Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599). The Complete Poetical Works. 1908.

Complaints

Muiopotmos, or the Fate of the Butterflie

MOST brave and bountifull Lady: for so excellent favours as I have received at your sweet handes, to offer these fewe leaves as in recompence, should be as to offer flowers to the gods for their divine benefites. Therefore I have determined to give my selfewholy to you, as quite abandoned from my selfe, and absolutely vowed to your services: which in all right is ever held for full recompence of debt or damage to have the person yeelded. My person I wot wel how little worth it is. But the faithfull minde and humble zeale which I beare unto your Ladiship may perhaps be more of price, as may please you to account and use the poore service thereof; which taketh glory to advance your excellent partes and noble vertues, and to spend it selfe in honouring you: not so much for your great bounty to my self, which yet may not be unminded; nor for name or kindrerds sake by you vouchsafed, beeing also regardable; as for that honorable name, which yee have by your brave deserts purchast to your self, and spred in the mouths of al men: with which I have also presumed to grace my verses, and under your name to commend to the world this smal poeme; the which beseeching your Ladiship to take in worth, and of all things therein according to your wonted graciousnes to make a milde construction, I humbly pray for your happines.

[‘Muiopotmos’ cannot be dated with certainty. In style it would seem to be more mature than the work of the Calendar period; it may have been written in Ireland; one rather associates it with that period of delight in London while the poet was seeing his Faery Queen through the press. If the date upon its separate titlepage, 1590, is to be trusted, it must have been written, at latest, not long after his arrival in England.
By contrast to the motley and impressive mediævalism of ‘Mother Hubberd’s Tale,’ this poem would seem to be conspicuously Renaissance Italian. Its subject is a mere nothing: it tells no story that could not be told in full in a stanza, it presents no situation for the delicate rhetoric of the emotions: it is a mere running frieze of images and scenes, linked in fanciful continuity. It is organized as a mockheroic poem, but its appeal is essentially to the eye. Myths, invented or real, that seem to form themselves spontaneously into pictures, the landscape of the gardens, fantastic armor, the figured scenes of tapestry richly bordered, these are of a poetry akin to the plastic arts, such as one finds in the Stanze of Poliziano. Yet the temper of ‘Muiopotmos’ is not that of the Stanza and their like. It is rather of the air than of the earth. One might think it an emanation of the theme itself and fancy that the frail wings of the butterfly had been spread for the style, delicately colored, ethereal. The poet of the Faery Queen never more happily escaped into ‘delight with liberty’ than here.]


I SING of deadly dolorous debate,

Stir’d up through wrathfull Nemesis despight,

Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,

Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight,

Through prowd ambition and hartswelling hate,

Whilest neither could the others greater might

And sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small jarre

Their wraths at length broke into open warre.

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,

Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,

That wontst the tragick stage for to direct,

In funerall complaints and waylfull tyne,

Reveale to me, and all the meanes detect

Through which sad Clarion did at last declyne

To lowest wretchednes: And is there then

Such rancour in the harts of mightie men?

Of all the race of silver-winged flies

Which doo possesse the empire of the aire,

Betwixt the centred earth and azure skies,

Was none more favourable, nor more faire,

Whilst heaven did favour his felicities,

Then Clarion, the eldest sonne and haire

Of Muscaroll, and in his fathers sight

Of all alive did seeme the fairest wight.

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fed

Of future good, which his yong toward yeares,

Full of brave courage and bold hardyhed,

Above th’ ensample of his equall peares,

Did largely promise, and to him forered

(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares)

That he in time would sure prove such an one,

As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

The fresh yong flie, in whom the kindly fire

Of lustfull yongth began to kindle fast,

Did much disdaine to subject his desire

To loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,

But joy’d to range abroad in fresh attire,

Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast,

And with unwearied wings each part t’ inquire

Of the wide rule of his renowmed sire.

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,

That from this lower tract he dar’d to stie

Up to the clowdes, and thence, with pineons light,

To mount aloft unto the christall skie,

To vew the workmanship of heavens hight:

Whence downe descending he along would flie

Upon the streaming rivers, sport to finde;

And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

So on a summers day, when season milde

With gentle calme the world had quieted,

And high in heaven Hyperions fierie childe

Ascending, did his beames abroad dispred,

Whiles all the heavens on lower creatures smilde,

Yong Clarion, with vauntfull lustiehead,

After his guize did cast abroad to fare,

And theretoo gan his furnitures prepare.

