University of Virginia Library

In sweet April, the messēger to May
When hoonie drops, do melt in golden showres,
When every byrde, records hir lovers lay,
And westerne windes, do foster forth our floures,
Late in an even, I walked out alone,
To heare the descant of the Nightingale,
And as I stoode, I heard hir make great moane,
Waymenting much, and thus she tolde hir tale.

These thriftles birds (quoth she) which spend the day,
In nedlesse notes, and chaunt withouten skil,
Are costly kept, and finely fedde alway
With daintie foode, wherof they feede their fil.
But I which spend, the darke and dreadful night,
In watch & ward, whē those birds take their rest,
Forpine my selfe, that Lovers might delight,
To heare the notes, which breake out of my breste.
I leade a life, to please the Lovers minde,
(And though god wot, my foode be light of charge,
Yet seely soule, that can no favour finde)
I begge my breade, and seke for seedes at large.
The Throstle she, which makes the wood to ring
With shryching lowde, that lothsome is to heare,
Is costly kept, in cage: (O wondrous thing)
The Mavis eke, whose notes are nothing cleare,
Now in good sooth (quoth she) sometimes I wepe
To see Tom Tyttimouse, so much set by.
The Finche, which singeth never a note but peepe,
Is fedde aswel, nay better farre than I.
The Lennet and the Larke, they sing alofte,
And coumpted are, as Lordes in high degree.
The Brandlet saith, for singing sweete and softe,
(In hir conceit) there is none such as she.
Canara byrds, come in to beare the bell,
And Goldfinches, do hope to get the gole:
The tatling Awbe doth please some fancie wel,
And some like best, the byrde as Blacke as cole.
And yet could I, if so it were my minde,
For harmony, set al these babes to schole,
And sing such notes, as might in every kinde
Disgrace them quight, & make their corage coole.
But should I so? no no so wil I not.
Let brutish beasts, heare such brute birds as those
(For like to like, the proverbe saith I wot)
And should I then, my cunning skil disclose?
For such unkinde, as let the cukowe flye,
To sucke mine eggs, whiles I sit in the thicke?
And rather praise, the chattring of a pye,
Than hir that sings, with brest against a pricke?
Nay let them go, to marke the cuckowes talke,
The jangling Jay, for that becomes them wel.
And in the silent night then let them walke,
To heare the Owle, how she doth shryche and yel.
And from henceforth, I wil no more constraine
My pleasant voice, to sounde, at their request.
But shrowd my selfe, in darkesome night & raine,
And learne to cowche, ful close upon my neast.
Yet if I chaunce, at any time (percase)
To sing a note, or twaine for my disporte,
It shalbe done, in some such secret place,
That fewe or none, may therunto resorte.
These flatterers, (in love) which falshood meane,
Not once aproch, to heare my pleasant song.
But such as true, and stedfast lovers bene,
Let them come neare, for else they do me wrong.
And as I gesse, not many miles from hence,
There stands a squire, with pangs of sorrow prest,
For whom I dare, avowe (in his defence)
He is as true, (in Love) as is the best.

Him wil I cheare, with chaunting al this night:
And with that word, she gan to cleare hir throate.
But such a lively song (now by this light)
Yet never hearde I such another note.
It was (thought me) so pleasant and so plaine,
Orphæus harpe, was never halfe so sweete,
Tereu, Tereu, and thus she gan to plaine,
Most piteously, which made my hart to greeve,

Hir second note, was fy, fy, fy, fy, fy,
And that she did, in pleasant wise repeate,
With sweete reports, of heavenly harmonie,
But yet it seemd, hir gripes of griefe were greate.
For when she had, so soong and taken breath,
Then should you heare, hir heavy hart so throbbe,
As though it had bene, overcome with death,
And yet alwayes, in every sigh and sobbe,

She shewed great skil, for tunes of unisone,
Hir Jug, Jug, Jug, (in griefe) had such a grace.
Then stinted she, as if hir song were done.
And ere that past, not ful a furlong space,
She gan againe, in melodie to melt,
And many a note, she warbled wondrous wel.
Yet can I not (although my hart should swelt)
Remember al, which hir sweete tong did tel.

But one strange note, I noted with the rest
And that saide thus: Nêmesis, Némesis,
The which me thought, came boldly fro hir brest,
As though she blamde, (therby) some thing amisse.

Short tale to make, her singing sounded so,
And pleasde mine eares, with such varietie,
That (quite forgetting all the wearie wo,
Which I my selfe felt in my fantasie)
I stoode astoynde, and yet therwith content,
Wishing in hart that (since I might advante,
Of al hir speech to knowe the plaine entent,
Which grace hirselfe, or else the Gods did graunt)
I might therwith, one furder favor crave,
To understand, what hir swete notes might meane.
And in that thought, (my whole desire to have)
I fell on sleepe, as I on staffe did leane.

And in my slomber, had I such a sight,
As yet to thinke theron doth glad my minde.
Me thought I sawe a derling of delight,
A stately Nimph, a dame of heavenly kinde.

Whose glittring gite, so glimsed in mine eyes,
As (yet) I not, what proper hew it bare,
Ne therewithal, my wits can wel devise,
To whom I might hir lovely lookes compare.
But trueth to tel, (for al hir smyling cheere)
She cast sometimes, a grievous frowning glance,
As who would say: by this it may appeare,
That Just revenge, is Prest for every chance,
In hir right hand, (which to and fro did shake)
She bare a skourge, with many a knottie string,
And in hir left, a snaffle Bit or brake,
Bebost with gold, and many a gingling ring:
She came apace, and stately did she stay,
And whiles I seemd, amazed very much,
The courteous dame, these words to me did say:
Sir Squire (quoth she) since thy desire is such,
To understande, the notes of Phylomene,
(For so she hight, whom thou calst Nightingale)
And what the sounde, of every note might meane,
Give eare a while, and hearken to my tale.

The Gods are good, they heare the harty prayers,
Of such as crave without a craftie wil,
With favor eke, they furder such affaires,
As tende to good, and meane to do none il.
And since thy words, were grounded on desire,
Wherby much good, and little harme can growe,
They graunted have, the thing thou didst require,
And lovingly, have sent me here bylowe,
To paraphrase, the piteous pleasant notes,
Which Phylomene, doth darkely spend in spring,
For he that wel, Dan Nasoes verses notes,
Shal finde my words to be no fained thing.
Give eare (sir Squire quoth she) and I wil tel,
Both what she was, and how hir fortunes fel.