{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_20356/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_20356","id":"gutenberg_20356","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20356","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Poetry","Hero (Greek mythology) -- Poetry","Leander (Greek mythology) -- Poetry"],"text":"HERO AND LEANDER\n\n             AND OTHER POEMS\n\n          BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nHero and Leander, by Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman\n\nMinor poems by Christopher Marlowe\n\n- The Passionate Shepherd To His Love\n\n- Fragment, first printed in \"England's Parnassus,\" 1600\n\n- In obitum honoratissimi viri, Rogeri Manwood, militis,\n     Quaestorii Reginalis Capitalis Baronis\n\n- Dialogue in Verse\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n              HERO AND LEANDER\n\n   By Christopher Marlowe and George Chapman\n\n      TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL SIR THOMAS\n              WALSINGHAM, KNIGHT.\n\n    Sir, we think not ourselves discharged of the duty we owe\nto our friend when we have brought the breathless body to\nthe earth; for, albeit the eye there taketh his ever-farewell\nof that beloved object, yet the impression of the man that\nhath been dear unto us, living an after-life in our memory,\nthere putteth us in mind of farther obsequies due unto the\ndeceased; and namely of the performance of whatsoever we\nmay judge shall make to his living credit and to the effecting\nof his determinations prevented by the stroke of death.\nBy these meditations (as by an intellectual will) I suppose\nmyself executor to the unhappily deceased author of this\npoem; upon whom knowing that in his lifetime you bestowed\nmany kind favours, entertaining the parts of reckoning and\nworth which you found in him with good countenance and\nliberal affection, I cannot but see so far into the will of him\ndead, that whatsoever issue of his brain should chance to\ncome abroad, that the first breath it should take might be\nthe gentle air of your liking; for, since his self had been\naccustomed thereunto, it would prove more agreeable and\nthriving to his right children than any other foster counten-\nance whatsoever.  At this time seeing that this unfinished\ntragedy happens under my hands to be imprinted, of a\ndouble duty, the one to yourself, the other to the deceased,\nI present the same to your most favourable allowance,\noffering my utmost self now and ever to be ready at your\nworship's disposing.\n                                    EDWARD BLUNT.\n\n\nNote: The first two Sestiads were written by Marlowe; the last four by\nChapman, who supplied also the Arguments for the six Sestiads.\n\nTHE FIRST SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST SESTIAD\n\n  Hero's description and her love's;\n  The fane of Venus where he moves\n  His worthy love-suit, and attains;\n  Whose bliss the wrath of Fates restrains\n  For Cupid's grace to Mercury:\n  Which tale the author doth imply.\n\n\nOn Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,\nIn view and opposite two cities stood,\nSea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might;\nThe one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.\nAt Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,\nWhom young Apollo courted for her hair,\nAnd offer'd as a dower his burning throne,\nWhere she should sit, for men to gaze upon.\nThe outside of her garments were of lawn,\nThe lining purple silk, with gilt stars drawn;\nHer wide sleeves green, and border'd with a grove,\nWhere Venus in her naked glory strove\nTo please the careless and disdainful eyes\nOf proud Adonis, that before her lies;\nHer kirtle blue, whereon was many a stain,\nMade with the blood of wretched lovers slain.\nUpon her head she ware a myrtle wreath,\nFrom whence her veil reach'd to the ground beneath:\nHer veil was artificial flowers and leaves,\nWhose workmanship both man and beast deceives:\nMany would praise the sweet smell as she past,\nWhen 'twas the odour which her breath forth cast;\nAnd there for honey bees have sought in vain,\nAnd, beat from thence, have lighted there again.\nAbout her neck hung chains of pebble-stone,\nWhich, lighten'd by her neck, like diamonds shone.\nShe ware no gloves; for neither sun nor wind\nWould burn or parch her hands, but, to her mind,\nOr warm or cool them, for they took delight\nTo play upon those hands, they were so white.\nBuskins of shell, all silver'd, used she,\nAnd branch'd with blushing coral to the knee;\nWhere sparrows perch'd, of hollow pearl and gold,\nSuch as the world would wonder to behold:\nThose with sweet water oft her handmaid fills,\nWhich, as she went, would cherup through the bills.\nSome say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,\nAnd, looking in her face, was strooken blind.\nBut this is true; so like was one the other,\nAs he imagin'd Hero was his mother;\nAnd oftentimes into her bosom flew,\nAbout her naked neck his bare arms threw,\nAnd laid his childish head upon her breast,\nAnd, with still panting rock, there took his rest.\nSo lovely-fair was Hero, Venus' nun,\nAs Nature wept, thinking she was undone,\nBecause she took more from her than she left,\nAnd of such wondrous beauty her bereft:\nTherefore, in sign her treasure suffer'd wrack,\nSince Hero's time hath half the world been black.\n  Amorous Leander, beautiful and young,\n(Whose tragedy divine Musaeus sung,)\nDwelt at Abydos; since him dwelt there none\nFor whom succeeding times make greater moan.\nHis dangling tresses, that were never shorn,\nHad they been cut, and unto Colchos borne,\nWould have allur'd the venturous youth of Greece\nTo hazard more than for the golden fleece.\nFair Cynthia wish'd his arms might be her sphere;\nGrief makes her pale, because she moves not there.\nHis body was as straight as Circe's wand;\nJove might have sipt out nectar from his hand.\nEven as delicious meat is to the tast,\nSo was his neck in touching, and surpast\nThe white of Pelops' shoulder: I could tell ye,\nHow smooth his breast was, and how white his belly;\nAnd whose immortal fingers did imprint\nThat heavenly path with many a curious dint\nThat runs along his back; but my rude pen\nCan hardly blazon forth the loves of men,\nMuch less of powerful gods: let it suffice\nThat my slack Muse sings of Leander's eyes;\nThose orient cheeks and lips, exceeding his\nThat leapt into the water for a kiss\nOf his own shadow, and, despising many,\nDied ere he could enjoy the love of any.\nHad wild Hippolytus Leander seen,\nEnamour'd of his beauty had he been:\nHis presence made the rudest peasant melt,\nThat in the vast uplandish country dwelt;\nThe barbarous Thracian soldier, mov'd with nought,\nWas mov'd with him, and for his favour sought.\nSome swore he was a maid in man's attire,\nFor in his looks were all that men desire,--\nA pleasant-smiling cheek, a speaking eye,\nA brow for love to banquet royally;\nAnd such as knew he was a man, would say,\n\"Leander, thou art made for amorous play:\nWhy art thou not in love, and lov'd of all?\nThough thou be fair, yet be not thine own thrall.\"\n  The men of wealthy Sestos every year,\nFor his sake whom their goddess held so dear,\nRose-cheek'd Adonis, kept a solemn feast:\nThither resorted many a wandering guest\nTo meet their loves: such as had none at all,\nCame lovers home from this great festival;\nFor every street, like to a firmament,\nGlister'd with breathing stars, who, where they went,\nFrighted the melancholy earth, which deem'd\nEternal heaven to burn, for so it seem'd,\nAs if another Phaeton had got\nThe guidance of the sun's rich chariot.\nBut, far above the loveliest, Hero shin'd,\nAnd stole away th' enchanted gazer's mind;\nFor like sea nymphs' inveigling harmony,\nSo was her beauty to the standers by;\nNor that night-wandering, pale, and watery star\n(When yawning dragons draw her thirling car\nFrom Latmus' mount up to the gloomy sky,\nWhere, crown'd with blazing light and majesty,\nShe proudly sits) more over-rules the flood\nThan she the hearts of those that near her stood.\nEven as when gaudy nymphs pursue the chase,\nWretched Ixion's shaggy-footed race,\nIncens'd with savage heat, gallop amain\nFrom steep pine-bearing mountains to the plain,\nSo ran the people forth to gaze upon her,\nAnd all that view'd her were enamour'd on her:\nAnd as in fury of a dreadful fight,\nTheir fellows being slain or put to flight,\nPoor soldiers stand with fear of death dead-strooken,\nSo at her presence all surpris'd and tooken,\nAwait the sentence of her scornful eyes;\nHe whom she favours lives; the other dies:\nThere might you see one sigh; another rage;\nAnd some, their violent passions to assuage\nCompile sharp satires; but, alas, too late!\nFor faithful love will never turn to hate;\nAnd many, seeing great princes were denied,\nPin'd as they went, and thinking on her died.\nOn this feast-day,--O cursed day and hour!--\nWent Hero thorough Sestos, from her tower\nTo Venus' temple, where unhappily,\nAs after chanc'd, they did each other spy.\nSo fair a church as this had Venus none:\nThe walls were of discolour'd jasper-stone,\nWherein was Proteus carv'd; and over-head\nA lively vine of green sea-agate spread,\nWhere by one hand light-headed Bacchus hung,\nAnd with the other wine from grapes out-wrung.\nOf crystal shining fair the pavement was;\nThe town of Sestos call'd it Venus' glass:\nThere might you see the gods, in sundry shapes,\nCommitting heady riots, incest, rapes;\nFor know, that underneath this radiant flour\nWas Danaee's statue in a brazen tower;\nJove slily stealing from his sister's bed,\nTo dally with Idalian Ganymed,\nAnd for his love Europa bellowing loud,\nAnd tumbling with the Rainbow in a cloud;\nBlood-quaffing Mars heaving the iron net\nWhich limping Vulcan and his Cyclops set;\nLove kindling fire, to burn such towns as Troy;\nSilvanus weeping for the lovely boy\nThat now is turn'd into a cypress-tree,\nUnder whose shade the wood-gods love to be.\nAnd in the midst a silver altar stood:\nThere Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,\nVail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;\nAnd modestly they open'd as she rose:\nThence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;\nAnd thus Leander was enamoured.\nStone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd,\nTill with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd,\nRelenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:\nSuch force and virtue hath an amorous look.\n  It lies not in our power to love or hate,\nFor will in us is over-rul'd by fate.\nWhen two are stript long ere the course begin,\nWe wish that one should lose, the other win;\nAnd one especially do we affect\nOf two gold ingots, like in each respect:\nThe reason no man knows; let it suffice,\nWhat we behold is censur'd by our eyes.\nWhere both deliberate, the love is slight:\nWho ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?\n  He kneel'd; but unto her devoutly pray'd:\nChaste Hero to herself thus softly said,\n\"Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him;\"\nAnd, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.\nHe started up; she blush'd as one asham'd;\nWherewith Leander much more was inflam'd.\nHe touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled:\nLove deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled.\nThese lovers parled by the touch of hands:\nTrue love is mute, and oft amazed stands.\nThus while dumb signs their yielding hearts entangled,\nThe air with sparks of living fire was spangled;\nAnd Night, deep-drench'd in misty Acheron,\nHeav'd up her head, and half the world upon\nBreath'd darkness forth (dark night is Cupid's day):\nAnd now begins Leander to display\nLove's holy fire, with words, with sighs, and tears;\nWhich, like sweet music, enter'd Hero's ears;\nAnd yet at every word she turn'd aside,\nAnd always cut him off, as he replied.\nAt last, like to a bold sharp sophister,\nWith cheerful hope thus he accosted her.\n\"Fair creature, let me speak without offence:\nI would my rude words had the influence\nTo lead thy thoughts as thy fair looks do mine!\nThen shouldst thou be his prisoner, who is thine.\nBe not unkind and fair; mis-shapen stuff\nAre of behaviour boisterous and rough.\nO, shun me not, but hear me ere you go!\nGod knows, I cannot force love as you do:\nMy words shall be as spotless as my youth,\nFull of simplicity and naked truth.\nThis sacrifice, whose sweet perfume descending\nFrom Venus' altar, to your footsteps bending,\nDoth testify that you exceed her far,\nTo whom you offer, and whose nun you are.\nWhy should you worship her? her you surpass\nAs much as sparkling diamons flaring glass.\nA diamond set in lead his worth retains;\nA heavenly nymph, belov'd of human swains,\nReceives no blemish, but oftimes more grace;\nWhich makes me hope, although I am but base,\nBase in respect of thee divine and pure,\nDutiful service may thy love procure;\nAnd I in duty will excel all other,\nAs thou in beauty dost exceed Love's mother.\nNor heaven nor thou were made to gaze upon:\nAs heaven preserves all things, so save thou one.\nA stately builded ship, well rigg'd and tall,\nThe ocean maketh more majestical:\nWhy vow'st thou, then, to live in Sestos here,\nWho on Love's seas more glorious wouldst appear?\nLike untun'd golden strings all women are,\nWhich long time lie untouch'd, will harshly jar.\nVessels of brass, oft handed, brightly shine:\nWhat difference betwixt the richest mine\nAnd basest mould, but use? for both, not us'd,\nAre of like worth.  Then treasure is abus'd,\nWhen misers keep it: being put to loan,\nIn time it will return us two for one.\nRich robes themselves and others do adorn;\nNeither themselves nor others, if not worn.\nWho builds a palace, and rams up the gate,\nShall see it ruinous and desolate:\nAh, simple Hero, learn thyself to cherish!\nLone women, like to empty houses, perish.\nLess sins the poor rich man, that starves himself\nIn heaping up a mass of drossy pelf,\nThan such as you: his golden earth remains,\nWhich, after his decease, some other gains;\nBut this fair gem, sweet in the loss alone,\nWhen you fleet hence, can be bequeath'd to none;\nOr, if it could, down from th' enamell'd sky\nAll heaven would come to claim this legacy,\nAnd with intestine broils the world destroy,\nAnd quite confound Nature's sweet harmony.\nWell therefore by the gods decreed it is,\nWe human creatures should enjoy that bliss.\nOne is no number; maids are nothing, then,\nWithout the sweet society of men.\nWilt thou live single still? one shalt thou be,\nThough never singling Hymen couple thee.\nWild savages, that drink of running springs,\nThink water far excels all earthly things;\nBut they, that daily taste neat wine, despise it:\nVirginity, albeit some highly prize it,\nCompar'd with marriage, had you tried them both,\nDiffers as much as wine and water doth.