His breastplate first, that was of substance pure,

Before his noble heart he firmely bound,

That mought his life from yron death assure,

And ward his gentle corpes from cruell wound:

For it by arte was framed to endure

The bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,

No lesse than that which Vulcane made to sheild

Achilles life from fate of Troyan field.

And then about his shoulders broad he threw

An hairie hide of some wilde beast, whom hee

In salvage forrest by adventure slew,

And reft the spoyle his ornament to bee:

Which, spreadding all his backe with dreadfull vew,

Made all that him so horrible did see

Thinke him Alcides with the lyons skin,

When the Næmean conquest he did win.

Upon his head, his glistering burganet,

The which was wrought by wonderous device,

And curiously engraven, he did set:

The mettall was of rare and passing price;

Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,

Nor costly oricalche from strange Phœnice;

But such as could both Phœbus arrowes ward,

And th’ hayling darts of heaven beating hard.

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,

Strongly outlaunced towards either side,

Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:

Like as a warlike brigandine, applyde

To fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,

The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:

So did this flie outstretch his fearefull hornes,

Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Lastly his shinie wings, as silver bright,

Painted with thousand colours, passing farre

All painters skill, he did about him dight:

Not halfe so manie sundrie colours arre

In Iris bowe, ne heaven doth shine so bright,

Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre,

Nor Junoes bird in her ey-spotted traine

So manie goodly colours doth containe.

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)

The Archer god, the sonne of Cytheree,

That joyes on wretched lovers to be wroken,

And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,

Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.

Ah! my liege lord, forgive it unto mee,

If ought against thine honour I have tolde;

Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.

Full manie a ladie faire, in court full oft

Beholding them, him secretly envide,

And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft

And golden faire, her love would her provide;

Or that, when them the gorgeous flie had doft,

Some one, that would with grace be gratifide,

From him would steale them privily away,

And bring to her so precious a pray.

Report is that Dame Venus on a day,

In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitful ground,

Walking abroad with all her nymphes to play,

Bad her faire damzels, flocking her arownd,

To gather flowres, her forhead to array.

Emongst the rest a gentle nymph was found,

Hight Astery, excelling all the crewe

In curteous usage and unstained hewe.

Who, being nimbler joynted than the rest,

And more industrious, gathered more store

Of the fields honour than the others best;

Which they in secret harts envying sore,

Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiest

She praisd’, that Cupide (as they heard before)

Did lend her secret aide in gathering

Into her lap the children of the Spring.

Whereof the goddesse gathering jealous feare,

Not yet unmindfull how not long agoe

Her sonne to Psyche secrete love did beare,

And long it close conceal’d, till mickle woe

Thereof arose, and manie a rufull teare,

Reason with sudden rage did overgoe,

And giving hastie credit to th’ accuser,

Was led away of them that did abuse her.

Eftsoones that damzel, by her heavenly might,

She turn’d into a winged butterflie,

In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;

And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslie

Her lap she filled had, that bred her spight,

She placed in her wings, for memorie

Of her pretended crime, though crime none were:

Since which that flie them in her wings doth beare.

Thus the fresh Clarion, being readie dight,

Unto his journey did himselfe addresse,

And with good speed began to take his flight:

Over the fields, in his franke lustinesse,

And all the champion he soared light,

And all the countrey wide he did possesse,

Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie,

That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.

The woods, the rivers, and the medowes green,

With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,

Ne did he leave the mountaines bare unseene,

Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights untride.

But none of these, how ever sweete they beene,

Most please his fancie, nor him cause t’ abide:

His choicefull sense with everie change doth flit;

No common things may please a wavering wit.

To the gay gardins his unstaid desire

Him wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:

There lavish Nature, in her best attire,

Powres forth sweete odors, and alluring sights;

And Arte, with her contending, doth aspire

T’ excell the naturall with made delights:

And all that faire or pleasant may be found

In riotous excesse doth there abound.

There he arriving, round about doth flie,

From bed to bed, from one to other border,

And takes survey, with curious busie eye,

Of everie flowre and herbe there set in order;

Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly,

Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,

Ne with his feete their silken leaves deface;

But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

And evermore with most varietie,

And change of sweetnesse (for all change is sweete)

He casts his glutton sense to satisfie;

Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meete,

Or of the deaw, which yet on them does lie,

Now in the same bathing his tender feete:

And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,

To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.

