Classic Poem

Now had the sun, in golden chariot hurl'd,
Twice bid good-morrow to the nether world;
And Cynthia, in her orb and perfect round,
Twice view'd the shadows of the upper ground;
Twice had the day-star usher'd forth the light;
And twice the evening-star proclaim'd the night;
Ere once the sweet-fac'd boy (now all forlorn)
Came with his pipe to resalute the morn.
When grac'd by time (unhappy time the while)
The cruel swain (who ere knew swain so vile?)
Had struck the lad, in came the wat'ry nymph
To raise from sound poor Doridon (the imp
Whom Nature seem'd to have selected forth
To be ingrafted on some stock of worth;)
And the maid help, but since " to dooms of Fate
Succour, though ne'er so soon, comes still too late, "
She rais'd the youth, then with her arms enrings him,
And so with words of hope she homewards brings him.
At door expecting him his mother sat,
Wond'ring her boy should stay from her so late;
Framing for him unto herself excuses,
And with such thoughts gladly herself abuses:
As that her son, since day grew old and weak,
Stay'd with the maids to run at barley-break;
Or that he cours'd a park with females fraught,
Which would not run except they might be caught;
Or in the thickets laid some wily snare
To take the rabbit or the purblind hare;
Or taught his dog to catch the climbing kid:
Thus shepherds do, and thus she thought he did.
" In things expected meeting with delay,
Though there be none, we frame some cause of stay. "
And so did she (as she who doth not so?)
Conjecture Time unwing'd he came so slow.
But Doridon drew near, so did her grief:
" Ill-luck, for speed, of all things else is chief. "
For as the blind man sung, " Time so provides,
That Joy goes still on foot, and Sorrow rides. "
Now when she saw (a woful sight) her son,
Her hopes then fail'd her, and her cries begun
To utter such a plaint, that scarce another,
Like this, ere came from any love-sick mother.
If man hath done this, Heaven, why mad'st thou men?
Not to deface thee in thy children,
But by the work the workman to adore;
Framing that something which was nought before.
Aye me, unhappy wretch! if that in things
Which are as we (save title) men fear kings,
That be their postures to the life limn'd on
Some wood as frail as they, or cut in stone,
" 'Tis death to stab: why then should earthly things
Dare to deface his form who formed kings?
When the world was but in his infancy,
Revenge, desires unjust, vile jealousy,
Hate, envy, murder, all these six then reign'd,
When but their half of men the world contain'd:
Yet but in part of these, those ruled then.
When now as many vices live as men.
Live they? yes, live, I fear, to kill my son,
With whom my joys, my love, my hopes are done.
Cease, quoth the water's nymph, that led the swain;
Though 'tis each mother's cause thus to complain,
Yet " abstinence in things we must profess
Which Nature fram'd for need, not for excess. "
Since the least blood, drawn from the lesser part
Of any child, comes from the mother's heart,
We cannot choose but grieve, except that we
Should be more senseless than the senseless tree,
Replied his mother. Do but cut the limb
Of any tree, the trunk will weep for him:
Rend the cold sycamore's thin bark in two,
His name and tears would say, So love should do.
" That mother is all flint (than beasts less good)
Which drops no water when her child streams blood. "
At this the wounded boy fell on his knee,
Mother, kind mother (said) weep not for me.
Why, I am well. Indeed I am: if you
Cease not to weep, my wound will bleed anew.
When I was promis'd first the light's fruition,
You oft have told me, 'twas on this condition,
That I should hold it with like rent and pain
As others do, and one time leave 't again.
Then, dearest mother, leave, oh leave to wail,
" Time will effect where tears can nought avail. "
Herewith Marinda taking up her son,
Her hope, her love, her joy, her Doridon,
She thank'd the nymph for her kind succour lent,
Who straight tripp'd to her wat'ry regiment.
Down in a dell (where in that month whose fame
Grows greater by the man who gave it name,
Stands many a well-pil'd cock of short sweet hay
That feeds the husband's neat each winter's day)
A mountain had his foot, and 'gan to rise
In stately height to parley with the skies.
And yet as blaming his own lofty gait,
Weighing the fickle props in things of state,
His head began to droop, and downwards bending,
Knock'd on that breast which gave it birth and ending:
And lies so with an hollow hanging vaut,
As when some boy trying the somersault,
Stands on his head, and feet, as he did lie
To kick against earth's spangled canopy;
When seeing that his heels are of such weight,
That he cannot obtain their purpos'd height,
Leaves any more to strive; and thus doth say,
What now I cannot do, another day
May weil effect: it cannot be denied
I show'd a will to act, because I tried:
The Scornfull-hill men call'd him, who did scorn
So to be call'd, by reason he had borne
No hate to greatness, but a mind to be
The slave of greatness through humility:
For had his mother Nature thought it meet,
He meekly bowing would have kiss'd her feet.