\nBase bullion for the stamp's sake we allow:\nEven so for men's impression do we you;\nBy which alone, our reverend fathers say,\nWomen receive perfection every way.\nThis idol, which you term virginity,\nIs neither essence subject to the eye,\nNo, nor to any one exterior sense,\nNor hath it any place of residence,\nNor is't of earth or mould celestial,\nOr capable of any form at all.\nOf that which hath no being, do not boast:\nThings that are not at all, are never lost.\nMen foolishly do call it virtuous:\nWhat virtue is it, that is born with us?\nMuch less can honour be ascrib'd thereto:\nHonour is purchas'd by the deeds we do\nBelieve me, Hero, honour is not won,\nUntil some honourable deed be done.\nSeek you, for chastity, immortal fame,\nAnd know that some have wrong'd Diana's name?\nWhose name is it, if she be false or not,\nSo she be fair, but some vile tongues will blot?\nBut you are fair, ay me! so wondrous fair,\nSo young, so gentle, and so debonair,\nAs Greece will think, if thus you live alone,\nSome one or other keeps you as his own.\nThen, Hero, hate me not, nor from me fly,\nTo follow swiftly blasting imfamy.\nPerhaps thy sacred priesthood makes thee loath:\nTell me, to whom mad'st thou that heedless oath?\"\n\"To Venus,\" answer'd she; and, as she spake,\nForth from those two tralucent cisterns brake\nA stream of liquid pearl, which down her face\nMade milk-white paths, whereon the gods might trace\nTo Jove's high court.  He thus replied: \"The rites\nIn which love's beauteous empress most delights,\nAre banquets, Doric music, midnight revel,\nPlays, masks, and all that stern age counteth evil.\nThee as a holy idiot doth she scorn;\nFor thou, in vowing chastity, hast sworn\nTo rob her name and honour, and thereby\nCommitt'st a sin far worse than perjury,\nEven sacrilege against her deity,\nThrough regular and formal purity.\nTo expiate which sin, kiss and shake hands:\nSuch sacrifice as this Venus demands.\"\nThereat she smil'd, and did deny him so,\nAs put thereby, yet might he hope for mo;\nWhich makes him quickly reinforce his speech,\nAnd her in humble manner thus beseech:\n\"Though neither gods nor men may thee deserve,\nYet for her sake, whom you have vow'd to serve,\nAbandon fruitless cold virginity.\nThe gentle queen of love's sole enemy.\nThen shall you most resemble Venus' nun,\nWhen Venus' sweet rites are perform'd and done.\nFlint breasted Pallas joys in single life;\nBut Pallas and your mistress are at strife.\nLove, Hero, then, and be not tyrannous;\nBut heal the heart that thou hast wounded thus;\nNor stain thy youthful years with avarice:\nFair fools delight to be accounted nice.\nThe richest corn dies, if it be not reapt;\nBeauty alone is lost, too warily kept.\"\nThese arguments he us'd, and many more;\nWherewith she yielded, that was won before.\nHero's looks yielded, but her words made war:\nWomen are won when they begin to jar.\nThus, having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook,\nThe more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook:\nYet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,\nAnd would be thought to grant against her will.\nSo having paus'd a while, at last she said,\n\"Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?\nAy me! such words as these should I abhor,\nAnd yet I like them for the orator.\"\nWith that, Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her,\nBut from his spreading arms away she cast her,\nAnd thus bespake him:  \"Gentle youth, forbear\nTo touch the sacred garments which I wear.\nUpon a rock, and underneath a hill,\nFar from the town, (where all is whist and still,\nSave that the sea, playing on yellow sand,\nSends forth a rattling murmur to the land,\nWhose sound allures the golden Morpheus\nIn silence of the night to visit us,)\nMy turret stands; and there, God knows, I play\nWith Venus' swans and sparrows all the day.\nA dwarfish beldam bears me company,\nThat hops about the chamber where I lie,\nAnd spends the night, that might be better spent,\nIn vain discourse and apish merriment:--\nCome thither.\"  As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd,\nFor unawares, \"Come thither,\" from her slipp'd;\nAnd suddenly her former colour chang'd,\nAnd here and there her eyes through anger rang'd;\nAnd, like a planet moving several ways\nAt one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,\nLoving, not to love at all, and every part\nStrove to resist the motions of her heart:\nAnd hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such\nAs might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,\nDid she uphold to Venus, and again\nVow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain;\nCupid beats down her prayers with his wings;\nHer vows about the empty air he flings:\nAll deep enrag'd, his sinewy bow he bent,\nAnd shot a shaft that burning from him went;\nWherewith she strooken, look'd so dolefully,\nAs made Love sigh to see his tyranny;\nAnd, as she wept, her tears to pearl he turn'd,\nAnd wound them on his arm, and for her mourn'd.\nThen towards the palace of the Destinies,\nLaden with languishment and grief, he flies,\nAnd to those stern nymphs humbly made request,\nBoth might enjoy each other, and be blest.\nBut with a ghastly dreadful countenance,\nThreatening a thousand deaths at every glance,\nThey answer'd Love, nor would vouchsafe so much\nAs one poor word, their hate to him was such:\nHearken a while, and I will tell you why.\n  Heaven's winged herald, Jove-born Mercury,\nThe self-same day that he asleep had laid\nEnchanted Argus, spied a country maid,\nWhose careless hair, instead of pearl t'adorn it,\nGlister'd with dew, as one that seem'd to scorn it;\nHer breath as fragrant as the morning rose;\nHer mind pure, and her tongue untaught to glose:\nYet proud she was (for lofty Pride that dwells\nIn towered courts, is oft in shepherds' cells),\nAnd too-too well the fair vermilion knew\nAnd silver tincture of her cheeks, that drew\nThe love of every swain.  On her this god\nEnamour'd was, and with his snaky rod\nDid charm her nimble feet, and made her stay,\nThe while upon a hillock down he lay,\nAnd sweetly on his pipe began to play,\nAnd with smooth speech her fancy to assay,\nTill in his twining arms her lock'd her fast,\nAnd then he woo'd with kisses; and at last,\nAs shepherds do, her on the ground he laid,\nAnd, tumbling in the grass, he often stray'd\nBeyond the bounds of shame, in being bold\nTo eye those parts which no eye should behold;\nAnd, like an insolent commanding lover,\nBoasting his parentage, would needs discover\nThe way to new Elysium.  But she,\nWhose only dower was her chastity,\nHaving striven in vain, was now about to cry,\nAnd crave the help of shepherds that were nigh.\nHerewith he stay'd his fury, and began\nTo give her leave to rise: away she ran;\nAfter went Mercury, who us'd such cunning,\nAs she, to hear his tale, left off her running;\n(Maids are not won by brutish force and might\nBut speeches full of pleasure, and delight;)\nAnd, knowing Hermes courted her, was glad\nThat she such loveliness and beauty had\nAs could provoke his liking; yet was mute,\nAnd neither would deny nor grant his suit.\nStill vow'd he love: she, wanting no excuse\nTo feed him with delays, as women use,\nOr thirsting after immortality,\n(All women are ambitious naturally,)\nImpos'd upon her lover such a task,\nAs he ought not perform, nor yet she ask;\nA draught of flowing nectar she requested,\nWherewith the king of gods and men is feasted.\nHe, ready to accomplish what she will'd,\nStole some from Hebe (Hebe Jove's cup fill'd),\nAnd gave it to his simple rustic love:\nWhich being known,--as what is hid from Jove?--\nHe inly storm'd, and wax'd more furious\nThan for the fire filch'd by Prometheus;\nAnd thrusts him down from heaven.  He, wandering here,\nIn mournful terms, with sad and heavy cheer,\nComplain'd to Cupid: Cupid, for his sake,\nTo be reveng'd on Jove did undertake;\nAnd those on whom heaven, earth, and hell relies,\nI mean the adamantine Destinies,\nHe wounds with love, and forc'd them equally\nTo dote upon deceitful Mercury.\nThey offer'd him the deadly fatal knife\nThat shears the slender threads of human life;\nAt his fair feather'd feet the engines laid,\nWhich th' earth from ugly Chaos' den upweigh'd.\nThese he regarded not; but did entreat\nThat Jove, usurper of his father's seat,\nMight presently be banish'd into hell,\nAnd aged Saturn in Olympus dwell.\nThey granted what he crav'd; and once again\nSaturn and Ops began their golden reign:\nMurder, rape, war, and lust, and treachery,\nWere with Jove clos'd in Stygian empery.\nBut long this blessed time continu'd not:\nAs soon as he his wished purpose got,\nHe, reckless of his promise, did despise\nThe love of th' everlasting Destinies.\nThey, seeing it, both Love and him abhorr'd,\nAnd Jupiter unto his place restor'd:\nAnd, but that learning, in despite of Fate,\nWill amount aloft, and enter heaven-gate,\nAnd to the seat of Jove itself advance,\nHermes had slept in hell with Ignorance.\nYet, as a punishment, they added this,\nThat he and Poverty should always kiss\nAnd to this day is every scholar poor:\nGross gold from them runs headlong to the boor.\nLikewise the angry Sisters, thus deluded,\nTo venge themselves on Hermes, have concluded\nThat Midas' brood shall sit in Honour's chair,\nTo which the Muses' sons are only heir;\nAnd fruitful wits, that inaspiring are,\nShall discontent run into regions far;\nAnd few great lords in virtuous deeds shall joy\nBut be surpris'd with every garish toy,\nAnd still enrich the lofty servile clown,\nWho with encroaching guile keeps learning down.\nThen muse not Cupid's suit no better sped,\nSeeing in their loves the Fates were injured.\n\n\nTHE SECOND SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND SESTIAD\n\n  Hero of love takes deeper sense,\n  And doth her love more recompense:\n  Their first night's meeting, where sweet kisses\n  Are th' only crowns of both their blisses.\n  He swims t' Abydos, and returns:\n  Cold Neptune with his beauty burns;\n  Whose suit he shuns, and doth aspire\n  Hero's fair tower and his desire.\n\n\nBy this, sad Hero, with love unacquainted,\nViewing Leander's face, fell down and fainted.\nHe kiss'd her, and breath'd life into her lips;\nWherewith, as one displeas'd, away she trips;\nYet, as she went, full often look'd behind,\nAnd many poor excuses did she find\nTo linger by the way, and once she stay'd,\nAnd would have turn'd again, but was afraid,\nIn offering parley, to be counted light:\nSo on she goes, and, in her idle flight,\nHer painted fan of curled plumes let fall,\nThinking to train Leander therewithal.\nHe, being a novice, knew not what she meant,\nBut stay'd, and after her a letter sent;\nWhich joyful Hero answer'd in such sort,\nAs he had hoped to scale the beauteous fort\nWherein the liberal Graces lock'd their wealth;\nAnd therefore to her tower he got by stealth.\nWide-open stood the door; he need not climb;\nAnd she herself, before the pointed time,\nHad spread the board, with roses strew'd the room,\nAnd oft look'd out, and mus'd he did not come.\nAt last he came: O, who can tell the greeting\nThese greedy lovers had at their first meeting?\nHe ask'd; she gave; and nothing was denied;\nBoth to each other quickly were affied:\nLook how their hands, so were their hearts united,\nAnd what he did, she willingly requited.\n(Sweet are the kisses, the embracements sweet,\nWhen like desires and like affections meet;\nFor from the earth to heaven is Cupid rais'd,\nWhere fancy is in equal balance pais'd.)\nYet she this rashness suddenly repented,\nAnd turn'd aside, and to herself lamented,\nAs if her name and honour had been wrong'd,\nBy being possess'd of him for whom she long'd;\nAy, and she wish'd, albeit not from her heart,\nThat he would leave her turret and depart.\nThe mirthful god of amorous pleasure smil'd\nTo see how he this captive nymph beguil'd;\nFor hitherto he did but fan the fire,\nAnd kept it down, that it might mount the higher.\nNow wax'd she jealous lest his love abated,\nFearing her own thoughts made her to be hated.\nTherefore unto him hastily she goes,\nAnd, like light Salmacis, her body throws\nUpon his bosom, where with yielding eyes\nShe offers up herself a sacrifice\nTo slake his anger, if he were displeas'd:\nO, what god would not therewith be appeas'd?\nLike AEsop's cock, this jewel he enjoy'd,\nAnd as a brother with his sister toy'd,\nSupposing nothing else was to be done,\nNow he her favour and goodwill had won.\nBut know you not that creatures wanting sense,\nBy nature have a mutual appetence,\nAnd, wanting organs to advance a step,\nMov'd by love's force, unto each other lep?\nMuch more in subjects having intellect\nSome hidden influence breeds like effect.\nAlbeit Leander, rude in love and raw,\nLong dallying with Hero, nothing saw\nThat might delight him more, yet he suspected\nSome amorous rites or other were neglected.\nTherefore unto his body hers he clung:\nShe, fearing on the rushes to be flung,\nStriv'd with redoubled strength; the more she striv'd,\nThe more a gentle pleasing heat reviv'd,\nWhich taught him all that elder lovers know;\nAnd now the same gan so to scorch and glow,\nAs in plain terms, yet cunningly, he crave it:\nLove always makes those eloquent that have it.\nShe, with a kind of granting, put him by it,\nAnd ever, as he thought himself most nigh it,\nLike to the tree of Tantalus, she fled,\nAnd, seeming lavish, sav'd her maidenhead.\nNe'er king more sought to keep his diadem,\nThan Hero this inestimable gem:\nAbove our life we love a steadfast friend;\nYet when a token of great worth we send,\nWe often kiss it, often look thereon,\nAnd stay the messenger that would be gone;\nNo marvel, then, though Hero would not yield\nSo soon to part from that she dearly held:\nJewels being lost are found again; this never;\n'Tis lost but once, and once lost, lost for ever.\n  Now had the Morn espied her lover's steeds;\nWhereat she starts, puts on her purple weeds,\nAnd, red for anger that he stay'd so long,\nAll headlong throws herself the clouds among.\nAnd now Leander, fearing to be miss'd,\nEmbrac'd her suddenly, took leave, and kiss'd:\nLong was he taking leave, and loathe to go,\nAnd kiss'd again, as lovers use to do.\nSad Hero wrung him by the hand, and wept,\nSaying, \"Let your vows and promises be kept\":\nThen standing at the door, she turn'd about,\nAs loathe to see Leander going out.\nAnd now the sun, that through th' horizon peeps,\nAs pitying these lovers, downward creeps;\nSo that in silence of the cloudy night,\nThough it was morning, did he take his flight.