And then againe he turneth to his play,

To spoyle the pleasures of that paradise:

The wholsome saulge, and lavender still gray,

Ranke smelling rue, and cummin good for eyes,

The roses raigning in the pride of May,

Sharpe isope, good for greene wounds remedies,

Faire marigoldes, and bees-alluring thime,

Sweete marjoram, and daysies decking prime:

Coole violets, and orpine growing still,

Embathed balme, and chearfull galingale,

Fresh costmarie, and breathfull camomill,

Dull poppie, and drink-quickning setuale,

Veyne-healing verven, and hed-purging dill,

Sound savorie, and bazill hartie-hale,

Fat colworts, and comforting perseline,

Colde lettuce, and refreshing rosmarine.

And whatso else of vertue good or ill

Grewe in this gardin, fetcht from farre away,

Of everie one he takes, and tastes at will,

And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.

Then, when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,

In the warme sunne he doth himselfe embay,

And there him rests in riotous suffisaunce

Of all his gladfulnes and kingly joyaunce.

What more felicitie can fall to creature

Than to enjoy delight with libertie,

And to be lord of all the workes of Nature,

To raine in th’ aire from earth to highest skie,

To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature,

To take what ever thing doth please the eie?

Who rests not pleased with such happines,

Well worthie he to taste of wretchednes.

But what on earth can long abide in state,

Or who can him assure of happie day;

Sith morning faire may bring fowle evening late,

And least mishap the most blisse alter may?

For thousand perills lie in close awaite

About us daylie, to worke our decay;

That none, except a God, or God him guide,

May them avoyde, or remedie provide.

And whatso heavens in their secret doome

Ordained have, how can fraile fleshly wight

Forecast, but it must needs to issue come?

The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,

And th’ armies of their creatures all and some

Do serve to them, and with importune might

Warre against us, the vassals of their will.

Who then can save what they dispose to spill?

Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thou

Of all thy kinde, unhappie happie flie,

Whose cruell fate is woven even now

Of Joves owne hand, to worke thy miserie:

Ne may thee helpe the manie hartie vow,

Which thy olde sire with sacred pietie

Hath powred forth for thee, and th’ altars sprent:

Nought may thee save from heavens avengement.

It fortuned (as heavens had behight)

That in this gardin, where yong Clarion

Was wont to solace him, a wicked wight,

The foe of faire things, th’ author of confusion,

The shame of Nature, the bondslave of spight,

Had lately built his hatefull mansion,

And, lurking closely, in awayte now lay,

How he might anie in his trap betray.

But when he spide the joyous butterflie

In this faire plot dispacing too and fro,

Fearles of foes and hidden jeopardie,

Lord! how he gan for to bestirre him tho,

And to his wicked worke each part applie!

His heart did earne against his hated foe,

And bowels so with ranckling poyson swelde,

That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.

The cause why he this flie so maliced

Was (as in stories it is written found)

For that his mother which him bore and bred,

The most fine-fingred workwoman on ground,

Arachne, by his meanes was vanquished

Of Pallas, and in her owne skill confound,

When she with her for excellence contended,

That wrought her shame, and sorrow never ended.

For the Tritonian goddesse, having hard

Her blazed fame, which all the world had fil’d,

Came downe to prove the truth, and due reward

For her prais-worthie workmanship to yeild:

But the presumptuous damzel rashly dar’d

The goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,

And to compare with her in curious skill

Of workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.

Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,

But deign’d with her the paragon to make:

So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuse

What storie she will for her tapet take.

Arachne figur’d how Jove did abuse

Europa like a bull, and on his backe

Her through the sea did beare; so lively seene,

That it true sea and true bull ye would weene.

She seem’d still backe unto the land to looke,

And her play-fellowes aide to call, and feare

The dashing of the waves, that up she tooke

Her daintie feete, and garments gathered neare:

But (Lord!) how she in everie member shooke,

When as the land she saw no more appeare,

But a wilde wildernes of waters deepe!

Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.

Before the bull she pictur’d winged Love,

With his yong brother Sport, light fluttering

Upon the waves, as each had been a dove;

The one his bowe and shafts, the other spring

A burning teade about his head did move,

As in their syres new love both triumphing:

And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,

And manie Tritons, which their hornes did sound.

And round about, her worke she did empale

With a faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,

Enwoven with an yvie winding trayle:

A goodly worke, full fit for kingly bowres,

Such as Dame Pallas, such as Envie pale,

That al good things with venemous tooth devowres,

Could not accuse. Then gan the goddesse bright

Her selfe likewise unto her worke to dight.

