Transcriber’s Note: Variable spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original printing. Some minor errors in punctuation and capitalisation have been corrected, and some changes to the text are listed [at the end].

SIR P. S. HIS
ASTROPHEL AND
STELLA.

Wherein the excellence of sweete
Poesie is concluded.

At London,
Printed for Thomas Newman.
Anno Domini. 1591.

SIR P. S. HIS
ASTROPHEL AND
STELLA.

Loving in trueth, and fayne my love in verse to show,

That the deere Shee, might take some pleasure of my paine:

Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know,

Knowledge might pittie winne, and pittie grace obtaine.

I sought fit wordes to paint the blackest face of woe,

Studying inventions fine, her wittes to entertaine,

Oft turning others leaves, to see if thence would flowe,

Some fresh and fruitfull showre, upon my Sunne-burnt braine.

But wordes came halting out, wanting inventions stay,

Invention Natures childe, fledde Stepdame studies blowes:

And others feete, still seem’de but strangers in my way,

Thus great with Childe to speake, and helplesse in my throwes,

Byting my trewand penne, beating my selfe for spite:

Foole saide my Muse to mee, looke in thy heart and write.

Not at first sight, nor with a dribbing shot,

Love gave the wound, which while I breath will bleede:

But knowne, worth did in mine of time proceede,

Till by degrees it had full conquest got.

I sawe and lik’d, I lik’d but loved not,

I lov’d, but did not straight what Love decreede:

At length to Loves decrees, I forst agreede:

Yet with repining at so partiall lot.

Now even that foot-steppe of lost libertie

Is gone, and now like slave borne Muscovite:

I call it praise to suffer tyrannie,

And now imploy the remnant of my wit

To make my selfe believe that all is well,

While with a feeling skill I paint my hell.

Let Daintie wittes cry on the Sisters nine,

That bravely maskt, their fancies may be tolde:

Or Pinders Apes flaunt they in phrases fine,

Enamling with pyde flowers their thoughts of gold:

Or els let them in statelyee glorie shine,

Ennobling new found tropes with problemes old:

Or with strange similes, inricht each line,

Of hearbes or beasts, which Inde or Affricke hold.

For me in sooth, no Muse but one I know,

Phrases and Problemes from my reach do growe.

And straunge things cost too deere for my poor sprites,

How then? even thus in Stellas face I reede,

What love and beautie be, then all my deede

But coppying is, what in her nature writes.

Vertue (alas) now let me take some rest,

Thou set’st a bate betweene my will and wit;

If vaine love have my simple soule opprest,

Leave what thou lik’st not, deale not thou with it.

Thy Scepter use in some olde Catoes brest,

Churches or Schooles are for thy seat more fit:

I doe confes, (pardon a fault confest,)

My mouth too tender is for thy hard bit.

But if that needes, thou wilt usurping bee

The little reason that is left in mee.

And still th’ effect of thy perswasions proove,

I sweare, my heart such one shall shew to thee,

That shrines in flesh so true a deitie,

That Vertue, thou thy selfe shalt be in love.

It is most true, that eyes are found to serve

The inward light: and that the heavenly part

Ought to be King, from whose rules who doth swerve,

Rebels to nature, strive for their owne smart.

It is most true, what wee call Cupids dart,

An Image is, which for ourselves we carve:

And fooles adore, in Temple of our hart,

Till that good God make church and Church-men starve.

True that true beautie vertue is in deede,

Whereof this beautie can but be a shade:

Which Elements with mortall mixture breede,

True that on earth we are but Pilgrimes made,

And should in soule, up to our Country move:

True and most true, that I must Stella love.

Some Lovers speake, when they their Muses entertaine

Of hopes begot, by feare, of wot not what desires,

Of force of heavenly beames, infusing hellish paine;

Of lyving deathes, deere woundes, faire Stormes, and friesing fyres.

Some one his songs in Jove and Joves straunge tales attyres,

Bordered with Bulles and Swannes, poudered with golden raine:

Another humbler witte to shepheards pipe retyres,

Yet hiding royall blood, full oft in Rurall vaine.

To some a sweetest plaint a sweetest stile affordes,

Whiles teares poure out his inke, and sighes breathe

His paper pale despaire, and paine his penne doth move.

I can speake what I feele, and feele as much as they,

But thinke that all the mappe of my state I display,

When trembling voice brings foorth, that I do Stella love.

When nature made her chiefe worke, Stella’s eyes,

In collour blacke, why wrapt she beames so bright?

Would she in beamy blacke like Painter wise,

Frame daintiest lustre mixte of shades of light?

Or did she els that sober hewe devise,

In object best, to strength and knitt our sighte

Least if no vaile these brave gleames did disguise,

They Sun-like should more dazell than delight.

Or would she her miraculous power shewe,

That whereas blacke seemes Beauties contrarie,

Shee even in blacke doth make all Beauties flower

Both so and thus; she minding Love should bee

Plaste ever there, gave him this mourning weede:

To honour all their deathes, which for her bleede.

Love borne in Greece, of late fled from his native place,

Forst by a tedious proofe, that Turkish hardned hart

Were no fit marke, to pearce with his fine pointed dart:

And pleasd with our lost peace, staide here his fleeting race.

But finding these North climes, too coldlie him imbrace,

Not usde to frosen clippes, he strave to finde some part

Where with most ease and warmth, he might imploy his art.

At length he preach’d himselfe in Stellas joyfull face,

Whose faire skinne, beamie eyes, like morning Sunne on snow:

Deceiv’d the quaking boy, who thought from so pure light,

Effects of livelie heate must needes in nature growe.

But shee most faire, most colde; made him thence take his flight

To my close hart; where while some fire brands he did lay,

He burnt unwares his wings, and cannot fly away.

Queene Vertues Court, which some call Stellas face,

Prepar’d by Natures cheefest furniture:

Hath his front built of Alabaster pure.

Gold is the covering of that statelie place.

The doore, by which sometimes comes forth her grace

Red Porphire is, which locke of Pearle makes sure:

Whose Porches rich, with name of chekes indure,

Marble mixt red and white, doe enterlace.

The Windowes now, through which this heavenly guest

Lookes ore the world, and can finde nothing such,

Which dare claime from those lights the name of best,

Of touch they are, that without touch doe touch,

Which Cupids selfe, from beauties mine did drawe:

Of touch they are, and poore I am their strawe.

Reason, in faith thou art well serv’d, that still

Would’st brabling be, with sence and love in me:

I rather with thee climbe the Muses hill,

Or reach the fruite of Natures chiefest tree:

Or seeke heavens course, or heavens inside to see:

Why should’st thou toyle, our thornie soyle to till?

Leave sence and those that sences objects be,

Deale thou with powers, of thoughts leave love to will.

But thou wouldst needes fight both with Love and sence,

With sworde of witte, giving woundes of dispraise:

Till down-right blowes did foyle thy cunning fence,

So soone as they strake thee with Stellas rayes.

Reason, thou knewest, and offered straight to prove;

By reason good, good reason her to love.

In truth oh Love: with what a boyish kinde

Thou doost proceede, in thy most serious waies;

That when the heaven to thee his best displaies,

Yet of that best thou leav’st the best behinde.

That like a Childe that some faire booke doth finde

With gilden leaves of colloured Velom, playes

Or at the most on some faire picture stares,

But never heedes the fruite of Writers minde.

So when thou sawest in Natures cabinet,

Stella, thou straight lokest babies in her eyes:

In her chekes pit, thou didst thy pitfall set,

And in her brest bo-peepe or touching lyes,

Playing and shining in each outward part:

But foole seekst not to get into her hart.

Cupid because thou shin’st in Stellas eyes,

That from her lookes thy day-nets now scapes free:

That those lips swelde so full of thee they be.

That her sweet breath makes all thy flames t’arise,

That in her brest thy pap well sugred lyes,

That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,

What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:

That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.

Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powres

Having got up a breach; (by fighting well)

Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:

Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.

So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:

That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.

Phœbus was Judge, betweene Jove, Mars, & love,

Of those three Gods whose armes the fairest were:

Joves golden shield, did Eagle Sables beare:

Whose talents held young Ganimede above.

But in verde fielde, Mars bare a golden Speare,

Which through a bleeding heart, his point did shove:

Each had his Crest, Mars carried Venus glove.

Jove on his Helme the Thunderbolt did reare.

Cupid then smiles, for on his crest there lyes

Stellas faire haire, her face he makes his shielde:

Where Roses gueules, are borne in silver fielde.

Phœbus drewe wide the Curtaine of the skyes

To blase the last, and swore devoutly then:

The first thus macht, were scarcely Gentlemen.

Alas, have I not paine enough my friend,

Uppon whose breast, a fiercer gripe doth tyre,

Than did on him, who first stole downe the fyre;

While Love on me, doth all his quiver spend,

But with your rubarbe wordes you must contend,

To greeve me worse in saying, that desier

Doth plunge my well form’d soule, even in the mier

Of sinfull thoughtes, which doe in ruine ende.

