Elizabethan Sonnet Cycles | Page 4

many perillous seas." But as far as the imagery of the sonnets is concerned, the pageantry of day and night at sea might have passed before blinded eyes; if it made any impression, it was in the form of ocean-nymphs and Cupid at the helm. The poet was in Arcadia, Phillis was a shepherdess, and the conventional imageries of the pastoral valley were the environment. "May it please you," he says in dedicating the book to the Countess of Shrewsbury, "to looke and like of homlie Phillis in her Country caroling, and to countenance her poore and affectionate sheapheard." The Countess of Shrewsbury he chooses for the "Sovereign and she-M?cenas" of his toil, and promises her "as much in affection as any other can performe in perfection;" but the name of Phillis is no cover for the personality of a grand lady, and therefore no puzzling questions disturb the pleasure of the reader as the gentle modulations, the insidious alliterations, and the musical cadences of his double rhymes fall upon the ear.
Yet for this name or ideal, or whatever Phillis represented in the poet's thought, he has poured forth a passion that has an air of sincerity, an artless freshness, a flute-like clearness of tone, as rare as delightful. It is the very voice of the oaten pipe itself, thin, clear, and pure. The touches of seriousness are impossible, to mistake. When the poet avows his faith in Phillis' constancy, after giving the usual catalogue of her beauties, he says:
"At thy fair hands who wonders not at all?Wonder itself through ignorance embases;?Yet not the less though wondrous gifts you call these?My faith is far more wonderful than all these."
When Phillis persists in her disdain, he cries out impulsively:
"Burst, burst, poor heart, thou hast no longer hope!"
Even when re-moulding the familiar pastoral conceits, he makes the fancies his own and gives to them a unique touch and spirit. Mere conventions he rates at their proper value. His pen shall not "riot in pompous style." He claims a brighter aspect for his poetical devotion than his fellow-sonneteers manifest:
"No stars her; eyes....?.... but beams that clear the sight?Of him that seeks the true philosophy."
In spite of its defects, the lax structure of the sonnet-form, the obscurities and needless blurring, and the disappointing inequalities, _Phillis_ takes a high place among the sonnet-cycles, and must ever be dear to lovers of quiet, melodious verse, who have made themselves at home in the golden world of the pastoral poets and mislike not the country-carolling heard therein.
THE INDUCTION
I that obscured have fled the scene of fame,?Intitling my conceits to nought but care,?I that have lived a phoenix in love's flame,?And felt that death I never would declare,?Now mount the theater of this our age,?To plead my faith and Cupid's cursed rage.
Oh you high sp'rited paragons of wit,?That fly to fame beyond our earthly pitch,?Whose sense is sound, whose words are feat and fit,?Able to make the coyest ear to itch;?Shroud with your mighty wings that mount so well,?These little loves, new crept from out the shell.
And thou the true Octavia of our time,?Under whose worth beauty was never matched,?The genius of my muse and ragged rime,?Smile on these little loves but lately hatched,?Who from the wrastling waves have made retreat,?To plead for life before thy judgment seat.
And though the fore-bred brothers they have had,?Who in their swan-like songs Amintas wept,?For all their sweet-thought sighs had fortune bad,?And twice obscured in Cinthia's circle slept,?Yet these I hope, under your kind aspect,?Most worthy Lady, shall escape neglect.
And if these infants of mine artless brain,?Not by their worth but by thy worthiness,?A mean good liking of the learn��d gain,?My Muse enfranchised from forgetfulness?Shall hatch such breed in honour of thy name,?As modern poets shall admire the same.
As modern poets shall admire the same;?I mean not you (you never match��d men)?Who brought the chaos of our tongue in frame,?Through these Herculean labours of your pen;?I mean the mean, I mean no men divine,?But such whose feathers are but waxed like mine.
Go, weeping truce-men in your sighing weeds,?Under a great Maecenas I have passed you;?If so you come where learn��d Colin feeds?His lovely flock, pack thence and quickly haste you;?You are but mists before so bright a sun,?Who hath the palm for deep invention won.
Kiss Delia's hand for her sweet prophet's sake,?Whose not affected but well couch��d tears?Have power, have worth, a marble mind to shake,?Whose fame no iron-age or time outwears.?Then lay you down in Phillis' lap and sleep,?Until the weeping read, and reading weep.
I
Oh pleasing thoughts, apprentices of love,?Fore-runners of desire, sweet mithridates?The poison of my sorrows to remove,?With whom my hopes and fear full oft debates!?Enrich yourselves and me by your self riches,?Which are the thoughts you spend on heaven-bred beauty, Rouse you my muse beyond our poets' pitches,?And,