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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,
+Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne
+(of Tavistock)
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,
+       Selected Poetry by George Wither, and
+       Pastoral Poetry by William Browne (of Tavistock)
+
+Author: Nicholas Breton, George Wither, William Browne (of Tavistock)
+
+Editor: J. R. Tutin
+
+Release Date: July 6, 2007 [EBook #22001]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL AND OTHER POEMS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Irma Spehar, Ralf Stephan and the Online Distributed
+Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced
+from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
+Libraries)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The Pembroke Booklets
+(First Series)
+III
+
+
+Nicholas Breton
+ Pastoral Poems
+
+George Wither
+ Selected Poetry
+
+William Browne
+(of Tavistock)
+ Pastoral Poetry
+
+[Small Ornamental Illustration]
+
+J. R. Tutin
+Hull
+1906
+
+_Large Paper Edition, limited to 250 copies_
+
+_Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh._
+
+
+
+Nicholas Breton
+(1558-1626)
+
+    _Thou that wouldst find the habit of true passion,
+    And see a mind attired in perfect strains ...
+    Look here on Breton's work._--BEN JONSON.
+
+
+George Wither
+(1588-1667)
+
+    _The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient and in modern
+    times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over
+    animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds has
+    been acknowledged; but before Wither, no one ever celebrated its
+    power at home, the wealth and the strength which this divine gift
+    confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too after death, was all
+    which hitherto the poets had promised themselves from this art. It
+    seems to have been left to Wither to discover that poetry was a
+    present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and that the Muse
+    has a promise of both lives,--of this, and of that which was to
+    come._--CHARLES LAMB.
+
+
+William Browne
+(1591-? 1645)
+
+                      _I feel an envious touch,
+    And tell thee Swain: that at thy fame I grutch,
+    Wishing the Art that makes this Poem shine,
+    And this thy Work (wert not thou wronged) mine._
+
+                      GEORGE WITHER: _To the Author_
+                       [_of Britannia's Pastorals_].
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+
+                                                                 PAGE
+
+PREFATORY NOTE                                                      5
+
+
+NICHOLAS BRETON
+
+A Sweet Pastoral                                                    7
+Aglaia: a Pastoral                                                  8
+Phyllida and Corydon                                               10
+Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon                           11
+A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon                                  13
+Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis                                  14
+A Report Song in a Dream, between a shepherd and his nymph         15
+Another of the Same                                                16
+A Shepherd's Dream                                                 16
+A Quarrel with Love                                                17
+A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty          18
+Love: "Foolish love is only folly"                                 20
+"Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart"                     20
+Sonnet: "The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold"              21
+A Sweet Lullaby                                                    22
+
+
+GEORGE WITHER
+
+Prelude. From _The Shepherd's Hunting_                             24
+A Poet's Home. From _Faire Virtue_                                 27
+Her Beauty. From _Faire Virtue_                                    29
+Rhomboidal Dirge. From _Faire Virtue_                              30
+Song: "Lordly gallants!" From _Faire Virtue_                       32
+Song: "Shall I, wasting in despair." From _Faire Virtue_           36
+"Amarillis I did woo." From _Faire Virtue_                         37
+Sonnet: On a Stolen Kiss                                           37
+A Christmas Carol                                                  38
+A Rocking Hymn                                                     40
+The Marigold                                                       43
+Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry                               43
+From a Satire written to King James I.                             44
+
+
+WILLIAM BROWNE
+
+From "Britannia's Pastorals":--
+  To England                                                       45
+  The Seasons                                                      45
+  May Day Customs                                                  46
+  Birds in May                                                     46
+  Music on the Thames                                              47
+  A Concert of Birds                                               47
+  Flowers                                                          48
+  Morning                                                          48
+  Night                                                            49
+  A Pleasant Grove                                                 50
+  An Angler                                                        51
+  A Rill                                                           52
+  "Glide soft, ye silver floods"                                   52
+  "Venus by Adonis' side"                                          53
+  A Song: "Gentle Nymphs"                                          54
+
+Spring Morning. I. From _The Shepherd's Pipe_                      54
+   "      "    II.                "         "                      55
+A Round                                                            56
+"Welcome, welcome, do I sing"                                      57
+Autumn. From _The Shepherd's Pipe_                                 58
+The Siren's Song. From _Inner Temple Masque_                       59
+The Charm. From _Inner Temple Masque_                              59
+Caelia: Five Sonnets--"Lo, I the man"                               60
+                     "Why might I not for once"                    60
+                     "Fairest, when by the rules"                  61
+                     "Were't not for you"                          61
+                     "Sing soft, ye pretty birds"                  62
+Visions: Four Sonnets--"I saw a silver swan"                       62
+                       "A Rose, as fair as ever"                   62
+                       "Down in a valley"                          63
+                       "A gentle Shepherd"                         63
+
+Epitaphs: In Obitum                                                64
+          On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke                      64
+
+
+
+
+Prefatory Note
+
+
+There are few issues attended with greater uncertainty than the fate of
+a poet, and of the three represented herein it may be said that they
+survive but tardily in public interest. Such a state of things, in spite
+of all pleading, is quite beyond reason; hence the purport of this small
+Anthology is at once obvious.
+
+A group of poets graced with rarest charm and linked together by several
+and varied circumstances, each one figures here in unique evidence and
+bold relief of individuality. They are called of the order Spenserian;
+servants at the altar to the Pastoral Muse; and, in the reckoning of
+time, belong to that glorious age of great Elizabeth. Nicholas Breton
+(or Britton, as it is pronounced) and William Browne were both
+contributors to _England's Helicon_, of 1614, and Browne and Wither each
+submitted verses for _The Shepherd's Pipe_, a publication of the same
+year. The former two were, in turn, under the patronage of that most
+cultured family, the Herberts, Breton being a _protege_ of "Sidney's
+sister, Pembroke's mother," whom Browne (and not Ben Jonson, as is
+commonly said) eulogised thus in elegy. George Wither, being Browne's
+intimate friend, was presumably not unappreciated by the kinsfolk of
+George Herbert. Thus do they appear as in a bond of spiritual union.
+
+Breton, a step-son to the poet Gascoigne, and the elder of our
+fascinating trio, is conspicuous for an unswerving, whole-hearted
+attachment to nature and rural scenes. It is in the pastoral lyric
+where, with tenderest devotion, he pursues, untrammelled, a light and
+free-born fancy. His fertile, varied muse, laden with the passionate
+exaggerations of love-lorn swain, is yet charged with richest imagery
+and thought, full to overflowing with joyous abandonment, and sweet with
+the perfume of many flowers, culled in distant fields.
+
+Wither, though best remembered by exploits in the political arena, is
+none the less a poet of deep and purest feeling. To be sure, his best
+and earlier work has all of that delightful extravagance and amorous
+colouring peculiar to the age. But there is reflected a homely dignity
+and mobile, felicitous vein in which the poet seems endowed with every
+attribute of a melodist. Exquisite, graceful and diverse he, at times,
+would soar to flights of highest inspiration and bedeck the page with
+gems of rarest worth. In the heptasyllabic couplet he is decidedly
+successful.
+
+And lastly William Browne, than whom we have not a more modest and
+retiring singer, here makes his bow with a slender portfolio of
+excerpts. Whatever else may transpire it is certain that labour such as
+his bears the assurance of unsullied happiness and overflowing joy. It
+is quaint, simple, unassuming; without affectation, full of pathos, and
+gently sensitive. He was a man who knew no guile, and his sweet and
+artless nature is faithfully portrayed in the outpourings of an
+impressionable, poetic soul. To dance with rustic maidens on the lea; to
+sing by moonlight to the piper's strain; to be happy, always happy, such
+is the theme, delicate and refined, of these our half-forgotten poets.
+
+W. B. KEMPLING.
