The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,
Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne
(of Tavistock)

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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)

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.

                    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].

{08}

 

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

{09}

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:

{10}

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.

 

 

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

{12}

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,

{13}

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.

 

{14}

 

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?

{15}

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.

 

{16}

 

 

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.

{17}

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.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

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.

{25}

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

{26}

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,

{27}

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.

 

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;

{28}

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.

{29}

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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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

 

 

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....

 

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,

{44}

(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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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,

{47}

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.

 

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.

 

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.

{48}

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.

 

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.

 

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

{49}

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.

 

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

{50}

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.

 

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,

{51}

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

 

 

 

Thomalin.

Where is every piping lad

That the fields are not yclad

With their milk-white sheep?

{55}

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.

 

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.

{56}

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.

 

All.

 

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.

 

CHORUS.

Then come on shore,

Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

 

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.

{60}

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....

 

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;

{61}

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.

 

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:

{63}

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.

 

May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,

Nor Flora's pride!

In thee all flowers and roses spring,

Mine only died.

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.

 

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