ays, my sorrows were the less;
but even now my heart is cast into the depth of all misery. I that was
wont to behold her riding like Alexander, hunting like Diana, walking
like Venus, the gentle wind blowing her fair hair about her pure cheeks,
like a nymph; sometimes sitting in the shade like a Goddess; sometimes
singing like an angel; sometimes playing like Orpheus. Behold the sorrow
of this world! Once amiss, hath bereaved me of all. O Glory, that only
shineth in misfortune, what is become of thy assurance? All wounds have
scars, but that of fantasy; all affections their relenting, but that of
womankind. Who is the judge of friendship, but adversity? Or when is
grace witnessed, but in offences? There were no divinity but by reason
of compassion; for revenges are brutish and mortal. All those times
past--the loves, the sighs, the sorrows, the desires--can they not weigh
down one frail misfortune? Cannot one drop of gall be hidden in so great
heaps of sweetness? I may then conclude, Spes et fortuna, valete. She is
gone in whom I trusted, and of me hath not one thought of mercy, nor any
respect of that that was. Do with me now, therefore, what you list. I am
more weary of life than they are desirous I should perish; which, if it
had been for her, as it is by her, I had been too happily born.' Did
ever tailor's bill, though for the most resplendent scarlet liveries
bespangled with golden roses, inspire a like rhapsody! By one writer on
Ralegh it has been characterized, so various are tastes, as 'tawdry and
fulsome.' To most it will seem a delightful extravagance. To
contemporaries the extravagance itself would appear not very glaring.
Elizabeth aroused both fascination and awe in her own period which
justified high flights. After her goodness and wrath were become alike
unavailing this is how a cynic like Harington spoke of her: 'When she
smiled it was a pure sunshine that every one did choose to bask in if
they could; but anon came a storm, and the thunder fell in wondrous
manner on all alike.' Ralegh doubtless was sincere in repining for the
radiance as in deprecating the scowls, though he overrated his ability
to conjure that back, and these away. In the same July, apparently, on
July 26, he played a little comedy of Orlando Furioso,--not the approach
to a tragedy of eleven years after. His chamber in the Tower was the
scene. The spectators were his Keeper and cousin, Sir George Carew, and
Arthur Gorges. Gorges was stil