+
+
+
+
+Nicholas Breton
+
+
+A Sweet Pastoral
+
+Good Muse, rock me asleep
+  With some sweet harmony:
+The weary eye is not to keep
+  Thy wary company.
+
+Sweet Love, begone awhile,
+  Thou knowest my heaviness:
+Beauty is born but to beguile
+  My heart of happiness.
+
+See how my little flock,
+  That loved to feed on high,
+Do headlong tumble down the rock,
+  And in the valley die.
+
+The bushes and the trees
+  That were so fresh and green,
+Do all their dainty colour leese,
+  And not a leaf is seen.
+
+The blackbird and the thrush,
+  That made the woods to ring,
+With all the rest, are now at hush,
+  And not a note they sing.
+
+Sweet Philomel, the bird
+  That hath the heavenly throat,
+Doth now alas! not once afford
+  Recording of a note.
+
+The flowers have had a frost,
+  Each herb hath lost her savour;
+And Phyllida the fair hath lost
+  The comfort of her favour.
+
+Now all these careful sights
+  So kill me in conceit,
+That how to hope upon delights
+  It is but mere deceit.
+
+And therefore, my sweet Muse,
+  Thou know'st what help is best;
+Do now thy heavenly cunning use
+  To set my heart at rest;
+
+And in a dream bewray
+  What fate shall be my friend;
+Whether my life shall still decay,
+  Or when my sorrow end.
+
+
+Aglaia: a Pastoral
+
+Sylvan Muses, can ye sing
+Of the beauty of the Spring?
+Have ye seen on earth that sun
+That a heavenly course hath run?
+Have ye lived to see those eyes
+Where the pride of beauty lies?
+Have ye heard that heavenly voice
+That may make Love's heart rejoice?
+Have ye seen Aglaia, she
+Whom the world may joy to see?
+If ye have not seen all these,
+Then ye do but labour leese;
+While ye tune your pipes to play
+But an idle roundelay;
+And in sad Discomfort's den
+Everyone go bite her pen;
+That she cannot reach the skill
+How to climb that blessed hill
+Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
+Where exceedings do excell,
+And in simple truth confess
+She is that fair shepherdess
+To whom fairest flocks a-field
+Do their service duly yield:
+On whom never Muse hath gazed
+But in musing is amazed;
+Where the honour is too much
+For their highest thoughts to touch;
+Thus confess, and get ye gone
+To your places every one;
+And in silence only speak
+When ye find your speech too weak.
+Blessed be Aglaia yet,
+Though the Muses die for it;
+Come abroad, ye blessed Muses,
+Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,
+When she would command a creature
+In the honour of Love's nature,
+For the sweet Aglaia fair
+All to sweeten all the air,
+Is abroad this blessed day;
+Haste ye, therefore, come away:
+And to kill Love's maladies
+Meet her with your melodies.
+  Flora hath been all about,
+And hath brought her wardrobe out;
+With her fairest, sweetest flowers,
+All to trim up all your bowers.
+  Bid the shepherds and their swains
+See the beauty of their plains;
+And command them with their flocks
+To do reverence on the rocks;
+Where they may so happy be
+As her shadow but to see:
+Bid the birds in every bush
+Not a bird to be at hush:
+But to sit, and chirp, and sing
+To the beauty of the Spring:
+Call the sylvan nymphs together,
+Bid them bring their musicks hither.
+Trees their barky silence break,
+Crack yet, though they cannot speak
+Bid the purest, whitest swan
+Of her feathers make her fan;
+Let the hound the hare go chase;
+Lambs and rabbits run at base;
+Flies be dancing in the sun,
+While the silk-worm's webs are spun;
+Hang a fish on every hook
+As she goes along the brook;
+So with all your sweetest powers
+Entertain her in your bowers;
+Where her ear may joy to hear
+How ye make your sweetest quire;
+And in all your sweetest vein
+Still Aglaia strike her strain;
+But when she her walk doth turn,
+Then begin as fast to mourn;
+All your flowers and garlands wither
+Put up all your pipes together;
+Never strike a pleasing strain
+Till she come abroad again.
+
+
+Phyllida and Corydon
+
+In the merry month of May,
+In a morn by break of day,
+With a troop of damsels playing
+Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
+When anon by a woodside,
+Where as May was in his pride,
+I espied, all alone,
+Phyllida and Corydon.
+
+Much ado there was, God wot!
+He would love, and she would not:
+She said, never man was true;
+He says, none was false to you.
+He said, he had loved her long:
+She says, Love should have no wrong.
+
+Corydon would kiss her then,
+She says, maids must kiss no men,
+Till they do for good and all.
+Then she made the shepherd call
+All the heavens to witness, truth
+Never loved a truer youth.
+Thus with many a pretty oath,
+Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!--
+Such as silly shepherds use
+When they will not love abuse;
+Love, which had been long deluded,
+Was with kisses sweet concluded:
+And Phyllida, with garlands gay,
+Was made the lady of the May.
+
+
+Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon
+
+Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
+  Was never morn so fair,
+There shone a sun, though not the sun
+  That shineth in the air.
+For the earth, and from the earth,
+  (Was never such a creature!)
+Did come this face (was never face
+  That carried such a feature).
+Upon a hill (O blessed hill!
+  Was never hill so blessed),
+There stood a man (was never man
+  For woman so distressed):
+This man beheld a heavenly view,
+  Which did such virtue give
+As clears the blind, and helps the lame,
+  And makes the dead man live.
+This man had hap (O happy man!
+  More happy none than he);
+For he had hap to see the hap
+  That none had hap to see.
+This silly swain (and silly swains
+  Are men of meanest grace):
+Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
+  To hap on such a face.
+He pity cried, and pity came
+  And pitied so his pain,
+As dying would not let him die
+  But gave him life again.
+For joy whereof he made such mirth
+  As all the woods did ring;
+And Pan with all his swains came forth
+  To hear the shepherd sing;
+But such a song sung never was,
+  Nor shall be sung again,
+Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,
+  And Corydon the swain.
+Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,
+  (Was never such a queen as she,)
+And Corydon her only swain
+  (Was never such a swain as he):
+Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face
+  That ever eye did yet behold,
+And Corydon the constant'st faith
+  That ever yet kept flock in fold;
+Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet
+  That ever yet the earth did yield,
+And Corydon the kindest swain
+  That ever yet kept lambs in field.
+Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,
+  Though Corydon be he that caught her,
+And Corydon doth hear her sing,
+  Though Phyllida be she that taught her:
+Poor Corydon doth keep the fields
+  Though Phyllida be she that owes them,
+And Phyllida doth walk the meads,
+  Though Corydon be he that mows them:
+The little lambs are Phyllis' love,
+  Though Corydon is he that feeds them,
+The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,
+  Though Corydon is he that weeds them.
+Since then that Phyllis only is
+  The only shepherd's only queen;
+And Corydon the only swain
+  That only hath her shepherd been,--
+Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,
+  Shall Corydon consume away?
+No, shepherd, no, work out the week,
+  And Sunday shall be holiday.
+
+
+A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon
+
+On a hill there grows a flower,
+  Fair befall the dainty sweet!
+By that flower there is a bower,
+  Where the heavenly Muses meet.
+
+In that bower there is a chair,
+  Fringed all about with gold,
+Where doth sit the fairest fair
+  That did ever eye behold.
+
+It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
+  She that is the shepherds' joy,
+She that Venus did despite,
+  And did blind her little boy.
+
+This is she, the wise, the rich,
+  That the world desires to see:
+This is _ipsa quae_, the which
+  There is none but only she.
+
+Who would not this face admire?
+  Who would not this saint adore?
+Who would not this sight desire,
+  Though he thought to see no more?
+
+O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
+  One good look, and I am gone:
+Look on me, for I am he,
+  Thy poor silly Corydon.
+
+Thou that art the shepherds' queen,
+  Look upon thy silly swain;
+By thy comfort have been seen
+  Dead men brought to life again.