\nBut what the secret trusty night conceal'd,\nLeander's amorous habit soon reveal'd:\nWith Cupid's myrtle was his bonnet crown'd,\nAbout his arms the purple riband wound,\nWherewith she wreath'd her largely-spreading hair;\nNor could the youth abstain, but he must wear\nThe sacred ring wherewith she was endow'd,\nWhen first religious chastity she vow'd;\nWhich made his love through Sestos to be known,\nAnd thence unto Abydos sooner blown\nThan he could sail; for incorporeal Fame,\nWhose weight consists in nothing but her name,\nIs swifter than the wind, whose tardy plumes\nAre reeking water and dull earthly fumes.\n  Home when he came, he seem'd not to be there,\nBut, like exiled air thrust from his sphere,\nSet in a foreign place; and straight from thence,\nAlcides-like, by mighty violence,\nHe would have chas'd away the swelling main,\nThat him from her unjustly did detain.\nLike as the sun in a diameter\nFires and inflames objects removed far,\nAnd heateth kindly, shining laterally;\nSo beauty sweetly quickens when 'tis nigh,\nBut being separated and remov'd,\nBurns where it cherish'd, murders where it lov'd.\nTherefore even as an index to a book,\nSo to his mind was young Leander's look.\nO, none but gods have power their love to hide!\nAffection by the countenance is descried;\nThe light of hidden fire itself discovers,\nAnd love that is conceal'd betrays poor lovers.\nHis secret flame apparently was seen:\nLeander's father knew where he had been,\nAnd for the same mildly rebuk'd his son,\nThinking to quench the sparkles new-begun.\nBut love resisted once, grows passionate,\nAnd nothing more than counsel lovers hate;\nFor as a hot proud horse highly disdains\nTo have his head controll'd, but breaks the reins,\nSpits forth the ringled bit, and with his hoves\nChecks the submissive ground; so he that loves,\nThe more he is restrain'd, the worse he fares:\nWhat is it now but mad Leander dares?\n\"O Hero, Hero!\" thus he cried full oft;\nAnd then he got him to a rock aloft,\nWhere having spied her tower, long star'd he on't,\nAnd pray'd the narrow toiling Hellespont\nTo part in twain, that he might come and go;\nBut still the rising billows answer'd, \"No.\"\nWith that, he stripp'd him to the ivory skin,\nAnd, crying, \"Love, I come,\" leap'd lively in:\nWhereat the sapphire-visag'd god grew proud,\nAnd made his capering Triton sound aloud,\nImagining that Ganymede, displeas'd,\nHad left the heavens; therefore on him he seiz'd.\nLeander striv'd; the waves about him wound,\nAnd pull'd him to the bottom, where the ground\nWas strew'd with pearl, and in low coral groves\nSweet-singing mermaids sported with their loves\nOn heaps of heavy gold, and took great pleasure\nTo spurn in careless sort the shipwreck treasure;\nFor here the stately azure palace stood,\nWhere kingly Neptune and his train abode.\nThe lusty god embrac'd him, call'd him \"love,\"\nAnd swore he never should return to Jove:\nBut when he knew it was not Ganymed,\nFor under water he was almost dead,\nHe heav'd him up, and, looking on his face,\nBeat down the bold waves with his triple mace,\nWhich mounted up, intending to have kiss'd him.\nAnd fell in drops like tears because they miss'd him.\nLeander, being up, began to swim,\nAnd, looking back, saw Neptune follow him:\nWhereat aghast, the poor soul gan to cry,\n\"O, let me visit Hero ere I die!\"\nThe god put Helle's bracelet on his arm,\nAnd swore the sea should never do him harm.\nHe clapp'd his plump cheeks, with his tresses play'd,\nAnd, smiling wantonly, his love bewray'd;\nHe watch'd his arms, and, as they open'd wide\nAt every stroke, betwixt them would he slide,\nAnd steal a kiss, and then run out and dance,\nAnd, as he turn'd, cast many a lustful glance,\nAnd throw him gaudy toys to please his eye,\nAnd dive into the water, and there pry\nUpon his breast, his thighs, and every limb,\nAnd up again, and close beside him swim,\nAnd talk of love.  Leander made reply,\n\"You are deceiv'd; I am no woman, I.\"\nThereat smil'd Neptune, and then told a tale,\nHow that a shepherd, sitting in a vale,\nPlay'd with a boy so lovely-fair and kind,\nAs for his love both earth and heaven pin'd;\nThat of the cooling river durst not drink,\nLest water-nymphs should pull him from the brink;\nAnd when he sported in the fragrant lawns,\nGoat-footed Satyrs and up-staring Fauns\nWould steal him thence.  Ere half this tale was done,\n\"Ay me,\" Leander cried, \"th' enamour'd sun,\nThat now should shine on Thetis' glassy bower,\nDescends upon my radiant Hero's tower:\nO, that these tardy arms of mine were wings!\"\nAnd, as he spake, upon the waves he springs.\nNeptune was angry that he gave no ear,\nAnd in his heart revenging malice bare:\nHe flung at him his mace; but, as it went,\nHe call'd it in, for love made him repent:\nThe mace, returning back, his own hand hit,\nAs meaning to be veng'd for darting it.\nWhen this fresh-bleeding wound Leander view'd,\nHis colour went and came, as if he ru'd\nThe grief which Neptune felt: in gentle breasts\nRelenting thoughts, remorse, and pity rests;\nAnd who have hard hearts and obdurate minds,\nBut vicious, hare-brain'd, and illiterate hinds?\nThe god, seeing him with pity to be mov'd,\nThereon concluded that he was belov'd;\n(Love is too full of faith, too credulous,\nWith folly and false hope deluding us;)\nWherefore, Leander's fancy to surprise,\nTo the rich ocean for gifts he flies;\n'Tis wisdom to give much; a gilt prevails\nWhen deep-persuading oratory fails.\n  By this, Leander, being near the land,\nCast down his weary feet, and felt the sand.\nBreathless albeit he were, he rested not\nTill to the solitary tower he got;\nAnd knock'd, and call'd: at which celestial noise\nThe longing heart of Hero much more joys,\nThan nymphs and shepherds when the timbrel rings,\nOr crooked dolphin when the sailor sings.\nShe stay'd not for her robes, but straight arose,\nAnd, drunk with gladness, to the door she goes;\nWhere seeing a naked man, she screech'd for fear,\n(Such sights as this to tender maids are rare,)\nAnd ran into the dark herself to hide\n(Rich jewels in the dark are soonest spied).\nUnto her was he led, or rather drawn\nBy those white limbs which sparkled through the lawn.\nThe nearer that he came, the more she fled,\nAnd, seeking refuge, slipt into her bed;\nWhereon Leander sitting, thus began,\nThrough numbing cold, all feeble, faint, and wan.\n\"If not for love, yet, love, for pity-sake,\nMe in thy bed and maiden bosom take;\nAt least vouchsafe these arms some little room,\nWho, hoping to embrace thee, cheerly swoom:\nThis head was beat with many a churlish billow,\nAnd therefore let it rest upon thy pillow.\"\nHerewith affrighted, Hero shrunk away,\nAnd in her lukewarm place Leander lay;\nWhose lively heat, like fire from heaven fet,\nWould animate gross clay, and higher set\nThe drooping thoughts of base-declining souls,\nThan dreary-Mars-carousing nectar bowls.\nHis hands he cast upon her like a snare:\nShe, overcome with shame and sallow fear,\nLike chaste Diana when Actaeon spied her,\nBeing suddenly betray'd, div'd down to hide her;\nAnd, as her silver body downward went,\nWith both her hands she made the bed a tent,\nAnd in her own mind thought herself secure,\nO'ercast with dim and darksome coverture.\nAnd now she lets him whisper in her ear,\nFlatter, entreat, promise, protest, and swear:\nYet ever, as he greedily assay'd\nTo touch those dainties, she the harpy play'd,\nAnd every limb did, as a soldier stout,\nDefend the fort, and keep the foeman out;\nFor though the rising ivory mount he scal'd,\nWhich is with azure circling lines empal'd.\nMuch like a globe (a globe may I term this,\nBy which Love sails to regions full of bliss,)\nYet there with Sisyphus he toil'd in vain,\nTill gentle parley did the truce obtain.\nEven as a bird, which in our hands we wring,\nForth plungeth, and oft flutters with her wing,\nShe trembling strove: this strife of hers, like that\nWhich made the world, another world begat\nOf unknown joy.  Treason was in her thought,\nAnd cunningly to yield herself she sought.\nSeeming not won, yet won she was at length:\nIn such wars women use but half their strength.\nLeander now, like Theban Hercules,\nEnter'd the orchard of th' Hesperides;\nWhose fruit none rightly can describe, but he\nThat pulls or shakes it from the golden tree.\nWherein Leander, on her quivering breast,\nBreathless spoke something, and sigh'd out the rest;\nWhich so prevail'd, as he, with small ado,\nEnclos'd her in his arms, and kiss'd her too:\nAnd every kiss to her was as a charm,\nAnd to Leander as a fresh alarm:\nSo that the truce was broke, and she, alas,\nPoor silly maiden, at his mercy was.\nLove is not full of pity, as men say,\nBut deaf and cruel where he means to prey.\n  And now she wish'd this night were never done,\nAnd sigh'd to think upon th' approaching sun;\nFor much it griev'd her that the bright day-light\nShould know the pleasure of this blessed night,\nAnd them, like Mars and Erycine, display\nBoth in each other's arms chain'd as they lay.\nAgain, she knew not how to frame her look,\nOr speak to him, who in a moment took\nThat which so long, so charily she kept;\nAnd fain by stealth away she would have crept,\nAnd to some corner secretly have gone,\nLeaving Leander in the bed alone.\nBut as her naked feet were whipping out,\nHe on the sudden cling'd her so about,\nThat, mermaid-like, unto the floor she slid;\nOne half appear'd the other half was hid.\nThus near the bed she blushing stood upright,\nAnd from her countenance behold ye might\nA kind of twilight break, which through the air,\nAs from an orient cloud, glimps'd here and there;\nAnd round about the chamber this false morn\nBrought forth the day before the day was born.\nSo Hero's ruddy cheek Hero betray'd,\nAnd her all naked to his sight display'd:\nWhence his admiring eyes more pleasure took\nThan Dis, on heaps of gold fixing his look.\nBy this, Apollo's golden harp began\nTo sound forth music to the ocean;\nWhich watchful Hesperus no sooner heard,\nBut he the bright Day-bearing car prepar'd,\nAnd ran before, as harbinger of light,\nAnd with his flaring beams mock'd ugly Night\nTill she, o'ercome with anguish, shame, and rage,\nDang'd down to hell her loathsome carriage.\n\n\n  Here Marlowe's work ends.  The rest of the poem is by Chapman.\n\n\nTHE THIRD SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD SESTIAD\n\n  Leander to the envious light\n  Resigns his night-sports with the night,\n  And swims the Hellespont again.\n  Thesme, the deity sovereign\n  Of customs and religious rites,\n  Appears, reproving his delights,\n  Since nuptial honours he neglected;\n  Which straight he vows shall be effected.\n  Fair Hero, left devirginate,\n  Weighs, and with fury wails her state:\n  But with her love and woman's wit\n  She argues and approveth it.\n\n\nNew light gives new directions, fortunes new\nTo fashion our endeavours that ensue.\nMore harsh, at least more hard, more grave and high\nOur subject runs, and our stern Muse must fly.\nLove's edge is taken off, and that light flame,\nThose thoughts, joys, longings, that before became\nHigh unexperienc'd blood, and maids' sharp plights,\nMust now grow staid, and censure the delights,\nThat, being enjoy'd, ask judgment; now we praise,\nAs having parted: evenings crown the days.\n  And now, ye wanton Loves, and young Desires,\nPied Vanity, the mint of strange attires,\nYe lisping Flatteries, and obsequious Glances,\nRelentful Musics, and attractive Dances,\nAnd you detested Charms constraining love!\nShun love's stoln sports by that these lovers prove.\n  By this, the sovereign of heaven's golden fires,\nAnd young Leander, lord of his desires,\nTogether from their lover's arms arose:\nLeander into Hellespontus throws\nHis Hero-handled body, whose delight\nMade him disdain each other epithite.\nAnd so amidst th' enamour'd waves he swims,\nThe god of gold of purpose gilt his limbs,\nThat, this word _gilt_ including double sense,\nThe double guilt of his incontinence\nMight be express'd, that had no stay t' employ\nThe tresure which the love-god let him joy\nIn his dear Hero, with such sacred thrift\nAs had beseem'd so sanctified a gift;\nBut, like a greedy vulgar prodigal,\nWould on the stock dispend, and rudely fall,\nBefore his time, to that unblessed blessing\nWhich, for lust's plague, doth perish with possessing:\nJoy graven in sense, like snow in water, wasts;\nWithout preserve of virtue, nothing lasts.\nWhat man is he, that with a wealthy eye\nEnjoys a beauty richer than the sky,\nThrough whose white skin, softer than soundest sleep,\nWith damask eyes the ruby blood doth peep,\nAnd runs in branches through her azure veins,\nWhose mixture and first fire his love attains;\nWhose both hands limit both love's deities,\nAnd sweeten human thoughts like paradise;\nWhose disposition silken and is kind,\nDirected with an earth-exempted mind;--\nWho thinks not heaven with such a love is given?\nAnd who, like earth, would spend that dower of heaven,\nWith rank desire to joy it all at first?\nWhat simply kills our hunger, quencheth thirst,\nClothes but our nakedness, and makes us live,\nPraise doth not any of her favours give:\nBut what doth plentifully minister\nBeauteous apparel and delicious cheer,\nSo order'd that it still excites desire,\nAnd still gives pleasure freeness to aspire,\nThe palm of Bounty ever moist preserving;\nTo Love's sweet life this is the courtly carving.\nThus Time and all-states-ordering Ceremony\nHad banish'd all offence: Time's golden thigh\nUpholds the flowery body of the earth\nIn sacred harmony, and every birth\nOf men and actions makes legitimate;\nBeing us'd aright, the use of time is fate.\n  Yet did the gentle flood transfer once more\nThis prize of love home to his father's shore,\nWhere he unlades himself of that false wealth\nThat makes few rich,--treasures compos'd by stealth;\nAnd to his sister, kind Hermione,\n(Who on the shore kneel'd, praying to the sea\nFor his return,) he all love's goods did show,\nIn Hero seis'd for him, in him for Hero.\n  His most kind sister all his secrets knew,\nAnd to her, singing, like a shower, he flew,\nSprinkling the earth, that to their tombs took in\nStreams dead for love, to leave his ivory skin,\nWhich yet a snowy foam did leave above,\nAs soul to the dead water that did love;\nAnd from thence did the first white roses spring\n(For love is sweet and fair in every thing),\nAnd all the sweeten'd shore, as he did go,\nWas crown'd with odorous roses, white as snow.\nLove-blest Leander was with love so fill'd,\nThat love to all that touch'd him he instill'd;\nAnd as the colours of all things we see,\nTo our sight's powers communicated be,\nSo to all objects that in compass came\nOf any sense he had, his senses' flame\nFlow'd from his parts with force so virtual,\nIt fir'd with sense things mere insensual.\n  Now, with warm baths and odours comforted,\nWhen he lay down, he kindly kiss'd his bed,\nAs consecrating it to Hero's right,\nAnd vow'd thererafter, that whatever sight\nPut him in mind of Hero or her bliss,\nShould be her altar to prefer a kiss.