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 |  |
But to the cause. Great Goddesse, vnderstand
In Mona-Ile thrust from the Brittish land,
As (since it needed nought of others store)
It would intire be and a part no more,
There liu'd a Maid so faire, that for her sake
Since she was borne the Ile had neuer Snake,
Nor were it fit a deadly sting should be
To hazard such admired Symmetrie:
So many beauties so commixt in one,
That all delight were dead if she were gone.
Shepherds that in her cleare eyes did delight,
Whilst they were open neuer held it night:
And were they shut, although the morning gray
Call'd vp the Sun, they hardly thought it day.
Or if they call'd it so, they did not passe
Withall to say that it eclipsed was.
The Roses on her cheekes, such as each turne
Phœbus might kisse, but had no powre to burne.
From her sweet lips distill sweets sweeter doe,
Then from a Cherry halfe way cut in two:
Whose yeelding touch would, as Promethian fire,
Lumps truly senslesse with a Muse inspire;
Who praising her would youth's desire so stirre,
Each man in minde should be a rauisher.
Some say the nimble-witted Mercury
Went late disguis'd professing Palmistrie,
And Milk-maids fortunes told about the Land,
Onely to get a touch of her soft hand.
And that a Shepherd walking on the brim
Of a cleare streame where she did vse to swim,
Saw her by chance, and thinking she had beene
Of Chastitie the pure and fairest Queene,
Stole thence dismaid, lest he by her decree
Might vndergoe Acteons destinie.
Did youths kinde heat inflame me (but the snow
Vpon my head shewes it coold long agoe),
I then could giue (fitting so faire a feature)
Right to her fame, and fame to such a creature.
When now much like a man the Palsie shakes
And spectacles befriend, yet vndertakes
To limne a Lady, to whose red and white
Apelles curious hand would owe some right:
His too vnsteady Pencell shadowes here
Somewhat too much, and giues not ouer cleere;
His eye deceiu'd mingles his colours wrong,
There strikes too little, and here staies too long,
Does and vndoes, takes off, puts on (in vaine)
Now too much white, then too much red againe;
And thinking then to giue some speciall grace,
He workes it ill, or so mistakes the place,
That she which sits were better pay for nought,
Then haue it ended, and so lamely wrought.
So doe I in this weake description erre;
And striuing more to grace, more iniure her.
For euer where true worth for praise doth call,
He rightly nothing giues that giues not all.
But as a Lad who learning to diuide,
By one small misse the whole hath falsifide.
Cælia men call'd, and rightly call'd her so:
Whom Philocel (of all the Swaines I know
Most worthy) lou'd: alas! that loue should be
Subiect to fortunes mutabilitie!
What euer learned Bards to fore haue sung,
Or on the Plaines Shepherds and Maidens young,
Of sad mishaps in loue are set to tell,
Comes short to match the Fate of Philocel.
In Mona-Ile thrust from the Brittish land,
As (since it needed nought of others store)
It would intire be and a part no more,
There liu'd a Maid so faire, that for her sake
Since she was borne the Ile had neuer Snake,
93
To hazard such admired Symmetrie:
So many beauties so commixt in one,
That all delight were dead if she were gone.
Shepherds that in her cleare eyes did delight,
Whilst they were open neuer held it night:
And were they shut, although the morning gray
Call'd vp the Sun, they hardly thought it day.
Or if they call'd it so, they did not passe
Withall to say that it eclipsed was.
The Roses on her cheekes, such as each turne
Phœbus might kisse, but had no powre to burne.
From her sweet lips distill sweets sweeter doe,
Then from a Cherry halfe way cut in two:
Whose yeelding touch would, as Promethian fire,
Lumps truly senslesse with a Muse inspire;
Who praising her would youth's desire so stirre,
Each man in minde should be a rauisher.
Some say the nimble-witted Mercury
Went late disguis'd professing Palmistrie,
And Milk-maids fortunes told about the Land,
Onely to get a touch of her soft hand.
And that a Shepherd walking on the brim
Of a cleare streame where she did vse to swim,
Saw her by chance, and thinking she had beene
Of Chastitie the pure and fairest Queene,
Stole thence dismaid, lest he by her decree
Might vndergoe Acteons destinie.
Did youths kinde heat inflame me (but the snow
Vpon my head shewes it coold long agoe),
I then could giue (fitting so faire a feature)
Right to her fame, and fame to such a creature.
When now much like a man the Palsie shakes
And spectacles befriend, yet vndertakes
To limne a Lady, to whose red and white
Apelles curious hand would owe some right:
94
Somewhat too much, and giues not ouer cleere;
His eye deceiu'd mingles his colours wrong,
There strikes too little, and here staies too long,
Does and vndoes, takes off, puts on (in vaine)
Now too much white, then too much red againe;
And thinking then to giue some speciall grace,
He workes it ill, or so mistakes the place,
That she which sits were better pay for nought,
Then haue it ended, and so lamely wrought.
So doe I in this weake description erre;
And striuing more to grace, more iniure her.
For euer where true worth for praise doth call,
He rightly nothing giues that giues not all.
But as a Lad who learning to diuide,
By one small misse the whole hath falsifide.
Cælia men call'd, and rightly call'd her so:
Whom Philocel (of all the Swaines I know
Most worthy) lou'd: alas! that loue should be
Subiect to fortunes mutabilitie!
What euer learned Bards to fore haue sung,
Or on the Plaines Shepherds and Maidens young,
Of sad mishaps in loue are set to tell,
Comes short to match the Fate of Philocel.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |