Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
A Dialogue betwixt two Sea Nymphs, Doris and Galatea, concerning Polyphemus Giles Fletcher (1586?1623)T
And smiled to see such sport was new begun:
A strife in love, the like not heard before;
Two Nymphs contend, Which had the conquest won?
D
She liked her choice, and to her taunts replied.
As shepherds say, and all the World can tell,
Is that foul rude Sicilian C
A shame, sweet Nymph, that he with thee should mell [mix]!
Let pass thy words that savour of disgrace!
He’s worth my love, and so I him esteem.
Renowned by birth, and comes of N
N
N
A grace to be so near with J
But yet, sweet Nymph! with this be not beguiled;
Where Nature’s graces are by looks descried.
So foul, so rough, so ugly-like a Clown;
And worse than this, a Monster with one eye.
Foul is not gracèd, though it wear a Crown!
But fair is Beauty. None can that deny.
Or worse: for that he clownish seems to be.
Rough, Saytr-like, the better he will play:
And manly looks the fitter are for me.
His frowning smiles are gracèd by his beard:
His eye-light, sun-like, shrouded is in one.
This me contents; and others makes afeard.
He sees enough, and therefore wanteth none.
And loving, doat’st; and doating, dost commend
Foul to be Fair. This oft do Lovers prove.
I wish him fairer, or thy love an end!
Disgraceful terms, which you have spoke in scorn.
You are not loved: and that ’s the cause I fear.
For why, my Love of J
Feeding his sheep of late, amidst this plain.
When as we Nymphs did sport us on the shore:
He scorned you all, my love for to obtain.
That grieved your hearts. I knew as much before.
Nay, smile not Nymphs! The truth I only tell.
For few can brook that others should excel.
Or that your shape doth please so foul a Groom?
The Shepherd thought of milk. You looked so white.
The Clown did err, and foolish was his doom.
Your look was pale, and so his stomach fed:
But far from fair, where white doth want his red.
And lovely You, unliked, unloved, I view.
It ’s better far, one base, than none, to have.
Your fair is foul, to whom there’s none will sue.
My Love doth tune his love unto his harp:
His shape is rude; but yet his wit is sharp.
He itched with love; and then did sing, or say.
The noise was such as all the Nymphs did frown,
And well suspected that some ass did bray.
The woods did chide, to hear this ugly sound:
The prating E
This grisly voice did fear the hollow ground,
Whilst Art-less fingers did his harp-strings beat.
Two bear whelps in his arms this Monster bore:
With these new puppies did this Wanton play!
Their skins were rough; but yet your loves were more.
He fouler was and far more fierce than they.
I cannot choose, sweet Nymph! to think, but smile,
That some of us thou fearest, will thee beguile.
That you have one that ’s better, of your own.
Yet wooed have been by such as well might speed.
But him to love, the Shame of all the coast!
So ugly foul, as yet, I have no need.
Now thus we learn what foolish love can do?
To think him fair, that ’s foul and ugly too.
And marked their words and penned them as they spoke