She made the storie of the olde debate,

Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie:

Twelve gods doo sit around in royall state,

And Jove in midst with awfull majestie,

To judge the strife betweene them stirred late:

Each of the gods by his like visnomie

Eathe to be knowen; but Jove above them all,

By his great lookes and power imperiall.

Before them stands the god of seas in place,

Clayming that sea-coast citie as his right,

And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;

Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,

The signe by which he chalengeth the place;

That all the gods, which saw his wondrous might,

Did surely deeme the victorie his due:

But seldome seene, forejudgement proveth true.

Then to her selfe she gives her Aegide shield,

And steelhed speare, and morion on her hedd,

Such as she oft is seene in warlicke field:

Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dredd

She smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yield

A fruitfull olyve tree, with berries spredd,

That all the gods admir’d; then all the storie

She compast with a wreathe of olyves hoarie.

Emongst those leaves she made a butterflie,

With excellent device and wondrous slight,

Fluttring among the olives wantonly,

That seem’d to live, so like it was in sight:

The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,

The silken downe with which his backe is dight,

His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,

His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.

Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid

And mastered with workmanship so rare,

She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid,

And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,

And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,

The victorie did yeeld her as her share:

Yet did she inly fret, and felly burne,

And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne:

That shortly from the shape of womanhed,

Such as she was, when Pallas she attempted,

She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,

Pined with griefe of follie late repented:

Eftsoones her white streight legs were altered

To crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted,

And her faire face to fowle and loathsome hewe,

And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.

This cursed creature, mindfull of that olde

Enfested grudge, the which his mother felt,

So soone as Clarion he did beholde,

His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt;

And weaving straight a net with manie a folde

About the cave in which he lurking dwelt,

With fine small cords about it stretched wide,

So finely sponne that scarce they could be spide.

Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most

In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne;

Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast

In dieper, in damaske, or in lyne;

Nor anie skil’d in workmanship embost;

Nor anie skil’d in loupes of fingring fine,

Might in their divers cunning ever dare,

With this so curious networke to compare.

Ne doo I thinke that that same subtil gin,

The which the Lemnian god framde craftilie,

Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in,

That all the gods with common mockerie

Might laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin,

Was like to this. This same he did applie

For to entrap the careles Clarion,

That rang’d each where without suspition.

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,

That hazarded his health, had he at all,

But walkt at will, and wandred too and fro,

In the pride of his freedome principall:

Litle wist he his fatall future woe,

But was secure; the liker he to fall.

He likest is to fall into mischaunce,

That is regardles of his governaunce.

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)

Lay lurking covertly him to surprise,

And all his gins, that him entangle might,

Drest in good order as he could devise.

At length the foolish flie, without foresight,

As he that did all daunger quite despise,

Toward those parts came flying careleslie,

Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Who, seeing him, with secrete joy therefore

Did tickle inwardly in everie vaine,

And his false hart, fraught with all treasons store,

Was fil’d with hope his purpose to obtaine:

Himselfe he close upgathered more and more

Into his den, that his deceiptfull traine

By his there being might not be bewraid,

Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Like as a wily foxe, that, having spide

Where on a sunnie banke the lambes doo play,

Full closely creeping by the hinder side,

Lyes in ambushment of his hoped pray,

Ne stirreth limbe, till, seeing readie tide,

He rusheth forth, and snatcheth quite away

One of the litle younglings unawares:

So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Who now shall give unto my heavie eyes

A well of teares, that all may overflow?

Or where shall I finde lamentable cryes,

And mournfull tunes enough my griefe to show?

Helpe, O thou Tragick Muse, me to devise

Notes sad enough, t’ expresse this bitter throw:

For loe! the drerie stownd is now arrived,

That of all happines hath us deprived.

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate

Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled,

Or some ungracious blast out of the gate

Of Aeoles raine perforce him drove on hed,

Was (O sad hap and howre unfortunate!)

With violent swift flight forth caried

Into the cursed cobweb, which his foe

Had framed for his finall overthroe.

There the fond flie, entangled, strugled long,

Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.

For, striving more, the more in laces strong

Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his winges twaine

In lymie snares the subtill loupes among;

That in the ende he breathelesse did remaine,

And all his yougthly forces idly spent

Him to the mercie of th’ avenger lent.

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,

Like a grimme lyon rushing with fierce might

Out of his den, he seized greedelie

On the resistles pray, and with fell spight,

Under the left wing stroke his weapon slie

Into his heart, that his deepe groning spright

In bloodie streames foorth fled into the aire,

His bodie left the spectacle of care.