The Whole Works of William Browne of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple |
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
At Ex a louely Nymph with Thetis met:
She singing came, and was all round beset
With other watry powres, which by her song
She had allur'd to float with her along.
The Lay she chanted she had learn'd of yore,
Taught by a
skilfull Swaine, who on her shore
Fed his faire flocke: a worke renown'd as farre
As His braue subiect of the Troian warre.
She singing came, and was all round beset
With other watry powres, which by her song
She had allur'd to float with her along.
The Lay she chanted she had learn'd of yore,
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Fed his faire flocke: a worke renown'd as farre
As His braue subiect of the Troian warre.
When she had done, a prettie Shepherds boy
That from the neare Downs came (though he smal ioy
Tooke in his tunefull Reed, since dire neglect
Crept to the brest of her he did affect,
And that an euer-busie-watchfull eye
Stood as a barre to his felicitie,)
Being with great intreaties of the Swaines,
And by the faire Queene of the liquid plaines
Woo'd to his Pipe, and bade to lay aside
All troubled thoughts, as others at that tyde,
And that he now some merry note should raise,
To equall others which had sung their laies:
He shooke his head, and knowing that his tongue
Could not belye his heart, thus sadly sung:
The fitting accent of His mournfull lay
So pleas'd the pow'rfull Lady of the Sea,
That she intreated him to sing againe;
And he obeying tun'd this second straine:
That from the neare Downs came (though he smal ioy
Tooke in his tunefull Reed, since dire neglect
Crept to the brest of her he did affect,
And that an euer-busie-watchfull eye
Stood as a barre to his felicitie,)
Being with great intreaties of the Swaines,
And by the faire Queene of the liquid plaines
Woo'd to his Pipe, and bade to lay aside
All troubled thoughts, as others at that tyde,
And that he now some merry note should raise,
To equall others which had sung their laies:
He shooke his head, and knowing that his tongue
Could not belye his heart, thus sadly sung:
As
new-borne babes salute their ages morne
With cries vnto their wofull mother hurld:
My infant Muse that was but lately borne
Began with watry eyes to wooe the world.
She knowes not how to speake, and therefore weepes
Her woes excesse,
And striues to moue the heart that senslesse sleepes,
To heauinesse;
Her eyes inuail'd with sorrowes clouds
Scarce see the light,
Disdaine hath wrapt her in the shrowds
Of loathed night.
How should she moue then her grief-laden wing,
Or leaue my sad complaints, and Pæans sing?
Six Pleyads liue in light, in darknesse one.
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
With cries vnto their wofull mother hurld:
My infant Muse that was but lately borne
Began with watry eyes to wooe the world.
She knowes not how to speake, and therefore weepes
Her woes excesse,
And striues to moue the heart that senslesse sleepes,
To heauinesse;
Her eyes inuail'd with sorrowes clouds
Scarce see the light,
Disdaine hath wrapt her in the shrowds
Of loathed night.
How should she moue then her grief-laden wing,
Or leaue my sad complaints, and Pæans sing?
Six Pleyads liue in light, in darknesse one.
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
It is enough that I in silence sit,
And bend my skill to learne your laies aright;
Nor striue with you in ready straines of wit,
Nor moue my hearers with so true delight.
But if for heauy plaints and notes of woe
Your eares are prest;
No Shepherd liues that can my Pipe out-goe
In such vnrest.
I haue not knowne so many yeeres
As chances wrong,
Nor haue they knowne more floods of teares
From one so yong.
Faine would I tune to please as others doe,
Wert not for faining Song and numbers too.
Then (since not fitting now are songs of mone)
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
45
Nor striue with you in ready straines of wit,
Nor moue my hearers with so true delight.
But if for heauy plaints and notes of woe
Your eares are prest;
No Shepherd liues that can my Pipe out-goe
In such vnrest.
I haue not knowne so many yeeres
As chances wrong,
Nor haue they knowne more floods of teares
From one so yong.
Faine would I tune to please as others doe,
Wert not for faining Song and numbers too.
Then (since not fitting now are songs of mone)
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
The Nymphs that float vpon these watry plaines
Haue oft beene drawne to listen to my Song,
And Sirens left to tune dissembling straines
In true bewailing of my sorrowes long.
Vpon the waues of late a siluer Swan
By me did ride;
And thrilled with my woes forthwith began
To sing, and dide.
Yet where they should, they cannot moue.
O haplesse Verse!
That fitter then to win a Loue
Art for a Herse.
Hence-forward silent be; and ye my cares
Be knowne but to my selfe, or who despaires;
Since pittie now lyes turned to a stone.
Sing mirthfull Swaines; but let me sigh alone.
Haue oft beene drawne to listen to my Song,
And Sirens left to tune dissembling straines
In true bewailing of my sorrowes long.
Vpon the waues of late a siluer Swan
By me did ride;
And thrilled with my woes forthwith began
To sing, and dide.
Yet where they should, they cannot moue.
O haplesse Verse!
That fitter then to win a Loue
Art for a Herse.
Hence-forward silent be; and ye my cares
Be knowne but to my selfe, or who despaires;
Since pittie now lyes turned to a stone.
Sing mirthfull Swaines; but let me sigh alone.
So pleas'd the pow'rfull Lady of the Sea,
That she intreated him to sing againe;
And he obeying tun'd this second straine:
46
Borne
to no other comfort then my teares,
Yet rob'd of them by griefes too inly deepe,
I cannot rightly waile my haplesse yeeres,
Nor moue a passion that for me might weepe.
Nature alas too short hath knit
My tongue to reach my woe:
Nor haue I skill sad notes to fit
That might my sorrow show.
And to increase my torments ceaselesse sting,
There's no way left to shew my paines,
But by my pen in mournfull straines,
Which others may perhaps take ioy to sing.
Yet rob'd of them by griefes too inly deepe,
I cannot rightly waile my haplesse yeeres,
Nor moue a passion that for me might weepe.
Nature alas too short hath knit
My tongue to reach my woe:
Nor haue I skill sad notes to fit
That might my sorrow show.
And to increase my torments ceaselesse sting,
There's no way left to shew my paines,
But by my pen in mournfull straines,
Which others may perhaps take ioy to sing.
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