\n  Then laid he forth his late-enriched arms,\nIn whose white circle Love writ all his charms,\nAnd made his characters sweet Hero's limbs,\nWhen on his breast's warm sea she sideling swims;\nAnd as those arms, held up in circle, met,\nHe said, \"See, sister, Hero's carquenet!\nWhich she had rather wear about her neck,\nThan all the jewels that do Juno deck.\"\n  But, as he shook with passionate desire\nTo put in flame his other secret fire,\nA music so divine did pierce his ear,\nAs never yet his ravish'd sense did hear;\nWhen suddenly a light of twenty hues\nBrake through the roof, and, like the rainbow, views\nAmaz'd Leander: in whose beams came down\nThe goddess Ceremony, with a crown\nOf all the stars; and Heaven with her descended:\nHer flaming hair to her bright feet extended,\nBy which hung all the bench of deities;\nAnd in a chain, compact of ears and eyes,\nShe led Religion: all her body was\nClear and transparent as the purest glass,\nFor she was all presented to the sense:\nDevotion, Order, State, and Reverence,\nHer shadows were; Society, Memory;\nAll which her sight made live, her absence die.\nA rich disparent pentacle she wears,\nDrawn full of circles and strange characters.\nHer face was changeable to every eye;\nOne way look'd ill, another graciously;\nWhich while men view'd, they cheerful were and holy,\nBut looking off, vicious and melancholy.\nThe snaky paths to each observed law\nDid Policy in her broad bosom draw.\nOne hand a mathematic crystal sways,\nWhich, gathering in one line a thousand rays\nFrom her bright eyes, Confusion burns to death,\nAnd all estates of men distinguisheth:\nBy it Morality and Comeliness\nThemselves in all their sightly figures dress.\nHer other hand a laurel rod applies,\nTo beat back Barbarism and Avarice,\nThat follow'd, eating earth and excrement\nAnd human limbs; and would make proud ascent\nTo seats of gods, were Ceremony slain.\nThe Hours and Graces bore her glorious train;\nAnd all the sweets of our society\nWere spher'd and treasur'd in her bounteous eye.\nThus she appear'd, and sharply did reprove\nLeander's bluntness in his violent love;\nTold him how poor was substance without rites,\nLike bills unsign'd; desires without delights;\nLike meats unseason'd; like rank corn that grows\nOn cottages, that none or reaps or sows;\nNot being with civil forms confirm'd and bounded,\nFor human dignities and comforts founded;\nBut loose and secret all their glories hide;\nFear fills the chamber, Darkness decks the bride.\n  She vanish'd, leaving pierc'd Leander's heart\nWith sense of his unceremonious part,\nIn which, with plain neglect of nuptial rites,\nHe close and flatly fell to his delights:\nAnd instantly he vow'd to celebrate\nAll rites pertaining to his married state.\nSo up he gets, and to his father goes,\nTo whose glad ears he doth his vows disclose.\nThe nuptials are resolv'd with utmost power;\nAnd he at night would swim to Hero's tower,\nFrom whence he meant to Sestos' forked bay\nTo bring her covertly, where ships must stay,\nSent by his father, throughly rigg'd and mann'd,\nTo waft her safely to Abydos' strand.\nThere leave we him; and with fresh wing pursue\nAstonish'd Hero, whose most wished view\nI thus long have forborne, because I left her\nSo out of countenance, and her spirits bereft her:\nTo look of one abashed is impudence,\nWhen of slight faults he hath too deep a sense.\nHer blushing het her chamber: she look'd out,\nAnd all the air she purpled round about;\nAnd after it a foul black day befell,\nWhich ever since a red morn doth foretell,\nAnd still renews our woes for Hero's woe;\nAnd foul it prov'd, because it figur'd so\nThe next night's horror; which prepare to hear;\nI fail, if it profane your daintiest ear.\n  Then, ho, most strangely-intellectual fire,\nThat, proper to my soul, hast power t'inspire\nHer burning faculties, and with the wings\nOf thy unsphered flame visit'st the springs\nOf spirits immortal!  Now (as swift as Time\nDoth follow Motion) find th' eternal clime\nOf his free soul, whose living subject stood\nUp to the chin in the Pierian flood,\nAnd drunk to me half this Musaean story,\nInscribing it to deathless memory:\nConfer with it, and make my pledge as deep,\nThat neither's draught be consecrate to sleep;\nTell it how much his late desires I tender\n(If yet it know not), and to light surrender\nMy soul's dark offspring, willing it should die\nTo loves, to passions, and society.\n  Sweet Hero, left upon her bed alone,\nHer maidenhead, her vows, Leander gone,\nAnd nothing with her but a violent crew\nOf new-come thoughts, that yet she never knew,\nEven to herself a stranger, was much like\nTh' Iberian city that War's hand did strike\nBy English force in princely Essex' guide,\nWhen Peace assur'd her towers had fortified,\nAnd golden-finger'd India had bestow'd\nSuch wealth on her, that strength and empire flow'd\nInto her turrets, and her virgin waist\nThe wealthy girdle of the sea embrac'd;\nTill our Leander, that made Mars his Cupid,\nFor soft love suits with iron thunders chid;\nSwum to her town, dissolv'd her virgin zone;\nLed in his power, and made Confusion\nRun through her streets amaz'd, that she suppos'd\nShe had not been in her own walls enclosed,\nBut rapt by wonder to some foreign state,\nSeeing all her issue so disconsolate,\nAnd all her peaceful mansions possess'd\nWith war's just spoil, and many a foreign guest\nFrom every corner driving an enjoyer,\nSupplying it with power of a destroyer.\nSo far'd fair Hero in th' expugned fort\nOf her chaste bosom; and of every sort\nStrange thoughts possess'd her, ransacking her breast\nFor that that was not there, her wonted rest.\nShe was a mother straight, and bore with pain\nThoughts that spake straight, and wish'd their mother slain;\nShe hates their lives, and they their own and hers:\nSuch strife still grows where sin the race prefers:\nLove is a golden bubble, full of dreams,\nThat waking breaks, and fills us with extremes.\nShe mus'd how she could look upon her sire,\nAnd not show that without, that was intire;\nFor as a glass is an inanimate eye,\nAnd outward forms embraceth inwardly,\nSo is the eye an animate glass, that shows\nIn forms without us; and as Phoebus throws\nHis beams abroad, though he in clouds be clos'd,\nStill glancing by them till he find oppos'd\nA loose and rorid vapour that is fit\nT' event his searching beams, and useth it\nTo form a tender twenty-colour'd eye,\nCast in a circle round about the sky;\nSo when our fiery soul, our body's star,\n(That ever is in motion circular,)\nConceives a form, in seeking to display it\nThrough all our cloudy parts, it doth convey it\nForth at the eye, as the most pregnant place,\nAnd that reflects it round about the face.\nAnd this event, uncourtly Hero thought,\nHer inward guilt would in her looks have wrought;\nFor yet the world's stale cunning she resisted,\nTo bear foul thoughts, yet forge what looks she listed,\nAnd held it for a very silly sleight,\nTo make a perfect metal counterfeit.\nGlad to disclaim herself, proud of an art\nThat makes the face a pandar to the heart.\nThose be the painted moons, whose lights profane\nBeauty's true heaven, at full still in their wane;\nThose be the lapwing faces that still cry,\n\"Here 'tis!\" when that they vow is nothing nigh:\nBase fools! when every moorish fool can teach\nThat which men think the height of human reach.\nBut custom, that the apoplexy is\nOf bed-rid nature and lives led amiss,\nAnd takes away all feeling of offence,\nYet braz'd not Hero's brow with impudence;\nAnd this she thought most hard to bring to pass,\nTo seem in countenance other than she was,\nAs if she had two souls, one for the face,\nOne for the heart, and that they shifted place\nAs either list to utter or conceal\nWhat they conceiv'd, or as one soul did deal\nWith both affairs at once, keeps and ejects\nBoth at an instant contrary effects;\nRetention and ejection in her powers\nBeing acts alike; for this one vice of ours,\nThat forms the thought, and sways the countenance,\nRules both our motion and our utterance.\n  These and more grave conceits toil'd Hero's spirits;\nFor, though the light of her discoursive wits\nPerhaps might find some little hole to pass\nThrough all these worldly cinctures, yet, alas!\nThere was a heavenly flame encompass'd her,--\nHer goddess, in whose fane she did prefer\nHer virgin vows, from whose impulsive sight\nShe knew the black shield of the darkest night\nCould not defend her, nor wit's subtlest art:\nThis was the point pierc'd Hero to the heart;\nWho, heavy to the death, with a deep sigh,\nAnd hand that languish'd, took a robe was nigh,\nExceeding large, and of black cypress made,\nIn which she sate, hid from the day in shade,\nEven over head and face, down to her feet;\nHer left hand made it at her bosom meet,\nHer right hand lean'd on her heart-bowing knee,\nWrapp'd in unshapeful folds, 'twas death to see;\nHer knee stay'd that, and that her falling face;\nEach limb help'd other to put on disgrace:\nNo form was seen, where form held all her sight;\nBut, like an embryon that saw never light,\nOr like a scorched statue made a coal\nWith three-wing'd lightning, or a wretched soul\nMuffled with endless darkness, she did sit:\nThe night had never such a heavy spirit.\nYet might a penetrating eye well see\nHow fast her clear tears melted on her knee\nThrough her black veil, and turn'd as black as it,\nMourning to be her tears.  Then wrought her wit\nWith her broke vow, her goddess' wrath, her fame,--\nAll tools that enginous despair could frame:\nWhich made her strew the floor with her torn hair,\nAnd spread her mantle piece-meal in the air.\nLike Jove's son's club, strong passion struck her down\nAnd with a piteous shriek enforc'd her swoun:\nHer shriek made with another shriek ascend\nThe frighted matron that on her did tend;\nAnd as with her own cry her sense was slain,\nSo with the other it was call'd again.\nShe rose, and to her bed made forced way,\nAnd laid her down even where Leander lay;\nAnd all this while the red sea of her blood\nEbb'd with Leander: but now turn'd the flood,\nAnd all her fleet of spirits came swelling in,\nWith child of sail, and did hot fight begin\nWith those severe conceits she too much mark'd:\nAnd here Leander's beauties were embark'd.\nHe came in swimming, painted all with joys,\nSuch as might sweeten hell: his thought destroys\n All her destroying thoughts; she thought she felt\nHis heart in hers, with her contentions melt,\nAnd chide her soul that it could so much err,\nTo check the true joys he deserv'd in her.\nHer fresh heat-blood cast figures in her eyes,\nAnd she suppos'd she saw in Neptune's skies\nHow her star wander'd, wash'd in smarting brine,\nFor her love's sake, that with immortal wine\nShould be embath'd, and swim in more heart's-ease\nThan there was water in the Sestian seas.\nThen said her Cupid-prompted spirit: \"Shall I\nSing moans to such delightsome harmony?\nShall slick-tongu'd Fame, patch'd up with voices rude,\nThe drunken bastard of the multitude,\n(Begot when father Judgment is away,\nAnd, gossip-like, says because others say,\nTakes news as if it were too hot to eat,\nAnd spits it slavering forth for dog-fees meat,)\nMake me, for forging a fantastic vow,\nPresume to bear what makes grave matrons bow?\nGood vows are never broken with good deeds,\nFor then good deeds were bad: vows are but seeds,\nAnd good deeds fruits; even those good deeds that grow\nFrom other stocks than from th' observed vow.\nThat is a good deed that prevents a bad;\nHad I not yielded, slain myself I had.\nHero Leander is, Leander Hero;\nSuch virtue love hath to make one of two.\nIf, then, Leander did my maidenhead git,\nLeander being myself, I still retain it:\nWe break chaste vows when we live loosely ever,\nBut bound as we are, we live loosely never:\nTwo constant lovers being join'd in one,\nYielding to one another, yield to none.\nWe know not how to vow till love unblind us,\nAnd vows made ignorantly nerver bind us.\nToo true it is, that, when 'tis gone, men hate\nThe joys as vain they took in love's estate:\nBut that's since they have lost the heavenly light\nShould show them way to judge of all things right.\nWhen life is gone, death must implant his terror:\nAs death is foe to life, so love to error.\nBefore we love, how range we through this sphere,\nSearching the sundry fancies hunted here!\nNow with desire of wealth transported quite\nBeyond our free humanity's delight;\nNow with ambition climbing falling towers,\nWhose hope to scale, our fear to fall devours;\nNow rapt with pastimes, pomp, all joys impure:\nIn things without us no delight is sure.\nBut love, with all joys crown'd, within doth sit:\nO goddess, pity love, and pardon it!\"\nThus spake she weeping: but her goddess' ear\nBurn'd with too stern a heat, and would not hear.\nAy me! hath heaven's strait fingers no more graces\nFor such as Hero than for homeliest faces?\nYet she hop'd well, and in her sweet conceit\nWeighing her arguments, she thought them weight,\nAnd that the logic of Leander's beauty,\nAnd them together, would bring proofs of duty;\nAnd if her soul, that was a skillful glance\nOf heaven's great essence, found such imperance\nIn her love's beauties, she had confidence\nJove lov'd him too, and pardon'd her offence:\nBeauty in heaven and earth this grace doth win,\nIt supples rigour, and it lessens sin.\nThus, her sharp wit, her love, her secrecy,\nTrooping together, made her wonder why\nShe should not leave her bed, and to the temple;\nHer health said she must live; her sex, dissemble.\nShe view'd Leander's place, and wish'd he were\nTurn'd to his place, so his place were Leander.\n\"Ay me,\" said she, \"that love's sweet life and sense\nShould do it harm! my love had not gone hence,\nHad he been like his place: O blessed place,\nImage of constancy!  Thus my love's grace\nParts nowhere, but it leaves something behind\nWorth observation: he renowns his kind:\nHis motion is, like heaven's, orbicular,\nFor where he once is, he is ever there.\nThis place was mine; Leander, now 'tis thine,\nThou being myself, then it is double mine,\nMine, and Leander's mine, Leander's mine.\nO, see what wealth it yields me, nay, yields him!\nFor I am in it, he for me doth swim.\nRich, fruitful love, that, doubling self estates,\nElixir-like contracts, though separates!\nDear place, I kiss thee, and do welcome thee,\nAs from Leander ever sent to me.\"\n\n\nTHE FOURTH SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE FOURTH SESTIAD\n\n  Hero, in sacred habit deckt,\n  Doth private sacrifice effect.\n  Her scarf's description, wrought by Fate;\n  Ostents that threaten her estate;\n  The strange, yet physical, events,\n  Leander's counterfeit presents.\n  In thunder Cyprides descends,\n  Presaging both the lovers' ends:\n  Ecte, the goddess of remorse,\n  With vocal and articulate force\n  Inspires Leucote, Venus' swan,\n  T' excuse the beauteous Sestian.