garment the hands of violent men had torn and pieces such as get

they could, away they stole. Her right hand held a book, the left a

scepter.

Who, when she spied poets’ Muses standing by my bed, and to my

tears inditing words, somewhat moved, inflamed with gloating eyes:

“Who suffered,” quoth she, “these stage’s harlots approach this sick

man, which not only would not ease his sorrow with no remedies, but

with sweet venom nourish them? These they be, that with barren

affections’ thorns destroys the full ears of reason’s fruit, and men’s

minds with disease inures, not frees. But if of vain man, as vulgar

wonts, your allurements had deprived me, with less grief had I

borne it. For by such, our work had got no harm. But this man have

you touched, whom Stoic and Academic study brought out. Get you

away, Sirens, sweet till end be seen. To my Muses leave him for cure

and health.”

To this, the checked rabble, with look downcast with woe, with

blush confessing shame, doleful out of doors they went. But I, whose

sight, drowned in tears, was dimmed, could not know what she was,

of so imperious rule; and settling my eyes on ground, what she would

more do, in silence I attended. Then she, drawing near, on my bed’s

feet sat down. And viewing my look of heavy woe and with my dole

to the earth thrown down, in verses these, of my mind’s pain,

complaineth thus:

Meter 2

Oh, in how headlong depth the drowned mind is dimmed;

And, losing light, her own, to others’ darkness turns,

As oft as, driv’n with earthly flaws, the harmful care upward grows.

Once this man, free in open field, used the skies to view:

Of ros[y] sun the light beheld,

Of frosty moon the planets saw;

And what star else runs her wonted course,

Bending by many circles, this man had won

By number to know them all,

Yea, causes each: whence roaring winds the seas perturbs;

Acquainted with the spirit that rolls the steady world;

And why the star that falls to the Hesperia’s waters

From his reddy root doth raise herself;

Who that gives the spring’s mild hours their temper,

That with rosy flowers the earth be decked;

Who made the fertile autumn, at fullness of the year,

Abound with grape, all swoll’n with ripest fruits.

He, wonted to search and find sundry causes of hidden Nature,

Down lies, of mind’s light bereaved,

With bruisèd neck, by overheavy chains,

A-bowèd-low look, by weight-bearing

Driven, alas, the seely earth behold.

Prose 2

“But fitter time,” quoth she, “for medicine than complaint.” Then,

fixing on me her steady eyes: “Art thou the same,” quoth she, “who

once nourished with my milk, fed with our food, art grown to

strength of manly mind? On whom we bestowed such weapons as, if