+
+
+Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis
+
+Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain
+  May sue to thee for grace,
+See not thy loving shepherd slain
+  With looking on thy face;
+But think what power thou hast got
+  Upon my flock and me;
+Thou seest they now regard me not,
+  But all do follow thee.
+And if I have so far presumed,
+  With prying in thine eyes,
+Yet let not comfort be consumed
+  That in thy pity lies;
+But as thou art that Phyllis fair,
+  That fortune favour gives,
+So let not love die in despair
+  That in thy favour lives.
+The deer do browse upon the briar,
+  The birds do pick the cherries;
+And will not Beauty grant Desire
+  One handful of her berries?
+If it be so that thou hast sworn
+  That none shall look on thee,
+Yet let me know thou dost not scorn
+  To cast a look on me.
+But if thy beauty make thee proud,
+  Think then what is ordain'd;
+The heavens have never yet allow'd
+  That love should be disdain'd.
+Then lest the fates that favour love
+  Should curse thee for unkind,
+Let me report for thy behoof,
+  The honour of thy mind;
+Let Corydon with full consent
+  Set down what he hath seen,
+That Phyllida with Love's content
+  Is sworn the shepherds' queen.
+
+
+A Report Song in a Dream,
+between a shepherd and
+his nymph
+
+Shall we go dance the hay?    _The hay?_
+Never pipe could ever play
+  Better shepherd's roundelay.
+
+Shall we go sing the song?    _The song?_
+Never Love did ever wrong.
+  Fair maids, hold hands all along.
+
+Shall we go learn to woo?     _To woo?_
+Never thought came ever to[o](?)
+  Better deed could better do.
+
+Shall we go learn to kiss?    _To kiss?_
+Never heart could ever miss
+  Comfort where true meaning is.
+
+Thus at base they run,        _They run,_
+When the sport was scarce begun;
+  But I waked, and all was done.
+
+
+Another of the Same
+
+Say that I should say I love ye,
+  Would you say 'tis but a saying?
+But if Love in prayers move ye,
+  Will ye not be moved with praying?
+
+Think I think that Love should know ye,
+  Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
+But if Love the thought do show ye,
+  Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
+
+Write that I do write you blessed,
+  Will you write 'tis but a writing?
+But if Truth and Love confess it,
+  Will ye doubt the true inditing?
+
+No, I say, and think, and write it,
+  Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
+Love, and truth, and I indite it,
+  You are blessed out of measure.
+
+
+A Shepherd's Dream
+
+A silly shepherd lately sat
+  Among a flock of sheep;
+Where musing long on this and that,
+  At last he fell asleep.
+And in the slumber as he lay,
+  He gave a piteous groan;
+He thought his sheep were run away,
+  And he was left alone.
+He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,
+  But not a sheep came near him;
+Which made the shepherd sore appall'd
+  To see that none would hear him.
+But as the swain amazed stood,
+  In this most solemn vein,
+Came Phyllida forth of the wood,
+  And stood before the swain.
+Whom when the shepherd did behold
+  He straight began to weep,
+And at the heart he grew a-cold,
+  To think upon his sheep.
+For well he knew, where came the queen,
+  The shepherd durst not stay:
+And where that he durst not be seen,
+  The sheep must needs away.
+To ask her if she saw his flock,
+  Might happen patience move,
+And have an answer with a mock,
+  That such demanders prove.
+Yet for because he saw her come
+  Alone out of the wood,
+He thought he would not stand as dumb,
+  When speech might do him good;
+And therefore falling on his knees,
+  To ask but for his sheep,
+He did awake, and so did leese
+  The honour of his sleep.
+
+
+A Quarrel with Love
+
+Oh that I could write a story
+  Of love's dealing with affection!
+How he makes the spirit sorry
+  That is touch'd with his infection.
+
+But he doth so closely wind him,
+  In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
+That the heart can never find him
+  Till it be too much diseased.
+
+'Tis a subtle kind or spirit
+  Of a venom-kind of nature,
+That can, like a coney-ferret,
+  Creep unawares upon a creature.
+
+Never eye that can behold it,
+  Though it worketh first by seeing;
+Nor conceit that can unfold it,
+  Though in thoughts be all its being.
+
+Oh! it maketh old men witty,
+  Young men wanton, women idle,
+While that patience weeps, for pity
+  Reason bite not nature's bridle.
+
+What it is, in conjecture;
+  Seeking much, but nothing finding;
+Like to fancy's architecture
+  With illusions reason blinding.
+
+Yet, can beauty so retain it,
+  In the profit of her service,
+That she closely can maintain it
+  For her servant chief on office?
+
+In her eye she chiefly breeds it;
+  In her cheeks she chiefly hides it;
+In her servant's faith she feeds it,
+  While his only heart abides it.
+
+
+A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty
+
+Love and my mistress were at strife
+  Who had the greatest power on me:
+Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
+  Nay, what a death is this to be!
+
+She said, she did it with her eye;
+  He said, he did it with his dart;
+Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)
+  'Tis I that have the wounded heart.
+
+She said, she only spake the word
+  That did enchant my peering sense;
+He said, he only gave the sound
+  That enter'd heart without defence.
+
+She said, her beauty was the mark
+  That did amaze the highest mind;
+He said, he only made the mist
+  Whereby the senses grew so blind.
+
+She said, that only for her sake,
+  The best would venture life and limb:
+He said, she was too much deceiv'd;
+  They honour'd her because of him.
+
+Long while, alas, she would not yield,
+  But it was she that rul'd the roost;[1]
+Until by proof, she did confess,
+  If he were gone, her joy was lost.
+
+And then she cried, "Oh, dainty love,
+  I now do find it is for thee,
+That I am lov'd and honour'd both,
+  And thou hast power to conquer me."
+
+But, when I heard her yield to love,
+  Oh! how my heart did leap for joy!
+That now I had some little hope
+  To have an end to mine annoy!
+
+But, as too soon, before the field
+  The trumpets sound the overthrow,
+So all too soon I joy'd too much,
+  For I awaked, and nothing saw.[2]
+
+[Transcriber's note 1: The original had 'roast']
+
+[Footnote 2: Ellis reads _so_.]
+
+
+Love
+
+Foolish love is only folly;
+Wanton love is too unholy;
+Greedy love is covetous;
+Idle love is frivolous;
+But the gracious love is it
+That doth prove the work of it.
+
+Beauty but deceives the eye;
+Flattery leads the ear awry;
+Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
+Want, the overthrow of it;
+While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
+Virtue sees the sweetest face.
+
+There hath Love found out his life,
+Peace without all thought of strife;
+Kindness in Discretion's care;
+Truth, that clearly doth declare
+Faith doth in true fancy prove,
+Lust the excrements of Love.
+
+Then in faith may fancy see
+How my love may constru'd be;
+How it grows and what it seeks;
+How it lives and what it likes;
+So in highest grace regard it,
+Or in lowest scorn discard it.
+
+
+_The Passionate Shepherd._
+
+Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
+  That hand that holds the heart of every eye,
+That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
+  The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;
+That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
+Doth show my only mistress' excellence.
+
+O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!
+  O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!
+O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!
+  O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!
+The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee,
+Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.
+
+To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,
+  To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
+To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
+  To know that sense, no sense can understand,
+To understand that all the world may know,
+Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.
+
+
+Sonnet
+
+The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold
+A kind of heaven in his authorities;
+The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
+Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;
+The epicure that eats and drinks all day,
+Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;
+And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,
+Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.
+But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,
+No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss,
+Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour,
+And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:
+No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be
+In my Love's service, but to live to thee.
+
+
+A Sweet Lullaby
+
+Come, little babe, come, silly soul,
+Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
+Born as I doubt to all our dole,
+And to thyself unhappy chief:
+    Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
+    Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
+
+Thou little thinkst, and less dost know
+The cause of this thy mother's moan;
+Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
+And I myself am all alone;
+    Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
+    And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?
