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 |  |
Faire Queene, to whom all dutious praise we owe,
Since from thy spacious Cesterne daily flow
(Repli'd the Swaine) refreshing streames that fill
Earth's dugs (the hillocks) so preseruing still
The infant grasse, when else our Lambs might bleat
In vaine for suke, whose Dams haue nought to eat:
For these thy praiers we are doubly bound,
And that these Cleeues should know; but (ô) to sound
My often mended Pipe presumption were,
Since Pan would play if thou wouldst please to heare.
The louder blasts which I was wont to blow
Are now but faint, nor doe my fingers know
To touch halfe part those merry tunes I had.
Yet if thou please to grace my little Lad
With thy attention, he may somewhat strike
Which thou from one so young maist chance to like.
With that the little Shepherd left his taske,
And with a blush (the Roses onely maske)
Deni'd to sing. Ah father (quoth the Boy),
How can I tune a seeming note of ioy?
The worke which you command me, I intend
Scarce with a halfe bent minde, and therefore spend
In doing little, now, an houre or two,
Which I in lesser time could neater doe.
As oft as I with my more nimble ioints
Trace the sharpe Rushes ends, I minde the points
Which Philocel did giue; and when I brush
The prittie tuft that growes beside the rush,
I neuer can forget (in yonder layre)
How Philocel was wont to stroake my haire.
No more shall I be tane vnto the Wake,
Nor wend a fishing to the winding Lake,
No more shall I be taught on siluer strings
To learne the measures of our banquettings:
The twisted Collers and the ringing Bels:
The Morrice Scarfes and cleanest drinking shels
Will neuer be renew'd by any one;
Nor shall I care for more when he is gone.
See! yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keepe the golden Sun from it,
And for his seat (as teaching vs) hath made
A mourning couering with a scowling shade.
The dew on euery flowre this morne hath laine
Longer then it was wont, this side the plaine;
Belike they meane, since my best friend must die,
To shed their siluer drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in comming hither,
Heard I the sweet Birds tune their Songs together,
Except one Nightingale in yonder Dell
Sigh'd a sad Elegie for Philocel;
Neere whom a Wood-Doue kept no small adoe,
To bid me in her language Doe so too,
The Weathers bell that leads our flocke around
Yeelds as me thinkes this day a deader sound.
The little Sparrowes which in hedges creepe,
Ere I was vp did seeme to bid me weepe.
If these doe so, can I haue feeling lesse,
That am more apt to take and to expresse?
No: let my owne tunes be the Mandrakes grone
If now they tend to mirth when all haue none.
Since from thy spacious Cesterne daily flow
(Repli'd the Swaine) refreshing streames that fill
Earth's dugs (the hillocks) so preseruing still
73
In vaine for suke, whose Dams haue nought to eat:
For these thy praiers we are doubly bound,
And that these Cleeues should know; but (ô) to sound
My often mended Pipe presumption were,
Since Pan would play if thou wouldst please to heare.
The louder blasts which I was wont to blow
Are now but faint, nor doe my fingers know
To touch halfe part those merry tunes I had.
Yet if thou please to grace my little Lad
With thy attention, he may somewhat strike
Which thou from one so young maist chance to like.
With that the little Shepherd left his taske,
And with a blush (the Roses onely maske)
Deni'd to sing. Ah father (quoth the Boy),
How can I tune a seeming note of ioy?
The worke which you command me, I intend
Scarce with a halfe bent minde, and therefore spend
In doing little, now, an houre or two,
Which I in lesser time could neater doe.
As oft as I with my more nimble ioints
Trace the sharpe Rushes ends, I minde the points
Which Philocel did giue; and when I brush
The prittie tuft that growes beside the rush,
I neuer can forget (in yonder layre)
How Philocel was wont to stroake my haire.
No more shall I be tane vnto the Wake,
Nor wend a fishing to the winding Lake,
No more shall I be taught on siluer strings
To learne the measures of our banquettings:
The twisted Collers and the ringing Bels:
The Morrice Scarfes and cleanest drinking shels
Will neuer be renew'd by any one;
Nor shall I care for more when he is gone.
See! yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keepe the golden Sun from it,
74
A mourning couering with a scowling shade.
The dew on euery flowre this morne hath laine
Longer then it was wont, this side the plaine;
Belike they meane, since my best friend must die,
To shed their siluer drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in comming hither,
Heard I the sweet Birds tune their Songs together,
Except one Nightingale in yonder Dell
Sigh'd a sad Elegie for Philocel;
Neere whom a Wood-Doue kept no small adoe,
To bid me in her language Doe so too,
The Weathers bell that leads our flocke around
Yeelds as me thinkes this day a deader sound.
The little Sparrowes which in hedges creepe,
Ere I was vp did seeme to bid me weepe.
If these doe so, can I haue feeling lesse,
That am more apt to take and to expresse?
No: let my owne tunes be the Mandrakes grone
If now they tend to mirth when all haue none.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |