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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/22001-8.txt b/22001-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2ab4d84 --- /dev/null +++ b/22001-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2905 @@ +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, and William Browne (of Tavistock) + +Editor: J. R. Tutin + +Release Date: July 6, 2007 [EBook #22001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** 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 wrongèd) 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 +Cælia: 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 _protégé_ 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 gazèd +But in musing is amazèd; +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. +Blessèd be Aglaia yet, +Though the Muses die for it; +Come abroad, ye blessèd 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 blessèd 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 blessèd hill! + Was never hill so blessèd), +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, + Fringèd 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 quæ_, 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 blessèd 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 amazèd 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 passèd 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 strewèd 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 unscornèd, 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) + Unmoanèd 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 preferrèd scornèd 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 despisèd power + Greater is, by far, than your. + And, whate'er you think of me, + In your minds you poorer be. + +You are pleasèd, 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-disposèd nature +Joinèd 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, +Fearèd 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 closèd 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 easèd; +The debtor drinks away his cares, + And for the time is pleasèd. + 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 inspirèd 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 securèd 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 scornèd to be lookèd 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 seemèd 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 threshèd 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 carvèd 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 wingèd 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._ + + +Cælia + +(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 Cælia 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° 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) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 22001-8.txt or 22001-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/0/0/22001/ + +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) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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, and William Browne (of Tavistock) + +Editor: J. R. Tutin + +Release Date: July 6, 2007 [EBook #22001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +<b>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)</b> + + + + + + +</pre> + +<center> + <h3>The Pembroke Booklets</h3> + + <h4>(First Series)</h4> + + <h3>III</h3> + + + <h1>Nicholas Breton</h1> + <h2>Pastoral Poems</h2> + + <h1>George Wither</h1> + <h2>Selected Poetry</h2> + + <h1>William Browne</h1> + <h3>(of Tavistock)</h3> + <h2>Pastoral Poetry</h2> + + <img src="images/logo.png" alt="logo in the form of a curled leaf"/> + + <h3>J. R. Tutin</h3> + <h3>Hull</h3> + <h3>1906</h3> + +<p><i>Large Paper Edition, limited to 250 copies</i></p> +<p><i>Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh.</i></p> +</center> + +<hr /> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page02" name="page02"></a>{02}</span> + +<center> +<h3>Nicholas Breton</h3> +<h3>(1558-1626)</h3> + +<div style="font-size:.8em;"> +<pre><i>Thou that wouldst find the habit of true passion, + And see a mind attired in perfect strains ... +Look here on Breton's work.</i>--BEN JONSON.</pre></div> +</center> + +<center> +<h3>George Wither</h3> +<h3>(1588-1667)</h3> +</center> + +<blockquote><i>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.</i>--CHARLES LAMB.</blockquote> + +<center> +<h3>William Browne</h3> +<h3>(1591-? 1645)</h3> + +<div style="font-size: .8em;"> +<pre> + <i>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 wrongèd) mine.</i> + +GEORGE WITHER: <i>To the Author</i> +[<i>of Britannia's Pastorals</i>]. +</pre></div> +</center> + +<hr /> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page03" name="page03"></a>{03}</span> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<table summary="contents"> + <tr> + <td> </td> + <td>PAGE</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td colspan="2"> </td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td><a href="#pf">Prefatory Note</a></td><td>5</td> + </tr> +<tr><td colspan="2"> </td></tr> +<tr><td><b>NICHOLAS BRETON</b></td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb01">A Sweet Pastoral</a></td><td>7</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb02">Aglaia: a Pastoral</a></td><td>8</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb03">Phyllida and Corydon</a></td><td>10</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb04">Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon</a></td><td>12</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb05">A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon</a></td><td>13</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb06">Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis</a></td><td>14</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb07">A Report Song in a Dream, between a shepherd and his nymph </a></td><td>15</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb08">Another of the Same</a></td><td>16</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb09">A Shepherd's Dream</a></td><td>16</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb10">A Quarrel with Love</a></td><td>17</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb11">A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty</a></td><td>18</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb12">Love: "Foolish love is only folly"</a></td><td>20</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb13">"Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart"</a></td><td>20</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb14">Sonnet: "The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold"</a></td><td>21</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#nb15">A Sweet Lullaby</a></td><td>22</td></tr> + + +<tr><td colspan="2"> </td></tr> +<tr><td><b>GEORGE WITHER</b></td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#gw01">Prelude. From <i>The Shepherd's Hunting</i></a></td><td>24</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw02">A Poet's Home. From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>27</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw03">Her Beauty. From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>29</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw04">Rhomboidal Dirge. From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>30</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw05">Song: "Lordly gallants!" From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>32</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw06">Song: "Shall I, wasting in despair." From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>36</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw07">"Amarillis I did woo." From <i>Faire Virtue</i></a></td><td>37</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw08">Sonnet: On a Stolen Kiss</a></td><td>37</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw09">A Christmas Carol</a></td><td>38</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw10">A Rocking Hymn</a></td><td>40</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw11">The Marigold</a></td><td>43</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw12">Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry</a></td><td>43</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#gw13">From a Satire written to King James I.</a></td><td>44</td></tr> + + +<tr><td colspan="2"> </td></tr> +<tr><td><b>WILLIAM BROWNE</b></td></tr> + +<tr><td>From "Britannia's Pastorals":--</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb01">To England</a></td><td>45</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb02">The Seasons</a></td><td>45</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb03">May Day Customs</a></td><td>46</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb04">Birds in May</a></td><td>46</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb05">Music on the Thames</a></td><td>47</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb06">A Concert of Birds</a></td><td>47</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb07">Flowers</a></td><td>48</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb08">Morning</a></td><td>48</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb09">Night</a></td><td>49</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb10">A Pleasant Grove</a></td><td>50</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb11">An Angler</a></td><td>51</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb12">A Rill</a></td><td>52</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb13">"Glide soft, ye silver floods"</a></td><td>52</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb14">"Venus by Adonis' side"</a></td><td>53</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb15">A Song: "Gentle Nymphs"</a></td><td>54</td></tr> + +<tr><td><a href="#wb16">Spring Morning. I. From <i>The Shepherd's Pipe</i></a></td><td>54</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb17">Spring Morning. II. From <i>The Shepherd's Pipe</i></a></td><td>55</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb18">A Round</a></td><td>56</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb19">"Welcome, welcome, do I sing"</a></td><td>57</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb20">Autumn. From <i>The Shepherd's Pipe</i></a></td><td>58</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb21">The Siren's Song. From <i>Inner Temple Masque</i></a></td><td>59</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb22">The Charm. From <i>Inner Temple Masque</i></a></td><td>59</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb23">Cælia: Five Sonnets--"Lo, I the man"</a></td><td>60</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb24">"Why might I not for once"</a></td><td>60</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb25">"Fairest, when by the rules"</a></td><td>61</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb26">"Were't not for you"</a></td><td>61</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb27">"Sing soft, ye pretty birds"</a></td><td>62</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb28">Visions: Four Sonnets--"I saw a silver swan"</a></td><td>62</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb29">"A Rose, as fair as ever"</a></td><td>62</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb30">"Down in a valley"</a></td><td>63</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb31">"A gentle Shepherd"</a></td><td>63</td></tr> +<tr><td><a href="#wb32">Epitaphs: In Obitum</a></td><td>64</td></tr> +<tr><td> <a href="#wb33">On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke</a></td><td>64</td></tr> + +</table> +<hr/> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page05" name="page05"></a>{05}</span> +<h3 id="pf">Prefatory Note</h3> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>England's Helicon</i>, of 1614, +and Browne and Wither each submitted verses for +<i>The Shepherd's Pipe</i>, 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 <i>protégé</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page06" name="page06"></a>{06}</span> +to overflowing with joyous abandonment, and sweet +with the perfume of many flowers, culled in distant +fields.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p class="author">W. B. KEMPLING.</p> +<hr/> + + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page07" name="page07"></a>{07}</span> +<h2>Nicholas Breton</h2> + + +<h3 id="nb01">A Sweet Pastoral</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Good Muse, rock me asleep</p> + <p class="i2">With some sweet harmony:</p> + <p>The weary eye is not to keep</p> + <p class="i2">Thy wary company.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Sweet Love, begone awhile,</p> + <p class="i2">Thou knowest my heaviness:</p> + <p>Beauty is born but to beguile</p> + <p class="i2">My heart of happiness.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>See how my little flock,</p> + <p class="i2">That loved to feed on high,</p> + <p>Do headlong tumble down the rock,</p> + <p class="i2">And in the valley die.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>The bushes and the trees</p> + <p class="i2">That were so fresh and green,</p> + <p>Do all their dainty colour leese,</p> + <p class="i2">And not a leaf is seen.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>The blackbird and the thrush,</p> + <p class="i2">That made the woods to ring,</p> + <p>With all the rest, are now at hush,</p> + <p class="i2">And not a note they sing.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Sweet Philomel, the bird</p> + <p class="i2">That hath the heavenly throat,</p> + <p>Doth now alas! not once afford</p> + <p class="i2">Recording of a note.</p> + </div> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page08" name="page08"></a>{08}</span> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>The flowers have had a frost,</p> + <p class="i2">Each herb hath lost her savour;</p> + <p>And Phyllida the fair hath lost</p> + <p class="i2">The comfort of her favour.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Now all these careful sights</p> + <p class="i2">So kill me in conceit,</p> + <p>That how to hope upon delights</p> + <p class="i2">It is but mere deceit.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>And therefore, my sweet Muse,</p> + <p class="i2">Thou know'st what help is best;</p> + <p>Do now thy heavenly cunning use</p> + <p class="i2">To set my heart at rest;</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>And in a dream bewray</p> + <p class="i2">What fate shall be my friend;</p> + <p>Whether my life shall still decay,</p> + <p class="i2">Or when my sorrow end.