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They are the unwanted, geese that don't migrate and choose to settle on a lake in a rich suburban town plus the homeless who set up camp under the village's.
Table of contents
Other critics have agreed in substance, though not in all particulars, with Hoy's division. The Duke of Milan cannot sleep. As he walks with his courtiers , Arrigo and Lucio, he explains that the cause of his insomnia is not some heavy matter of state, or the welfare of his people, but a woman. This particular woman is Oriana, sister to Count Valore, whom the Duke has seen but never spoken to; yet is so enticing to the Duke that he laments he would give up his rule for her and kneel at her feet.
That same evening, a very special fish has come to Milan. Specifically, the head of an umbrannes fish delivered to the Duke of Milan and passed on to his friend, the general Gondarino. This rare delicacy has attracted the attention of the courtier Lazarillo, a gourmand who spends his days hunting down the best dishes in Milan and securing invitations to events where they are served. Meanwhile, Valore is at odds with his sister, determined to shield her from the corrupting influence of court. Though a mere fifteen years old, Oriana is determined to experience all the outside world has to offer, and against her brother's wishes, sets out to court.
Though distressed by his sister's actions, Valore is glad at the approach of Lazarillo, hoping the gourmand will provide him some distraction.
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There is none to be had though, as Lazarillo, determined in his quest for the umbrannes, refuses Valore's request to dine with him, instead pleading the Count to present him to the Duke, in hopes of wrangling an invitation to the Duke's dinner. Valore acquiesces, but for his own amusement orders his spies to accompany Lazarillo, in the off chance the gourmand make some sort of treasonous comment. While Lazarillo has been busy soliciting an introduction from Valore, his boy has discovered that the umbrannes is no longer in the Duke's possession, but has been sent to the general Gondarino.
Agreeing to meet Valore later, Lazarillo heads off in pursuit of an invitation to the general's dinner. Unfortunately for Lazarillo, the umbrannes is no longer in the general's possession. When first presented with the fish head, Gondarino assumes it is sent by a woman. He, therefore, refuses it, as he believes that all women are "whores. In truth, Gondarino barely pays the delicacy any notice, as he is preoccupied with bemoaning the degenerate nature of women.
As if on cue, Oriana arrives at his door, seeking shelter from a sudden hailstorm. Though denied sanctuary by Gondarino on account of her sex, the obstinate Oriana barges in anyway. Though the general flings insults at her, Oriana responds with nothing but pleasantries; that is, up until the point that she informs Gondarino that she sought out his house specifically because of his reputation as a woman hater, hoping to amuse herself by aggravating him. Suddenly, the Duke and his two courtiers, having also been caught in the streets by the hailstorm, appear at Gondarino's door.
While Gondarino rails against the presence of a woman in his house, the Duke begins to suspect his protests are a ruse designed to conceal an illicit love affair with his beloved Oriana. As he shares his suspicions with Lucio, Valore and Lazarillo appear, the latter still on the hunt for the umbrannes head. Valore, as promised, provides Lazarillo with an introduction to the Duke, who receives him warmly and extends an invitation to dinner, which Lazarillo, not to be distracted from his quest, denies. Upon hearing his prize is no longer in Gondarino's possession, he sets out after it with Valore in tow.
Oriana, determined to torment Gondarino "into madness," insists on dining with him, resolved that "the more he hates, the more I'll seem to love. Oriana uses every tool at her disposal to convince Gondarino of her love, up to and including serenading him. Later, the Duke questions Gondarino as to the nature of his relationship with the girl. Sensing his chance to avenge himself, Gondarino slanders Oriana by not only confirming the Duke's suspicions but by denouncing her as an "arrant whore.
Oriana enters, and Gondarino, feigning love for her, confesses his slanders. He then vows to repair the damage he has done and requests Oriana retire to his country house while he does so. Beguiled by his seeming honesty, Oriana agrees, unaware that Gondarino has sent her to a brothel.
As Lazarillo heads to the mercer's house, Valore's spies met with Lucio, having cobbled together enough random snatches of Lazarillo's statements as to manufacture the appearance of treason. Lazarillo arrives at the mercer's house too late, as the mercer has already traded the fish to a panderer in exchange for a bride.
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Learning this, Lazarillo sets out to the panderer's brothel, the same location to which Oriana has been sent. At court, Valore defends his sister to the Duke while Gondarino stands by his lies. To settle the issue, Gondarino proposes to take the Duke and Valore to see her transgressions with their own eyes. Thus they set out for the panderer's brothel. Also en route is the mercer, looking for his promised bride, and Lazarillo, hunting down his prized fish.
The mercer arrives first and enters the brothel. Following him is Lazarillo, who secures an invitation to dinner from Julia, a prostitute. He enters the brothel but is promptly arrested for treason by Valore's spies before he can eat. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O fearful meditation! Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill: Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.
Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek Roses of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is, Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains. Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a living brow; Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres, were shorn away, To live a second life on second head; Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all ornament, itself and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no old to dress his beauty new; And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show false Art what beauty was of yore.
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend; All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd; But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds; Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind, To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair; The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve Thy worth the greater, being wooed of time; For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
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Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days Either not assailed, or victor being charged; Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe.
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon deceased I Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O! For I am shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing worth. That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. But be contented when that fell arrest Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review The very part was consecrate to thee: The earth can have but earth, which is his due; My spirit is thine, the better part of me: So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being dead; The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be remembered. The worth of that is that which it contains, And that is this, and this with thee remains.
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So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on all, or all away. Why is my verse so barren of new pride, So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed?
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste; The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show Of mouthed graves will give thee memory; Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse, And found such fair assistance in my verse As every alien pen hath got my use And under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing And heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing And given grace a double majesty.
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Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose influence is thine, and born of thee: In others' works thou dost but mend the style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be; But thou art all my art, and dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance. Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace; But now my gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick Muse doth give an other place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen; Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth say, Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. But since your worth, wide as the ocean is, The humble as the proudest sail doth bear, My saucy bark, inferior far to his, On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride; Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat, He of tall building, and of goodly pride: Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The worst was this, my love was my decay.
Or I shall live your epitaph to make, Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have, Though I, once gone, to all the world must die: The earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read; And tongues to be your being shall rehearse, When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen, Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my praise; And therefore art enforced to seek anew Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
And do so, love; yet when they have devised, What strained touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend; And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.