If that be sinne which doth the manners frame,

Well stayed with trueth, in worde and faith of deede,

Readie of wit, and fearing nought but shame;

If it be sin which in fixt hart dooth breede,

A loathing of all lose unchastitie;

Then love is sin, and let me sinfull bee.

You that do search for every purling spring,

Which from the rybs of old Parnassus flowes,

And every flower (not sweete perhaps) which growes

Neere there about, into your Poesie wring.

Ye that do Dictionaries method bring

Into your rymes, running in ratling rowes,

You that poore Petrarchs long deceased woes

With new borne sighes, & devised wit do sing;

You take wrong wayes, those far-fet helps be such,

As doe bewray a want of inward tutch,

And sure at length stolne goods doe come to light.

But if both for your love and skill you name,

You seeke to nurse at fullest brest of Fame,

Stella behold and then begin t’endite.

In nature apt to like, when I did see

Beauties which were of many Carrects fine,

My boyling spirits did thether soone encline,

And Love I thought that I was full of thee;

But finding not those restles flames in mee

Which others said did make their soules to pyne,

I thought those babes of some pins hurt did whine:

By my love judging what loves paines might be.

But while I thus with this young Lyon plaid,

Myne eyes (shall I say curst or blest) beheld

Stella: now shee is nam’de, neede more be sayd?

In her sight I a lesson new have speld.

I now have learnd love right, and learnd even so,

As who by being poysond doth poyson know.

His mother deere Cupid offended late,

Because that Mars grew slacker in her love,

With pricking shot he did not throughly move

To keepe the pace of their first loving state:

The boy refusde, for feare of Marses hate;

Who threatned stripes, if he his wrath did prove:

But she in chafe him from her lap did shove,

Brake bowe, brake shafts, where Cupid weeping sate,

Till that his Grandam Nature pittying it,

Of Stellas browes made him two better bowes:

And in her eyes of arrowes infinit.

O how for joye he leapes, ô how he crowes;

And straight therewith, like wagges new got to play:

Falls to shrewde turnes, and I was in his way.

With what strange checkes I in my selfe am shent,

When into Reasons Audit I doe goe:

And by just counts my selfe a Bankerowt know

Of all those goods which heaven to me hath lent,

Unable quite, to pay even Natures rent,

Which unto it by birth-right I doe owe:

And which is worse, no good excuse can showe,

But that my wealth I have most idely spent,

My youth doth waste, my knowledge brings forth toyes,

My wit doth strive, those passions to defende

Which for reward, spoyle it with vaine annoyes;

I see my course, to lose my selfe doth bende.

I see and yet no greater sorrowe take

Than that I looke no more for Stellas sake.

On Cupids bowe, how are my hart strings bent?

That see my wracke, and yet imbrace the same:

When most I glorie, then I feele most shame;

I willing run, yet while I runne repent;

My best wittes still their owne disgrace invent,

My verie ynke, turnes straight to Stella’s name:

And yet my words (as them my penne doth frame)

Against themselves that they are vainely spent.

For though she passe all things, yet what is all

That unto me, who fare like him that both

Lookes to the skyes and in a ditch doth fall,

O let me prop my mind yet in his grouth

And not in nature, for best fruits unfit;

Scholler saith Love bend hitherward your wit.

Fly, flye my friends, I have my deathes wound, flye;

See there that boy, that murthering boy I say,

Who like a thiefe hid in a bush doth lye,

Tyll blooddy bullet get him wrongfull pray.

So, tyrant he no fitter place could spy,

Nor so farre levell in so secrete stay:

As that sweete blacke which veiles thy heavenly eye.

There himselfe with his shot he close doth laye.

Poore passenger, passe now thereby I did,

And staid pleasd with prospect of the place,

While that black hue from me the bad guest hid,

But straight I saw motions of lightnings grace,

And there descried the glisterings of his dart:

But ere I could flie thence, it pearst my hart.

Your words my freend right helthfull caustickes blame.

My young minde marde whom Love doth windlase so:

That my owne writings like bad servants showe

My wits, quick in vaine thoughts, in vertue lame;

That Plato I reade for nought, but if he tame

Such coltish giers; that to my birth I owe

Nobler desires: lest els that friendly foe

Great expectation were a traine of shame.

For since mad March great promise made to mee,