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb02">Aglaia: a Pastoral</h3> +<div class="poem"> +<p>Sylvan Muses, can ye sing</p> +<p>Of the beauty of the Spring?</p> +<p>Have ye seen on earth that sun</p> +<p>That a heavenly course hath run?</p> +<p>Have ye lived to see those eyes</p> +<p>Where the pride of beauty lies?</p> +<p>Have ye heard that heavenly voice</p> +<p>That may make Love's heart rejoice?</p> +<p>Have ye seen Aglaia, she</p> +<p>Whom the world may joy to see?</p> +<p>If ye have not seen all these,</p> +<p>Then ye do but labour leese;</p> +<p>While ye tune your pipes to play</p> +<p>But an idle roundelay;</p> +<p>And in sad Discomfort's den</p> +<p>Everyone go bite her pen;</p> +<p>That she cannot reach the skill</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page09" name="page09"></a>{09}</span> +<p>How to climb that blessed hill</p> +<p>Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,</p> +<p>Where exceedings do excell,</p> +<p>And in simple truth confess</p> +<p>She is that fair shepherdess</p> +<p>To whom fairest flocks a-field</p> +<p>Do their service duly yield:</p> +<p>On whom never Muse hath gazèd</p> +<p>But in musing is amazèd;</p> +<p>Where the honour is too much</p> +<p>For their highest thoughts to touch;</p> +<p>Thus confess, and get ye gone</p> +<p>To your places every one;</p> +<p>And in silence only speak</p> +<p>When ye find your speech too weak.</p> +<p>Blessèd be Aglaia yet,</p> +<p>Though the Muses die for it;</p> +<p>Come abroad, ye blessèd Muses,</p> +<p>Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,</p> +<p>When she would command a creature</p> +<p>In the honour of Love's nature,</p> +<p>For the sweet Aglaia fair</p> +<p>All to sweeten all the air,</p> +<p>Is abroad this blessèd day;</p> +<p>Haste ye, therefore, come away:</p> +<p>And to kill Love's maladies</p> +<p>Meet her with your melodies.</p> +<p class="i2"> Flora hath been all about,</p> +<p>And hath brought her wardrobe out;</p> +<p>With her fairest, sweetest flowers,</p> +<p>All to trim up all your bowers.</p> +<p class="i2">Bid the shepherds and their swains</p> +<p>See the beauty of their plains;</p> +<p>And command them with their flocks</p> +<p>To do reverence on the rocks;</p> +<p>Where they may so happy be</p> +<p>As her shadow but to see:</p> +<p>Bid the birds in every bush</p> +<p>Not a bird to be at hush:</p> +<p>But to sit, and chirp, and sing</p> +<p>To the beauty of the Spring:</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page10" name="page10"></a>{10}</span> +<p>Call the sylvan nymphs together,</p> +<p>Bid them bring their musicks hither.</p> +<p>Trees their barky silence break,</p> +<p>Crack yet, though they cannot speak</p> +<p>Bid the purest, whitest swan</p> +<p>Of her feathers make her fan;</p> +<p>Let the hound the hare go chase;</p> +<p>Lambs and rabbits run at base;</p> +<p>Flies be dancing in the sun,</p> +<p>While the silk-worm's webs are spun;</p> +<p>Hang a fish on every hook</p> +<p>As she goes along the brook;</p> +<p>So with all your sweetest powers</p> +<p>Entertain her in your bowers;</p> +<p>Where her ear may joy to hear</p> +<p>How ye make your sweetest quire;</p> +<p>And in all your sweetest vein</p> +<p>Still Aglaia strike her strain;</p> +<p>But when she her walk doth turn,</p> +<p>Then begin as fast to mourn;</p> +<p>All your flowers and garlands wither</p> +<p>Put up all your pipes together;</p> +<p>Never strike a pleasing strain</p> +<p>Till she come abroad again.</p> + +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<h3 id="nb03">Phyllida and Corydon</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>In the merry month of May,</p> + <p>In a morn by break of day,</p> + <p>With a troop of damsels playing</p> + <p>Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,</p> + <p>When anon by a woodside,</p> + <p>Where as May was in his pride,</p> + <p>I espied, all alone,</p> + <p>Phyllida and Corydon.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Much ado there was, God wot!</p> + <p>He would love, and she would not:</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page11" name="page11"></a>{11}</span> + <p>She said, never man was true;</p> + <p>He says, none was false to you.</p> + <p>He said, he had loved her long:</p> + <p>She says, Love should have no wrong.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Corydon would kiss her then,</p> + <p>She says, maids must kiss no men,</p> + <p>Till they do for good and all.</p> + <p>Then she made the shepherd call</p> + <p>All the heavens to witness, truth</p> + <p>Never loved a truer youth.</p> + <p>Thus with many a pretty oath,</p> + <p>Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!--</p> + <p>Such as silly shepherds use</p> + <p>When they will not love abuse;</p> + <p>Love, which had been long deluded,</p> + <p>Was with kisses sweet concluded:</p> + <p>And Phyllida, with garlands gay,</p> + <p>Was made the lady of the May.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb04">Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),</p> + <p class="i2">Was never morn so fair,</p> + <p>There shone a sun, though not the sun</p> + <p class="i2">That shineth in the air.</p> + <p>For the earth, and from the earth,</p> + <p class="i2">(Was never such a creature !)</p> + <p>Did come this face (was never face</p> + <p class="i2">That carried such a feature).</p> + <p>Upon a hill (O blessèd hill!</p> + <p class="i2">Was never hill so blessèd),</p> + <p>There stood a man (was never man</p> + <p class="i2">For woman so distressed):</p> + <p>This man beheld a heavenly view,</p> + <p class="i2">Which did such virtue give</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page12" name="page12"></a>{12}</span> + <p>As clears the blind, and helps the lame,</p> + <p class="i2">And makes the dead man live.</p> + <p>This man had hap (O happy man!</p> + <p class="i2">More happy none than he);</p> + <p>For he had hap to see the hap</p> + <p class="i2">That none had hap to see.</p> + <p>This silly swain (and silly swains</p> + <p class="i2">Are men of meanest grace):</p> + <p>Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)</p> + <p class="i2">To hap on such a face.</p> + <p>He pity cried, and pity came</p> + <p class="i2">And pitied so his pain,</p> + <p>As dying would not let him die</p> + <p class="i2">But gave him life again.</p> + <p>For joy whereof he made such mirth</p> + <p class="i2">As all the woods did ring;</p> + <p>And Pan with all his swains came forth</p> + <p class="i2">To hear the shepherd sing;</p> + <p>But such a song sung never was,</p> + <p class="i2">Nor shall be sung again,</p> + <p>Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,</p> + <p class="i2">And Corydon the swain.</p> + <p>Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,</p> + <p class="i2">(Was never such a queen as she,)</p> + <p>And Corydon her only swain</p> + <p class="i2">(Was never such a swain as he):</p> + <p>Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face</p> + <p class="i2">That ever eye did yet behold,</p> + <p>And Corydon the constant'st faith</p> + <p class="i2">That ever yet kept flock in fold;</p> + <p>Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet</p> + <p class="i2">That ever yet the earth did yield,</p> + <p>And Corydon the kindest swain</p> + <p class="i2">That ever yet kept lambs in field.</p> + <p>Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,</p> + <p class="i2">Though Corydon be he that caught her,</p> + <p>And Corydon doth hear her sing,</p> + <p class="i2">Though Phyllida be she that taught her:</p> + <p>Poor Corydon doth keep the fields</p> + <p class="i2">Though Phyllida be she that owes them,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page13" name="page13"></a>{13}</span> + <p>And Phyllida doth walk the meads,</p> + <p class="i2">Though Corydon be he that mows them:</p> + <p>The little lambs are Phyllis' love,</p> + <p class="i2">Though Corydon is he that feeds them,</p> + <p>The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,</p> + <p class="i2">Though Corydon is he that weeds them.</p> + <p>Since then that Phyllis only is</p> + <p class="i2">The only shepherd's only queen;</p> + <p>And Corydon the only swain</p> + <p class="i2">That only hath her shepherd been,--</p> + <p>Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,</p> + <p class="i2">Shall Corydon consume away?</p> + <p>No, shepherd, no, work out the week,</p> + <p class="i2">And Sunday shall be holiday.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb05">A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>On a hill there grows a flower,</p> + <p class="i2">Fair befall the dainty sweet!</p> + <p>By that flower there is a bower,</p> + <p class="i2">Where the heavenly Muses meet.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>In that bower there is a chair,</p> + <p class="i2">Fringèd all about with gold,</p> + <p>Where doth sit the fairest fair</p> + <p class="i2">That did ever eye behold.</p> + <div class="stanza"> + </div> + <p>It is Phyllis, fair and bright,</p> + <p class="i2">She that is the shepherds' joy,</p> + <p>She that Venus did despite,</p> + <p class="i2">And did blind her little boy.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>This is she, the wise, the rich,</p> + <p class="i2">That the world desires to see:</p> + <p>This is <i>ipsa quæ</i>, the which</p> + <p class="i2">There is none but only she.</p> + </div> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page14" name="page14"></a>{14}</span> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Who would not this face admire?</p> + <p class="i2">Who would not this saint adore?</p> + <p>Who would not this sight desire,</p> + <p class="i2">Though he thought to see no more?</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>O, fair eyes, yet let me see,</p> + <p class="i2">One good look, and I am gone:</p> + <p>Look on me, for I am he,</p> + <p class="i2">Thy poor silly Corydon.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou that art the shepherds' queen,</p> + <p class="i2">Look upon thy silly swain;</p> + <p>By thy comfort have been seen</p> + <p class="i2">Dead men brought to life again.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb06">Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain</p> + <p class="i2">May sue to thee for grace,</p> + <p>See not thy loving shepherd slain</p> + <p class="i2">With looking on thy face;</p> + <p>But think what power thou hast got</p> + <p class="i2">Upon my flock and me;</p> + <p>Thou seest they now regard me not,</p> + <p class="i2">But all do follow thee.</p> + <p>And if I have so far presumed,</p> + <p class="i2">With prying in thine eyes,</p> + <p>Yet let not comfort be consumed</p> + <p class="i2">That in thy pity lies;</p> + <p>But as thou art that Phyllis fair,</p> + <p class="i2">That fortune favour gives,</p> + <p>So let not love die in despair</p> + <p class="i2">That in thy favour lives.</p> + <p>The deer do browse upon the briar,</p> + <p class="i2">The birds do pick the cherries;</p> + <p>And will not Beauty grant Desire</p> + <p class="i2">One handful of her berries?</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page15" name="page15"></a>{15}</span> + <p>If it be so that thou hast sworn</p> + <p class="i2">That none shall look on thee,</p> + <p>Yet let me know thou dost not scorn</p> + <p class="i2">To cast a look on me.</p> + <p>But if thy beauty make thee proud,</p> + <p class="i2">Think then what is ordain'd;</p> + <p>The heavens have never yet allow'd</p> + <p class="i2">That love should be disdain'd.</p> + <p>Then lest the fates that favour love</p> + <p class="i2">Should curse thee for unkind,</p> + <p>Let me report for thy behoof,</p> + <p class="i2">The honour of thy mind;</p> + <p>Let Corydon with full consent</p> + <p class="i2">Set down what he hath seen,</p> + <p>That Phyllida with Love's content</p> + <p class="i2">Is sworn the shepherds' queen.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb07">A Report Song in a Dream,</h3> +<h3>between a shepherd and his nymph</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall we go dance the hay? <i>The hay?</i></p> + <p>Never pipe could ever play</p> + <p class="i2">Better shepherd's roundelay.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall we go sing the song? <i>The song?</i></p> + <p>Never Love did ever wrong.</p> + <p class="i2">Fair maids, hold hands all along.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall we go learn to woo? <i>To woo?</i></p> + <p>Never thought came ever to[o](?)</p> + <p class="i2">Better deed could better do.</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall we go learn to kiss? <i>To kiss?</i></p> + <p>Never heart could ever miss</p> + <p class="i2">Comfort where true meaning is.</p> + </div> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page16" name="page16"></a>{16}</span> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Thus at base they run, <i>They run,</i></p> + <p>When the sport was scarce begun;</p> + <p class="i2">But I waked, and all was done.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb08">Another of the Same</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Say that I should say I love ye,</p> + <p class="i2">Would you say 'tis but a saying?</p> + <p>But if Love in prayers move ye,</p> + <p class="i2">Will ye not be moved with praying?</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Think I think that Love should know ye,</p> + <p class="i2">Will you think 'tis but a thinking?</p> + <p>But if Love the thought do show ye,</p> + <p class="i2">Will ye loose your eyes with winking?</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Write that I do write you blessed,</p> + <p class="i2">Will you write 'tis but a writing?</p> + <p>But if Truth and Love confess it,</p> + <p class="i2">Will ye doubt the true inditing?</p> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>No, I say, and think, and write it,</p> + <p class="i2">Write, and think, and say your pleasure;</p> + <p>Love, and truth, and I indite it,</p> + <p class="i2">You are blessèd out of measure.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb09">A Shepherd's Dream</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>A silly shepherd lately sat</p> + <p class="i2">Among a flock of sheep;</p> + <p>Where musing long on this and that,</p> + <p class="i2">At last he fell asleep.</p> + <p>And in the slumber as he lay,</p> + <p class="i2">He gave a piteous groan;</p> + <p>He thought his sheep were run away,</p> + <p class="i2">And he was left alone.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page17" name="page17"></a>{17}</span> + <p>He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,</p> + <p class="i2">But not a sheep came near him;</p> + <p>Which made the shepherd sore appall'd</p> + <p class="i2">To see that none would hear him.