Thirsis. As fair and sweet as she! Palæmon, peace:

Ah, what can pictures be unto the life?

What sweetness can be found in images?
Which all nymphs else besides her seem to me.
She only was a real creature, she,

Whose memory must take up all of me.
Should I another love, then must I have
Another heart, for this is full of her,
And evermore shall be: here is she drawn
At length, and whole: and more, this table is
A story, and is all of her; and all

Wrought in the liveliest colours of my blood;
And can there be a room for others here?
Should I disfigure such a piece, and blot
The perfect'st workmanship that love e'er wrought?
Palæmon, no, ah no, it cost too dear;

It must remain entire whilst life remains,
The monument of her and of my pains.

The Story of Isulia.

There was sometimes a nymph,
Isulia named, and an Arcadian born,
Whose mother dying left her very young
Unto her father's charge, who carefully
Did breed her up until she came to years
Of womanhood, and then provides a match
Both rich and young, and fit enough for her.
But she, who to another shepherd had,
Call'd Sirthis, vow'd her love, as unto one
Her heart esteem'd more worthy of her love,
Could not by all her father's means be wrought
To leave her choice, and to forget her vow.

This nymph one day, surcharg'd with love and grief,
Which commonly (the more the pity) dwell
As inmates both together, walking forth
With other maids to fish upon the shore;
Estrays apart, and leaves her company,

To

To entertain herself with her own thoughts:
And wanders on so far, and out of sight,
As she at length was suddenly surpriz'd
By pirates, who lay lurking underneath
Those hollow rocks, expecting there some prize.
And notwithstanding all her piteous cries,
Intreaties, tears, and prayers, those fierce men
Rent hair and veil, and carried her by force
Into their ship, which in a little creek
Hard by at anchor lay,

And presently hoisted sail and so away.
When she was thus inshipp'd, and woefully
Had cast her eyes about to view that hell

Of horror, whereinto she was so suddenly emplung'd,
She spies a woman sitting with a child

Sucking her breast, which was the captain's wife.
To her she creeps, down at her feet she lies;
"O woman, if that name of a woman may
"Move you to pity, pity a poor maid;

« The most distressed soul that ever breath'd;
"And save me from the hands of those fierce men.
"Let me not be defil'd and made unclean,
"Dear woman, now, and I will be to you
"The faithfull'st slave that ever mistress serv'd;
"Never poor soul shall be more dutiful,
"To do whatever you command, than I.
"No toil will I refuse; so that I

may

"Keep this poor body clean and undeflower'd,
"Which is all I will ever seek. For know
"It is not fear of death lays me thus low,
"But of that stain will make my death to blush."
All this would nothing move the woman's heart,
Whom yet she would not leave, but still besought;
"O woman, by that infant at your breast,
"And by the pains it cost you in the birth,
"Save me, as ever you desire to have
"Your babe to joy nd prosper in the world;

"Which will the better prosper sure, if you
"Shall mercy shew, which is with mercy paid!"
Then kisses she her feet, then kisses too

The infant's feet; and "Oh, sweet babe," (said she)
"Could'st thou but to thy mother speak for me,
"And crave her to have pity on my case,
"Thou might'st perhaps prevail with her so much
"Although I cannot; child, ah, could'st thou speak.”
The infant, whether by her touching it,

Or by instinct of nature, seeing her weep,
Looks earnestly upon her, and then looks
Upon the mother, then on her again,

And then it cries, and then on either looks:

Which she perceiving; "blessed child," (said she)

Although thou can'st not speak, yet dost thou cry "Unto thy mother for me. Hear thy child,

"Dear mother, it's for me it cries,

"It's all the speech it hath. Accept those cries,
"Save me at his request from being defil'd:
"Let pity move thee, that thus moves thy child.”
The woman, tho' by birth and custom rude,
Yet having veins of nature, could not be
But pierceable, did feel at length the point
Of pity enter so, as out gush'd tears,
(Not usual to stern eyes) and she besought
Her husband to bestow on her that prize,
With safeguard of her body at her will.
The captain seeing his wife, the child, the nymph,
All crying to him in this piteous sort,

Felt his rough nature shaken too, and grants
His wife's request, and seals his grant with tears;
And so they wept all four for company:
And some beholders stood not with dry eyes;
Such passion wrought the passion of their prize.
Never was there pardon, that did take
Condemned from the block more joyful than
This grant to her. For all her misery
Seem'd nothing to the comfort she receiv'd,

By

By being thus saved from impurity:

And from the woman's feet she would not part,
Nor trust her hand to be without some hold
Of her, or of the child, so long as she remain'd
Within the ship, which in few days arrives
At Alexandria, whence these pirates were;
And there this woeful maid for two years space
Did serve, and truly serve this captain's wife,
(Who would not lose the benefit of her
Attendance, for her profit otherwise)
But daring not in such a place as that
To trust herself in woman's habit, crav'd
That she might be apparel'd like a boy;
And so she was, and as a boy she serv❜d.
At two years end her mistress sends her forth
Unto the port for some commodities,

Which whilst she sought for, going up and down,
She heard some merchantmen of Corinth talk,
Who spake that language the Arcadians did,
And were next neighbours of one continent.
To them, all wrapt with passion, down she kneels,
Tells them she was a poor distressed boy,
Born in Arcadia, and by pirates took,
And made a slave in Egypt; and besought
Them, as they fathers were of children, or
Did hold their native country dear, they would
Take pity on her, and relieve her youth
From that sad servitude wherein she liv'd:
For which she hoped that she had friends alive
Would thank them one day, and reward them too;
If not, yet that she knew the heav'ns would do.
The merchants mov'd with pity of her case,
Being ready to depart, took her with them,
And landed her upon her country coast:
Where when she found herself, she prostrate falls,
Kisses the ground, thanks gives unto the gods,
Thanks them who had been her deliverers,
And on she trudges through the desart woods,

Climbs over craggy rocks, and mountains steep,
Wades thorough rivers, struggles thorough bogs,
Sustained only by the force of love ;,

Until she came unto the native plains,

Unto the fields where first she drew her breath.
There she lifts up her eyes, salutes the air,
Salutes the trees, the bushes, flow'rs and all :
And, "Oh, dear Sirthis, here I am," said she,
"Here, notwithstanding all my miseries,
"I am the same I was to thee; a pure,
"A chaste, and spotless maid."

ALAHAM