+
+Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,
+Mine only joy, what can I more?
+If there be any wrong thy smart,
+That may the destinies implore,
+    'Twas I, I say, against my will--
+    I wail the time, but be thou still.
+
+And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!
+Would God Himself He might thee see!
+No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
+I know right well, for thee and me,
+    But come to mother, babe, and play,
+    For father false is fled away.
+
+Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
+Thy father home again to send,
+If Death do strike me with his lance
+Yet may'st thou me to him commend:
+    If any ask thy mother's name,
+    Tell how by love she purchased blame.
+
+Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
+I know him of a noble mind:
+Although a lion in the field,
+A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find:
+    Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!
+    His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
+
+Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
+Although in woe I seem to moan;
+Thy father is no rascal lad:
+A noble youth of blood and bone,
+    His glancing looks, if he once smile,
+    Right honest women may beguile.
+
+Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!
+Sing lullaby, and be thou still!
+I, that can do naught else but weep,
+Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
+    God bless my babe, and lullaby,
+    From this thy father's quality.
+
+[Transcribers' note 1: 'lown' in the original]
+
+
+
+
+George Wither
+
+
+Prelude
+(From _The Shepherd's Hunting_)
+
+Seest thou not, in clearest days,
+Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?
+And that vapours which do breathe
+From the Earth's gross womb beneath,
+Seem unto us with black steams
+To pollute the Sun's bright beams,
+And yet vanish into air,
+Leaving it unblemished fair?
+So, my Willy, shall it be
+With Detraction's breath on thee:
+It shall never rise so high
+As to stain thy poesy.
+As that sun doth oft exhale
+Vapours from each rotten vale,
+Poesy so sometime drains
+Gross conceits from muddy brains;
+Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
+Twixt men's judgments and her light;
+But so much her power may do,
+That she can dissolve them too.
+If thy verse do bravely tower,
+As she makes wing she gets power;
+Yet the higher she doth soar,
+She's affronted still the more,
+Till she to the highest hath past;
+Then she rests with Fame at last.
+Let nought, therefore, thee affright;
+But make forward in thy flight.
+For if I could match thy rhyme,
+To the very stars I'd climb;
+There begin again, and fly
+Till I reached eternity.
+But, alas, my Muse is slow,
+For thy place she flags too low;
+Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
+Her short wings were clipt of late;
+And poor I, her fortune ruing,
+Am put up myself a mewing.
+But if I my cage can rid,
+I'll fly where I never did;
+And though for her sake I'm crost,
+Though my best hopes I have lost,
+And knew she would make my trouble
+Ten times more than ten times double,
+I should love and keep her too,
+Spite of all the world could do.
+For though, banished from my flocks
+And confined within these rocks,
+Here I waste away the light
+And consume the sullen night,
+She doth for my comfort stay,
+And keeps many cares away.
+Though I miss the flowery fields,
+With those sweets the spring-tide yields;
+Though I may not see those groves,
+Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,
+And the lasses more excel
+Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;
+Though of all those pleasures past,
+Nothing now remains at last
+But Remembrance--poor relief!
+That more makes than mends my grief:
+She's my mind's companion still,
+Maugre envy's evil will;
+Whence she should be driven too,
+Were't in mortal's power to do.
+She doth tell me where to borrow
+Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
+Makes the desolatest place
+To her presence be a grace,
+And the blackest discontents
+To be pleasing ornaments.
+In my former days of bliss
+Her divine skill taught me this,
+That from everything I saw
+I could some invention draw,
+And raise pleasure to her height
+Through the meanest object's sight;
+By the murmur of a spring,
+Or the least bough's rustling;
+By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
+Shut when Titan goes to bed;
+Or a shady bush or tree;
+She could more infuse in me,
+Than all Nature's beauties can
+In some other wiser man.
+By her help I also now
+Make this churlish place allow
+Some things that may sweeten gladness
+In the very gall of sadness:
+The dull loneness, the black shade
+That these hanging vaults have made;
+The strange music of the waves
+Beating on these hollow caves;
+This black den which rocks emboss
+Overgrown with eldest moss;
+The rude portals that give light
+More to terror than delight;
+This my chamber of neglect,
+Walled about with disrespect;
+From all these, and this dull air,
+A fit object for despair,
+She hath taught me, by her might,
+To draw comfort and delight.
+Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
+I will cherish thee for this.
+Poesy, thou sweet'st content
+That e'er Heaven to mortals lent!
+Though they as a trifle leave thee
+Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
+Though thou be to them a scorn
+That to nought but earth are born
+Let my life no longer be
+Than I am in love with thee.
+Though our wise ones call thee madness,
+Let me never taste of gladness,
+If I love not thy maddest fits
+More than all their greatest wits.
+And though some, too seeming holy,
+Do account thy raptures folly,
+Thou dost teach me to contemn
+What makes knaves and fools of them.
+
+
+A Poet's Home
+
+Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make
+Within one valley a large silver lake:
+About whose banks the fertile mountains stood
+In ages passed bravely crowned with wood,
+Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it grace
+To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place;
+And from her father Neptune's brackish court,
+Fair Thetis thither often would resort,
+Attended by the fishes of the sea,
+Which in those sweeter waters came to plea.
+There would the daughter of the Sea God dive,
+And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve
+To wait upon her: bringing for her brows
+Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs.
+For pleasant was that pool, and near it then
+Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen,
+It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge,
+Nor grew there rudely then along the edge
+A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,
+Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush.
+But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers,
+There grassy plots set round about with flowers.
+Here you might through the water see the land
+Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand;
+Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs
+Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs
+On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than
+The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,
+With all those flocks of fowls which to this day,
+Upon those quiet waters breed and play.
+For though those excellences wanting be
+Which once it had, it is the same that we
+By transposition name the Ford of Arle,
+And out of which, along a chalky marle,
+That river trills whose waters wash the fort
+In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.
+North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies
+A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,
+With leisurely ascending, to such height
+As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight
+You in the ocean's bosom may espy,
+Though near two furlongs thence it lie.
+The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,
+Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme,
+Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want
+The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant
+That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;
+Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall;
+Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine;
+Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine,
+With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair
+The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.
+
+  When you unto the highest do attain
+An intermixture both of wood and plain
+You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,
+Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry,
+So much, at least, as little needeth more,
+If not enough to merchandise their store.
+
+  In every row hath nature planted there
+Some banquet for the hungry passenger.
+For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows,
+There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.
+On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree,
+On that large thickets of blackberries be.
+The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there,
+The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are,
+And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills
+With some small number of such pretty rills
+As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen
+A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.
+
+From _Faire Virtue_.
+
+
+Her Beauty
+
+Her true beauty leaves behind
+Apprehensions in my mind
+Of more sweetness than all art
+Or inventions can impart;
+Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
+And too strong to be suppressed....
+... What pearls, what rubies can
+Seem so lovely fair to man,
+As her lips whom he doth love
+When in sweet discourse they move:
+Or her lovelier teeth, the while
+She doth bless him with a smile!
+Stars indeed fair creatures be;
+Yet amongst us where is he
+Joys not more the whilst he lies
+Sunning in his mistress' eyes.
+Than in all the glimmering light
+Of a starry winter's night?
+  Note the beauty of an eye,
+And if aught you praise it by
+Leave such passion in your mind,
+Let my reason's eye be blind.
+Mark if ever red or white
+Anywhere gave such delight
+As when they have taken place
+In a worthy woman's face.
+
+From _Faire Virtue_.
+
+
+Rhomboidal Dirge.
+
+                        Ah me!
+                    Am I the swain
+              That late from sorrow free
+          Did all the cares on earth disdain?
+      And still untouched, as at some safer games,
+  Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames?
+Was't I could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will?
+And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still?
+    And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain,
+        So sunk that I shall never rise again?
+          Then let despair set sorrow's string,
+              For strains that doleful be;
+                    And I will sing,
+                        Ah me!