\n  Venus, to wreak her rites' abuses,\n  Creates the monster Eronusis,\n  Inflaming Hero's sacrifice\n  With lightning darted from her eyes;\n  And thereof springs the painted beast\n  That ever since taints every breast.\n\n\nNow from Leander's place she rose, and found\nHer hair and rent robe scatter'd on the ground;\nWhich taking up, she every piece did lay\nUpon an altar, where in youth of day\nShe us'd t' exhibit private sacrifice:\nThose would she offer to the deities\nOf her fair goddess and her powerful son,\nAs relics of her late-felt passion;\nAnd in that holy sort she vow'd to end them,\nIn hope her violent fancies, that did rend them,\nWould as quite fade in her love's holy fire,\nAs they should in the flames she meant t' inspire.\nThen she put on all her religious weeds,\nThat deck'd her in her secret sacred deeds;\nA crown of icicles, that sun nor fire\nCould ever melt, and figur'd chaste desire;\nA golden star shin'd in her naked breast,\nIn honour of the queen-light of the east.\nIn her right hand she held a silver wand,\nOn whose bright top Peristera did stand,\nWho was a nymph, but now transform'd a dove,\nAnd in her life was dear in Venus' love;\nAnd for her sake she ever since that time\nChoos'd doves to draw her coach through heaven's blue clime.\nHer plenteous hair in curled billows swims\nOn her bright shoulder: her harmonious limbs\nSustain'd no more but a most subtile veil,\nThat hung on them, as it durst not assail\nTheir different concord; for the weakest air\nCould raise it swelling from her beauties fair;\nNor did it cover, but adumbrate only\nHer most heart-piercing parts, that a blest eye\nMight see, as it did shadow, fearfully,\nAll that all-love-deserving paradise:\nIt was as blue as the most freezing skies;\nNear the sea's hue, for thence her goddess came:\nOn it a scarf she wore of wondrous frame;\nIn midst whereof she wrought a virgin's face,\nFrom whose each cheek a fiery blush did chase\nTwo crimson flames, that did two ways extend,\nSpreading the ample scarf to either end;\nWhich figur'd the division of her mind,\nWhiles yet she rested bashfully inclined,\nAnd stood not resolute to wed Leander;\nThis serv'd her white neck for a purple sphere,\nAnd cast itself at full breadth down her back:\nThere, since the first breath that begun the wrack\nOf her free quiet from Leander's lips,\nShe wrought a sea, in one flame, full of ships;\nBut that one ship where all her wealth did pass,\nLike simple merchants' goods, Leander was;\nFor in that sea she naked figur'd him;\nHer diving needle taught him how to swim,\nAnd to each thread did such resemblance give,\nFor joy to be so like him it did live:\nThings senseless live by art, and rational die\nBy rude contempt of art and industry.\nScarce could she work, but, in her strength of thought,\nShe fear'd she prick'd Leander as she wrought,\nAnd oft would shriek so, that her guardian, frighted,\nWould staring haste, as with some mischief cited:\nThey double life that dead things' grief sustain;\nThey kill that feel not their friends' living pain.\nSometimes she fear'd he sought her infamy;\nAnd then, as she was working of his eye,\nShe thought to prick it out to quench her ill;\nBut, as she prick'd, it grew more perfect still:\nTrifling attempts no serious acts advance;\nThe fire of love is blown by dalliance.\nIn working his fair neck she did so grace it,\nShe still was working her own arms t' embrace it.\nThat, and his shoulders, and his hands were seen\nAbove the stream; and with a pure sea-green\nShe did so quaintly shadow every limb,\nAll might be seen beneath the waves to swim.\n  In this conceited scarf she wrought beside\nA moon in change, and shooting stars did glide\nIn number after her with bloody beams;\nWhich figur'd her affects in their extremes,\nPursuing nature in her Cynthian body,\nAnd did her thoughts running on change imply;\nFor maids take more delight, when they prepare,\nAnd think of wives' states, than when wives they are.\nBeneath all these she wrought a fisherman,\nDrawing his nets from forth the ocean;\nWho drew so hard, ye might discover well\nThe toughen'd sinews in his neck did swell:\nHis inward strains drave out his blood-shot eyes\nAnd springs of sweat did in his forehead rise;\nYet was of naught but of a serpent sped,\nThat in his bosom flew and stung him dead:\nAnd this by Fate into her mind was sent,\nNot wrought by mere instinct of her intent.\nAt the scarf's other end her hand did frame,\nNear the fork'd point of the divided flame,\nA country virgin keeping of a vine,\nWho did of hollow bulrushes combine\nSnares for the stubble-loving grasshopper,\nAnd by her lay her scrip that nourish'd her.\nWithin a myrtle shade she sate and sung;\nAnd tufts of waving reeds about her sprung\nWhere lurk'd two foxes, that, while she applied\nHer trifling snares, their thieveries did divide,\nOne to the vine, another to her scrip,\nThat she did negligently overslip;\nBy which her fruitful vine and wholesome fare\nShe suffer'd spoil'd, to make a childish snare.\nThese ominous fancies did her soul express,\nAnd every finger made a prophetess,\nTo show what death was hid in love's disguise,\nAnd make her judgment conquer Destinies.\nO, what sweet forms fair ladies' souls do shroud,\nWere they made seen and forced through their blood;\nIf through their beauties, like rich work through lawn,\nThey would set forth their minds with virtues drawn,\nIn letting graces from their fingers fly,\nTo still their eyas thoughts with industry:\nThat their plied wits in number'd silks might sing\nPassion's huge conquest, and their needles leading\nAffection prisoner through their own-built cities,\nPinion'd with stories and Arachnean ditties.\n  Proceed we now with Hero's sacrifice:\nShe odours burn'd, and from their smoke did rise\nUnsavoury fumes, that air with plagues inspir'd;\nAnd then the consecrated sticks she fir'd,\nOn whose pale frame an angry spirit flew,\nAnd beat it down still as it upward grew;\nThe virgin tapers that on th' altar stood,\nWhen she inflam'd them, burn'd as red as blood:\nAll sad ostents of that too near success,\nThat made such moving beauties motionless.\nThen Hero wept; but her affrighted eyes\nShe quickly wrested from the sacrifice,\nShut them, and inwards for Leander look'd.\nSearch'd her soft bosom, and from thence she pluck'd\nHis lovely picture: which when she had view'd,\nHer beauties were with all love's joys renew'd;\nThe odours sweeten'd, and the fires burn'd clear,\nLeander's form left no ill object there:\nSuch was his beauty, that the force of light,\nWhose knowledge teacheth wonders infinite,\nThe strength of number and proportion,\nNature had plac'd in it to make it known,\nArt was her daughter, and what human wits\nFor study lost, entomb'd in drossy spirits.\nAfter this accident, (which for her glory\nHero could not but make a history,)\nTh' inhabitants of Sestos and Abydos\nDid every year, with feasts propitious,\nTo fair Leander's picture sacrifice:\nAnd they were persons of special price\nThat were allow'd it, as an ornament\nT' enrich their houses, for the continent\nOf the strange virtues all approv'd it held;\nFor even the very look of it repell'd\nAll blastings, witchcrafts, and the strifes of nature\nIn those diseases that no herbs could cure:\nThe wolfy sting of avarice it would pull,\nAnd make the rankest miser bountiful;\nIt kill'd the fear of thunder and of death;\nThe discords that conceit engendereth\n'Twixt man and wife, it for the time would cease;\nThe flames of love it quench'd, and would increase;\nHeld in a prince's hand, it would put out\nThe dreadful'st comet; it would ease all doubt\nOf threatened mischiefs; it would bring asleep\nSuch as were mad; it would enforce to weep\nMost barbarous eyes; and many more effects\nThis picture wrought, and sprung Leandrian sects;\nOf which was Hero first; for he whose form,\nHeld in her hand, clear'd such a fatal storm,\nFrom hell she thought his person would defend her,\nWhich night and Hellespont would quickly send her.\nWith this confirm'd, she vow'd to banish quite\nAll thought of any check to her delight;\nAnd, in contempt of silly bashfulness,\nShe would the faith of her desires profess,\nWhere her religion should be policy,\nTo follow love with zeal her piety;\nHer chamber her cathedral-church should be,\nAnd her Leander her chief diety;\nFor in her love these did the gods forego;\nAnd though her knowledge did not teach her so,\nYet did it teach her this, that what her heart\nDid greatest hold in her self-greatest part,\nThat she did make her god; and 'twas less naught\nTo leave gods in profession and in thought,\nThan in her love and life; for therein lies\nMost of her duties and their dignities;\nAnd, rail the brain-bald world at what it will,\nThat's the grand atheism that reigns in it still.\nYet singularity she would use no more,\nFor she was singular too much before;\nBut she would please the world with fair pretext;\nLove would not leave her conscience perplext:\nGreat men that will have less do for them, still\nMust bear them out, though th' acts be ne'er so ill;\nMeanness must pander be to Excellence;\nPleasure atones Falsehood and Conscience:\nDissembling was the worst, thought Hero then,\nAnd that was best, now she must live with men.\nO virtuous love, that taught her to do best\nWhen she did worst, and when she thought it least!\nThus would she still proceed in works divine,\nAnd in her sacred state of priesthood shine,\nHandling the holy rites with hands as bold,\nAs if therein she did Jove's thunder hold,\nAnd need not fear those menaces of error,\nWhich she at others threw with greatest terror.\nO lovely Hero, nothing is thy sin,\nWeigh'd with those foul faults other priests are in!\nThat having neither faiths, nor works, nor beauties,\nT' engender any 'scuse for slubber'd duties,\nWith as much countenance fill their holy chairs,\nAnd sweat denouncements 'gainst profane affairs,\nAs if their lives were cut out by their places,\nAnd they the only fathers of the graces.\n  Now, as with settled mind she did repair\nHer thoughts to sacrifice her ravish'd hair\nAnd her torn robe, which on the altar lay,\nAnd only for religion's fire did stay,\nShe heard a thunder by the Cyclops beaten,\nIn such a volley as the world did threaten,\nGiven Venus as she parted th' airy sphere,\nDescending now to chide with Hero here:\nWhen suddenly the goddess' waggoners,\nThe swans and turtles that, in coupled pheres,\nThrough all worlds' bosoms draw her influence,\nLighted in Hero's window, and from thence\nTo her fair shoulders flew the gentle doves,--\nGraceful AEdone that sweet pleasure loves,\nAnd ruff-foot Chreste with the tufted crown;\nBoth which did kiss her, though their goddess frown.\nThe swans did in the solid flood, her glass,\nProin their fair plumes; of which the fairest was\nJove-lov'd Leucote, that pure brightness is;\nThe other bounty-loving Dapsilis,\nAll were in heaven, now they with Hero were:\nBut Venus' looks brought wrath, and urged fear.\nHer robe was scarlet; black her head's attire;\nAnd through her naked breast shin'd streams of fire,\nAs when the rarified air is driven\nIn flashing streams, and opes the darken'd heaven.\nIn her white hand a wreath of yew she bore;\nAnd, breaking th' icy wreath sweet Hero wore,\nShe forc'd about her brows her wreath of yew,\nAnd said, \"Now, minion, to thy fate be true,\nThough not to me; endure what this portends:\nBegin where lightness will, in shame it ends.\nLove makes thee cunning; thou art current now,\nBy being counterfeit: thy broken vow\nDeceit with her pied garters must rejoin,\nAnd with her stamp thou countenances must coin;\nCoyness, and pure deceits, for purities,\nAnd still a maid wilt seem in cozen'd eyes,\nAnd have an antic face to laugh within,\nWhile thy smooth looks make men digest thy sin,\nBut since thy lips (least thought forsworn) forswore,\nBe never virgin's vow worth trusting more!\"\n  When Beauty's dearest did her goddess hear\nBreathe such rebukes 'gainst that she could not clear,\nDumb sorrow spake aloud in tears and blood,\nThat from her grief-burst veins, in piteous flood,\nFrom the sweet conduits of her favour fell.\nThe gentle turtles did with moans make swell\nTheir shining gorges; the white black-ey'd swans\nDid sing as woful epicedians.\nAs they would straightways die: when Pity's queen,\nThe goddess Ecte, that had ever been\nHid in a watery cloud near Hero's cries,\nSince the first instant of her broken eyes,\nGave bright Leucote voice, and made her speak,\nTo ease her anguish, whose swoln breast did break\nWith anger at her goddess, that did touch\nHero so near for that she us'd so much;\nAnd, thrusting her white neck at Venus, said:\n\"Why may not amorous Hero seem a maid,\nThough she be none, as well as you suppress\nIn modest cheeks your inward wantonness?\nHow often have we drawn you from above,\nT' exchange with mortals rites for rites in love!\nWhy in your priest, then, call you that offence,\nThat shines in you, and is your influence?\"\nWith this, the Furies stopp'd Leucote's lips,\nEnjoin'd by Venus; who with rosy whips\nBeat the kind bird.  Fierce lightning from her eyes\nDid set on fire fair Hero's sacrifice,\nWhich was her torn robe and enforced hair;\nAnd the bright flame became a maid most fair\nFor her aspect: her tresses were of wire,\nKnit like a net, where hearts, set all on fire,\nStruggled in pants, and could not get releast;\nHer arms were all with golden pincers drest,\nAnd twenty-fashion'd knots, pulleys, and brakes,\nAnd all her body girt with painted snakes;\nHer down-parts in a scorpion's tail combin'd,\nFreckled with twenty colours; pied wings shin'd\nOut of her shoulders; cloth had never dye,\nNor sweeter colours never viewed eye,\nIn scorching Turkey, Cares, Tartary,\nThan shin'd about this spirit notorious;\nNor was Arachne's web so glorious.\nOf lightning, and of shreds she was begot;\nMore hold in base dissemblers is there not.\nHer name was Eronusis.  Venus flew\nFrom Hero's sight, and at her chariot drew\nThis wondrous creature to so steep a height,\nThat all the world she might command with sleight\nOf her gay wings; and then she bade her haste,--\nSince Hero had dissembled, and disgrac'd\nHer rites so much,--and every breast infect\nWith her deceits: she made her architect\nOf all dissimulation; and since then\nNever was any trust in maids or men.\n                                      O, it spited\nFair Venus' heart to see her most delighted,\nAnd one she choos'd, for temper of her mind,\nTo be the only ruler of her kind,\nSo soon to let her virgin race be ended!\nNot simply for the fault a whit offended,\nBut that in strife for chasteness with the Moon,\nSpiteful Diana bade her show but one\nThat was her servant vow'd, and liv'd a maid;\nAnd, now she thought to answer that upbraid,\nHero had lost her answer: who knows not\nVenus would seem as far from any spot\nOf light demeanour, as the very skin\n'Twixt Cynthia's brows? sin is asham'd of sin.