</p> + <p>But as the swain amazèd stood,</p> + <p class="i2">In this most solemn vein,</p> + <p>Came Phyllida forth of the wood,</p> + <p class="i2">And stood before the swain.</p> + <p>Whom when the shepherd did behold</p> + <p class="i2">He straight began to weep,</p> + <p>And at the heart he grew a-cold,</p> + <p class="i2">To think upon his sheep.</p> + <p>For well he knew, where came the queen,</p> + <p class="i2">The shepherd durst not stay:</p> + <p>And where that he durst not be seen,</p> + <p class="i2">The sheep must needs away.</p> + <p>To ask her if she saw his flock,</p> + <p class="i2">Might happen patience move,</p> + <p>And have an answer with a mock,</p> + <p class="i2">That such demanders prove.</p> + <p>Yet for because he saw her come</p> + <p class="i2">Alone out of the wood,</p> + <p>He thought he would not stand as dumb,</p> + <p class="i2">When speech might do him good;</p> + <p>And therefore falling on his knees,</p> + <p class="i2">To ask but for his sheep,</p> + <p>He did awake, and so did leese</p> + <p class="i2">The honour of his sleep.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb10">A Quarrel with Love</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Oh that I could write a story</p> + <p class="i2">Of love's dealing with affection!</p> + <p>How he makes the spirit sorry</p> + <p class="i2">That is touch'd with his infection.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>But he doth so closely wind him,</p> + <p class="i2">In the plaits of will ill-pleased,</p> + <p>That the heart can never find him</p> + <p class="i2">Till it be too much diseased.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page18" name="page18"></a>{18}</span> + <p>'Tis a subtle kind or spirit</p> + <p class="i2">Of a venom-kind of nature,</p> + <p>That can, like a coney-ferret,</p> + <p class="i2">Creep unawares upon a creature.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Never eye that can behold it,</p> + <p class="i2">Though it worketh first by seeing;</p> + <p>Nor conceit that can unfold it,</p> + <p class="i2">Though in thoughts be all its being.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Oh! it maketh old men witty,</p> + <p class="i2">Young men wanton, women idle,</p> + <p>While that patience weeps, for pity</p> + <p class="i2">Reason bite not nature's bridle.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>What it is, in conjecture;</p> + <p class="i2">Seeking much, but nothing finding;</p> + <p>Like to fancy's architecture</p> + <p class="i2">With illusions reason blinding.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Yet, can beauty so retain it,</p> + <p class="i2">In the profit of her service,</p> + <p>That she closely can maintain it</p> + <p class="i2">For her servant chief on office?</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>In her eye she chiefly breeds it;</p> + <p class="i2">In her cheeks she chiefly hides it;</p> + <p>In her servant's faith she feeds it,</p> + <p class="i2">While his only heart abides it.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb11">A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Love and my mistress were at strife</p> + <p class="i2">Who had the greatest power on me:</p> + <p>Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!</p> + <p class="i2">Nay, what a death is this to be!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page19" name="page19"></a>{19}</span> + <p>She said, she did it with her eye;</p> + <p class="i2">He said, he did it with his dart;</p> + <p>Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)</p> + <p class="i2">'Tis I that have the wounded heart.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>She said, she only spake the word</p> + <p class="i2">That did enchant my peering sense;</p> + <p>He said, he only gave the sound</p> + <p class="i2">That enter'd heart without defence.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>She said, her beauty was the mark</p> + <p class="i2">That did amaze the highest mind;</p> + <p>He said, he only made the mist</p> + <p class="i2">Whereby the senses grew so blind.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>She said, that only for her sake,</p> + <p class="i2">The best would venture life and limb:</p> + <p>He said, she was too much deceiv'd;</p> + <p class="i2">They honour'd her because of him.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Long while, alas, she would not yield,</p> + <p class="i2">But it was she that rul'd the roost;[1]</p> + <p>Until by proof, she did confess,</p> + <p class="i2">If he were gone, her joy was lost.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>And then she cried, "Oh, dainty love,</p> + <p class="i2">I now do find it is for thee,</p> + <p>That I am lov'd and honour'd both,</p> + <p class="i2">And thou hast power to conquer me."</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>But, when I heard her yield to love,</p> + <p class="i2">Oh! how my heart did leap for joy!</p> + <p>That now I had some little hope</p> + <p class="i2">To have an end to mine annoy!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>But, as too soon, before the field</p> + <p class="i2">The trumpets sound the overthrow,</p> + <p>So all too soon I joy'd too much,</p> + <p class="i2">For I awaked, and nothing saw.[2]</p> + </div> +</div> + +<div class="note">[Transcriber's note 1: The original had 'roast']</div> + +<div class="footnote">[Footnote 2: Ellis reads <i>so</i>.]</div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page20" name="page20"></a>{20}</span> +<h3 id="nb12">Love</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Foolish love is only folly;</p> + <p>Wanton love is too unholy;</p> + <p>Greedy love is covetous;</p> + <p>Idle love is frivolous;</p> + <p>But the gracious love is it</p> + <p>That doth prove the work of it.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Beauty but deceives the eye;</p> + <p>Flattery leads the ear awry;</p> + <p>Wealth doth but enchant the wit;</p> + <p>Want, the overthrow of it;</p> + <p>While in Wisdom's worthy grace,</p> + <p>Virtue sees the sweetest face.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>There hath Love found out his life,</p> + <p>Peace without all thought of strife;</p> + <p>Kindness in Discretion's care;</p> + <p>Truth, that clearly doth declare</p> + <p>Faith doth in true fancy prove,</p> + <p>Lust the excrements of Love.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Then in faith may fancy see</p> + <p>How my love may constru'd be;</p> + <p>How it grows and what it seeks;</p> + <p>How it lives and what it likes;</p> + <p>So in highest grace regard it,</p> + <p>Or in lowest scorn discard it.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <div class="ref"><i>The Passionate Shepherd.</i></div> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> +<div class="poem" id="nb13"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,</p> + <p class="i2">That hand that holds the heart of every eye,</p> + <p>That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,</p> + <p class="i2">The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;</p> + <p>That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense</p> + <p>Doth show my only mistress' excellence.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page21" name="page21"></a>{21}</span> + <p>O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!</p> + <p class="i2">O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!</p> + <p>O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!</p> + <p class="i2">O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!</p> + <p>The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee,</p> + <p>Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,</p> + <p class="i2">To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,</p> + <p>To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,</p> + <p class="i2">To know that sense, no sense can understand,</p> + <p>To understand that all the world may know,</p> + <p>Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="nb14">Sonnet</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold</p> + <p>A kind of heaven in his authorities;</p> + <p>The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,</p> + <p>Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;</p> + <p>The epicure that eats and drinks all day,</p> + <p>Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;</p> + <p>And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,</p> + <p>Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.</p> + <p>But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,</p> + <p>No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss,</p> + <p>Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour,</p> + <p>And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:</p> + <p>No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be</p> + <p>In my Love's service, but to live to thee.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page22" name="page22"></a>{22}</span> +<h3 id="nb15">A Sweet Lullaby</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Come, little babe, come, silly soul,</p> + <p>Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,</p> + <p>Born as I doubt to all our dole,</p> + <p>And to thyself unhappy chief:</p> + <p class="i4">Sing lullaby and lap it warm,</p> + <p class="i4">Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou little thinkst, and less dost know</p> + <p>The cause of this thy mother's moan;</p> + <p>Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,</p> + <p>And I myself am all alone;</p> + <p class="i4">Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,</p> + <p class="i4">And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,</p> + <p>Mine only joy, what can I more?</p> + <p>If there be any wrong thy smart,</p> + <p>That may the destinies implore,</p> + <p class="i4">'Twas I, I say, against my will--</p> + <p class="i4">I wail the time, but be thou still.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!</p> + <p>Would God Himself He might thee see!</p> + <p>No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,</p> + <p>I know right well, for thee and me,</p> + <p class="i4">But come to mother, babe, and play,</p> + <p class="i4">For father false is fled away.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance</p> + <p>Thy father home again to send,</p> + <p>If Death do strike me with his lance</p> + <p>Yet may'st thou me to him commend:</p> + <p class="i4">If any ask thy mother's name,</p> + <p class="i4">Tell how by love she purchased blame.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page23" name="page23"></a>{23}</span> + <p>Then will his gentle heart soon yield:</p> + <p>I know him of a noble mind:</p> + <p>Although a lion in the field,</p> + <p>A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find:</p> + <p class="i4">Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!</p> + <p class="i4">His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,</p> + <p>Although in woe I seem to moan;</p> + <p>Thy father is no rascal lad:</p> + <p>A noble youth of blood and bone,</p> + <p class="i4">His glancing looks, if he once smile,</p> + <p class="i4">Right honest women may beguile.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!</p> + <p>Sing lullaby, and be thou still!</p> + <p>I, that can do naught else but weep,</p> + <p>Will sit by thee and wail my fill:</p> + <p class="i4">God bless my babe, and lullaby,</p> + <p class="i4">From this thy father's quality.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="note">[Transcribers' note 1: 'lown' in the original]</div> + +<p class="caesura"> </p> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page24" name="page24"></a>{24}</span> +<h2>George Wither</h2> + + +<h3 id="gw01">Prelude</h3> +<div class="ref">(From <i>The Shepherd's Hunting</i>)</div> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Seest thou not, in clearest days,</p> + <p>Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?</p> + <p>And that vapours which do breathe</p> + <p>From the Earth's gross womb beneath,</p> + <p>Seem unto us with black steams</p> + <p>To pollute the Sun's bright beams,</p> + <p>And yet vanish into air,</p> + <p>Leaving it unblemished fair?</p> + <p>So, my Willy, shall it be</p> + <p>With Detraction's breath on thee:</p> + <p>It shall never rise so high</p> + <p>As to stain thy poesy.</p> + <p>As that sun doth oft exhale</p> + <p>Vapours from each rotten vale,</p> + <p>Poesy so sometime drains</p> + <p>Gross conceits from muddy brains;</p> + <p>Mists of envy, fogs of spite,</p> + <p>Twixt men's judgments and her light;</p> + <p>But so much her power may do,</p> + <p>That she can dissolve them too.</p> + <p>If thy verse do bravely tower,</p> + <p>As she makes wing she gets power;</p> + <p>Yet the higher she doth soar,</p> + <p>She's affronted still the more,</p> + <p>Till she to the highest hath past;</p> + <p>Then she rests with Fame at last.</p> + <p>Let nought, therefore, thee affright;</p> + <p>But make forward in thy flight.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page25" name="page25"></a>{25}</span> + <p>For if I could match thy rhyme,</p> + <p>To the very stars I'd climb;</p> + <p>There begin again, and fly</p> + <p>Till I reached eternity.</p> + <p>But, alas, my Muse is slow,</p> + <p>For thy place she flags too low;</p> + <p>Yea, the more's her hapless fate,</p> + <p>Her short wings were clipt of late;</p> + <p>And poor I, her fortune ruing,</p> + <p>Am put up myself a mewing.</p> + <p>But if I my cage can rid,</p> + <p>I'll fly where I never did;</p> + <p>And though for her sake I'm crost,</p> + <p>Though my best hopes I have lost,</p> + <p>And knew she would make my trouble</p> + <p>Ten times more than ten times double,</p> + <p>I should love and keep her too,</p> + <p>Spite of all the world could do.</p> + <p>For though, banished from my flocks</p> + <p>And confined within these rocks,</p> + <p>Here I waste away the light</p> + <p>And consume the sullen night,</p> + <p>She doth for my comfort stay,</p> + <p>And keeps many cares away.</p> + <p>Though I miss the flowery fields,</p> + <p>With those sweets the spring-tide yields;</p> + <p>Though I may not see those groves,</p> + <p>Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,</p> + <p>And the lasses more excel</p> + <p>Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;</p> + <p>Though of all those pleasures past,</p> + <p>Nothing now remains at last</p> + <p>But Remembrance--poor relief!</p> + <p>That more makes than mends my grief:</p> + <p>She's my mind's companion still,</p> + <p>Maugre envy's evil will;</p> + <p>Whence she should be driven too,</p> + <p>Were't in mortal's power to do.</p> + <p>She doth tell me where to borrow</p> + <p>Comfort in the midst of sorrow,</p> + <p>Makes the desolatest place</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page26" name="page26"></a>{26}</span> + <p>To her presence be a grace,</p> + <p>And the blackest discontents</p> + <p>To be pleasing ornaments.