+
+                        But why,
+                      O fatal time,
+                Dost thou constrain that I
+          Should perish in my youth's sweet prime?
+      I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers!)
+  In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers,
+And yet unscorned, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,
+That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!
+    Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress;
+        Yet I, poor I! must perish ne'ertheless.
+          And (which much more augments my care)
+                  Unmoaned I must die,
+                    And no man e'er
+                      Know why.
+
+                      Thy leave,
+                    My dying song,
+                Yet take, ere grief bereave
+            The breath which I enjoy too long,
+        Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefers
+    Her love above my life; and that I died her's:
+And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,
+Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here.
+  And now farewell! thou place of my unhappy birth,
+      Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth;
+            Since me my wonted joys forsake,
+                And all my trust deceive;
+                    Of all I take
+                      My leave.
+
+                        Farewell!
+                  Sweet groves, to you!
+                You hills, that highest dwell;
+              And all you humble vales, adieu!
+          You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks,
+      My dear companions all! and you, my tender flocks!
+Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains
+Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!
+        You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart
+          Have, without pity, broke the truest heart.
+              Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy,
+                That erst did with me dwell,
+                    And all other joys,
+                        Farewell!
+
+                          Adieu!
+                    Fair shepherdesses!
+                  Let garlands of sad yew
+              Adorn your dainty golden tresses.
+        I, that loved you, and often with my quill,
+    Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill;
+I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace.
+Yea, with a thousand rather favours, would vouchsafe to grace,
+        I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain;
+            And never pipe, nor never sing again!
+              I must, for evermore, be gone;
+                  And therefore bid I you,
+                      And every one,
+                          Adieu!
+
+                        I die!
+                    For, oh! I feel
+              Death's horrors drawing nigh,
+            And all this frame of nature reel.
+          My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,
+    Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief;
+Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,
+All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again.
+    My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round;
+        A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound;
+            Benumbed is my cold sweating brow
+                A dimness shuts my eye.
+                  And now, oh! now,
+                        I die!
+
+From _Faire Virtue_.
+
+
+Song
+
+Lordly gallants! tell me this
+  (Though my safe content you weigh not),
+In your greatness, what one bliss
+  Have you gained, that I enjoy not?
+    You have honours, you have wealth;
+    I have peace, and I have health:
+    All the day I merry make,
+    And at night no care I take.
+
+Bound to none my fortunes be,
+  This or that man's fall I fear not;
+Him I love that loveth me,
+  For the rest a pin I care not.
+    You are sad when others chaff,
+    And grow merry as they laugh;
+    I that hate it, and am free,
+    Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
+
+You may boast of favours shown,
+  Where your service is applied:
+But my pleasures are mine own,
+  And to no man's humour tied.
+    You oft flatter, sooth, and feign;
+    I such baseness do disdain;
+    And to none be slave I would,
+    Though my fetters might be gold.
+
+By great titles, some believe,
+  Highest honours are attained;
+And yet kings have power to give
+  To their fools, what these have gained.
+    Where they favour there they may
+    All their names of honour lay;
+    But I look not raised to be,
+    'Till mine own wing carry me.
+
+Seek to raise your titles higher;
+  They are toys not worth my sorrow;
+Those that we to-day admire,
+  Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.
+    Take your honours; let me find
+    Virtue in a free born mind--
+    This, the greatest kings that be
+    Cannot give, nor take from me.
+
+Though I vainly do not vaunt
+  Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure;
+I have favours where you want,
+  That would buy respect with treasure.
+    You have lands lie here and there,
+    But my wealth is everywhere;
+    And this addeth to my store--
+    Fortune cannot make me poor.
+
+Say you purchase with your pelf
+  Some respect, where you importune;
+Those may love me for myself,
+  That regard you for your fortune.
+    Rich or born of high degree,
+    Fools as well as you may be;
+    But that peace in which I live
+    No descent nor wealth can give.
+
+If you boast that you may gain
+  The respect of high-born beauties;
+Know I never wooed in vain,
+  Nor preferred scorned duties.
+    She I love hath all delight,
+    Rosy-red with lily-white,
+    And whoe'er your mistress be,
+    Flesh and blood as good as she.
+
+Note of me was never took,
+  For my woman-like perfections;
+But so like a man I look,
+  It hath gained me best affections.
+    For my love as many showers
+    Have been wept as have for yours:
+    And yet none doth me condemn
+    For abuse, or scorning them.
+
+Though of dainties you have store,
+  To delight a choicer palate,
+Yet your taste is pleased no more
+  Than is mine in one poor sallet.
+    You to please your senses feed
+    But I eat good blood to breed;
+    And am most delighted then
+    When I spend it like a man.
+
+Though you lord it over me,
+  You in vain thereof have braved;
+For those lusts my servants be
+  Whereunto your minds are slaved.
+    To yourselves you wise appear,
+    But, alas! deceived you are;
+    You do foolish me esteem,
+    And are that which I do seem.
+
+When your faults I open lay,
+  You are moved, and mad with vexing;
+But you ne'er could do or say
+  Aught to drive me to perplexing.
+    Therefore, my despised power
+    Greater is, by far, than your.
+    And, whate'er you think of me,
+    In your minds you poorer be.
+
+You are pleased, more or less,
+  As men well or ill report you;
+And show discontentedness,
+  When the times forbear to court you.
+    That in which my pleasures be,
+    No man can divide from me;
+    And my care it adds not to,
+    Whatso others say or do.
+
+Be not proud, because you view
+  You by thousands are attended;
+For, alas! it is not you,
+  But your fortune that's befriended.
+    Where I show of love have got,
+    Such a danger fear I not:
+    Since they nought can seek of me,
+    But for love, beloved to be.
+
+When your hearts have everything,
+  You are pleasantly disposed:
+But I can both laugh and sing,
+  Though my foes have me enclosed.
+    Yea, when dangers me do hem,
+    I delight in scorning them,
+    More than you in your renown,
+    Or a king can in his crown.
+
+You do bravely domineer,
+  Whilst the sun upon you shineth:
+Yet, if any storm appear,
+  Basely, then, your mind declineth.
+    But, or shine, or rain, or blow,
+    I my resolutions know--
+    Living, dying, thrall, or free,
+    At one height my mind shall be.
+
+When in thraldom I have lain,
+  Me not worth your thought you prized;
+But your malice was in vain,
+  For your favours I despised.
+    And, howe'er you value me,
+    I with praise shall thought on be
+    When the world esteems you not
+    And your names shall be forgot.
+
+In these thoughts my riches are;
+  Now, though poor or mean you deem me,
+I am pleased, and do not care
+  How the times or you esteem me.
+    For those toys that make you gay
+    Are but play-games for a day:
+    And when nature craves her due,
+    I as brave shall be as you.
+
+
+Song
+
+Shall I, wasting in despair,
+Die, because a woman's fair?
+Or make pale my cheeks with care
+'Cause another's rosy are?
+Be she fairer than the day,
+Or the flow'ry meads in May;
+  If she be not so to me,
+  What care I how fair she be.
+
+Should my heart be grieved or pined
+'Cause I see a woman kind?
+Or a well-disposed nature
+Joined with a lovely creature?
+Be she meeker, kinder than
+Turtle-dove or pelican:
+  If she be not so to me,
+  What care I how kind she be.
+
+Shall a woman's virtues move
+Me to perish for her love?
+Or, her well-deserving known,
+Make me quite forget mine own?
+Be she with that goodness blest
+Which may gain her name of best
+  If she be not such to me,
+  What care I how good she be.
+
+'Cause her fortune seems too high,
+Shall I play the fool and die?
+Those that bear a noble mind,
+Where they want or riches find,
+Think what with them they would do
+That without them dare to woo.
+  And unless that mind I see,
+  What care I though great she be.
