in praise of ASTREA, made by the excellent Lady, the Lady Mary
Countess of Pembroke at the Queen's Majesty's being at her house at
———, Anno 15———.
| THENOT. |
I sing divine ASTREA'S praise, O Muses! help my wits to raise, And heave my Verses higher. |
| PIERS. |
Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell, Which much I doubt thou canst not well, Thou art so oft a lier. |
| THENOT. |
If in my Song no more I show, Than Heav'n, and Earth, and Sea do know, Then truly I have spoken. |
| PIERS. |
Sufficeth not no more to name, But being no less, the like, the same, Else laws of truth be broken. |
| THENOT. |
Then say, she is so good, so fair, With all the earth she may compare, Not Momus self denying. |
| PIERS. |
Compare may think where likeness holds, Nought like to her the earth enfolds, I lookt to find you lying. |
| THENOT. |
ASTREA sees with Wisdom's sight, ASTREA works by Virtue's might, And jointly both do stay in her. |
| PIERS. |
Nay take from them, her hand, her mind, The one is lame, the other blind Shall still you lying stain her? |
| THENOT. |
Soon as ASTREA shows her face, Straight every ill avoids the place, And every good aboundeth. |
| PIERS. |
Nay long before her face doth show, The last doth come, the first doth go, How loud this lie resoundeth! |
| THENOT. |
ASTREA is our chiefest joy, Our chiefest guard against annoy, Our chiefest wealth, our treasure, |
| PIERS. |
Where chiefest are, there others be, To us none else, but only she; When wilt thou speak in measure? |
| THENOT. |
ASTREA may be justly said, A field in flow'ry robe arrayed, In season freshly springing. |
| PIERS. |
That Spring endures but shortest time, This never leaves Astrea's clime, Thou liest, instead of singing. |
| THENOT. |
As heavenly light that guides the day, Right so doth thine each lovely ray, That from Astrea flyeth. |
| PIERS. |
Nay, darkness oft that light enclouds, Astrea's beam no darkness shrowds; How loudly Thenot lieth! |
| THENOT. |
ASTREA rightly term I may, A manly Palm, a maiden Bay, Her verdure never dying. |
| PIERS. |
Palm oft is crooked, Bay is low, She still upright, still high doth grow, Good Thenot leave thy lying. |
| THENOT. |
Then Piers, of friendship tell me why, My meaning true, my words should lye, And strive in vain to raise her? |
| PIERS. |
Words from conceit do only rise, Above conceit her honor flies, But silence, nought can praise her. 1602 |
|
Source: The Norton Anthology of English Literature 6th ed. v.1. M. H. Abrams, general editor. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1993. 1074.
|