\nUp Venus flew, and scarce durst up for fear\nOf Phoebe's laughter, when she pass'd her sphere:\nAnd so most ugly-clouded was the light,\nThat day was hid in day; night came ere night;\nAnd Venus could not through the thick air pierce,\nTill the day's king, god of undaunted verse,\nBecause she was so plentiful a theme\nTo such as wore his laurel anademe,\nLike to a fiery bullet made descent,\nAnd from her passage those fat vapours rent,\nThat, being not thoroughly rarified to rain,\nMelted like pitch, as blue as any vein;\nAnd scalding tempests made the earth to shrink\nUnder their fervour, and the world did think\nIn every drop a torturing spirit flew,\nIt pierc'd so deeply, and it burn'd so blue.\n  Betwixt all this and Hero, Hero held\nLeander's picture, as a Persian shield;\nAnd she was free from fear of worst success:\nThe more ill threats us, we suspect the less:\nAs we grow hapless, violence subtle grows,\nDumb, deaf, and blind, and comes when no man knows.\n\n\nTHE FIFTH SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH SESTIAD\n\n  Day doubles her accustomed date,\n  As loath the Night, incens'd by Fate,\n  Should wreck our lovers.  Hero's plight;\n  Longs for Leander and the night:\n  Which ere her thirsty wish recovers,\n  She sends for two betrothed lovers,\n  And marries tham, that, with their crew,\n  Their sports, and ceremonies due,\n  She covertly might celebrate,\n  With secret joy, her own estate.\n  She makes a feast, at which appears\n  The wild nymph Teras, that still bears\n  An ivory lute, tells ominous tales,\n  And sings at solemn festivals.\n\n\nNow was bright Hero weary of the day,\nThought an Olympiad in Leander's stay.\nSol and the soft-foot Hours hung on his arms,\nAnd would not let him swim, forseeing his harms:\nThat day Aurora double grace obtain'd,\nOf her love Phoebus; she his horses reign'd,\nSet on his golden knee, and, as she list,\nShe pull'd him back; and, as she pull'd, she kiss'd,\nTo have him turn to bed: he lov'd her more,\nTo see the love Leander Hero bore:\nExamples profit much; ten times in one,\nIn persons full of note, good deeds are done.\n  Day was so long, men walking fell asleep;\nThe heavy humours that their eyes did steep\nMade them fear mischiefs.  The hard streets were beds\nFor covetous churls and for ambitious heads,\nThat, spite of Nature, would their business ply:\nAll thought they had the falling epilepsy,\nMen grovell'd so upon the smother'd ground;\nAnd pity did the heart of Heaven confound.\nThe Gods, the Graces, and the Muses came\nDown to the Destinies, to stay the frame\nOf the true lovers' deaths, and all world's tears:\nBut Death before had stopp'd their cruel ears.\nAll the celestials parted mourning then,\nPierc'd with our human miseries more than men:\nAh, nothing doth the world with mischief fill,\nBut want of feeling one another's ill!\n  With their descent the day grew something fair,\nAnd cast a brighter robe upon the air.\nHero, to shorten time with merriment,\nFor young Alcmane and bright Mya sent,\nTwo lovers that had long crav'd marriage-dues\nAt Hero's hands: but she did still refuse;\nFor lovely Mya was her consort vow'd\nIn her maid state, and therefore not allow'd\nTo amorous nuptials: yet fair Hero now\nIntended to dispense with her cold vow,\nSince hers was broken, and to marry her:\nThe rites would pleasing matter minister\nTo her conceits, and shorten tedious day.\nThey came; sweet Music usher'd th' odorous way,\nAnd wanton Air in twenty sweet forms danc'd\nAfter her fingers; Beauty and Love advanc'd\nTheir ensigns in the downless rosy faces\nOf youths and maids, led after by the Graces.\nFor all these Hero made a friendly feast,\nWelcom'd them kindly, did much love protest,\nWinning their hearts with all the means she might,\nThat, when her fault should chance t' abide the light,\nTheir loves might cover or extenuate it,\nAnd high in her worst fate make pity sit.\n  She married them; and in the banquet came,\nBorne by the virgins.  Hero striv'd to frame\nHer thoughts to mirth: ay me! but hard it is\nTo imitate a false and forced bliss;\nIll may a sad mind forge a merry face,\nNor hath constrained laughter any grace.\nThen laid she wines on cares to make them sink:\nWho fears the threats of Fortune, let him drink.\n  To these quick nuptials enter'd suddenly\nAdmired Teras with the ebon thigh;\nA nymph that haunted the green Sestian groves,\nAnd would consort soft virgins in their loves,\nAt gaysome triumphs and on solemn days,\nSinging prophetic elegies and lays,\nAnd fingering of a silver lute she tied\nWith black and purple scarfs by her left side.\nApollo gave it, and her skill withal,\nAnd she was term'd his dwarf, she was so small:\nYet great in virtue, for his beams enclos'd\nHis virtues in her; never was propos'd\nRiddle to her, or augury, strange or new,\nBut she resolv'd it; never slight tale flew\nFrom her charm'd lips without important sense,\nShown in some grave succeeding consequence.\n  This little sylvan, with her songs and tales,\nGave such estate to feasts and nuptials,\nThat though ofttimes she forewent tragedies,\nYet for her strangeness still she pleas'd their eyes;\nAnd for her smallness they admir'd her so,\nThey thought her perfect born, and could not grow.\n  All eyes were on her.  Hero did command\nAn altar deck'd with sacred state should stand\nAt the feast's upper end, close by the bride,\nOn which the pretty nymph might sit espied.\nThen all were silent; every one so hears,\nAs all their senses climb'd into their ears:\nAnd first this amorous tale, that fitted well\nFair Hero and the nuptials, she did tell.\n\n\n            _The Tale of Teras_\n\nHymen, that now is god of nuptial rites,\nAnd crowns with honour Love and his delights,\nOf Athens was a youth, so sweet a face,\nThat many thought him of the female race;\nSuch quickening brightness did his clear eyes dart,\nWarm went their beams to his beholder's heart,\nIn such pure leagues his beauties were combin'd,\nThat there your nuptial contracts first were sign'd;\nFor as proportion, white and crimson, meet\nIn beauty's mixture, all right clear and sweet,\nThe eye responsible, the golden hair,\nAnd none is held, without the other, fair;\nAll spring together, all together fade;\nSuch intermix'd affections should invade\nTwo perfect lovers; which being yet unseen,\nTheir virtues and their comforts copied been\nIn beauty's concord, subject to the eye;\nAnd that, in Hymen, pleas'd so matchlessly,\nThat lovers were esteem'd in their full grace,\nLike form and colour mix'd in Hymen's face;\nAnd such sweet concord was thought worthy then\nOf torches, music, feasts, and greatest men:\nSo Hymen look'd, that even the chastest mind\nHe mov'd to join in joys of sacred kind;\nFor only now his chin's first down consorted\nHis head's rich fleece, in golden curls contorted;\nAnd as he was so lov'd, he lov'd so too:\nSo should best beauties, bound by nuptials, do.\n  Bright Eucharis, who was by all men said\nThe noblest, fairest, and the richest maid\nOf all th' Athenian damsels, Hymen lov'd\nWith such transmission, that his heart remov'd\nFrom his white breast to hers: but her estate,\nIn passing his, was so interminate\nFor wealth and honour, that his love durst feed\nOn naught but sight and hearing, nor could breed\nHope of requital, the grand prize of love;\nNor could he hear or see, but he must prove\nHow his rare beauty's music would agree\nWith maids in consort; therefore robbed he\nHis chin of those same few first fruits it bore,\nAnd, clad in such attire as virgins wore,\nHe kept them company; and might right well,\nFor he did all but Eucharis excel\nIn all the fair of beauty: yet he wanted\nVirtue to make his own desires implanted\nIn his dear Eucharis; for women never\nLove beauty in their sex, but envy ever.\nHis judgment yet, that durst not suit address,\nNor, past due means, presume of due success,\nReason gat Fortune in the end to speed\nTo his best prayers: but strange it seem'd, indeed,\nThat Fortune should a chaste affection bless:\nPreferment seldom graceth bashfulness.\nNor grac'd it Hymen yet; but many a dart,\nAnd many an amorous thought, enthrill'd his heart,\nEre he obtain'd her; and he sick became,\nForc'd to abstain her sight; and then the flame\nRag'd in his bosom.  O, what grief did fill him!\nSight made him sick, and want of sight did kill him.\nThe virgins wonder'd where Diaetia stay'd,\nFor so did Hymen term himself, a maid.\nAt length with sickly looks he greeted them:\n'Tis strange to see 'gainst what an extreme stream\nA lover strives; poor Hymen look'd so ill,\nThat as in merit he increased still\nBy suffering much, so he in grace decreas'd:\nWomen are most won, when men merit least:\nIf Merit look not well, Love bids stand by;\nLove's special lesson is to please the eye.\nAnd Hymen soon recovering all he lost,\nDeceiving still these maids, but himself most,\nHis love and he with many virgin dames,\nNoble by birth, noble by beauty's flames,\nLeaving the town with songs and hallow'd lights,\nTo do great Ceres Eleusina rites\nOf zealous sacrifice, were made a prey\nTo barbarous rovers, that in ambush lay,\nAnd with rude hands enforc'd their shining spoil,\nFar from the darken'd city, tir'd with toil:\nAnd when the yellow issue of the sky\nCame trooping forth, jealous of cruelty\nTo their bright fellows of this under-heaven,\nInto a double night they saw them driven,--\nA horrid cave, the thieves' black mansion;\nWhere, weary of the journey they had gone,\nTheir last night's watch, and drunk with their sweet gains,\nDull Morpheus enter'd, laden with silken chains,\nStronger than iron, and bound the swelling veins\nAnd tired senses of these lawless swains.\nBut when the virgin lights thus dimly burn'd,\nO, what a hell was heaven in! how they mourn'd,\nAnd wrung their hands, and wound their gentle forms\nInto the shapes of sorrow! golden storms\nFell from their eyes; as when the sun appears,\nAnd yet it rains, so show'd their eyes their tears:\nAnd, as when funeral dames watch a dead corse,\nWeeping about it, telling with remorse\nWhat pains he felt, how long in pain he lay,\nHow little food he eat, what he would say,\nAnd then mix mournful tales of others' deaths,\nSmothering themselves in clouds of their own breaths;\nAt length, one cheering other, call for wine;\nThe golden bowl drinks tears out of their eyne,\nAs they drink wine from it; and round it goes,\nEach helping other to relieve their woes;\nSo cast these virgins' beauties mutual rays,\nOne lights another, face the face displays;\nLips by reflection kiss'd, and hands hands shook,\nEven by the whiteness each of other took.\n  But Hymen now us'd friendly Morpheus' aid,\nSlew every thief, and rescu'd every maid:\nAnd now did his enamour'd passion take\nHeart from his hearty deed, whose worth did make\nHis hope of bounteous Eucharis more strong;\nAnd now came Love with Proteus, who had long\nJuggled the little god with prayers and gifts,\nRan through all shapes, and varied all his shifts,\nTo win Love's stay with him, and make him love him;\nAnd when he saw no strength of sleight could move him\nTo make him love or stay, he nimbly turn'd\nInto Love's self, he so extremely burn'd.\nAnd thus came Love, with Proteus and his power,\nT' encounter Eucharis: first, like the flower\nThat Juno's milk did spring, the silver lily,\nHe fell on Hymen's hand, who straight did spy\nThe bounteous godhead, and with wondrous joy\nOffer'd it Eucharis.  She, wondrous coy,\nDrew back her hand: the subtle flower did woo it,\nAnd, drawing it near, mix'd so you could not know it:\nAs two clear tapers mix in one their light,\nSo did the lily and the hand their white.\nShe view'd it; and her view the form bestows\nAmongst her spirits: for, as colour flows\nFrom superficies of each thing we see,\nEven so with colours forms emitted be;\nAnd where Love's form is, Love is; Love is form:\nHe enter'd at the eye; his sacred storm\nRose from the hand, Love's sweetest instrument:\nIt stirr'd her blood's sea so, that high it went,\nAnd beat in bashful waves 'gainst the white shore\nOf her divided cheeks; it rag'd the more,\nBecause the tide went 'gainst the haughty wind\nOf her estate and birth: and, as we find,\nIn fainting ebbs, the flowery Zephyr hurls\nThe green-hair'd Hellespont, broke in silver curls,\n'Gainst Hero's tower; but in his blast's retreat,\nThe waves obeying him, they after beat,\nLeaving the chalky shore a great way pale,\nThen moist it freshly with another gale;\nSo ebb'd and flow'd in Eucharis's face,\nCoyness and Love striv'd which had greatest grace;\nVirginity did fight on Coyness' side,\nFear of her parents' frowns, and female pride\nLoathing the lower place, more than it loves\nThe high contents desert and virtue moves.\nWith Love fought Hymen's beauty and his valure,\nWhich scarce could so much favour yet allure\nTo come to strike, but fameless idle stood:\nAction is fiery valour's sovereign good.\nBut Love, once enter'd, wish'd no greater aid\nThan he could find within; thought thought betray'd;\nThe brib'd, but incorrupted, garrison\nSung \"Io Hymen\"; there those songs begun,\nAnd Love was grown so rich with such a gain,\nAnd wanton with the ease of his free reign,\nThat he would turn into her roughest frowns\nTo turn them out; and thus he Hymen crowns\nKing of his thoughts, man's greatest empery:\nThis was his first brave step to deity.\n  Home to the mourning city they repair,\nWith news as wholesome as the morning air,\nTo the sad parents of each saved maid:\nBut Hymen and his Eucharis had laid\nThis plat, to make the flame of their delight\nRound as the moon at full, and full as bright.\n  Because the parents of chaste Eucharis\nExceeding Hymen's so, might cross their bliss;\nAnd as the world rewards deserts, that law\nCannot assist with force; so when they saw\nTheir daughter safe, take vantage of their own,\nPraise Hymen's valour much, nothing bestown;\nHymen must leave the virgins in a grove\nFar off from Athens, and go first to prove,\nIf to restore them all with fame and life,\nHe should enjoy his dearest as his wife.\nThis told to all the maids, the most agree:\nThe riper sort, knowing what 'tis to be\nThe first month of a news so far deriv'd,\nAnd that to hear and bear news brave folks liv'd,\nAs being a carriage special hard to bear\nOccurrents, these occurrents being so dear,\nThey did with grace protest, they were content\nT' accost their friends with all their compliment,\nFor Hymen's good; but to incur their harm,\nThere he must pardon them.  This wit went warm\nTo Adolesche's brain, a nymph born high,\nMade all of voice and fire, that upwards fly:\nHer heart and all her forces' nether train\nClimb'd to her tongue, and thither fell her brain,\nSince it could go no higher; and it must go;\nAll power she had, even her tongue, did so:\nIn spirit and quickness she much joy did take,\nAnd lov'd her tongue, only for quickness' sake;\nAnd she would haste and tell.  