+
+Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
+I will ne'er the more despair;
+If she love me, this believe,
+I will die ere she shall grieve.
+If she slight me, when I woo,
+I can scorn, and let her go.
+  For, if she be not for me,
+  What care I for whom she be.
+
+
+"Amarillis I Did Woo"
+
+Amarillis I did woo,
+And I courted Phillis too;
+Daphne, for her love, I chose;
+Cloris, for that damask rose
+In her cheek, I held as dear;
+Yea, a thousand liked well near.
+And, in love with all together,
+Feared the enjoying either;
+'Cause to be of one possest,
+Barred the hope of all the rest.
+
+
+Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss
+
+Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes,
+  Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,
+And free access unto that sweet lip lies
+  From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.
+Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal,
+  From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss.
+None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,
+  Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss.
+Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
+  There would be little sign I had done so.
+Why then should I this robbery delay?
+  Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow.
+Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,
+  And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.
+
+
+A Christmas Carol
+
+So now is come our joyful feast,
+  Let every man be jolly;
+Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
+  And every post with holly.
+      Though some churls at our mirth repine,
+      Round your foreheads garlands twine,
+      Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
+And let us all be merry.
+
+Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,
+  And Christmas blocks are burning;
+Their ovens they with baked meats choke,
+  And all their spits are turning.
+      Without the door let sorrow lie,
+      And if for cold it hap to die,
+      We'll bury it in a Christmas pie;
+And evermore be merry.
+
+Now every lad is wondrous trim,
+  And no man minds his labour;
+Our lasses have provided them
+  A bagpipe and a tabour.
+      Young men and maids, and girls and boys
+      Give life to one another's joys;
+      And you anon shall by their noise
+Perceive that they are merry.
+
+Rank misers now do sparing shun,
+  Their hall of music soundeth;
+And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
+  So all things there aboundeth.
+      The country-folk themselves advance,
+      For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France;
+      And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
+And all the town be merry.
+
+Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn,
+  And all his best apparel;
+Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
+  With droppings of the barrel.
+      And those that hardly all the year
+      Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
+      Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
+And all the day be merry.
+
+Now poor men to the justices
+  With capons make their errands;
+And if they hap to fail of these,
+  They plague them with their warrants.
+      But now they feed them with good cheer,
+      And what they want they take in beer,
+      For Christmas comes but once a year,
+And then they shall be merry.
+
+Good farmers in the country nurse
+  The poor, that else were undone;
+Some landlords spend their money worse,
+  On lust and pride at London.
+      There the roysters they do play,
+      Drab and dice their land away,
+      Which may be ours another day;
+And therefore let's be merry.
+
+The client now his suit forbears,
+  The prisoner's heart is eased;
+The debtor drinks away his cares,
+  And for the time is pleased.
+      Though others' purses be more fat,
+      Why should we pine or grieve at that;
+      Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
+And therefore let's be merry.
+
+Hark how the wags abroad do call
+  Each other forth to rambling;
+Anon you'll see them in the hall,
+  For nuts and apples scrambling,
+      Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,
+      Anon they'll think the house goes round:
+      For they the cellar's depths have found,
+And there they will be merry.
+
+The wenches with their wassel-bowls
+  About the streets are singing;
+The boys are come to catch the owls,
+  The wild mare in is bringing.
+      Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
+      And to the dealing of the ox
+      Our honest neighbours come by flocks,
+And here they will be merry.
+
+Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have,
+  And mate with everybody;
+The honest now may play the knave,
+  And wise men play at noddy.
+      Some youths will now a mumming go,
+      Some others play at rowland-hoe,
+      And twenty other gameboys moe;
+Because they will be merry.
+
+Then wherefore in these merry days
+  Should we, I pray, be duller?
+No, let us sing some roundelays
+  To make our mirth the fuller.
+      And whilst we thus inspired sing,
+      Let all the streets with echoes ring;
+      Woods, and hills, and everything
+Bear witness we are merry.
+
+
+A Rocking Hymn
+
+Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
+  What ails my darling thus to cry?
+Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
+  To hear me sing thy lullaby.
+    My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
+  What thing to thee can mischief do?
+Thy God is now thy father dear,
+  His holy Spouse, thy mother too.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+Though thy conception was in sin,
+  A sacred bathing thou hast had;
+And, though thy birth unclean hath been,
+  A blameless babe thou now art made.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,
+
+While thus thy lullaby I sing,
+  For thee great blessings ripening be;
+Thine eldest brother is a King,
+  And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,
+  For whosoever thee offends,
+By thy protector threat'ned are,
+  And God and angels are thy friends.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+When God with us was dwelling here,
+  In little babes he took delight;
+Such innocents as thou, my dear,
+  Are ever precious in His sight.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+A little infant once was He,
+  And, strength in weakness, then was laid
+Upon His virgin-mother's knee,
+  That power to thee might be conveyed.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+In this, thy frailty and thy need,
+  He friends and helpers doth prepare,
+Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;
+  For of thy weal they tender are.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+The King of kings, when he was born,
+  Had not so much for outward ease;
+By Him such dressings were not worn,
+  Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+Within a manger lodged thy Lord
+  Where oxen lay and asses fed;
+Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
+  An easy cradle or a bed.
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+The wants that He did then sustain
+  Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
+And by His torments and His pain
+  Thy rest and ease secured be.
+    My baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,
+  A promise and an earnest got
+Of gaining everlasting bliss,
+  Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
+    Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
+    Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
+
+
+The Marigold
+
+When with a serious musing I behold
+The grateful and obsequious marigold,
+How duly every morning she displays
+Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
+How she observes him in his daily walk,
+Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;
+How when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
+Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;
+And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,
+As if she scorned to be looked on
+By an inferior eye; or did contemn
+To wait upon a meaner light than him.
+When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
+Have spirits far more generous than ours,
+And give us fair examples to despise
+The servile fawnings and idolatries,
+Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
+Which merit not the service we bestow....
+
+
+Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry
+
+Methought his royal person did foretell
+A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear;
+His look majestic seemed to compel
+All men to love him, rather than to fear.
+And yet though he were every good man's joy,
+And the alonely comfort of his own,
+His very name with terror did annoy
+His foreign foes so far as he was known.
+Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale;
+Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea,
+(Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale,
+Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea)
+Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide
+Of her o'er-daring and insulting pride.
+
+
+From a Satire written to King James I
+
+Did I not know a great man's power and might
+In spite of innocence can smother right,
+Colour his villainies to get esteem,
+And make the honest man the villain seem?
+I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,
+Yet I protest if such a man I knew,
+That might my country prejudice or thee
+Were he the greatest or the proudest he,
+That breathes this day; if so it might be found
+That any good to either might redound,
+I unappalled, dare in such a case
+Rip up his foulest crimes before his face,
+Though for my labour I were sure to drop
+Into the mouth of ruin without hope.
+
+
+
+
+William Browne
+
+
+To England
+
+Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot
+Whose equal all the world affordeth not!
+Show me who can so many crystal rills,
+Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills;
+Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;
+Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;
+And if the earth can show the like again,
+Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+The Seasons
+
+      The year hath first his jocund spring,
+Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling,
+Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day
+Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray;
+Next cometh autumn, when the threshed sheaf
+Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;
+Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm,
+Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn,
+And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,
+Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+May Day Customs
+
+  I have seen the Lady of the May
+Set in an arbour, on a holiday,
+Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains
+Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains,
+When envious night commands them to be gone
+Call for the merry youngsters one by one,
+And for their well performance soon disposes:
+To this a garland interwove with roses,
+To that a carved hook or well-wrought scrip,
+Gracing another with her cherry lip;
+To one her garter, to another then
+A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again;
+And none returneth empty that hath spent
+His pains to fill their rural merriment.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Birds in May
+
+As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne
+To take the kind air of a wistful morn
+Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe
+More strains than from my pipe can ever flow),
+Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin
+To chide the river for his clam'rous din;
+There seem'd another in his song to tell,
+That what the fair stream did he liked well;
+And going further heard another too,
+All varying still in what the others do;
+A little thence, a fourth with little pain
+Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again;
+So numberless the songsters are that sing
+In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring,
+That I no sooner could the hearing lose
+Of one of them, but straight another rose,
+And perching deftly on a quaking spray,
+Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.
