Oenone to Paris

To Paris that was once her owne though now it be not so,
From Ida, Oenon greeting sendes as these hir letters show,
May not thy novell wife endure that thou my Pistle reade?
That they with Grecian fist were wrought thou needste not stand in dreade.
Pegasian nymph renounde in Troie, Oenone hight by name,
Of thee (that were mine owne) complaine if thou permit the same.
What froward God doth seeke to barre Oenone to be thine?
Or by what guilt have I deservde that Paris should decline?
Take paciently deserved wo and never grutch at all:

I.

O H Bards of old! what sorrows have ye sung,
And tragic stories, chronicled in stone, —
Sad Philomel restored her ravish'd tongue,
And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown;
Sweet Sappho on her love for ever calls,
And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls!

II.

Was it that spectacles of sadder plights
Should make our blisses relish the more high?
Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights,
Whose flourish'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye,
Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief,

Alcmena . Learne Lordings, learne to feare and dread th'unweildy fatall force.
This little dust is all thats left of Hercles hugy coarse.
That boysteous Giaunt is consumde unto these ashes small
O Titan what a mighty masse is come to nought at all.
Aye me an aged womans lappe all Hercules doth shrowde,
Her lap doth serve him for a grave, and yet the champion prowde,

Ternissa! you are fled!
I say not to the dead,
But to the happy ones who rest below:

For, surely, surely, where
Your voice and graces are,
Nothing of death can any feel or know.
Girls who delight to dwell
Where grows most asphodel,
Gather to their calm breasts each word you speak:
The mild Persephone
Places you on her knee,
And your cool palm smoothes down stern Pluto's cheek.

Come back, ye wandering Muses, come back home,
Ye seem to have forgotten where it lies:
Come, let us walk upon the silent sands
Of Simois, where deep footmarks show long strides;
Thence we may mount perhaps to higher ground,
Where Aphrodite from Athene won
The golden apple, and from Here too,
And happy Ares shouted far below.
Or would ye rather choose the grassy vale
Where flows Anapos thro anemones,
Hyacynths, and narcissuses, that bend
To show their rival beauty in the stream?
Bring with you each her lyre, and each in turn

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom
At Aulis, and when all beside the king
Had gone away, took his right hand, and said:
"O father! I am young and very happy.
I do not think the pious Calchas heard
Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age
Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew
My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood,
While I was resting on her knee both arms,
And hitting it to make her mind my words,
And looking in her face, and she in mine,
Might not he, also, hear one word amiss,
Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?"

Rhaicos was born amid the hills wherefrom
Gnidos the light of Caria is discern'd,
And small are the white-crested that play near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd
With rose and myrtle if they were inborn;
If from Pandion sprang they, on the coast
Where stern Athene raised her citadel,
Then olive was intwined with violets
Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large.
For various men wore various coronals:
But one was their devotion; 'twas to her
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile withdraws

This delightful young man
Should not lack for honorers,
He propitiates me with oysters,
With Rhine wine and liqueurs.

How his coat and pants adorn him!
Yet his ties are more adorning,
In these he daily comes to ask me:
" Are you feeling well this morning? "

He speaks of my extended fame,
My wit, charm, definitions,
And is diligent to serve me,
Is detailed in his provisions.

In evening company he sets his face
In most spiritu el positions,
And declaims before the ladies
My god-like compositions.

The mutilated choir boys
When I begin to sing
Complain about the awful noise
And call my voice too thick a thing.

When light their voices lift them up,
Bright notes against the ear,
Through trills and runs like crystal,
Ring delicate and clear.

They sing of Love that's grown desirous,
Of Love, and joy that is Love's inmost part,
And all the ladies swim through tears
Toward such a work of art.

Tell me where thy lovely love is,
Whom thou once did sing so sweetly,
When the fairy flames enshrouded
Thee, and held thy heart completely.

All the flames are dead and sped now
And my heart is cold and sere;
Behold this book the urn of ashes,
'Tis my true love's sepulchre.