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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
Browne, William (1590- ca. 1645)

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THE FIRST VOLUME, THE SECOND VOLUME.
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Britannia's PASTORALS.
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The first Booke.
  
TO THE NO LESSE ENOBLED BY VERTVE, THEN ANCIENT In Nobilitie, the Right Honorable Edvvard Lord Zouch, Saint-Maure, and Cantelupe, and one of his Maiesties most Honourable Privie Covncell.
  
To the Reader.
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[Commendatory Verses.]
  
By the Same.
  
To his Friend the Avthor.
  
To his Ingenious and worthy Friend the Avthor.
  
On him; a Pastorall Ode to his fairest Shepheardesse.
  
To his Friend the Avthor vpon his Poem.
  
To his Friend the Author.
  
To the Avthor.
  
To the Avthor.
  
[Euterpe to her deerest Darling W. B.
  
Carmina amo, mihi Wille placet tua fistula: fælix! En re sonant laudes illa, vel illa tuas.
  
On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.
  
On the Same.
  
On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.
  
Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.
  
To the now unparelleled Sydney of his time, W. B., the ingenuous Author of Brittannia's Pastorals.
  
An Ode entreating him to proceed in the continuation of his Brittannias Pastorals.
  
To the Authour, W. B.
  
On the Author, W. B.
  
To the unparalleled Author of the sequent Poems, W. B.
  
Idem ad Eundem.
  
On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.
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The First Song.
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The Second Song.
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The Third Song.
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The Fovrth Song.
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The Fifth Song.
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The second Booke.
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The third Booke.
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THE SHEPHEARDS PIPE.
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THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

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On the Author, W. B.

Shall I implore the muses nine,
To grace with sweetes my ruder line,
When all the art the muses cann
Are sweetely sung within this spann?
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Or shal I invocate great Pann
To tune the song thy pipe best cann?
Pann swore to me the other day
He broke his pipe, and ran to heare thy lay.
Apollo lend thy sacred quill,
That I may chant a note more shrill.
Alas! Apollos drownd in teares,
To see a god oer rule his spheares;
Lets see what golden Spenser cann,
Hees dead, and thou the living mann:
The godde I see can weare no bayes
But what is pluckt from thy bright layes;
If Pann a song more smoother sings,
Tis cause twas dipt in Tavies springs.
Ro. Tayler, Exon. Coll.
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