+   .      .      .      .      .
+Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Music on the Thames
+
+As I have seen when on the breast of Thames
+A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,
+In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,
+With music give a farewell to the day,
+Or as they would, with an admired tone,
+Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne,
+Rapt with their melody a thousand more
+Run to be wafted from the bounding shore.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+A Concert of Birds
+
+The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,
+Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.
+The lofty treble sung the little wren;
+Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;
+The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush
+The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.
+And that the music might be full in parts,
+Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;
+But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,
+Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)
+There should some droning part be, therefore will'd
+Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,
+In embassy unto the King of Bees,
+To aid his partners on the flowers and trees
+Who, condescending, gladly flew along
+To bear the bass to his well-tuned song.
+The crow was willing they should be beholding
+For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,
+He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,
+And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Flowers
+
+The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down,
+A golden tuft within a silver crown;
+(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be
+No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
+The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace
+Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place;
+The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be
+Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity;
+Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
+The fit impresas for inflam'd desire;
+The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue
+Claims to be worn of none but those are true;
+The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,
+And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands,
+The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd
+To be the badges of a jealous mind;
+The orange-tawny marigold: the night
+Hides not her colour from a searching sight....
+The columbine in tawny often taken,
+Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;
+Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye
+Is hope even in the depth of misery.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Morning
+
+The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet
+Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat,
+The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,
+Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad
+Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud
+The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud
+Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting
+Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring
+To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail
+About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail
+Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes,
+Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,
+Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime
+Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time,
+The careful smith had in his sooty forge
+Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge
+His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly,
+And day as then might plead his in fancy.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Night
+
+Now great Hyperion left his golden throne
+That on the dancing waves in glory shone,
+For whose declining on the western shore
+The oriental hills black mantles wore,
+And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,
+That had from hideous caverns ushered
+All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet,
+By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat
+Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky,
+The helps of darkness waited orderly.
+First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains;
+Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins
+Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;
+From standing pools and fens were following
+Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill
+Sent up their vapours to attend her will
+These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven
+And as Night's chariot through the air was driven,
+Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song
+And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue
+Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,
+And all the upper world lay in a trance.
+Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;
+And little gales that from the green leaf swept
+Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.
+As loath to waken any singing bird.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+A Pleasant Grove
+
+Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,
+Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
+There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:
+Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:
+The walks there mounting up by small degrees,
+The gravel and the green so equal lie,
+It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:
+Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
+Arising from the infinite repair
+Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,
+(As if it were another Paradise)
+So please the smelling sense, that you are fain
+Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.
+There the small birds with their harmonious notes
+Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:
+For in her face a many dimples show,
+And often skips as it did dancing go:
+Here further down an over-arched alley,
+That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
+You spy at end thereof a standing lake,
+Where some ingenious artist strives to make
+The water (brought in turning pipes of lead
+Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)
+To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,
+In singing well their own set madrigal.
+This with no small delight retains your ear,
+And makes you think none blest but who live there.
+Then in another place the fruits that be
+In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
+Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,
+And liking one, taste every sort of them:
+Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,
+Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,
+Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence,
+Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
+Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,
+As if it were some hidden labyrinth;
+So loath to part and so content to stay,
+That when the gard'ner knocks for you away,
+It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,
+That you could wish that you had never seen it.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+An Angler
+
+Now as an angler melancholy standing
+Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
+A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
+Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
+Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
+Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
+He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
+At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
+Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
+He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
+Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
+Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
+Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
+Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
+Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
+There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
+And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
+That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
+By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
+A willow lies.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+A Rill
+
+So when the pretty rill a place espies,
+Where with the pebbles she would wantonize,
+And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her
+To drive her thence, and let her play no longer;
+If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,
+As being much incens'd to leave her play,
+A western, mild and pretty whispering gale
+Came dallying with the leaves along the dale,
+And seem'd as with the water it did chide,
+Because it ran so long unpacified:
+Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil,
+Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil:
+Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep,
+And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+"Glide soft, ye Silver Floods"
+
+        Glide soft, ye silver floods,
+          And every spring:
+        Within the shady woods
+          Let no bird sing!
+      Nor from the grove a turtle-dove
+      Be seen to couple with her love;
+But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,
+Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
+
+        But (of great Thetis' train)
+          Ye mermaids fair,
+        That on the shores do plain
+          Your sea-green hair,
+      As ye in trammels knit your locks,
+      Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks
+In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell
+How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
+
+        Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,
+          To move a wave;
+        But if with troubled minds
+          You seek his grave;
+      Know 'tis as various as yourselves,
+      Now in the deep, then on the shelves,
+His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,
+Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
+
+        Had he Arion-like
+          Been judged to drown,
+        He on his lute could strike
+          So rare a sowne,
+      A thousand dolphins would have come
+      And jointly strive to bring him home.
+But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,
+Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.
+
+        Great Neptune, hear a swain!
+          His coffin take,
+        And with a golden chain
+          For pity make
+      It fast unto a rock near land!
+      Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,
+And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell,
+Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.
+
+
+"Venus by Adonis' Side"
+
+Venus by Adonis' side
+Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried,
+Wrung her hands and tore her hair
+For Adonis dying there.
+
+Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!
+Nature surely doth not give
+To the earth her sweetest flowers
+To be seen but some few hours.
+
+On his face, still as he bled
+For each drop a tear she shed,
+Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,
+Else had drown'd him where he lay.
+
+Fair Proserpina (quoth she)
+Shall not have thee yet from me;
+Nor my soul to fly begin
+While my lips can keep it in.
+
+Here she clos'd again. And some
+Say Apollo would have come
+To have cur'd his wounded limb,
+But that she had smothered him.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+A Song
+
+Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,
+Love's neglect is time's abusing,
+  They and beauty are but lent you;
+Take the one and keep the other;
+Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;
+  Beauty gone you will repent you.
+
+'Twill be said when ye have proved,
+Never swains more truly loved:
+  Oh then fly all nice behaviour!
+Pity fain would (as her duty)
+Be attending still on Beauty,
+  Let her not be out of favour.
+
+From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
+
+
+Spring Morning--I
+
+_Thomalin._
+
+Where is every piping lad
+That the fields are not yclad
+      With their milk-white sheep?
+
+Tell me: is it holiday,
+Or if in the month of May
+      Use they long to sleep?
+
+_Piers._
+
+Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
+For the turtle and her mate
+      Sitten yet in nest:
+And the thrustle hath not been
+Gath'ring worms yet on the green,
+      But attends her rest.
+Not a bird hath taught her young,
+Nor her morning's lesson sung
+      In the shady grove:
+But the nightingale in dark
+Singing woke the mounting lark:
+      She records her love.
+Not the sun hath with his beams
+Gilded yet our crystal streams;
+      Rising from the sea,
+Mists do crown the mountains' tops,
+And each pretty myrtle drops:
+      'Tis but newly day.
+
+_The Shepherd's Pipe._
+
+
+Spring Morning--II
+
+_Willie._
+
+Roget, droop not, see the spring
+Is the earth enamelling,
+And the birds on every tree
+Greet this morn with melody:
+Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,
+And her mate as proudly vants it
+See how every stream is dress'd
+By her margin with the best
+Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad
+For such brooks such flow'rs she had.
+All the trees are quaintly tired
+With green buds, of all desired;
+And the hawthorn every day
+Spreads some little show of May:
+See the primrose sweetly set
+By the much-lov'd violet,
+All the banks do sweetly cover,
+As they would invite a lover
+With his lass to see their dressing
+And to grace them by their pressing:
+Yet in all this merry tide
+When all cares are laid aside,
+Roget sits as if his blood
+Had not felt the quick'ning good
+Of the sun, nor cares to play,
+Or with songs to pass the day
+As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,
+Raise thy head, and merrily
+Tune us somewhat to thy reed:
+See our flocks do freely feed,
+Here we may together sit,
+And for music very fit
+Is this place; from yonder wood
+Comes an echo shrill and good,
+Twice full perfectly it will
+Answer to thine oaten quill.
