Author: liza.blake

The four chief winds are giants, long¹ in length,
And as broad² set, and wondrous great in strength.
Their heads are more (as it doth clear³ appear)
Than all⁴ the months or seasons of the year.
Nay, some say more than all the days and⁵ nights,                    5
And some, they’re numberless and infinite.⁶

The first four heads are largest of them all;
The twelve are next, the thirty two but small,
The rest so little, and their breath so weak,
Their mouths so narrow that they hardly⁷ speak.                    10
These giants are so lustful and so wild,
As they by force do⁸ get the Earth with child,
And big she swells until the time of birth:⁹
Her bowels stretched, high bellied is the earth.¹⁰
Then doth she groan with grievous pains,¹¹ and shake,          15
Until she’s brought abed with her¹² earthquake.
This child of wind doth ruin all it¹³ meets,
Rends¹⁴ rocks and mountains like to paper sheets;
It swallows cities, and the heav’ns¹⁵ doth tear;
It threatens Jove, and makes the gods to fear.                            20

The North Wind’s cold; his nerves are¹⁶ dry and strong;
He pulls up oaks, and¹⁷ lays them all along.
In icy fetters he¹⁸ binds rivers fast,
Imprisons fishes in the¹⁹ ocean vast,
Plows up the seas, and hail for seed in flings,                             25
Whence²⁰ crops of overflows the tide in brings.
He drives the clouds in troops, which²¹ makes them run,
And blows as if he would put out²² the sun.

The Southern Wind, who is as fierce as he,
And to the Sun as great an enemy,                                               30
Doth raise²³ an army of thick clouds and mists,
With which he²⁴ thinks to do just as he lists,
Flinging²⁵ up waters to quench out his light,
And²⁶ in his face, black clouds to hide his sight.
But the bright²⁷ Sun cannot endure this scorn,                         35
And²⁸ doth them all in showers of rain²⁹ return.

The Western Wind, without ambitious ends,
Doth what he can to join and make them friends,
For he is of a nature sweet and mild,
And not so headstrong, rough, nor rude, nor³⁰ wild.               40
He’s soft to touch, and pleasant to the³¹ ear—
His voice sounds sweet and small, and very clear—
And makes hot love to young fresh buds that spring;³²
They give him sweets, which he through th’air doth fling,³³
Not through³⁴ dislike, but for to make them known,³⁵            45
As pictures are for beauteous faces shown.³⁶

But O, the Eastern Wind is³⁷ full of spite,
Diseases brings, which cruelly do bite;
He blasts young buds, and corn within the blade,³⁸
He rots the sheep; to men he brings the plague.³⁹                    50
Nay, he’s of such ill nature, that he would⁴⁰
Destroy the world with poison, if he could.⁴¹

¹

Lapland is the place from whence all winds come,²
From³ witches, not from caves, as do think some.⁴
For they do draw the air⁵ into high hills,
And beat it⁶ out again by certain mills,
Then sack it up, and sell it out for gain                             5
To mariners, which traffic on the main.

The sweat of th’Earth through porous holes¹ doth pass,
Which² is the dew that lies upon the grass,
Which³ (like a lover kind) the Sun wipes clean,
That her fair face may to the light be seen.
This water for her sake he so⁴ esteems,                                         5
That all the⁵ drops upon his silver beams
He threads, like ropes of pearls, which⁶ to his sphere
He draws and turns⁷ to crystal, when they’re there.
Yet,what he gathers, he cannot⁸ keep all,
But of those drops, some down again⁹ do fall,                            10
And then, when they upon her head do¹⁰ run,
He clouds his brows, as if he ill had¹¹ done.
For¹² lovers think they always do amiss,
Although those showers¹³ her refreshment is.
When she by sweat exhausted grows, and dry,                          15
Then doth the Sun moist clouds squeeze in the¹⁴ sky,
Or else he takes some of his sharpest beams
And breaks¹⁵ the clouds, from whence pour crystal streams.
Then th’Earth drinks too much, yet never reels¹⁶
Nor dizzy grows, although she sickness feels.¹⁷                         20

