The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion's Image

The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion’s Image, and Certain Satires. At London, printed for Edmond Matts, and are to be sold at the sign of the Hand and Plough in Fleet Street. 1598.

To the World’s Mighty Monarch, Good Opinion:

Sole regent of affection, perpetual ruler of judgment, most famous justice of censures, only giver of honour, great procurer of advancement, the world’s chief balance, the All of All, and All in All, by whom all things are that that they are, I humbly offer this my poem.

Thou soul of pleasure, honour’s only substance,

Great arbitrator, umpire of the Earth,

Whom fleshly epicures call virtue’s essence,

Thou moving orator, whose powerful breath

Sways all men’s judgements: Great Opinion,

Vouchsafe to gild my imperfection.

If thou but deign to grace my blushing style,

And crown my Muse with good opinion:

If thou vouchsafe with gracious eye to smile

Upon my young new-born invention,

I’ll sing an hymn in honour of thy name,

And add some trophy to enlarge thy fame.

But if thou wilt not with thy deity

Shade, and immask the errors of my pen,

Protect an orphan poet’s infancy,

I will disclose, that all the world shall ken

How partial thou art in honour’s giving:

Crowning the shade, the substance praise depriving.

W. K.

The Argument of the Poem.

Pygmalion, whose chaste mind all the beauties in Cyprus could not ensnare, yet at the length having carved in ivory an excellent proportion of a beauteous woman, was so deeply enamoured on his own workmanship, that he would oftentimes lay the image in bed with him, and fondly use such petitions and dalliance, as if it had been a breathing creature. But in the end, finding his fond dotage, and yet persevering in his ardent affection, made his devout prayers to Venus, that she would vouchsafe to inspire life into his love, and then join them both together in marriage. Whereupon Venus graciously condescending to his earnest suit, the maid (by the power of her deity) was metamorphosed into a living woman. And after, Pygmalion (being in Cyprus) begat a son of her, which was called Paphus, whereupon, that island Cyprus, in honour of Venus, was after, and is now, called by the inhabitants, Paphos.

To His Mistress.

My wanton Muse lasciviously doth sing

Of sportive love, of lovely dallying.

O beauteous angel, deign thou to infuse

A sprightly wit into my dulled Muse.

I invocate none other saint but thee,

To grace the first blooms of my poesy.

Thy favours like Promethean sacred fire,

In dead and dull conceit can life inspire.

Or like that rare and rich elixir-stone,

Can turn to gold leaden invention:

Be gracious then, and deign to show in me,

The mighty power of thy deity.

And as thou read’st, fair, take compassion,

Force me not envy my Pygmalion.

Then when thy kindness grants me such sweet bliss,

I’ll gladly write thy metamorphosis.

PYGMALION.

1.

Pygmalion, whose high love-hating mind

Disdain’d to yield servile affection,

Or amorous suit to any womankind,

Knowing their wants, and men’s perfection,

Yet Love at length forc’d him to know his fate,

And love the shade, whose substance he did hate.

2.

For having wrought in purest ivory,

So fair an image of a woman’s feature,

That never yet proudest mortality

Could show so rare and beauteous a creature

(Unless my mistress’ all-excelling face,

Which gives to beauty beauty’s only grace.)

3.

He was amazed at the wondrous rareness

Of his own workmanship’s perfection.

He thought that Nature ne’er produced such fairness

In which all beauties have their mansion.

And thus admiring, was enamoured

On that fair image himself portrayed.

4.

And naked as it stood before his eyes,

Imperious Love declares his deity.

O what alluring beauties he descries

In each part of his fair imagery!

Her nakedness, each beauteous shape contains.

All beauty in her nakedness remains.

5.

He thought he saw the blood run through the vein

And leap, and swell with all-alluring means:

Then fears he is deceiv’d, and then again,

He thinks he seeth the brightness of the beams

Which shoot from out the fairness of her eye:

At which he stands as in an ecstasy.

6.

Her amber-coloured, her shining hair

Makes him protest the sun hath spread her head

With golden beams to make her far more fair.

But when her cheeks his amorous thoughts have fed,

Then he exclaims: “Such red and so pure white,

Did never bless the eye of mortal sight!”

7.

Then views her lips, no lips did seem so fair

In his conceit, through which he thinks doth fly

So sweet a breath, that doth perfume the air.

Then next her dimpled chin he doth descry,

And views, and wonders, and yet views her still.

Love’s eyes in viewing never have their fill.

8.

Her breasts, like polished ivory appear,

Whose modest mount, do bless admiring eye,

And makes him wish for such a pillow-bere.

Thus fond Pygmalion striveth to descry

Each beauteous part, not letting over-slip

One parcel of his curious workmanship.

9.

Until his eye descended so far down

That it descried Love’s pavilion:

Where Cupid doth enjoy his only crown,

And Venus hath her chiefest mansion.

There would he wink, and winking look again,

Both eyes and thoughts would gladly there remain.

10.

Who ever saw the subtle city-dame

In sacred church, when her pure thoughts should pray,

Peer through her fingers, so to hide her shame,

When that her eye her mind would fain bewray –

So would he view, and wink, and view again,

A chaster thought could not his eyes retain.

11.

He wondered that she blushed not when his eye

Saluted those same parts of secrecy:

Conceiting not it was imagery

That kindly yielded that large liberty.

O that my mistress were an image too,

That I might blameless her perfections view!

12.

But when the fair proportion of her thigh

Began appear – O Ovid would he cry,

Did e’er Corinna show such ivory

When she appear’d in Venus’ livery?

And thus enamour’d, dotes on his own art

Which he did work, to work his pleasing smart.

13.

And fondly doting, oft he kissed her lip.

Oft would he dally with her ivory breasts.

No wanton love-trick would he over-slip,

But still observ’d all amorous behests.

Whereby he thought he might procure the love

Of his dull image, which no plaints could move.

14.

Look how the peevish papists crouch, and kneel

To some dumb idol with their offering,

As if a senseless carved stone could feel

The ardour of his bootless chattering –

So fond he was, and earnest in his suit

To his remorseless image, dumb and mute.

15.

He oft doth wish his soul might part in sunder

So that one half in her had residence;

Oft he exclaims: “O Beauty’s only wonder,

Sweet model of delight, fair excellence,

Be gracious unto him that formed thee,

Compassionate his true-love’s ardency”.

16.

She, with her silence, seems to grant his suit.

Then he all jocund like a wanton lover,

With amorous embracements doth salute

Her slender waist, presuming to discover

The vale of Love, where Cupid doth delight

To sport, and dally all the sable night.

17.

His eyes, her eyes, kindly encountered,

His breast, her breast, oft joined close unto,

His arms’ embracements oft she suffered,

Hands, arms, eyes, tongue, lips, and all parts did woe.

His thigh, with hers, his knee played with her knee,

A happy consort when all parts agree.

18.

But when he saw poor soul he was deceived,

(Yet scarce he could believe his sense had failed),

Yet when he found all hope from him bereaved,

And saw how fondly all his thoughts had erred,

Then did he like to poor Ixion seem,

That clipped a cloud instead of Heavens’ queen.

19.

I oft have smil’d to see the foolery

Of some sweet youths, who seriously protest

That love respects not actual luxury,

But only joys to dally, sport, and jest:

Love is a child, contented with a toy,

A busk point, or some favour stills the boy.

20.

Mark my Pygmalion, whose affection’s ardour

May be a mirror to posterity.

Yet viewing, touching, kissing (common favour)

Could never satiate his love’s ardency:

And therefore, ladies, think that they ne’er love you,

Who do not unto more than kissing move you.

21.

For my Pygmalion kissed, viewed, and embraced,

And yet exclaims: “Why were these women made,

O sacred gods, and with such beauties graced?

Have they not power as well to cool, and shade,

As for to heat men’s hearts? Or is there none

Or are they all like mine? Relentless stone”.

22.

With that he takes her in his loving arms,

And down within a down-bed softly laid her.

Then on his knees he all his senses charms,

To invocate sweet Venus for to raise her

To wished life, and to infuse some breath,

To that which dead, yet gave a life to death.

23.

“Thou sacred queen of sportive dallying”,

Thus he begins, “Love’s only emperess,

Whose kingdom rests in wanton revelling,

Let me beseech thee, show thy powerfulness

In changing stone to flesh, make her relent,

And kindly yield to thy sweet blandishment.

24.

O gracious gods, take compassion.

Instil into her some celestial fire,

That she may equalise affection,

And have a mutual love, and love’s desire.

Thou know’st the force of love, then pity me,

Compassionate my true love’s ardency”.

25.

Thus having said, he riseth from the floor,

As if his soul divined him good fortune,

Hoping his prayers to pity moved some power,

For all his thoughts did all good luck importune.

And therefore straight he strips him naked quite,

That in the bed he might have more delight.

26.

Then thus: “Sweet sheets”, he says, “which now do cover

The idol of my soul, the fairest one

That ever lov’d, or had an amorous lover.

Earth’s only model of perfection,

Sweet happy sheets, deign for to take me in,

That I my hopes and longing thoughts may win”.

27.

With that his nimble limbs do kiss the sheets,

And now he bows him for to lay him down,

And now each part, with her fair parts do meet,

Now doth he hope for to enjoy love’s crown:

Now do they dally, kiss, embrace together,

Like Leda’s twins at sight of fairest weather.

28.

Yet all’s conceit, but shadow of that bliss

Which now my Muse strives sweetly to display

In this my wondrous metamorphosis –

Deign to believe me, now I sadly say.