+Roget, droop not then, but sing
+Some kind welcome to the spring.
+
+_The Shepherd's Pipe._
+
+
+A Round
+
+_All._
+
+Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veins
+  With kind and active fire,
+And made green liv'ries for the plains,
+  And every grove a quire:
+
+Sing me a song of merry glee,
+  And Bacchus fill the bowl.
+1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to me
+  And every thirsty soul.
+
+Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt,
+  Nor never shall do mine;
+I have no cradle going yet,
+  Not I, by this good wine.
+
+No wife at home to send for me,
+  No hogs are in my ground,
+No suit in law to pay a fee,
+  Then round, old Jocky, round.
+
+_All._
+
+Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,
+  But see that no man 'scape
+    To drink of the sherry,
+    That makes us so merry,
+  And plump as the lusty grape.
+
+* * * * *
+
+_Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
+Far more welcome than the spring;
+He that parteth from you never
+Shall enjoy a spring for ever._
+
+Love, that to the voice is near
+  Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
+Need not walk abroad to hear
+  The delightful nightingale.
+    Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
+      Far more welcome than the spring;
+    He that parteth from you never
+      Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
+
+Love, that looks still on your eyes,
+  Though the winter have begun
+To benumb our arteries,
+  Shall not want the summer's sun.
+      Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.
+
+Love that still may see your cheeks,
+  Where all rareness still reposes,
+Is a fool, if e'er he seeks
+  Other lilies, other roses.
+      Welcome, welcome, &c.
+
+Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
+  And perceives your breath in kissing,
+All the odours of the fields
+  Never, never shall be missing.
+      Welcome, welcome, &c.
+
+Love, that question would anew
+  What fair Eden was of old,
+Let him rightly study you,
+  And a brief of that behold.
+      Welcome, welcome, then I, &c.
+
+
+Autumn
+
+Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs,
+And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks;
+Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,
+And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.
+        The pleasant meadows sadly lay
+          In chill and cooling sweats
+        By rising fountains, or as they
+          Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.
+
+_The Shepherd's Pipe._
+
+
+The Siren's Song
+
+Steer hither, steer your winged pines,
+        All beaten mariners,
+Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
+        A prey to passengers;
+Perfumes far sweeter than the best
+Which makes the Phoenix' urn and nest.
+        Fear not your ships,
+Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
+        But come on shore,
+Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
+
+For swelling waves our panting breasts,
+        Where never storms arise,
+Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
+        For stars gaze on our eyes.
+The compass love shall hourly sing,
+And as he goes about the ring,
+        We will not miss
+To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
+
+CHORUS.
+
+        Then come on shore,
+Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
+
+_The Inner Temple Masque._
+
+
+The Charm
+
+Son of Erebus and Night,
+Hie away; and aim thy flight
+Where consort none other fowl
+Than the bat and sullen owl;
+Where upon the limber grass
+Poppy and mandragoras
+With like simples not a few
+Hang for ever drops of dew.
+Where flows Lethe without coil
+Softly like a stream of oil.
+Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:
+With this Greek no longer keep.
+Thrice I charge thee by my wand;
+Thrice with moly from my hand
+Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,
+And with the jaspis: Then arise,
+Sagest Greek....
+
+_The Inner Temple Masque._
+
+
+Caelia
+
+(Sonnets)
+
+Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,
+Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;
+And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,
+Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:
+Not to make good that poets never can
+Long time without a chosen mistress be,
+Do I sing thus; or my affections ran
+Within the maze of mutability;
+What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,
+And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,
+Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find
+The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,
+  I may adore it there, and love the cell
+  For entertaining what I lov'd so well.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Why might I not for once be of that sect,
+Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right,
+Some other bodies to themselves elect;
+And sunlike make the day, and license night?
+That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere
+Was to enlighten straight another part;
+In that horizon, if I see it there,
+Calls for my first respect and its desert;
+Her virtue is the same and may be more;
+For as the sun is distant, so his power
+In operation differs, and the store
+Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our.
+  And verily I think her climate such,
+  Since to my former flame it adds so much.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry
+You took my hand to try if you could guess
+By lines therein if any wight there be
+Ordain'd to make me know some happiness;
+I wish'd that those characters could explain,
+Whom I will never wrong with hope to win;
+Or that by them a copy might be ta'en,
+By you alone what thoughts I have within.
+But since the hand of Nature did not set
+(As providently loath to have it known)
+The means to find that hidden alphabet.
+Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone:
+  By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair,
+  If now you see her that doth love me there.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest
+And take a long leave of sweet poesy;
+Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,
+Should hear no more mine oaten melody;
+Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile
+Unperfect lie, and make no further known
+The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle;
+Till I have left some record of mine own.
+You are the subject now, and, writing you,
+I well may versify, not poetize:
+Here needs no fiction: for the graces true
+And virtues clip not with base flatteries.
+  Here could I write what you deserve of praise,
+  Others might wear, but I should win the bays.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Caelia sleeps,
+And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;
+Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps
+Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves
+Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,
+(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)
+Give way, that I in silence may admire.
+Is not her sleep like that of innocents,
+Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,
+Almost in death, than are the ornaments
+Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?
+  She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie
+  And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.
+
+
+Visions
+
+(Sonnets)
+
+I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea,
+Singing a sad farewell unto the vale,
+While fishes leapt to hear her melody,
+And on each thorn a gentle nightingale
+And many other birds forbore their notes,
+Leaping from tree to tree, as she along
+The panting bosom of the current floats,
+Rapt with the music of her dying song:
+When from a thick and all-entangled spring
+A neatherd rude came with no small ado,
+Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,
+And quickly struck her tender neck in two;
+  Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed,
+  And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.
+
+* * * * *
+
+A rose, as fair as ever saw the North,
+Grew in a little garden all alone;
+A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
+Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
+The maidens danc'd about it morn and noon,
+And learned bards of it their ditties made;
+The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
+Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.
+But well-a-day, the gard'ner careless grew;
+The maids and fairies both were kept away,
+And in a drought the caterpillars threw
+Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
+  God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,
+  The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
+
+* * * * *
+
+Down in a valley, by a forest's side,
+Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves,
+I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,
+As if the lilies grew to be his slaves;
+The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,
+Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass;
+The humble violet, that lowly down
+Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass:
+These, with a many more, methought, complain'd
+That Nature should those needless things produce,
+Which not alone the sun from others gain'd
+But turn it wholly to their proper use:
+  I could not choose but grieve that Nature made
+  So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.
+
+* * * * *
+
+A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,
+That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play
+The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,
+Methought I saw, upon a summer's day,
+Take up a little satyr in a wood,
+All masterless forlorn as none did know him,
+And nursing him with those of his own blood,
+On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him;
+But with the god he long time had not been,
+Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot,
+And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd between
+Pan and all good befell the poor man's lot:
+  Whereat all good men griev'd, and strongly swore
+  They never would be foster-fathers more.
+
+
+Epitaphs
+
+In Obitum M S, X deg. Maij,
+1614
+
+May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
+        Nor Flora's pride!
+In thee all flowers and roses spring,
+        Mine only died.
+
+W. B.
+
+
+On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke
+
+Underneath this sable herse
+Lies the subject of all verse:
+Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
+Death, ere thou hast slain another,
+Fair and learn'd, and good as she,
+Time shall throw a dart at thee.
+
+Marble piles let no man raise
+To her name: for after days
+Some kind woman born as she,
+Reading this, like Niobe
+Shall turn marble, and become
+Both her mourner and her tomb.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,
+Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne
+(of Tavistock)
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