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The Pembroke Booklets

(First Series)

III

Nicholas Breton

Pastoral Poems

George Wither

Selected Poetry

William Browne

(of Tavistock)

Pastoral Poetry

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

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