The rest all stay:\nHymen goes one, the nymph another way;\nAnd what became of her I'll tell at last:\nYet take her visage now;--moist-lipp'd, long-fac'd,\nThin like an iron wedge, so sharp and tart,\nAs 'twere of purpose made to cleave Love's heart:\nWell were this lovely beauty rid of her.\nAnd Hymen did at Athens now prefer\nHis welcome suit, which he with joy aspir'd:\nA hundred princely youths with him retir'd\nTo fetch the nymphs; chariots and music went\nAnd home they came: heaven with applauses rent.\nThe nuptials straight proceed, whiles all the town,\nFresh in their joys, might do them most renown.\nFirst, gold-lock'd Hymen did to church repair,\nLike a quick offering burn'd in flames of hair;\nAnd after, with a virgin firmament\nThe godhead-proving bride attended went\nBefore them all: she look'd in her command,\nAs if form-giving Cypria's silver hand\nGripp'd all their beauties, and crushed out one flame;\nShe blush'd to see how beauty overcame\nThe thoughts of all men.  Next, before her went\nFive lovely children, deck'd with ornament\nOf her sweet colours, bearing torches by;\nFor light was held a happy augury\nOf generation, whose efficient right\nIs nothing else but to produce to light.\nThe odd disparent number they did choose,\nTo show the union married loves should use,\nSince in two equal parts it will not sever,\nBut the midst holds one to rejoin it ever,\nAs common to both parts: men therefore deem\nThat equal number gods do not esteem,\nBeing authors of sweet peace and unity,\nBut pleasing to th' infernal empery,\nUnder whose ensigns Wars and Discords fight,\nSince an even number you may disunite\nIn two parts equal, naught in middle left\nTo reunite each part from other reft;\nAnd five they hold in most especial prize,\nSince 'tis the first odd number that doth rise\nFrom the two foremost numbers' unity,\nThat odd and even are; which are two and three;\nFor one no number is; but thence doth flow\nThe powerful race of number.  Next, did go\nA noble matron, that did spinning bear\nA huswife's rock and spindle, and did wear\nA wether's skin, with all the snowy fleece,\nTo intimate that even the daintiest piece\nAnd noblest-born dame should industrious be:\nThat which does good disgraceth no degree.\n  And now to Juno's temple they are come,\nWhere her grave priest stood in the marriage-room:\nOn his right arm did hang a scarlet veil,\nAnd from his shoulders to the ground did trail,\nOn either side, ribands of white and blue:\nWith the red veil he hid the bashful hue\nOf the chaste bride, to show the modest shame,\nIn coupling with a man, should grace a dame.\nThen took he the disparent silks, and tied\nThe lovers by the waists, and side by side,\nIn token that hereafter they must bind\nIn one self-sacred knot each other's mind.\nBefore them on an altar he presented\nBoth fire and water, which was first invented,\nSince to ingenerate every human creature\nAnd every other birth produc'd by Nature,\nMoisture and heat must mix; so man and wife\nFor human race must join in nuptial life.\nThen one of Juno's birds, the painted jay,\nHe sacrific'd, and took the gall away;\nAll which he did behind the altar throw,\nIn sign no bitterness of hate should grow,\n'Twixt married loves, nor any least disdain.\nNothing they spake, for 'twas esteem'd too plain\nFor the most silken mildness of a maid,\nTo let a public audience hear it said,\nShe boldly took the man; and so respected\nWas bashfulness in Athens, it erected\nTo chaste Agneia, which is Shamefacedness,\nA sacred temple, holding her a goddess.\nAnd now to feasts, masks, and triumphant shows,\nThe shining troops return'd, even till earth-throes\nBrought forth with joy the thickest part of night,\nWhen the sweet nuptial song, that us'd to cite\nAll to their rest, was by Phemonoee sung,\nFirst Delphian prophetess, whose graces sprung\nOut of the Muses' well: she sung before\nThe bride into her chamber; at which door\nA matron and a torch-bearer did stand:\nA painted box of confits in her hand\nThe matron held, and so did other some\nThat compass'd round the honour'd nuptial room.\nThe custom was that every maid did wear,\nDuring her maidenhead, a silken sphere\nAbout her waist, above her inmost weed,\nKnit with Minerva's knot, and that was freed\nBy the fair bridegroom on the marriage-night,\nWith many ceremonies of delight:\nAnd yet eternis'd Hymen's tender bride,\nTo suffer it dissolv'd so, sweetly cried.\nThe maids that heard, so lov'd and did adore her,\nThey wish'd with all their hearts to suffer for her.\nSo had the matrons, that with confits stood\nAbout the chamber, such affectionate blood,\nAnd so true feeling of her harmless pains,\nThat every one a shower of confits rains;\nFor which the bride-youths scrambling on the ground,\nIn noise of that sweet hail her cries were drown'd.\nAnd thus blest Hymen joy'd his gracious bride,\nAnd for his joy was after deified.\nThe saffron mirror by which Phoebus' love,\nGreen Tellus, decks her, now he held above\nThe cloudy mountains: and the noble maid,\nSharp-visag'd Adolesche, that was stray'd\nOut of her way, in hasting with her news,\nNot till this hour th' Athenian turrets views;\nAnd now brought home by guides, she heard by all,\nThat her long kept occurrents would be stale,\nAnd how fair Hymen's honours did excel\nFor those rare news which she came short to tell.\nTo hear her dear tongue robb'd of such a joy,\nMade the well-spoken nymph take such a toy,\nThat down she sunk: when lightning from above\nShrunk her lean body, and, for mere free love,\nTurn'd her into the pied-plum'd Psittacus,\nThat now the Parrot is surnam'd by us,\nWho still with counterfeit confusion prates\nNaught but news common to the common'st mates.--\nThis told, strange Teras touch'd her lute, and sung\nThis ditty, that the torchy evening sprung.\n\n\n              _Epithalamion Teratos._\n\nCome, come, dear Night!  Love's mart of kisses,\n  Sweet close of his ambitious line,\nThe fruitful summer of his blisses!\n  Love's glory doth in darkness shine.\nO, come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!\n  Come, naked Virtue's only tire,\nThe reaped harvest of the light,\n  Bound up in sheaves of sacred fire!\n      Love calls to war;\n        Sighs his alarms,\n      Lips his swords are,\n        The field his arms.\n\nCome, Night, and lay thy velvet hand\n  On glorious Day's outfacing face;\nAnd all thy crowned flames command,\n  For torches to our nuptial grace!\n      Love calls to war;\n        Sighs his alarms,\n      Lips his swords are,\n        The field his arms.\n\nNo need have we of factious Day,\n  To cast, in envy of thy peace,\nHer balls of discord in thy way:\n  Here Beauty's day doth never cease;\nDay is abstracted here,\nAnd varied in a triple sphere.\nHero, Alcmane, Mya, so outshine thee,\nEre thou come here, let Thetis thrice refine thee.\n      Love calls to war;\n        Sighs his alarms,\n      Lips his swords are,\n        The field his arms.\n\n      The evening star I see:\n        Rise, youths! the evening star\n        Helps Love to summon war;\n      Both now embracing be.\nRise, youths!  Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!\nNow the bright marigolds, that deck the skies,\nPhoebus' celestial flowers, that, contrary\nTo his flowers here, ope when he shuts his eye,\nAnd shut when he doth open, crown your sports:\nNow Love in Night, and Night in Love exhorts\nCourtship and dances: all your parts employ,\nAnd suit Night's rich expansure with your joy.\nLove paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes:\nRise, youths!  Love's rite claims more than banquets; rise!\n  Rise, virgins! let fair nuptial loves enfold\nYour fruitless breasts: the maidenheads ye hold\nAre not your own alone, but parted are;\nPart in disposing them your parents share,\nAnd that a third part is; so must ye save\nYour loves a third, and you your thirds must have.\nLove paints his longings in sweet virgins' eyes:\nRise, youths!  Love's rites claim more than banquets; rise!\n\n  Herewith the amorous spirit, that was so kind\nTo Teras' hair, and comb'd it down with wind.\nStill as it, comet-like, brake from her brain,\nWould needs have Teras gone, and did refrain\nTo blow it down: which, staring up, dismay'd\nThe timorous feast; and she no longer stay'd;\nBut, bowing to the bridegroom and the bride,\nDid, like a shooting exhalation, glide\nOut of their sights: the turning of her back\nMade them all shriek, it look'd so ghastly black.\nO hapless Hero! that most hapless cloud\nThy soon-succeeding tragedy foreshow'd.\nThus all the nuptial crew to joys depart;\nBut much-wrung Hero stood Hell's blackest dart:\nWhose wound because I grieve so to display,\nI use digressions thus t'increase the day.\n\n\nTHE SIXTH SESTIAD\n\nTHE ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH SESTIAD\n\n  Leucote flies to all the Winds,\n  And from the Fates their outrage blinds,\n  That Hero and her love may meet.\n  Leander, with Love's complete fleet\n  Mann'd in himself, puts forth to seas;\n  When straight the ruthless Destinies,\n  With Ate, stirs the winds to war\n  Upon the Hellespont: their jar\n  Drowns poor Leander.  Hero's eyes,\n  Wet witnesses of his surprise,\n  Her torch blown out, grief casts her down\n  Upon her love, and both doth drown:\n  In whose just ruth the god of seas\n  Transforms them to th' Acanthides.\n\n\nNo longer could the Day nor Destinies\nDelay the Night, who now did frowning rise\nInto her throne; and at her humorous breasts\nVisions and Dreams lay sucking: all men's rests\nFell like the mists of death upon their eyes,\nDay's too-long darts so kill'd their faculties.\nThe Winds yet, like the flowers, to cease began;\nFor bright Leucote, Venus' whitest swan,\nThat held sweet Hero dear, spread her fair wings,\nLike to a field of snow, and message brings\nFrom Venus to the Fates, t'entreat them lay\nTheir charge upon the Winds their rage to stay,\nThat the stern battle of the seas might cease,\nAnd guard Leander to his love in peace.\nThe Fates consent;--ay me, dissembling Fates!\nThey show'd their favours to conceal their hates,\nAnd draw Leander on, lest seas too high\nShould stay his too obsequious destiny:\nWho like a fleering slavish parasite,\nIn warping profit or a traitorous sleight,\nHoops round his rotten body with devotes,\nAnd pricks his descant face full of false notes;\nPraising with open throat, and oaths as foul\nAs his false heart, the beauty of an owl;\nKissing his skipping hand with charmed skips,\nThat cannot leave, but leaps upon his lips\nLike a cock-sparrow, or shameless quean\nSharp at a red-lipp'd youth, and naught doth mean\nOf all his antic shows, but doth repair\nMore tender fawns, and takes a scatter'd hair\nFrom his tame subject's shoulder; whips and calls\nFor everything he lacks; creeps 'gainst the walls\nWith backward humbless, to give needless way:\nThus his false fate did with Leander play.\n  First to black Eurus flies the white Leucote.\n(Born 'mongst the negroes in the Levant sea,\nOn whose curl'd head[s] the glowing sun doth rise,)\nAnd shows the sovereign will of Destinies,\nTo have him cease his blasts; and down he lies.\nNext, to the fenny Notus course she holds,\nAnd found him leaning, with his arms in folds,\nUpon a rock, his white hair full of showers;\nAnd him she chargeth by the fatal powers,\nTo hold in his wet cheeks his cloudy voice.\nTo Zephyr then that doth in flowers rejoice:\nTo snake-foot Boreas next she did remove,\nAnd found him tossing of his ravish'd love,\nTo heat his frosty bosom hid in snow;\nWho with Leucote's sight did cease to blow.\nThus all were still to Hero's heart's desire;\nWho with all speed did consecrate a fire\nOf flaming gums and comfortable spice,\nTo light her torch, which in such curious price\nShe held, being object to Leander's sight,\nThat naught but fires perfum'd must give it light.\nShe lov'd it so, she griev'd to see it burn,\nSince it would waste, and soon to ashes turn:\nYet, if it burn'd not, 'twere not worth her eyes;\nWhat made it nothing, gave it all the prize.\nSweet torch, true glass of our society!\nWhat man does good, but he consumes thereby?\nBut thou wert lov'd for good, held high, given show;\nPoor virtue loath'd for good, obscur'd, held low:\nDo good, be pin'd,--be deedless good, disgrac'd;\nUnless we feed on men, we let them fast.\nYet Hero with these thoughts her torch did spend:\nWhen bees make wax, Nature doth not intend\nIt should be made a torch; but we, that know\nThe proper virtue of it, make it so,\nAnd, when 'tis made, we light it: nor did Nature\nPropose one life to maids; but each such creature\nMakes by her soul the best of her true state,\nWhich without love is rude, disconsolate,\nAnd wants love's fire to make it mild and bright,\nTill when, maids are but torches wanting light.\nThus 'gainst our grief, not cause of grief, we fight:\nThe right of naught is glean'd, but the delight.\nUp went she: but to tell how she descended,\nWould God she were not dead, or my verse ended!\nShe was the rule of wishes, sum, and end,\nFor all the parts that did on love depend:\nYet cast the torch his brightness further forth;\nBut what shines nearest best, holds truest worth.\nLeander did not through such tempests swim\nTo kiss the torch, although it lighted him:\nBut all his powers in her desires awaked,\nHer love and virtues cloth'd him richly naked.\nMen kiss but fire that only shows pursue;\nHer torch and Hero, figure show and virtue.\n  Now at oppos'd Abydos naught was heard\nBut bleating flocks, and many a bellowing herd,\nSlain for the nuptials; cracks of falling woods;\nBlows of broad axes; pourings out of floods.\nThe guilty Hellespont was mix'd and stain'd\nWith bloody torrent that the shambles rain'd;\nNot arguments of feast, but shows that bled,\nForetelling that red night that followed.\nMore blood was spilt, more honours were addrest,\nThan could have graced any happy feast;\nRich banquets, triumphs, every pomp employs\nHis sumptuous hand; no miser's nuptial joys.\nAir felt continual thunder with the noise\nMade in the general marriage-violence;\nAnd no man knew the cause of this expense,\nBut the two hapless lords, Leander's sire,\nAnd poor Leander, poorest where the fire\nOf credulous love made him most rich surmis'd:\nAs short was he of that himself so priz'd,\nAs is an empty gallant full of form,\nThat thinks each look an act, each drop a storm,\nThat falls from his brave breathings; most brought up\nIn our metropolis, and hath his cup\nBrought after him to feasts; and much palm bears\nFor his rare judgment in th' attire he wears;\nHath seen the hot Low-Countries, not their heat,\nObserve their rampires and their buildings yet;\nAnd, for your sweet discourse with mouths, is heard\nGiving instructions with his very beard;\nHath gone with an ambassador, and been\nA great man's mate in travelling, even to Rhene;\nAnd then puts all his worth in such a face\nAs he saw brave men make, and strives for grace\nTo get his news forth: as when you descry\nA ship, with all her sail contends to fly\nOut of the narrow Thames with winds unapt,\nNow crosseth here, then there, then his way rapt,\nAnd then hath one point reach'd, then alters all,\nAnd to another crooked reach doth fall\nOf half a bird-bolt's shoot, keeping more coil\nThan if she danc'd upon the ocean's toil;\nSo serious is his trifling company,\nIn all his swelling ship of vacantry,\nAnd so short of himself in his high thought\nWas our Leander in his fortunes brought,\nAnd in his fort of love that he thought won;\nBut otherwise he scorns comparison.