</p> + <p>In my former days of bliss</p> + <p>Her divine skill taught me this,</p> + <p>That from everything I saw</p> + <p>I could some invention draw,</p> + <p>And raise pleasure to her height</p> + <p>Through the meanest object's sight;</p> + <p>By the murmur of a spring,</p> + <p>Or the least bough's rustling;</p> + <p>By a daisy, whose leaves spread,</p> + <p>Shut when Titan goes to bed;</p> + <p>Or a shady bush or tree;</p> + <p>She could more infuse in me,</p> + <p>Than all Nature's beauties can</p> + <p>In some other wiser man.</p> + <p>By her help I also now</p> + <p>Make this churlish place allow</p> + <p>Some things that may sweeten gladness</p> + <p>In the very gall of sadness:</p> + <p>The dull loneness, the black shade</p> + <p>That these hanging vaults have made;</p> + <p>The strange music of the waves</p> + <p>Beating on these hollow caves;</p> + <p>This black den which rocks emboss</p> + <p>Overgrown with eldest moss;</p> + <p>The rude portals that give light</p> + <p>More to terror than delight;</p> + <p>This my chamber of neglect,</p> + <p>Walled about with disrespect;</p> + <p>From all these, and this dull air,</p> + <p>A fit object for despair,</p> + <p>She hath taught me, by her might,</p> + <p>To draw comfort and delight.</p> + <p>Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,</p> + <p>I will cherish thee for this.</p> + <p>Poesy, thou sweet'st content</p> + <p>That e'er Heaven to mortals lent!</p> + <p>Though they as a trifle leave thee</p> + <p>Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page27" name="page27"></a>{27}</span> + <p>Though thou be to them a scorn</p> + <p>That to nought but earth are born</p> + <p>Let my life no longer be</p> + <p>Than I am in love with thee.</p> + <p>Though our wise ones call thee madness,</p> + <p>Let me never taste of gladness,</p> + <p>If I love not thy maddest fits</p> + <p>More than all their greatest wits.</p> + <p>And though some, too seeming holy,</p> + <p>Do account thy raptures folly,</p> + <p>Thou dost teach me to contemn</p> + <p>What makes knaves and fools of them.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw02">A Poet's Home</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make</p> + <p>Within one valley a large silver lake:</p> + <p>About whose banks the fertile mountains stood</p> + <p>In ages passèd bravely crowned with wood,</p> + <p>Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it grace</p> + <p>To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place;</p> + <p>And from her father Neptune's brackish court,</p> + <p>Fair Thetis thither often would resort,</p> + <p>Attended by the fishes of the sea,</p> + <p>Which in those sweeter waters came to plea.</p> + <p>There would the daughter of the Sea God dive,</p> + <p>And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve</p> + <p>To wait upon her: bringing for her brows</p> + <p>Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs.</p> + <p>For pleasant was that pool, and near it then</p> + <p>Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen,</p> + <p>It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge,</p> + <p>Nor grew there rudely then along the edge</p> + <p>A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,</p> + <p>Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush.</p> + <p>But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers,</p> + <p>There grassy plots set round about with flowers.</p> + <p>Here you might through the water see the land</p> + <p>Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand;</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page28" name="page28"></a>{28}</span> + <p>Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs</p> + <p>Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs</p> + <p>On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than</p> + <p>The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,</p> + <p>With all those flocks of fowls which to this day,</p> + <p>Upon those quiet waters breed and play.</p> + <p>For though those excellences wanting be</p> + <p>Which once it had, it is the same that we</p> + <p>By transposition name the Ford of Arle,</p> + <p>And out of which, along a chalky marle,</p> + <p>That river trills whose waters wash the fort</p> + <p>In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.</p> + <p>North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies</p> + <p>A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,</p> + <p>With leisurely ascending, to such height</p> + <p>As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight</p> + <p>You in the ocean's bosom may espy,</p> + <p>Though near two furlongs thence it lie.</p> + <p>The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,</p> + <p>Is strewèd o'er with marjoram and thyme,</p> + <p>Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want</p> + <p>The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant</p> + <p>That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;</p> + <p>Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall;</p> + <p>Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine;</p> + <p>Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine,</p> + <p>With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair</p> + <p>The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + <p class="i2">When you unto the highest do attain</p> + <p>An intermixture both of wood and plain</p> + <p>You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,</p> + <p>Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry,</p> + <p>So much, at least, as little needeth more,</p> + <p>If not enough to merchandise their store.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + <p class="i2">In every row hath nature planted there</p> + <p>Some banquet for the hungry passenger.</p> + <p>For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows,</p> + <p>There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.</p> + <p>On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree,</p> + <p>On that large thickets of blackberries be.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page29" name="page29"></a>{29}</span> + <p>The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there,</p> + <p>The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are,</p> + <p>And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills</p> + <p>With some small number of such pretty rills</p> + <p>As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen</p> + <p>A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Faire Virtue</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="gw03">Her Beauty</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Her true beauty leaves behind</p> + <p>Apprehensions in my mind</p> + <p>Of more sweetness than all art</p> + <p>Or inventions can impart;</p> + <p>Thoughts too deep to be expressed,</p> + <p>And too strong to be suppressed....</p> + <p>... What pearls, what rubies can</p> + <p>Seem so lovely fair to man,</p> + <p>As her lips whom he doth love</p> + <p>When in sweet discourse they move:</p> + <p>Or her lovelier teeth, the while</p> + <p>She doth bless him with a smile!</p> + <p>Stars indeed fair creatures be;</p> + <p>Yet amongst us where is he</p> + <p>Joys not more the whilst he lies</p> + <p>Sunning in his mistress' eyes.</p> + <p>Than in all the glimmering light</p> + <p>Of a starry winter's night?</p> + <p class="i2">Note the beauty of an eye,</p> + <p>And if aught you praise it by</p> + <p>Leave such passion in your mind,</p> + <p>Let my reason's eye be blind.</p> + <p>Mark if ever red or white</p> + <p>Anywhere gave such delight</p> + <p>As when they have taken place</p> + <p>In a worthy woman's face.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Faire Virtue</i>.</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page30" name="page30"></a>{30}</span> +<h3 id="gw04">Rhomboidal Dirge.</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p style="text-align:center;">Ah me!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Am I the swain</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">That late from sorrow free</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Did all the cares on earth disdain?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And still untouched, as at some safer games,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Was't I could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">So sunk that I shall never rise again?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Then let despair set sorrow's string,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">For strains that doleful be;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And I will sing,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Ah me!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="text-align:center;">But why,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">O fatal time,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Dost thou constrain that I</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Should perish in my youth's sweet prime?</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers!)</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And yet unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Yet I, poor I! must perish ne'ertheless.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And (which much more augments my care)</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Unmoanèd I must die,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And no man e'er</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Know why.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="text-align:center;">Thy leave,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">My dying song,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Yet take, ere grief bereave</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">The breath which I enjoy too long,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefers</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Her love above my life; and that I died her's:</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And now farewell! thou place of my unhappy birth,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Since me my wonted joys forsake,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And all my trust deceive;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Of all I take</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">My leave.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page31" name="page31"></a>{31}</span> + <p style="text-align:center;">Farewell!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Sweet groves, to you!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">You hills, that highest dwell;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And all you humble vales, adieu!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">My dear companions all! and you, my tender flocks!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Have, without pity, broke the truest heart.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">That erst did with me dwell,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And all other joys,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Farewell!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="text-align:center;">Adieu!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Fair shepherdesses!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Let garlands of sad yew</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Adorn your dainty golden tresses.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I, that loved you, and often with my quill,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Yea, with a thousand rather favours, would vouchsafe to grace,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And never pipe, nor never sing again!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I must, for evermore, be gone;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And therefore bid I you,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And every one,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Adieu!</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="text-align:center;">I die!</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">For, oh! I feel</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Death's horrors drawing nigh,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And all this frame of nature reel.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound;</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">Benumbed is my cold sweating brow</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">A dimness shuts my eye.</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">And now, oh! now,</p> + <p style="text-align:center;">I die!</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Faire Virtue</i>.</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page32" name="page32"></a>{32}</span> +<h3 id="gw05">Song</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Lordly gallants! tell me this</p> + <p class="i2">(Though my safe content you weigh not),</p> + <p>In your greatness, what one bliss</p> + <p class="i2">Have you gained, that I enjoy not?</p> + <p class="i4">You have honours, you have wealth;</p> + <p class="i4">I have peace, and I have health:</p> + <p class="i4">All the day I merry make,</p> + <p class="i4">And at night no care I take.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Bound to none my fortunes be,</p> + <p class="i2">This or that man's fall I fear not;</p> + <p>Him I love that loveth me,</p> + <p class="i2">For the rest a pin I care not.</p> + <p class="i4">You are sad when others chaff,</p> + <p class="i4">And grow merry as they laugh;</p> + <p class="i4">I that hate it, and am free,</p> + <p class="i4">Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>You may boast of favours shown,</p> + <p class="i2">Where your service is applied:</p> + <p>But my pleasures are mine own,</p> + <p class="i2">And to no man's humour tied.</p> + <p class="i4">You oft flatter, sooth, and feign;</p> + <p class="i4">I such baseness do disdain;</p> + <p class="i4">And to none be slave I would,</p> + <p class="i4">Though my fetters might be gold.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>By great titles, some believe,</p> + <p class="i2">Highest honours are attained;</p> + <p>And yet kings have power to give</p> + <p class="i2">To their fools, what these have gained.</p> + <p class="i4">Where they favour there they may</p> + <p class="i4">All their names of honour lay;</p> + <p class="i4">But I look not raised to be,</p> + <p class="i4">'Till mine own wing carry me.