The garden, which¹ some Paradise do call,
Is placed just under² th’equinoctial.
Echoes there are most artificial made,
And cooling grottoes, from the heat to shade.
The azure sky is always bright and clear;                                5
No gross thick vapors in the clouds appear.
There many stars do comfort the sad night;
The fixed do twinkl’and³ with the rest give light.
No noise is heard, but what the ear delights;
No fruits are there, but what the taste invites.                      10
Up through the nose bruised flowers fume⁴ the brain,
As honeydew in balmy showers⁵ rain.
Various colors, by Nature intermixed,
Divert the eyes so, as none can be fixed.⁶
Here atoms small on sunbeams dance all day,                      15
While Zephyrus sweet doth on the air⁷ play,
Which music from Apollo bears the praise,
And Orpheus at its⁸ sound his harp down lays.
Apollo yields, and not contends with spite,
Presenting Zephyrus with twelve hours⁹ light.                     20
The¹⁰ night, though sad, in quiet pleasure takes,
With silence listens¹¹ when he music makes,
And when the day doth come, she’s grievèd so,¹²
That she cannot hear Zeph’rus longer¹³ blow,
And with her mantle black herself enshrouds,                     25
Which is embroidered all of stars in clouds.
Here are intermixing walks¹⁴ of pleasure,
Of grass, and sand, broad, short, and of all¹⁵ measure,
Some shaded for a¹⁶ lover’s musing thought,
When his mind is with love’s idea¹⁷ fraught.                         30
The walks all¹⁸ firm and hard as marble are,
Yet soft as down by grass that groweth there,
Where daisies grow as mushrooms in a night,
Mixed yellow, white, and¹⁹ green to please the sight.
At dawning day, the dew all overspreads²⁰                            35
In little drops upon those daisies’ heads;²¹
As thick as stars are set in heaven high,²²
So daisies on the earth as close do lie.
Here emerald banks are,²³ whence fine flowers spring,
Whose scents and colors various pleasures²⁴ bring:            40
Primroses, cowslips, violets, daffodillies,²⁵
Roses, honeysuckles,²⁶ and white lillies,
Wall-flowers, pinks, and marigolds besides,²⁷
Grow on the banks²⁸ enriched with Nature’s pride.
On other banks grow simples, which are good                      45
For med’cines,²⁹ well applied and understood.
There trees do grow, that³⁰ proper are, and tall,
Whose bark is³¹ smooth, and bodies sound withal,
Whose spreading tops are full, and ever green,
As Nazarites’ heads, where razors have³² not been,             50
And curlèd leaves, which bowing branches bear,
By warmth are fed, for winter ne’er comes there.
There fruits so pleasing³³ to the taste do grow
That³⁴ with delight the sense they³⁵ overflow,
And archèd arbors, where sweet birds do sing,                     55
Whose hollow rooves do make each echo ring.
Prospects, which trees and clouds by mixing show,³⁶
Joined by the eye, one perfect piece do grow.³⁷
Here fountains are, where trilling³⁸ drops down run,
Which twinkle as the stars, or as the³⁹ sun,                            60
And through each several spout such noise it makes,⁴⁰
As bird in spring when he his pleasure takes:⁴¹
Some chirping sparrow, and the singing lark,
Or quavering nightingale in evening dark,
The⁴² whistling blackbird, with the pleasant thrush,           65
Linnet, bullfinch, which sing in every bush.
No weeds are here, nor withered leaves, and dry,
But ever green and pleasant to the eye;
No frost to nip the tender buds in birth,⁴³
Nor winter snow to fall on this sweet earth.                          70
The beauty of the spring here ne’er doth waste,⁴⁴
Because ’tis just under th’equator placed.⁴⁵
The day and night by turns keep equal⁴⁶ watch,
That thievish time should nothing from them catch.
And every Muse a several walk enjoys,                                   75
The sad delights in⁴⁷ shades; the light employs⁴⁸
Her time in sports; satyrs⁴⁹ in corners lurk,
And as their gard’ners with great pains⁵⁰ do work:
They cut, graft, set, and sow, all with much skill,⁵¹
And gather fruits and flow’rs when th’Muses will,⁵²           80
And nymphs, as handmaids, their attendance give,
For which, by fame the Muses make them⁵³ live.