The stony substance of his image feature,

Was straight transform’d into a living creature.

29.

For when his hands her fair form’d limbs had felt,

And that his arms her naked waist embraced,

Each part like wax before the sun did melt,

And now, oh now, he finds how he is graced

By his own work. Tut, women will relent

When as they find such moving blandishment.

30.

Doe but conceive a mother’s passing gladness,

After that death her only son hath seized

And overwhelm’d her soul with endless sadness,

When that she sees him ’gin for to be raised

From out his deadly swoon to life again:

Such joy Pygmalion feels in every vein.

31.

And yet he fears he doth but dreaming find

So rich content, and such celestial bliss.

Yet when he proves and finds her wondrous kind,

Yielding soft touch for touch, sweet kiss for kiss,

He’s well assur’d no fair imagery

Could yield such pleasing, love’s felicity.

32.

O wonder not to hear me thus relate,

And say to flesh transformed was a stone.

Had I my love in such a wished state

As was afforded to Pygmalion,

Though flinty hard, of her you soon should see

As strange a transformation wrought by me.

33.

And now methinks some wanton itching ear

With lustful thoughts, and ill attention,

Lists to my Muse, expecting for to hear

The amorous description of that action

Which Venus seeks, and ever doth require,

When fitness grants a place to please desire.

34.

Let him conceit but what himself would do

When that he had obtained such a favour,

Of her to whom his thoughts were bound unto,

If she, in recompense of his love’s labour,

Would deign to let one pair of sheets contain

The willing bodies of those loving twain.

35.

Could he, oh could he, when that each to either

Did yield kind kissing and more kind embracing,

Could he when that they felt; and clipped together

And might enjoy the life of dallying,

Could he abstain midst such a wanton sporting

From doing that, which is not fit reporting?

36.

What would he do when that her softest skin

Saluted his with a delightful kiss?

When all things fit for love’s sweet pleasuring

Invited him to reap a lover’s bliss?

What he would do, the self-same action

Was not neglected by Pygmalion.

37.

For when he found that life had took his seat

Within the breast of his kind beauteous love,

When that he found that warmth, and wished heat

Which might a saint and coldest spirit move,

Then arms, eyes, hands, tong, lips, and wanton thigh

Were willing agents in love’s luxury.

38.

Who knows not what ensues? O pardon me

Ye gaping ears that swallow up my lines,

Expect no more. Peace, idle Poesy,

Be not obscene though wanton in thy rhymes.

And chaster thoughts, pardon if I do trip,

Or if some loose lines from my pen do slip:

39.

Let this suffice, that that same happy night

So gracious were the gods of marriage,

Midst all their pleasing and long-wish’d delight

Paphus was got: of whom in after age

Cyprus was Paphos call’d, and evermore

Those islanders do Venus name adore.

FINIS.

SATYRES

The Author in Praise of His Precedent Poem.

Now Rufus, by old Glebron’s fearful mace,

Hath not my Muse deserv’d a worthy place?

Come, come, Luxurio, crown my head with bays,

Which like a Paphian, wantonly displays

The Salaminian titillations,

Which tickle up our lewd Priapians.

Is not my pen complete? Are not my lines

Right in the swaggering humour of these times?

O sing Peana to my learned Muse.

Io bis dicite. Wilt thou refuse?

Do not I put my mistress in before,

And piteously her gracious aid implore?

Do not I flatter, call her wondrous fair?

Virtuous, divine, most debonaire?

Hath not my goddess in the vaunt-guard place,

The leading of my lines their plumes to grace?

And then ensues my stanzas, like odd bands

Of voluntaries, and mercenarians:

Which like soldados of our warlike age,

March rich bedight in warlike equipage:

Glittering in daubed lac’d accoutrements,

And pleasing suits of love’s habiliments.

Yet puffy as Dutch hose they are within,

Faint, and white liver’d, as our gallants been:

Patch’d like a beggar’s cloak, and run as sweet

As doth a tumbrel in the paved street.

And in the end (the end of love I wot),

Pygmalion hath a jolly boy begot.

So Labeo did complain his love was stone,

Obdurate, flinty, so relentless none:

Yet Lynceus knows that in the end of this,

He wrought as strange a metamorphosis.

Ends not my poem then surpassing ill?

Come, come, Augustus, crown my laureate quill.

Now by the whips of epigrammatists,

I’ll not be lashed for my dissembling shifts.

And therefore I use popelings’ discipline,

Lay ope my faults to Mastigophoros’ eyne:

Censure myself, ’fore others me deride

And scoff at me, as if I had denied

Or thought my poem good, when that I see

My lines are froth, my stanzas sapless be.

Thus having rail’d against myself a while,

I’ll snarl at those, which do the world beguile

With masked shows. Ye changing Proteans list,

And tremble at a barking satirist.