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Seek to raise your titles higher;</p> + <p class="i2">They are toys not worth my sorrow;</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page33" name="page33"></a>{33}</span> + <p>Those that we to-day admire,</p> + <p class="i2">Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.</p> + <p class="i4">Take your honours; let me find</p> + <p class="i4">Virtue in a free born mind--</p> + <p class="i4">This, the greatest kings that be</p> + <p class="i4">Cannot give, nor take from me.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Though I vainly do not vaunt</p> + <p class="i2">Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure;</p> + <p>I have favours where you want,</p> + <p class="i2">That would buy respect with treasure.</p> + <p class="i4">You have lands lie here and there,</p> + <p class="i4">But my wealth is everywhere;</p> + <p class="i4">And this addeth to my store--</p> + <p class="i4">Fortune cannot make me poor.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Say you purchase with your pelf</p> + <p class="i2">Some respect, where you importune;</p> + <p>Those may love me for myself,</p> + <p class="i2">That regard you for your fortune.</p> + <p class="i4">Rich or born of high degree,</p> + <p class="i4">Fools as well as you may be;</p> + <p class="i4">But that peace in which I live</p> + <p class="i4">No descent nor wealth can give.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>If you boast that you may gain</p> + <p class="i2">The respect of high-born beauties;</p> + <p>Know I never wooed in vain,</p> + <p class="i2">Nor preferrèd scornèd duties.</p> + <p class="i4">She I love hath all delight,</p> + <p class="i4">Rosy-red with lily-white,</p> + <p class="i4">And whoe'er your mistress be,</p> + <p class="i4">Flesh and blood as good as she.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Note of me was never took,</p> + <p class="i2">For my woman-like perfections;</p> + <p>But so like a man I look,</p> + <p class="i2">It hath gained me best affections.</p> + <p class="i4">For my love as many showers</p> + <p class="i4">Have been wept as have for yours:</p> + <p class="i4">And yet none doth me condemn</p> + <p class="i4">For abuse, or scorning them.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page34" name="page34"></a>{34}</span> + <p>Though of dainties you have store,</p> + <p class="i2">To delight a choicer palate,</p> + <p>Yet your taste is pleased no more</p> + <p class="i2">Than is mine in one poor sallet.</p> + <p class="i4">You to please your senses feed</p> + <p class="i4">But I eat good blood to breed;</p> + <p class="i4">And am most delighted then</p> + <p class="i4">When I spend it like a man.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Though you lord it over me,</p> + <p class="i2">You in vain thereof have braved;</p> + <p>For those lusts my servants be</p> + <p class="i2">Whereunto your minds are slaved.</p> + <p class="i4">To yourselves you wise appear,</p> + <p class="i4">But, alas! deceived you are;</p> + <p class="i4">You do foolish me esteem,</p> + <p class="i4">And are that which I do seem.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>When your faults I open lay,</p> + <p class="i2">You are moved, and mad with vexing;</p> + <p>But you ne'er could do or say</p> + <p class="i2">Aught to drive me to perplexing.</p> + <p class="i4">Therefore, my despisèd power</p> + <p class="i4">Greater is, by far, than your.</p> + <p class="i4">And, whate'er you think of me,</p> + <p class="i4">In your minds you poorer be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>You are pleasèd, more or less,</p> + <p class="i2">As men well or ill report you;</p> + <p>And show discontentedness,</p> + <p class="i2">When the times forbear to court you.</p> + <p class="i4">That in which my pleasures be,</p> + <p class="i4">No man can divide from me;</p> + <p class="i4">And my care it adds not to,</p> + <p class="i4">Whatso others say or do.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Be not proud, because you view</p> + <p class="i2">You by thousands are attended;</p> + <p>For, alas! it is not you,</p> + <p class="i2">But your fortune that's befriended.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page35" name="page35"></a>{35}</span> + <p class="i4">Where I show of love have got,</p> + <p class="i4">Such a danger fear I not:</p> + <p class="i4">Since they nought can seek of me,</p> + <p class="i4">But for love, beloved to be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>When your hearts have everything,</p> + <p class="i2">You are pleasantly disposed:</p> + <p>But I can both laugh and sing,</p> + <p class="i2">Though my foes have me enclosed.</p> + <p class="i4">Yea, when dangers me do hem,</p> + <p class="i4">I delight in scorning them,</p> + <p class="i4">More than you in your renown,</p> + <p class="i4">Or a king can in his crown.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>You do bravely domineer,</p> + <p class="i2">Whilst the sun upon you shineth:</p> + <p>Yet, if any storm appear,</p> + <p class="i2">Basely, then, your mind declineth.</p> + <p class="i4">But, or shine, or rain, or blow,</p> + <p class="i4">I my resolutions know--</p> + <p class="i4">Living, dying, thrall, or free,</p> + <p class="i4">At one height my mind shall be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>When in thraldom I have lain,</p> + <p class="i2">Me not worth your thought you prized;</p> + <p>But your malice was in vain,</p> + <p class="i2">For your favours I despised.</p> + <p class="i4">And, howe'er you value me,</p> + <p class="i4">I with praise shall thought on be</p> + <p class="i4">When the world esteems you not</p> + <p class="i4">And your names shall be forgot.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>In these thoughts my riches are;</p> + <p class="i2">Now, though poor or mean you deem me,</p> + <p>I am pleased, and do not care</p> + <p class="i2">How the times or you esteem me.</p> + <p class="i4">For those toys that make you gay</p> + <p class="i4">Are but play-games for a day:</p> + <p class="i4">And when nature craves her due,</p> + <p class="i4">I as brave shall be as you.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page36" name="page36"></a>{36}</span> +<h3 id="gw06">Song</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall I, wasting in despair,</p> + <p>Die, because a woman's fair?</p> + <p>Or make pale my cheeks with care</p> + <p>'Cause another's rosy are?</p> + <p>Be she fairer than the day,</p> + <p>Or the flow'ry meads in May;</p> + <p class="i2">If she be not so to me,</p> + <p class="i2">What care I how fair she be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Should my heart be grieved or pined</p> + <p>'Cause I see a woman kind?</p> + <p>Or a well-disposèd nature</p> + <p>Joinèd with a lovely creature?</p> + <p>Be she meeker, kinder than</p> + <p>Turtle-dove or pelican:</p> + <p class="i2">If she be not so to me,</p> + <p class="i2">What care I how kind she be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Shall a woman's virtues move</p> + <p>Me to perish for her love?</p> + <p>Or, her well-deserving known,</p> + <p>Make me quite forget mine own?</p> + <p>Be she with that goodness blest</p> + <p>Which may gain her name of best</p> + <p class="i2">If she be not such to me,</p> + <p class="i2">What care I how good she be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>'Cause her fortune seems too high,</p> + <p>Shall I play the fool and die?</p> + <p>Those that bear a noble mind,</p> + <p>Where they want or riches find,</p> + <p>Think what with them they would do</p> + <p>That without them dare to woo.</p> + <p class="i2">And unless that mind I see,</p> + <p class="i2">What care I though great she be.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page37" name="page37"></a>{37}</span> + <p>Great, or good, or kind, or fair,</p> + <p>I will ne'er the more despair;</p> + <p>If she love me, this believe,</p> + <p>I will die ere she shall grieve.</p> + <p>If she slight me, when I woo,</p> + <p>I can scorn, and let her go.</p> + <p class="i2">For, if she be not for me,</p> + <p class="i2">What care I for whom she be.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw07">"Amarillis I Did Woo"</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Amarillis I did woo,</p> + <p>And I courted Phillis too;</p> + <p>Daphne, for her love, I chose;</p> + <p>Cloris, for that damask rose</p> + <p>In her cheek, I held as dear;</p> + <p>Yea, a thousand liked well near.</p> + <p>And, in love with all together,</p> + <p>Fearèd the enjoying either;</p> + <p>'Cause to be of one possest,</p> + <p>Barred the hope of all the rest.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw08">Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,</p> + <p class="i2">Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,</p> + <p>And free access unto that sweet lip lies</p> + <p class="i2">From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.</p> + <p>Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal,</p> + <p class="i2">From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss.</p> + <p>None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,</p> + <p class="i2">Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss.</p> + <p>Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,</p> + <p class="i2">There would be little sign I had done so.</p> + <p>Why then should I this robbery delay?</p> + <p class="i2">Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow.</p> + <p>Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,</p> + <p class="i2">And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page38" name="page38"></a>{38}</span> +<div class="poem"> +<h3 id="gw09">A Christmas Carol</h3> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>So now is come our joyful feast,</p> + <p class="i2">Let every man be jolly;</p> + <p>Each room with ivy leaves is drest,</p> + <p class="i2">And every post with holly.</p> + <p class="i4">Though some churls at our mirth repine,</p> + <p class="i4">Round your foreheads garlands twine,</p> + <p class="i4">Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,</p> + <p>And let us all be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,</p> + <p class="i2">And Christmas blocks are burning;</p> + <p>Their ovens they with baked meats choke,</p> + <p class="i2">And all their spits are turning.</p> + <p class="i4">Without the door let sorrow lie,</p> + <p class="i4">And if for cold it hap to die,</p> + <p class="i4">We'll bury it in a Christmas pie;</p> + <p>And evermore be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Now every lad is wondrous trim,</p> + <p class="i2">And no man minds his labour;</p> + <p>Our lasses have provided them</p> + <p class="i2">A bagpipe and a tabour.</p> + <p class="i4">Young men and maids, and girls and boys</p> + <p class="i4">Give life to one another's joys;</p> + <p class="i4">And you anon shall by their noise</p> + <p>Perceive that they are merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Rank misers now do sparing shun,</p> + <p class="i2">Their hall of music soundeth;</p> + <p>And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,</p> + <p class="i2">So all things there aboundeth.</p> + <p class="i4">The country-folk themselves advance,</p> + <p class="i4">For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France;</p> + <p class="i4">And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,</p> + <p>And all the town be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page39" name="page39"></a>{39}</span> + <p>Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn,</p> + <p class="i2">And all his best apparel;</p> + <p>Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn</p> + <p class="i2">With droppings of the barrel.</p> + <p class="i4">And those that hardly all the year</p> + <p class="i4">Had bread to eat or rags to wear,</p> + <p class="i4">Will have both clothes and dainty fare,</p> + <p>And all the day be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Now poor men to the justices</p> + <p class="i2">With capons make their errands;</p> + <p>And if they hap to fail of these,</p> + <p class="i2">They plague them with their warrants.</p> + <p class="i4">But now they feed them with good cheer,</p> + <p class="i4">And what they want they take in beer,</p> + <p class="i4">For Christmas comes but once a year,</p> + <p>And then they shall be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Good farmers in the country nurse</p> + <p class="i2">The poor, that else were undone;</p> + <p>Some landlords spend their money worse,</p> + <p class="i2">On lust and pride at London.</p> + <p class="i4">There the roysters they do play,</p> + <p class="i4">Drab and dice their land away,</p> + <p class="i4">Which may be ours another day;</p> + <p>And therefore let's be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>The client now his suit forbears,</p> + <p class="i2">The prisoner's heart is easèd;</p> + <p>The debtor drinks away his cares,</p> + <p class="i2">And for the time is pleasèd.</p> + <p class="i4">Though others' purses be more fat,</p> + <p class="i4">Why should we pine or grieve at that;</p> + <p class="i4">Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,</p> + <p>And therefore let's be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Hark how the wags abroad do call</p> + <p class="i2">Each other forth to rambling;</p> + <p>Anon you'll see them in the hall,</p> + <p class="i2">For nuts and apples scrambling,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page40" name="page40"></a>{40}</span> + <p class="i4">Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,</p> + <p class="i4">Anon they'll think the house goes round:</p> + <p class="i4">For they the cellar's depths have found,</p> + <p>And there they will be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>The wenches with their wassel-bowls</p> + <p class="i2">About the streets are singing;</p> + <p>The boys are come to catch the owls,</p> + <p class="i2">The wild mare in is bringing.</p> + <p class="i4">Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,</p> + <p class="i4">And to the dealing of the ox</p> + <p class="i4">Our honest neighbours come by flocks,</p> + <p>And here they will be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have,</p> + <p class="i2">And mate with everybody;</p> + <p>The honest now may play the knave,</p> + <p class="i2">And wise men play at noddy.</p> + <p class="i4">Some youths will now a mumming go,</p> + <p class="i4">Some others play at rowland-hoe,</p> + <p class="i4">And twenty other gameboys moe;</p> + <p>Because they will be merry.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Then wherefore in these merry days</p> + <p class="i2">Should we, I pray, be duller?</p> + <p>No, let us sing some roundelays</p> + <p class="i2">To make our mirth the fuller.