A shady grove, where trees¹ in equal space
Did grow, seemed like² a consecrated place.
Through spreading boughs the³ quivering light broke in,
Much like to glass or crystal shivered thin;
Those pieces small⁴ on a green carpet strewed,                        5
So in this wood the light all broken showed.
Yet⁵ this disturbèd light the grove did grace,
As sadness doth a fair and beauteous face.
And in the midst an ancient oak stood there,
Which heretofore did many offerings bear,⁶                            10
Whose branches all were hung with relics round,⁷
To show how many men the gods made sound,⁸
And for reward,⁹ long life the gods did give
Unto this oak, that he should aged¹⁰ live.
His younger years, when acorns he did bear,                           15
No dandruff moss, but fresh¹¹ green leaves grew there,
Which curled hung down¹² his shoulders, broad they spread;
His crown was thick, and bushy was his head,
His stature tall, full breasted, broad, and big,
His body round, and straight was every twig.                           20
But youth and beauty, which are shadows thin,
Do fade away as if they ne’er had been.
For all his fresh green leaves, and smooth moist rine¹³
Are quite worn off, and now grown bald with time,¹⁴
Whereas before, his arms fought with the wind,¹⁵                  25
And his bark did, like skin, his body bind.¹⁶
Where he all times and seasons firm could¹⁷ stand,
And ’gainst all blust’ring storms his face did bend,¹⁸
Yet now so weak and feeble he¹⁹ doth grow,
That every blast is apt him down to throw.                               30
His branches all are seared, his bark grown gray,
Most of his rine with time is peeled away.
The liquid sap, which from the root did spring,²⁰
And to each thirsty bough its food did bring,²¹
Is all drunk up; there is no moisture left;                                  35
The root is rotten, and the body²² cleft.
Thus time doth ruin, brings²³ all to decay,
Though to the gods we²⁴ still devoutly pray.
For this old oak was sacred to high²⁵ Jove,
Which was the king of all the gods above.                                 40
But gods, when they created all at first,²⁶
They did ordain all should return²⁷ to dust.

The spring doth spin fine grass-green silk, of which
Was woven¹ a carpet, like the Persian, rich,
And all about the borders, there were² spread
Clusters of grapes, mixed green, blue, white, and red,
And in the midst the gods in sundry shapes                                  5
Were³ curious wrought, divulging all their rapes,
And all the ground was strewed with flowers so;⁴
As if by Nature set, they there did grow.⁵
Those figures all like sculptures did⁶ bear out;
Whether they lay on flat many did⁷ doubt.                                  10
There light and dark all intermixed were⁸ laid
For shady groves, where priests⁹ devoutly prayed.
The fruits so hung¹⁰ as did invite the taste;
Small birds with picking seemed¹¹ to make a waste.
The ground was wrought like threads drawn from the sun,    15
Which shined so blazing as¹² a fired gun.
This piece the pattern is of artful skill;
Art th’imitator¹³ is of Nature still.

O do not grieve, dear heart, nor shed a tear,
Since in your eyes my life doth still keep there,¹
And in your countenance my death I find;
I’m² buried in your melancholy mind.
But in your smiles I’m glorified to rise,                        5
And your pure love doth³ me eternalize;
Thus by your favor you a god me make,⁴
And⁵ by your hate a devil’s shape I take.⁶