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The Teares Of The Muses
by [?]

In stead thereof scoffing Scurrilitie,
And scornfull Follie with Contempt is crept,
Rolling in rymes of shameles ribaudrie
Without regard, or due decorum kept;
Each idle wit at will presumes to make*, 215
And doth the learneds taske upon him take.
[* Make, write poetry.]

But that same gentle spirit, from whose pen
Large streames of honnie and sweete nectar flowe,
Scorning the boldnes of such base-borne men,
Which dare their follies forth so rashlie throwe, 220
Doth rather choose to sit in idle cell,
Than so himselfe to mockerie to sell.

So am I made the servant of the manie,
And laughing stocke of all that list to scorne,
Not honored nor cared for of anie, 225
But loath’d of losels* as a thing forlorne:
Therefore I mourne and sorrow with the rest,
Untill my cause of sorrow be redrest.
[* Losels, worthless fellows.]

Therewith she lowdly did lament and shrike,
Pouring forth streames of teares abundantly; 230
And all her sisters, with compassion like,
The breaches of her singulfs* did supply.
So rested shee: and then the next in rew
Began her grievous plaint, as doth ensew.
[* I.e. the pauses of her sighs.]


Like as the dearling of the summers pryde, 235
Faire Philomele, when winters stormie wrath
The goodly fields, that earst so gay were dyde
In colours divers, quite despoyled hath,
All comfortlesse doth hide her chearlesse head
During the time of that her widowhead, 240

So we, that earst were wont in sweet accord
All places with our pleasant notes to fill,
Whilest favourable times did us afford
Free libertie to chaunt our charmes at will,
All comfortlesse upon the bared bow*, 245
Like wofull culvers**, doo sit wayling now.
[* Bow, bough.]
[** Culvers, doves.]

For far more bitter storme than winters stowre*
The beautie of the world hath lately wasted,
And those fresh buds, which wont so faire to flowre,
Hath marred quite, and all their blossoms blasted; 250
And those yong plants, which wont with fruit t’abound,
Now without fruite or leaves are to be found.
[* Stowre, violence.]

A stonie coldnesse hath benumbd the sence
And livelie spirits of each living wight,
And dimd with darknesse their intelligence, 255
Darknesse more than Cymerians daylie night:
And monstrous Error, flying in the ayre,
Hath mard the face of all that semed fayre.

Image of hellish horrour, Ignorance,
Borne in the bosome of the black abysse, 260
And fed with Furies milke for sustenaunce
Of his weake infancie, begot amisse
By yawning Sloth on his owne mother Night,–
So hee his sonnes both syre and brother hight,–