Elizabethan Sonnet Cycles | Page 4

in one of the
prefaces promised the public to present on his return "what labours
Lodge's sea-studies afford." _Phillis_ was the chief of these sea-studies,
and was like _Rosalynde_ "hatcht in the stormes of the ocean and
feathered in the surges of many perillous seas." But as far as the
imagery of the sonnets is concerned, the pageantry of day and night at
sea might have passed before blinded eyes; if it made any impression, it
was in the form of ocean-nymphs and Cupid at the helm. The poet was
in Arcadia, Phillis was a shepherdess, and the conventional imageries
of the pastoral valley were the environment. "May it please you," he
says in dedicating the book to the Countess of Shrewsbury, "to looke
and like of homlie Phillis in her Country caroling, and to countenance
her poore and affectionate sheapheard." The Countess of Shrewsbury
he chooses for the "Sovereign and she-Mæcenas" of his toil, and
promises her "as much in affection as any other can performe in
perfection;" but the name of Phillis is no cover for the personality of a
grand lady, and therefore no puzzling questions disturb the pleasure of
the reader as the gentle modulations, the insidious alliterations, and the
musical cadences of his double rhymes fall upon the ear.

Yet for this name or ideal, or whatever Phillis represented in the poet's
thought, he has poured forth a passion that has an air of sincerity, an
artless freshness, a flute-like clearness of tone, as rare as delightful. It is
the very voice of the oaten pipe itself, thin, clear, and pure. The touches
of seriousness are impossible, to mistake. When the poet avows his
faith in Phillis' constancy, after giving the usual catalogue of her
beauties, he says:
"At thy fair hands who wonders not at all
Wonder itself through
ignorance embases;
Yet not the less though wondrous gifts you call
these
My faith is far more wonderful than all these."
When Phillis persists in her disdain, he cries out impulsively:
"Burst, burst, poor heart, thou hast no longer hope!"
Even when re-moulding the familiar pastoral conceits, he makes the
fancies his own and gives to them a unique touch and spirit. Mere
conventions he rates at their proper value. His pen shall not "riot in
pompous style." He claims a brighter aspect for his poetical devotion
than his fellow-sonneteers manifest:
"No stars her; eyes....
.... but beams that clear the sight
Of him that
seeks the true philosophy."
In spite of its defects, the lax structure of the sonnet-form, the
obscurities and needless blurring, and the disappointing inequalities,
_Phillis_ takes a high place among the sonnet-cycles, and must ever be
dear to lovers of quiet, melodious verse, who have made themselves at
home in the golden world of the pastoral poets and mislike not the
country-carolling heard therein.
THE INDUCTION
I that obscured have fled the scene of fame,
Intitling my conceits to
nought but care,
I that have lived a phoenix in love's flame,
And felt
that death I never would declare,
Now mount the theater of this our

age,
To plead my faith and Cupid's cursed rage.
Oh you high sp'rited paragons of wit,
That fly to fame beyond our
earthly pitch,
Whose sense is sound, whose words are feat and fit,

Able to make the coyest ear to itch;
Shroud with your mighty wings
that mount so well,
These little loves, new crept from out the shell.
And thou the true Octavia of our time,
Under whose worth beauty
was never matched,
The genius of my muse and ragged rime,
Smile
on these little loves but lately hatched,
Who from the wrastling waves
have made retreat,
To plead for life before thy judgment seat.
And though the fore-bred brothers they have had,
Who in their
swan-like songs Amintas wept,
For all their sweet-thought sighs had
fortune bad,
And twice obscured in Cinthia's circle slept,
Yet these
I hope, under your kind aspect,
Most worthy Lady, shall escape
neglect.
And if these infants of mine artless brain,
Not by their worth but by
thy worthiness,
A mean good liking of the learnèd gain,
My Muse
enfranchised from forgetfulness
Shall hatch such breed in honour of
thy name,
As modern poets shall admire the same.
As modern poets shall admire the same;
I mean not you (you never
matchèd men)
Who brought the chaos of our tongue in frame,

Through these Herculean labours of your pen;
I mean the mean, I
mean no men divine,
But such whose feathers are but waxed like
mine.
Go, weeping truce-men in your sighing weeds,
Under a great
Maecenas I have passed you;
If so you come where learnèd Colin
feeds
His lovely flock, pack thence and quickly haste you;
You are
but mists before so bright a sun,
Who hath the palm for deep
invention won.

Kiss Delia's hand for her sweet prophet's sake,
Whose not affected
but well couchèd tears
Have power, have worth, a marble mind to
shake,
Whose fame no iron-age or time outwears.
Then lay you
down in Phillis'