\n  O sweet Leander, thy large worth I hide\nIn a short grave! ill-favour'd storms must chide\nThy sacred favour; I in floods of ink\nMust drown thy graces, which white papers drink,\nEven as thy beauties did the foul black seas;\nI must describe the hell of thy decease,\nThat heaven did merit: yet I needs must see\nOur painted fools and cockhorse peasantry\nStill, still usurp, with long lives, loves, and lust,\nThe seats of Virtue, cutting short as dust\nHer dear-bought issue: ill to worse converts,\nAnd tramples in the blood of all deserts.\n  Night close and silent now goes fast before\nThe captains and the soldiers to the shore,\nOn whom attended the appointed fleet\nAt Sestos' bay, that should Leander meet,\nWho feign'd he in another ship would pass:\nWhich must not be, for no one mean there was\nTo get his love home, but the course he took.\nForth did his beauty for his beauty look,\nAnd saw her through her torch, as you behold\nSometimes within the sun a face of gold,\nForm'd in strong thoughts, by that tradition's force\nThat says a god sits there and guides his course.\nHis sister was with him; to whom he show'd\nHis guide by sea, and said, \"Oft have you view'd\nIn one heaven many stars, but never yet\nIn one star many heavens till now were met.\nSee, lovely sister! see, now Hero shines,\nNo heaven but her appears; each star repines,\nAnd all are clad in clouds, as if they mourn'd\nTo be by influence of earth out-burn'd.\nYet doth she shine, and teacheth Virtue's train\nStill to be constant in hell's blackest reign,\nThough even the gods themselves do so entreat them\nAs they did hate, and earth as she would eat them.\"\n  Off went his silken robe, and in he leapt,\nWhom the kind waves so licorously cleapt,\nThickening for haste, one in another, so,\nTo kiss his skin, that he might almost go\nTo Hero's tower, had that kind minute lasted.\nBut now the cruel Fates with Ate hasted\nTo all the Winds, and made them battle fight\nUpon the Hellespont, for either's right\nPretended to the windy monarchy;\nAnd forth they brake, the seas mix'd with the sky,\nAnd toss'd distress'd Leander, being in hell,\nAs high as heaven: bliss not in height doth dwell.\nThe Destinies sate dancing on the waves,\nTo see the glorious Winds with mutual braves\nConsume each other: O, true glass, to see\nHow ruinous ambitious statists be\nTo their own glories!  Poor Leander cried\nFor help to sea-born Venus she denied;\nTo Boreas, that, for his Atthaea's sake,\nHe would some pity on his Hero take,\nAnd for his own love's sake, on his desires;\nBut Glory never blows cold Pity's fires.\nThen call'd he Neptune, who, through all the noise,\nKnew with affright his wreck'd Leander's voice,\nAnd up he rose; for haste his forehead hit\n'Gainst heaven's hard crystal; his proud waves he smit\nWith his fork'd sceptre, that could not obey;\nMuch greater powers than Neptune's gave them sway.\nThey lov'd Leander so, in groans they brake\nWhen they came near him; and such space did take\n'Twixt one another, loath to issue on,\nThat in their shallow furrows earth was shown,\nAnd the poor lover took a little breath:\nBut the curst Fates sate spinning of his death\nOn every wave, and with the servile Winds\nTumbled them on him.  And now Hero finds,\nBy that she felt, her dear Leander's state:\nShe wept, and pray'd for him to every Fate;\nAnd every Wind that whipp'd her with her hair\nAbout the face, she kiss'd and spake it fair,\nKneel'd to it, gave it drink out of her eyes\nTo quench his thirst: but still their cruelties\nEven her poor torch envi'd, and rudely beat\nThe baiting flame from that dear food it eat;\nDear, for it nourish'd her Leander's life;\nWhich with her robe she rescu'd from their strife:\nBut silk too soft was such hard hearts to break;\nAnd, she, dear soul, even as her silk, faint, weak,\nCould not preserve it; out, O, out it went!\nLeander still call'd Neptune, that now rent\nHis brackish curls, and tore his wrinkled face,\nWhere tears in billows did each other chase;\nAnd, burst with ruth, he hurl'd his marble mace\nAt the stern Fates; it wounded Lachesis\nThat drew Leander's thread, and could not miss\nThe thread itself, as it her hand did hit,\nBut smote it full, and quite did sunder it.\nThe more kind Neptune rag'd, the more he raz'd\nHis love's life fort, and kill'd as he embrac'd:\nAnger doth still his own mishap increase;\nIf any comfort live, it is in peace.\nO thievish Fates, to let blood, flesh, and sense,\nBuild two fair temples for their excellence,\nTo rob it with a poison'd influence!\nThough souls' gifts starve, the bodies are held dear\nIn ugliest things; sense-sport preserves a bear:\nBut here naught serves our turns: O heaven and earth,\nHow most-most wretched is our human birth!\nAnd now did all the tyrannous crew depart,\nKnowing there was a storm in Hero's heart,\nGreater than they could make, and scorn'd their smart.\nShe bow'd herself so low out of her tower,\nThat wonder 'twas she fell not ere her hour,\nWith searching the lamenting waves for him:\nLike a poor snail, her gentle supple limb\nHung on her turret's top, so most downright,\nAs she would dive beneath the darkness quite,\nTo find her jewel;--jewel!--her Leander,\nA name of all earth's jewels pleas'd not her\nLike his dear name: \"Leander, still my choice,\nCome naught but my Leander!  O my voice,\nTurn to Leander! henceforth be all sounds,\nAccents, and phrases, that show all griefs' wounds,\nAnalys'd in Leander! O black change!\nTrumpets, do you, with thunder of your clange,\nDrive out this change's horror! My voice faints:\nWhere all joy was, now shriek out all complaints!\"\nThus cried she; for her mixed soul could tell\nHer love was dead: and when the Morning fell\nProstrate upon the weeping earth for woe,\nBlushes, that bled out of her cheeks, did show\nLeander brought by Neptune, bruis'd and torn\nWith cities' ruins he to rocks had worn,\nTo filthy usuring rocks, that would have blood,\nThough they could get of him no other good.\nShe saw him, and the sight was much-much more\nThan might have serv'd to kill her: should her store\nOf giant sorrows speak?--Burst,--die,--bleed,\nAnd leave poor plaints to us that shall succeed.\nShe fell on her love's bosom, hugg'd it fast,\nAnd with Leander's name she breath'd her last.\n  Neptune for pity in his arms did take them,\nFlung them into the air, and did awake them\nLike two sweet birds, surnam'd th' Acanthides,\nWhich we call Thistle-warps, that near no seas\nDare ever come, but still in couples fly,\nAnd feed on thistle-tops, to testify\nThe hardness of their first life in their last;\nThe first, in thorns of love, that sorrows past:\nAnd so most beautiful their colours show\nAs none (so little) like them; her sad brow\nA sable velvet feather covers quite,\nEven like the forehead-cloth that, in the night,\nOr when they sorrow, ladies use to wear:\nTheir wings, blue, red, and yellow, mix'd appear;\nColours that, as we construe colours, paint\nTheir states to life;--the yellow shows their saint,\nThe dainty Venus, left them; blue, their truth;\nThe red and black, ensigns of death and ruth.\nAnd this true honour from their love-death sprung,--\nThey were the first that ever poet sung.\n\n\n\n\n\nMINOR POEMS BY CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE\n\n\n\nTHE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE\n\n\nCOME live with me, and be my love;\nAnd we will all the pleasures prove\nThat hills and valleys, dales and fields,\nWoods or steepy mountain yields.\n\nAnd we will sit upon the rocks,\nSeeing the shepherds feed their flocks\nBy shallow rivers, to whose falls\nMelodious birds sing madrigals.\n\nAnd I will make thee beds of roses,\nAnd a thousand fragrant posies;\nA cap of flowers, and a kirtle\nEmbroider'd all with leaves of myrtle\n\nA gown made of the finest wool\nWhich from our pretty lambs we pull;\nFair-lined slippers for the cold,\nWith buckles of the purest gold;\n\nA belt of straw and ivy-buds,\nWith coral clasps and amber studs:\nAn if these pleasures may thee move,\nCome live with me, and be my love.\n\nThe shepherd-swains shall dance and sing\nFor thy delight each May morning:\nIf these delights thy mind may move,\nThen live with me, and be my love.\n\n\n\nFRAGMENT\n\n_First printed in \"England's Parnassus,\"_ 1600\n\nI WALK'D along a stream, for pureness rare,\n  Brighter than sun-shine; for it did acquaint\nThe dullest sight with all the glorious prey\nThat in the pebble-paved channel lay.\n\nNo molten crystal, but a richer mine,\n  Even Nature's rarest alchymy ran there,--\nDiamonds resolv'd, and substance more divine,\n  Through whose bright-gliding current might appear\nA thousand naked nymphs, whose ivory shine,\n  Enamelling the banks, made them more dear\nThan ever was that glorious palace' gate\nWhere the day-shining Sun in triumph sate.\n\nUpon this brim the eglantine and rose,\n  The tamarisk, olive, and the almond tree,\nAs kind companions, in one union grows,\n  Folding their twining arms, as oft we see\nTurtle-taught lovers either other close,\n  Lending to dulness feeling sympathy;\nAnd as a costly valance o'er a bed,\nSo did their garland-tops the brook o'erspread.\n\nTheir leaves, that differ'd both in shape and show,\n  Though all were green, yet difference such in green,\nLike to the checker'd bent of Iris' bow,\n  Prided the running main, as it had been--\n\n\n\nIN OBITUM HONORATISSIMI VIRI, ROGERI\n  MANWOOD, MILITIS, QUAESTORII REGI-\n  NALIS CAPITALIS BARONIS\n\n   First printed by Payne Collier (_History of the English Stage,_ etc.\np. xliv.--prefixed to the first vol. of his _Shakespeare_) from a MS. on the\nback of the title-page of a copy of _Hero and Leander_, ed. 1629, where\nit is subscribed with Marlowe's name.\n\n\nNOCTIVAGI terror, ganeonis triste flagellum,\nEt Jovis Alcides, rigido vulturque latroni,\nUrna subtegitur.  Scelerum, gaudete, nepotes!\nInsons, luctifica sparsis cervice capillis,\nPlange! fori lumen, venerandae gloria legis,\nOccidit: heu, secum effoetas Acherontis ad oras\nMulta abiit virtus.  Pro tot virtutibus uni,\nLivor, parce viro; non audacissimus esto\nIllius in cineres, cujus tot millia vultus\nMortalium attonuit: sic cum te nuntia Ditis\nVulneret exsanguis, feliciter ossa quiescant,\nFamaque marmorei superet monumenta sepulcri.\n\n\n\nDIALOGUE IN VERSE\n\n   First printed in _The Alleyn Papers_ (for the Shakespeare Society),\np. 8, by Payne Collier, who prefaced it with the following remarks:\n\"In the original MS. this dramatic dialogue in verse is written as\nprose, on one side of a sheet of paper, at the back of which, in a more\nmodern hand, is the name 'Kitt Marlowe.' What connection, if any,\nhe may have had with it, it is impossible to determine.\"  This Dialogue\nmay be a fragment of _The Maiden's Holiday,_ a lost comedy, which is\nsaid to have been written partly by Marlowe.--DYCE\n\n_Jack._ Seest thou not yon farmer's son?\n     He hath stoln my love from me, alas!\n   What shall I do?  I am undone;\n     My heart will ne'er be as it was.\n   O, but he gives her gay gold rings,\n     And tufted gloves [for] holiday,\n   And many other goodly things,\n     That hath stoln my love away.\n\n_Friend._ Let him give her gay gold rings\n     Or tufted gloves, were they ne'er so [gay];\n   [F]or were her lovers lords or kings,\n     They should not carry the wench away.\n\n_Jack._ But 'a dances wonders well,\n     And with his dances stole her love from me:\n   Yet she wont to say, I bore the bell\n     For dancing and for courtesy.\n\n_Dick._ Fie, lusty younker, what do you here,\n     Not dancing on the green to-day?\n   For Pierce, the farmer's son, I fear,\n     Is like to carry your wench away.\n\n_Jack._ Good Dick, bid them all come hither,\n     And tell Pierce from me beside,\n   That, if he thinks to have the wench,\n     Here he stands shall lie with the bride.\n\n_Dick._ Fie, Nan, why use thy old lover so,\n     For any other new-come guest?\n   Thou long time his love did know;\n     Why shouldst thou not use him best?\n\n_Nan._ Bonny Dick, I will not forsake\n     My bonny Rowland for any gold:\n   If he can dance as well as Pierce,\n     He shall have my heart in hold.\n\n_Pierce._ Why, then, my hearts, let's to this gear;\n     And by dancing I may won\n   My Nan, whose love I hold so dear\n     As any realm under the sun.\n\n_Gentleman._ Then, gentles, ere I speed from hence,\n     I will be so bold to dance\n   A turn or two without offence;\n     For, as I was walking along by chance,\n   I was told you did agree.\n\n_Friend._ 'Tis true, good sir; and this is she\n     Hopes your worship comes not to crave her;\n   For she hath lovers two or three,\n     And he that dances best must have her.\n\n_Gentleman._ How say you, sweet, will you dance with me?\n     And you [shall] have both land and [hill];\n   My love shall want nor gold nor fee.\n\n_Nan._ I thank you, sir, for your good will;\n   But one of these my love must be:\n     I'm but a homely country maid,\n   And far unfit for your degree;\n     [To dance with you I am afraid.]\n\n_Friend._ Take her, good sir, by the hand,\n     As she is fairest: were she fairer,\n   By this dance, you shall understand,\n     He that can win her is like to wear her.\n\n_Fool._ And saw you not [my] Nan to-day,\n     My mother's maid have you not seen?\n   My pretty Nan is gone away\n     To seek her love upon the green.\n   [I cannot see her 'mong so many:]\n   She shall have me, if she have any.\n\n_Nan._ Welcome, sweetheart, and welcome here,\n     Welcome, my [true] love, now to me.\n   This is my love [and my darling dear],\n     And that my husband [soon] must be.\n   And, boy, when thou com'st home, thou'lt see\n   Thou art as welcome home as he.\n\n_Gentleman._ Why, how now, sweet Nan!  I hope you jest.\n\n_Nan._ No, by my troth, I love the fool the best:\n   And, if you be jealous, God give you good-night!\n   I fear you're a gelding, you caper so light.\n\n_Gentleman._ I thought she had jested and meant but a fable,\n   But now do I see she hath play['d] with his bable.\n   I wish all my friends by me to take heed,\n   That a fool come not near you when you mean to speed.\n\n\n\n\n\n                      THE END","title":"Hero and Leander and Other Poems","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":20456}