</p> + <p class="i4">And whilst we thus inspirèd sing,</p> + <p class="i4">Let all the streets with echoes ring;</p> + <p class="i4">Woods, and hills, and everything</p> + <p>Bear witness we are merry.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw10">A Rocking Hymn</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,</p> + <p class="i2">What ails my darling thus to cry?</p> + <p>Be still, my child, and lend thine ear</p> + <p class="i2">To hear me sing thy lullaby.</p> + <p class="i4">My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page41" name="page41"></a>{41}</span> + <p>Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?</p> + <p class="i2">What thing to thee can mischief do?</p> + <p>Thy God is now thy father dear,</p> + <p class="i2">His holy Spouse, thy mother too.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Though thy conception was in sin,</p> + <p class="i2">A sacred bathing thou hast had;</p> + <p>And, though thy birth unclean hath been,</p> + <p class="i2">A blameless babe thou now art made.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>While thus thy lullaby I sing,</p> + <p class="i2">For thee great blessings ripening be;</p> + <p>Thine eldest brother is a King,</p> + <p class="i2">And hath a kingdom bought for thee.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,</p> + <p class="i2">For whosoever thee offends,</p> + <p>By thy protector threat'ned are,</p> + <p class="i2">And God and angels are thy friends.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>When God with us was dwelling here,</p> + <p class="i2">In little babes he took delight;</p> + <p>Such innocents as thou, my dear,</p> + <p class="i2">Are ever precious in His sight.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>A little infant once was He,</p> + <p class="i2">And, strength in weakness, then was laid</p> + <p>Upon His virgin-mother's knee,</p> + <p class="i2">That power to thee might be conveyed.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page42" name="page42"></a>{42}</span> + <p>In this, thy frailty and thy need,</p> + <p class="i2">He friends and helpers doth prepare,</p> + <p>Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;</p> + <p class="i2">For of thy weal they tender are.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>The King of kings, when he was born,</p> + <p class="i2">Had not so much for outward ease;</p> + <p>By Him such dressings were not worn,</p> + <p class="i2">Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Within a manger lodged thy Lord</p> + <p class="i2">Where oxen lay and asses fed;</p> + <p>Warm rooms we do to thee afford,</p> + <p class="i2">An easy cradle or a bed.</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>The wants that He did then sustain</p> + <p class="i2">Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;</p> + <p>And by His torments and His pain</p> + <p class="i2">Thy rest and ease securèd be.</p> + <p class="i4">My baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,</p> + <p class="i2">A promise and an earnest got</p> + <p>Of gaining everlasting bliss,</p> + <p class="i2">Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;</p> + <p class="i4">Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;</p> + <p class="i4">Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page43" name="page43"></a>{43}</span> +<h3 id="gw11">The Marigold</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>When with a serious musing I behold</p> + <p>The grateful and obsequious marigold,</p> + <p>How duly every morning she displays</p> + <p>Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;</p> + <p>How she observes him in his daily walk,</p> + <p>Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;</p> + <p>How when he down declines, she droops and mourns,</p> + <p>Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;</p> + <p>And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,</p> + <p>As if she scornèd to be lookèd on</p> + <p>By an inferior eye; or did contemn</p> + <p>To wait upon a meaner light than him.</p> + <p>When this I meditate, methinks the flowers</p> + <p>Have spirits far more generous than ours,</p> + <p>And give us fair examples to despise</p> + <p>The servile fawnings and idolatries,</p> + <p>Wherewith we court these earthly things below,</p> + <p>Which merit not the service we bestow....</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw12">Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Methought his royal person did foretell</p> + <p>A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear;</p> + <p>His look majestic seemèd to compel</p> + <p>All men to love him, rather than to fear.</p> + <p>And yet though he were every good man's joy,</p> + <p>And the alonely comfort of his own,</p> + <p>His very name with terror did annoy</p> + <p>His foreign foes so far as he was known.</p> + <p>Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale;</p> + <p>Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page44" name="page44"></a>{44}</span> + <p>(Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale,</p> + <p>Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea)</p> + <p>Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide</p> + <p>Of her o'er-daring and insulting pride.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="gw13">From a Satire written to King James I</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Did I not know a great man's power and might</p> + <p>In spite of innocence can smother right,</p> + <p>Colour his villainies to get esteem,</p> + <p>And make the honest man the villain seem?</p> + <p>I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,</p> + <p>Yet I protest if such a man I knew,</p> + <p>That might my country prejudice or thee</p> + <p>Were he the greatest or the proudest he,</p> + <p>That breathes this day; if so it might be found</p> + <p>That any good to either might redound,</p> + <p>I unappalled, dare in such a case</p> + <p>Rip up his foulest crimes before his face,</p> + <p>Though for my labour I were sure to drop</p> + <p>Into the mouth of ruin without hope.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page45" name="page45"></a>{45}</span> +<h2>William Browne</h2> + +<h3 id="wb01">To England</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot</p> + <p>Whose equal all the world affordeth not!</p> + <p>Show me who can so many crystal rills,</p> + <p>Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills;</p> + <p>Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;</p> + <p>Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;</p> + <p>And if the earth can show the like again,</p> + <p>Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb02">The Seasons</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p class="i4">The year hath first his jocund spring,</p> + <p>Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling,</p> + <p>Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day</p> + <p>Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray;</p> + <p>Next cometh autumn, when the threshèd sheaf</p> + <p>Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;</p> + <p>Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm,</p> + <p>Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn,</p> + <p>And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,</p> + <p>Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page46" name="page46"></a>{46}</span> +<h3 id="wb03">May Day Customs</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p class="i2">I have seen the Lady of the May</p> + <p>Set in an arbour, on a holiday,</p> + <p>Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains</p> + <p>Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains,</p> + <p>When envious night commands them to be gone</p> + <p>Call for the merry youngsters one by one,</p> + <p>And for their well performance soon disposes:</p> + <p>To this a garland interwove with roses,</p> + <p>To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip,</p> + <p>Gracing another with her cherry lip;</p> + <p>To one her garter, to another then</p> + <p>A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again;</p> + <p>And none returneth empty that hath spent</p> + <p>His pains to fill their rural merriment.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb04">Birds in May</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne</p> + <p>To take the kind air of a wistful morn</p> + <p>Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe</p> + <p>More strains than from my pipe can ever flow),</p> + <p>Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin</p> + <p>To chide the river for his clam'rous din;</p> + <p>There seem'd another in his song to tell,</p> + <p>That what the fair stream did he liked well;</p> + <p>And going further heard another too,</p> + <p>All varying still in what the others do;</p> + <p>A little thence, a fourth with little pain</p> + <p>Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again;</p> + <p>So numberless the songsters are that sing</p> + <p>In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring,</p> + <p>That I no sooner could the hearing lose</p> + <p>Of one of them, but straight another rose,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page47" name="page47"></a>{47}</span> + <p>And perching deftly on a quaking spray,</p> + <p>Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.</p> + <p> . . . . .</p> + <p>Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb05">Music on the Thames</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>As I have seen when on the breast of Thames</p> + <p>A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,</p> + <p>In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,</p> + <p>With music give a farewell to the day,</p> + <p>Or as they would, with an admired tone,</p> + <p>Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne,</p> + <p>Rapt with their melody a thousand more</p> + <p>Run to be wafted from the bounding shore.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb06">A Concert of Birds</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,</p> + <p>Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.</p> + <p>The lofty treble sung the little wren;</p> + <p>Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;</p> + <p>The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush</p> + <p>The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.</p> + <p>And that the music might be full in parts,</p> + <p>Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;</p> + <p>But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,</p> + <p>Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)</p> + <p>There should some droning part be, therefore will'd</p> + <p>Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,</p> + <p>In embassy unto the King of Bees,</p> + <p>To aid his partners on the flowers and trees</p> + <p>Who, condescending, gladly flew along</p> + <p>To bear the bass to his well-tuned song.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page48" name="page48"></a>{48}</span> + <p>The crow was willing they should be beholding</p> + <p>For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,</p> + <p>He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,</p> + <p>And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb07">Flowers</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down,</p> + <p>A golden tuft within a silver crown;</p> + <p>(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be</p> + <p>No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)</p> + <p>The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace</p> + <p>Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place;</p> + <p>The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be</p> + <p>Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity;</p> + <p>Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,</p> + <p>The fit impresas for inflam'd desire;</p> + <p>The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue</p> + <p>Claims to be worn of none but those are true;</p> + <p>The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,</p> + <p>And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands,</p> + <p>The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd</p> + <p>To be the badges of a jealous mind;</p> + <p>The orange-tawny marigold: the night</p> + <p>Hides not her colour from a searching sight....</p> + <p>The columbine in tawny often taken,</p> + <p>Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;</p> + <p>Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye</p> + <p>Is hope even in the depth of misery.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb08">Morning</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet</p> + <p>Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat,</p> + <p>The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,</p> + <p>Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page49" name="page49"></a>{49}</span> + <p>Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud</p> + <p>The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud</p> + <p>Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting</p> + <p>Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring</p> + <p>To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail</p> + <p>About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail</p> + <p>Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes,</p> + <p>Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,</p> + <p>Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime</p> + <p>Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time,</p> + <p>The careful smith had in his sooty forge</p> + <p>Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge</p> + <p>His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly,</p> + <p>And day as then might plead his in fancy.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb09">Night</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Now great Hyperion left his golden throne</p> + <p>That on the dancing waves in glory shone,</p> + <p>For whose declining on the western shore</p> + <p>The oriental hills black mantles wore,</p> + <p>And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,</p> + <p>That had from hideous caverns ushered</p> + <p>All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet,</p> + <p>By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat</p> + <p>Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky,</p> + <p>The helps of darkness waited orderly.