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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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