reuenge, my Muse. Defiance trumpet blow:Threat'n what may be done, yet do more then you threat'n.Ah, my sute graunted is, I feele my breast doth swell:Now child, a lesson new you shall begin to spell:Sweet babes must babies haue, but shrew'd gyrles must be beat'n. Thinke now no more to heare of warme fine odour'd snow,Nor blushing Lillies, nor pearles ruby-hidden row,Nor of that golden sea, whose waues in curles are brok'n:But of thy soule, so fraught with such vngratefulnesse,As where thou soone mightst helpe most faith dost most oppresse,Vngratefull who is cald, the worst of euill is spok'n: Yet worse then worse, I say thou art a thiefe, a theefe?No God forbid. A thiefe, and of worse thieues the chiefe:Thieues steal for need, and steale but goods, which paine recouers,But thou rich in all joyes, doest rob my joyes from me,Which cannot be restor'd by rime nor industrie:Of foes the spoile is euill, far worse of constant louers. Yet gentle English thieues do rob, but will not slay;Thou English murdring thiefe, wilt haue harts for thy pray:The name of murderer now on thy faire forehead sitteth:And euen while I do speake, my death-wounds bleeding be:Which (I protest) proceed from only Cruell thee;Who may and will not saue, murder in truth committeth. But murder priuate fault seemes but a toy to thee,I lay them to thy charge vnjustest Tyrannie,If Rule by force without all claime a Tyran showeth,For thou doest lord my heart, who am not borne thy slaue,And which is worse, makes me most guiltlesse torments haue,A rightfull Prince by vnright deeds a Tyran groweth. Lo you grow proud with this, for tyrants make folke bow:Of foule rebellion then I do appeach thee now;Rebell by Natures law, Rebell by law of reason,Thou sweetest subject wert borne in the realme of Loue,And yet against thy Prince thy force dost dayly proue:No vertue merites praise, once toucht with blot of treason. But valiant Rebels oft in fooles mouthes purchase fame:I now then staine thy white with vagabunding shame,Both Rebell to the Sunne, and Vagrant from the mother:For wearing Venus badge, in euery part of thee,Vnto Dianaes traine thou run-away didst flie:Who fayleth one, is false, though trusty to another. What is not this ynough? nay farre worse commeth here;A witch I say thou art, though thou so faire appeare;For I protest, my sight neuer thy face enjoyeth,But I in me am chang'd, I am aliue and dead:My feete are turn'd to rootes, my hart becommeth lead,No witchcraft is so euill, as which mans mind destroyeth. Yet witches may repent, thou art far worse then they,Alas, that I am forst such euill of thee to say,I say thou art a Deuill though cloth'd in Angels shining:For thy face tempts my soule to leaue the heau'n for thee,And thy words of refuse, do powre euen hell on mee:Who tempt and tempted plague, are Deuils in true defining. You then vngratefull thiefe, you murdring Tyran you,You rebell-run-away, to Lord and Lady vntrue,You witch, you Deuill (alas) you still of me beloued,You see what I can say; mend yet your froward mind,And such skill in my Muse you reconcil'd shall finde,That all these cruell words your praises shall be proued.