</p> + <p>First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains;</p> + <p>Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins</p> + <p>Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;</p> + <p>From standing pools and fens were following</p> + <p>Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill</p> + <p>Sent up their vapours to attend her will</p> + <p>These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven</p> + <p>And as Night's chariot through the air was driven,</p> + <p>Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song</p> + <p>And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page50" name="page50"></a>{50}</span> + <p>Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,</p> + <p>And all the upper world lay in a trance.</p> + <p>Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;</p> + <p>And little gales that from the green leaf swept</p> + <p>Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.</p> + <p>As loath to waken any singing bird.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb10">A Pleasant Grove</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,</p> + <p>Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:</p> + <p>There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:</p> + <p>Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:</p> + <p>The walks there mounting up by small degrees,</p> + <p>The gravel and the green so equal lie,</p> + <p>It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:</p> + <p>Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,</p> + <p>Arising from the infinite repair</p> + <p>Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,</p> + <p>(As if it were another Paradise)</p> + <p>So please the smelling sense, that you are fain</p> + <p>Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.</p> + <p>There the small birds with their harmonious notes</p> + <p>Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:</p> + <p>For in her face a many dimples show,</p> + <p>And often skips as it did dancing go:</p> + <p>Here further down an over-arched alley,</p> + <p>That from a hill goes winding in a valley,</p> + <p>You spy at end thereof a standing lake,</p> + <p>Where some ingenious artist strives to make</p> + <p>The water (brought in turning pipes of lead</p> + <p>Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)</p> + <p>To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,</p> + <p>In singing well their own set madrigal.</p> + <p>This with no small delight retains your ear,</p> + <p>And makes you think none blest but who live there.</p> + <p>Then in another place the fruits that be</p> + <p>In gallant clusters decking each good tree,</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page51" name="page51"></a>{51}</span> + <p>Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,</p> + <p>And liking one, taste every sort of them:</p> + <p>Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,</p> + <p>Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,</p> + <p>Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence,</p> + <p>Now pleasing one, and then another sense.</p> + <p>Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,</p> + <p>As if it were some hidden labyrinth;</p> + <p>So loath to part and so content to stay,</p> + <p>That when the gard'ner knocks for you away,</p> + <p>It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,</p> + <p>That you could wish that you had never seen it.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb11">An Angler</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Now as an angler melancholy standing</p> + <p>Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,</p> + <p>A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,</p> + <p>Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:</p> + <p>Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,</p> + <p>Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,</p> + <p>He long stands viewing of the curled stream;</p> + <p>At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream</p> + <p>Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,</p> + <p>He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,</p> + <p>Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,</p> + <p>Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;</p> + <p>Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,</p> + <p>Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim</p> + <p>Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,</p> + <p>There underneath the banks, then in the mud,</p> + <p>And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,</p> + <p>That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:</p> + <p>By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath</p> + <p>A willow lies.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page52" name="page52"></a>{52}</span> +<h3 id="wb12">A Rill</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>So when the pretty rill a place espies,</p> + <p>Where with the pebbles she would wantonize,</p> + <p>And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her</p> + <p>To drive her thence, and let her play no longer;</p> + <p>If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,</p> + <p>As being much incens'd to leave her play,</p> + <p>A western, mild and pretty whispering gale</p> + <p>Came dallying with the leaves along the dale,</p> + <p>And seem'd as with the water it did chide,</p> + <p>Because it ran so long unpacified:</p> + <p>Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil,</p> + <p>Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil:</p> + <p>Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep,</p> + <p>And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb13">"Glide soft, ye Silver Floods"</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Glide soft, ye silver floods,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">And every spring:</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Within the shady woods</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">Let no bird sing!</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Nor from the grove a turtle-dove</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Be seen to couple with her love;</p> + <p>But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,</p> + <p>Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">But (of great Thetis' train)</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">Ye mermaids fair,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">That on the shores do plain</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">Your sea-green hair,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">As ye in trammels knit your locks,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks</p> + <p>In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell</p> + <p>How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page53" name="page53"></a>{53}</span> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">To move a wave;</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">But if with troubled minds</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">You seek his grave;</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Know 'tis as various as yourselves,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Now in the deep, then on the shelves,</p> + <p>His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,</p> + <p>Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Had he Arion-like</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">Been judged to drown,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">He on his lute could strike</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">So rare a sowne,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">A thousand dolphins would have come</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">And jointly strive to bring him home.</p> + <p>But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,</p> + <p>Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Great Neptune, hear a swain!</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">His coffin take,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">And with a golden chain</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">For pity make</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">It fast unto a rock near land!</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,</p> + <p>And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell,</p> + <p>Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="wb14">"Venus by Adonis' Side"</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Venus by Adonis' side</p> + <p>Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried,</p> + <p>Wrung her hands and tore her hair</p> + <p>For Adonis dying there.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!</p> + <p>Nature surely doth not give</p> + <p>To the earth her sweetest flowers</p> + <p>To be seen but some few hours.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page54" name="page54"></a>{54}</span> + <p>On his face, still as he bled</p> + <p>For each drop a tear she shed,</p> + <p>Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,</p> + <p>Else had drown'd him where he lay.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Fair Proserpina (quoth she)</p> + <p>Shall not have thee yet from me;</p> + <p>Nor my soul to fly begin</p> + <p>While my lips can keep it in.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Here she clos'd again. And some</p> + <p>Say Apollo would have come</p> + <p>To have cur'd his wounded limb,</p> + <p>But that she had smothered him.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb15">A Song</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,</p> + <p>Love's neglect is time's abusing,</p> + <p class="i2">They and beauty are but lent you;</p> + <p>Take the one and keep the other;</p> + <p>Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;</p> + <p class="i2">Beauty gone you will repent you.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>'Twill be said when ye have proved,</p> + <p>Never swains more truly loved:</p> + <p class="i2">Oh then fly all nice behaviour!</p> + <p>Pity fain would (as her duty)</p> + <p>Be attending still on Beauty,</p> + <p class="i2">Let her not be out of favour.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref">From <i>Britannia's Pastorals</i>.</div> + + +<h3 id="wb16">Spring Morning--I</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <h4><i>Thomalin.</i></h4> + <p>Where is every piping lad</p> + <p>That the fields are not yclad</p> + <p class="i4">With their milk-white sheep?</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page55" name="page55"></a>{55}</span> + <p>Tell me: is it holiday,</p> + <p>Or if in the month of May</p> + <p class="i4">Use they long to sleep?</p> + <h4><i>Piers.</i></h4> + <p>Thomalin, 'tis not too late,</p> + <p>For the turtle and her mate</p> + <p class="i4">Sitten yet in nest:</p> + <p>And the thrustle hath not been</p> + <p>Gath'ring worms yet on the green,</p> + <p class="i4">But attends her rest.</p> + <p>Not a bird hath taught her young,</p> + <p>Nor her morning's lesson sung</p> + <p class="i4">In the shady grove:</p> + <p>But the nightingale in dark</p> + <p>Singing woke the mounting lark:</p> + <p class="i4">She records her love.</p> + <p>Not the sun hath with his beams</p> + <p>Gilded yet our crystal streams;</p> + <p class="i4">Rising from the sea,</p> + <p>Mists do crown the mountains' tops,</p> + <p>And each pretty myrtle drops:</p> + <p class="i4">'Tis but newly day.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref"><i>The Shepherd's Pipe.</i></div> + + +<h3 id="wb17">Spring Morning--II</h3> +<div class="poem"> + + <h4><i>Willie.</i></h4> + <p>Roget, droop not, see the spring</p> + <p>Is the earth enamelling,</p> + <p>And the birds on every tree</p> + <p>Greet this morn with melody:</p> + <p>Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,</p> + <p>And her mate as proudly vants it</p> + <p>See how every stream is dress'd</p> + <p>By her margin with the best</p> + <p>Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad</p> + <p>For such brooks such flow'rs she had.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page56" name="page56"></a>{56}</span> + <p>All the trees are quaintly tired</p> + <p>With green buds, of all desired;</p> + <p>And the hawthorn every day</p> + <p>Spreads some little show of May:</p> + <p>See the primrose sweetly set</p> + <p>By the much-lov'd violet,</p> + <p>All the banks do sweetly cover,</p> + <p>As they would invite a lover</p> + <p>With his lass to see their dressing</p> + <p>And to grace them by their pressing:</p> + <p>Yet in all this merry tide</p> + <p>When all cares are laid aside,</p> + <p>Roget sits as if his blood</p> + <p>Had not felt the quick'ning good</p> + <p>Of the sun, nor cares to play,</p> + <p>Or with songs to pass the day</p> + <p>As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,</p> + <p>Raise thy head, and merrily</p> + <p>Tune us somewhat to thy reed:</p> + <p>See our flocks do freely feed,</p> + <p>Here we may together sit,</p> + <p>And for music very fit</p> + <p>Is this place; from yonder wood</p> + <p>Comes an echo shrill and good,</p> + <p>Twice full perfectly it will</p> + <p>Answer to thine oaten quill.</p> + <p>Roget, droop not then, but sing</p> + <p>Some kind welcome to the spring.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref"><i>The Shepherd's Pipe.</i></div> + + +<h3 id="wb18">A Round</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <h4><i>All.</i></h4> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veins</p> + <p class="i2">With kind and active fire,</p> + <p>And made green liv'ries for the plains,</p> + <p class="i2">And every grove a quire:</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page57" name="page57"></a>{57}</span> + <p>Sing me a song of merry glee,</p> + <p class="i2">And Bacchus fill the bowl.</p> + <p>1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to me</p> + <p class="i2">And every thirsty soul.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt,</p> + <p class="i2">Nor never shall do mine;</p> + <p>I have no cradle going yet,</p> + <p class="i2">Not I, by this good wine.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>No wife at home to send for me,</p> + <p class="i2">No hogs are in my ground,</p> + <p>No suit in law to pay a fee,</p> + <p class="i2">Then round, old Jocky, round.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<h4><i>All.</i></h4> + <p>Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,</p> + <p class="i2">But see that no man 'scape</p> + <p class="i4">To drink of the sherry,</p> + <p class="i4">That makes us so merry,</p> + <p class="i2">And plump as the lusty grape.</p> + +<p class="caesura"> </p> +<p class="caesura" id="wb19"> </p> + + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p><i>Welcome, welcome, do I sing,</i></p> + <p><i>Far more welcome than the spring;</i></p> + <p><i>He that parteth from you never</i></p> + <p><i>Shall enjoy a spring for ever.</i></p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Love, that to the voice is near</p> + <p class="i2">Breaking from your iv'ry pale,</p> + <p>Need not walk abroad to hear</p> + <p class="i2">The delightful nightingale.</p> + <p class="i4">Welcome, welcome, then I sing,</p> + <p class="i6">Far more welcome than the spring;</p> + <p class="i4">He that parteth from you never</p> + <p class="i6">Shall enjoy a spring for ever.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page58" name="page58"></a>{58}</span> + <p>Love, that looks still on your eyes,</p> + <p class="i2">Though the winter have begun</p> + <p>To benumb our arteries,</p> + <p class="i2">Shall not want the summer's sun.</p> + <p class="i6">Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Love that still may see your cheeks,</p> + <p class="i2">Where all rareness still reposes,</p> + <p>Is a fool, if e'er he seeks</p> + <p class="i2">Other lilies, other roses.</p> + <p class="i6">Welcome, welcome, &c.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Love, to whom your soft lip yields,</p> + <p class="i2">And perceives your breath in kissing,</p> + <p>All the odours of the fields</p> + <p class="i2">Never, never shall be missing.</p> + <p class="i6">Welcome, welcome, &c.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>Love, that question would anew</p> + <p class="i2">What fair Eden was of old,</p> + <p>Let him rightly study you,</p> + <p class="i2">And a brief of that behold.</p> + <p class="i6">Welcome, welcome, then I &c.</p> + </div> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="wb20">Autumn</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs,</p> + <p>And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks;</p> + <p>Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,</p> + <p>And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">The pleasant meadows sadly lay</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">In chill and cooling sweats</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">By rising fountains, or as they</p> + <p style="margin-left: 10em;">Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref"><i>The Shepherd's Pipe.</i></div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page59" name="page59"></a>{59}</span> +<h3 id="wb21">The Siren's Song</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <div class="stanza"> + <p>Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">All beaten mariners,</p> + <p>Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">A prey to passengers;</p> + <p>Perfumes far sweeter than the best</p> + <p>Which makes the Phœnix' urn and nest.</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Fear not your ships,</p> + <p>Nor any to oppose you save our lips,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">But come on shore,</p> + <p>Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.</p> + </div><div class="stanza"> + <p>For swelling waves our panting breasts,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">Where never storms arise,</p> + <p>Exchange; and be awhile our guests:</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">For stars gaze on our eyes.</p> + <p>The compass love shall hourly sing,</p> + <p>And as he goes about the ring,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 6em;">We will not miss</p> + <p>To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.</p> + </div> + <p>CHORUS.</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Then come on shore,</p> + <p>Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref"><i>The Inner Temple Masque.</i></div> + + +<h3 id="wb22">The Charm</h3> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Son of Erebus and Night,</p> + <p>Hie away; and aim thy flight</p> + <p>Where consort none other fowl</p> + <p>Than the bat and sullen owl;</p> + <p>Where upon the limber grass</p> + <p>Poppy and mandragoras</p> + <p>With like simples not a few</p> + <p>Hang for ever drops of dew.</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page60" name="page60"></a>{60}</span> + <p>Where flows Lethe without coil</p> + <p>Softly like a stream of oil.</p> + <p>Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:</p> + <p>With this Greek no longer keep.</p> + <p>Thrice I charge thee by my wand;</p> + <p>Thrice with moly from my hand</p> + <p>Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,</p> + <p>And with the jaspis: Then arise,</p> + <p>Sagest Greek....</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<div class="ref"><i>The Inner Temple Masque.</i></div> + + +<h3 id="wb23">Cælia</h3> + +<h4>(Sonnets)</h4> +<div class="poem"> + <p>Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,</p> + <p>Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;</p> + <p>And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,</p> + <p>Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:</p> + <p>Not to make good that poets never can</p> + <p>Long time without a chosen mistress be,</p> + <p>Do I sing thus; or my affections ran</p> + <p>Within the maze of mutability;</p> + <p>What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,</p> + <p>And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,</p> + <p>Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find</p> + <p>The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,</p> + <p class="i2">I may adore it there, and love the cell</p> + <p class="i2">For entertaining what I lov'd so well.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<div class="poem" id="wb24"> + <p>Why might I not for once be of that sect,</p> + <p>Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right,</p> + <p>Some other bodies to themselves elect;</p> + <p>And sunlike make the day, and license night?</p> + <p>That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere</p> + <p>Was to enlighten straight another part;</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page61" name="page61"></a>{61}</span> + <p>In that horizon, if I see it there,</p> + <p>Calls for my first respect and its desert;</p> + <p>Her virtue is the same and may be more;</p> + <p>For as the sun is distant, so his power</p> + <p>In operation differs, and the store</p> + <p>Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our.</p> + <p class="i2">And verily I think her climate such,</p> + <p class="i2">Since to my former flame it adds so much.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<div class="poem" id="wb25"> + <p>Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry</p> + <p>You took my hand to try if you could guess</p> + <p>By lines therein if any wight there be</p> + <p>Ordain'd to make me know some happiness;</p> + <p>I wish'd that those characters could explain,</p> + <p>Whom I will never wrong with hope to win;</p> + <p>Or that by them a copy might be ta'en,</p> + <p>By you alone what thoughts I have within.</p> + <p>But since the hand of Nature did not set</p> + <p>(As providently loath to have it known)</p> + <p>The means to find that hidden alphabet.</p> + <p>Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone:</p> + <p class="i2">By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair,</p> + <p class="i2">If now you see her that doth love me there.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<div class="poem" id="wb26"> + <p>Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest</p> + <p>And take a long leave of sweet poesy;</p> + <p>Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,</p> + <p>Should hear no more mine oaten melody;</p> + <p>Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile</p> + <p>Unperfect lie, and make no further known</p> + <p>The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle;</p> + <p>Till I have left some record of mine own.</p> + <p>You are the subject now, and, writing you,</p> + <p>I well may versify, not poetize:</p> + <p>Here needs no fiction: for the graces true</p> + <p>And virtues clip not with base flatteries.</p> + <p class="i2">Here could I write what you deserve of praise,</p> + <p class="i2">Others might wear, but I should win the bays.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page62" name="page62"></a>{62}</span> +<div class="poem" id="wb27"> + <p>Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps,</p> + <p>And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;</p> + <p>Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps</p> + <p>Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves</p> + <p>Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,</p> + <p>(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)</p> + <p>Give way, that I in silence may admire.</p> + <p>Is not her sleep like that of innocents,</p> + <p>Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,</p> + <p>Almost in death, than are the ornaments</p> + <p>Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?</p> + <p class="i2">She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie</p> + <p class="i2">And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<h3 id="wb28">Visions</h3> + +<h4>(Sonnets)</h4> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea,</p> + <p>Singing a sad farewell unto the vale,</p> + <p>While fishes leapt to hear her melody,</p> + <p>And on each thorn a gentle nightingale</p> + <p>And many other birds forbore their notes,</p> + <p>Leaping from tree to tree, as she along</p> + <p>The panting bosom of the current floats,</p> + <p>Rapt with the music of her dying song:</p> + <p>When from a thick and all-entangled spring</p> + <p>A neatherd rude came with no small ado,</p> + <p>Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,</p> + <p>And quickly struck her tender neck in two;</p> + <p class="i2">Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed,</p> + <p class="i2">And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<div class="poem" id="wb29"> + <p>A rose, as fair as ever saw the North,</p> + <p>Grew in a little garden all alone;</p> + <p>A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,</p> + <p>Nor fairer garden yet was never known:</p> +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page63" name="page63"></a>{63}</span> + <p>The maidens danc'd about it morn and noon,</p> + <p>And learned bards of it their ditties made;</p> + <p>The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon</p> + <p>Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.</p> + <p>But well-a-day, the gard'ner careless grew;</p> + <p>The maids and fairies both were kept away,</p> + <p>And in a drought the caterpillars threw</p> + <p>Themselves upon the bud and every spray.</p> + <p class="i2">God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,</p> + <p class="i2">The fairest blossom of the garden dies.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + +<div class="poem" id="wb30"> + <p>Down in a valley, by a forest's side,</p> + <p>Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves,</p> + <p>I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,</p> + <p>As if the lilies grew to be his slaves;</p> + <p>The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,</p> + <p>Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass;</p> + <p>The humble violet, that lowly down</p> + <p>Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass:</p> + <p>These, with a many more, methought, complain'd</p> + <p>That Nature should those needless things produce,</p> + <p>Which not alone the sun from others gain'd</p> + <p>But turn it wholly to their proper use:</p> + <p class="i2">I could not choose but grieve that Nature made</p> + <p class="i2">So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + +<hr style="width:20%;" /> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + + +<div class="poem" id="wb31"> + <p>A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,</p> + <p>That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play</p> + <p>The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,</p> + <p>Methought I saw, upon a summer's day,</p> + <p>Take up a little satyr in a wood,</p> + <p>All masterless forlorn as none did know him,</p> + <p>And nursing him with those of his own blood,</p> + <p>On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him;</p> + <p>But with the god he long time had not been,</p> + <p>Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot,</p> + <p>And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd between</p> + <p>Pan and all good befell the poor man's lot:</p> + <p class="i2">Whereat all good men griev'd, and strongly swore</p> + <p class="i2">They never would be foster-fathers more.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + +<span class="pagenum"><a id="page64" name="page64"></a>{64}</span> +<h3 id="wb32">Epitaphs</h3> + +<h4>In Obitum M S, X° Maij, 1614</h4> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Nor Flora's pride!</p> + <p>In thee all flowers and roses spring,</p> + <p style="margin-left: 8em;">Mine only died.</p> +</div> +<p class="author">W. B.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + + +<h4 id="wb33">On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke</h4> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>Underneath this sable herse</p> + <p>Lies the subject of all verse:</p> + <p>Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:</p> + <p>Death, ere thou hast slain another,</p> + <p>Fair and learn'd, and good as she,</p> + <p>Time shall throw a dart at thee.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> + <p>Marble piles let no man raise</p> + <p>To her name: for after days</p> + <p>Some kind woman born as she,</p> + <p>Reading this, like Niobe</p> + <p>Shall turn marble, and become</p> + <p>Both her mourner and her tomb.</p> +<p class="caesura"> </p> +</div> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of of Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, +Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne +(of Tavistock) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 22001-h.htm or 22001-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/0/0/22001/ + +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) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + +</body> +</html> + + diff --git a/22001-h/images/logo.png b/22001-h/images/logo.png Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..db459ad --- /dev/null +++ b/22001-h/images/logo.png diff --git a/22001.txt b/22001.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cdd9ac8 --- /dev/null +++ b/22001.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2905 @@ +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) + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASTORAL AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 22001.txt or 22001.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/0/0/22001/ + +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) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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