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 |  |
Heere sitts a shepheard, whose mellifluous tongue,
On shaded bancks of rivers whilome sung
Many sweet layes to her harmonious eare;
Recounting former joyes, when she liv'd there,
With present woes, and every pleasure gone
Tells with a hundred teares, and, those dropps done,
A thowsand sighes ensue, and gives not o're
Untill he faints, and soe can sighe noe more.
Yonder, another, on some swelling hill,
Records her sweet prayse to a gentle rill
Which, in requitall, takes noe little payne
To roule her silver sands up to the swayne;
And almost wept that tyme would not permitt
That beautious mayde to bathe herselfe in it;
Whose touch made streames, and men, and plants more prowde,
Then he that clasp'd the Juno-seeming clowde.
Amongst the rest (that ere the sun did shyne
Sought the thick groves) neglectfull Celadyne
Was come abroade; and underneath a tree,
Dead as his joyes, and from all moysture free
As were the fountaynes of his lovely eyes,
With lavish weeping, discontented lyes.
On shaded bancks of rivers whilome sung
Many sweet layes to her harmonious eare;
Recounting former joyes, when she liv'd there,
With present woes, and every pleasure gone
Tells with a hundred teares, and, those dropps done,
A thowsand sighes ensue, and gives not o're
Untill he faints, and soe can sighe noe more.
Yonder, another, on some swelling hill,
Records her sweet prayse to a gentle rill
Which, in requitall, takes noe little payne
To roule her silver sands up to the swayne;
And almost wept that tyme would not permitt
That beautious mayde to bathe herselfe in it;
Whose touch made streames, and men, and plants more prowde,
Then he that clasp'd the Juno-seeming clowde.
Amongst the rest (that ere the sun did shyne
Sought the thick groves) neglectfull Celadyne
Was come abroade; and underneath a tree,
Dead as his joyes, and from all moysture free
As were the fountaynes of his lovely eyes,
With lavish weeping, discontented lyes.
Now, like a prodigall, he myndes in vayne
What he hath lost, and cannot lose againe.
Now thinckes he on her eyes, like some sadd wight,
Which newe strooke blynde bemones the want of light.
Her cheekes, her lipps, to mynde he doth recall,
As one in exile cleane bereav'd of all.
Her modest graces, her affection more,
That wounds him most which onely can restore.
And lastly, to his pipe (which woods nor playnes
Acquainted not, but with the saddest straynes,
Yet he more sadd then song or places can)
Vary'd his playntes, and thus anewe began:—
Heere ceas'd the shepheard's song, but not his woe;
Griefe never ends ytselfe. And he doth knowe
Nothing but tyme or wisdome to allaye yt;
Tyme could not then; the other should not stay yt.
What he hath lost, and cannot lose againe.
Now thinckes he on her eyes, like some sadd wight,
Which newe strooke blynde bemones the want of light.
Her cheekes, her lipps, to mynde he doth recall,
As one in exile cleane bereav'd of all.
Her modest graces, her affection more,
That wounds him most which onely can restore.
And lastly, to his pipe (which woods nor playnes
Acquainted not, but with the saddest straynes,
125
Vary'd his playntes, and thus anewe began:—
Marina's gone, and nowe sitt I,
As Philomela (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of nature's livery),
Mirthles, alone, and all forlorne:
Onely she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Breathe forth such notes as fitt a dyeing swan.
As Philomela (on a thorne,
Turn'd out of nature's livery),
Mirthles, alone, and all forlorne:
Onely she sings not, while my sorrowes can
Breathe forth such notes as fitt a dyeing swan.
Soe shutts the marigold her leaves
At the departure of the sun;
Soe from the hony-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sitts the turtle when she is but one,
And soe all woe, as I, since she is gone.
At the departure of the sun;
Soe from the hony-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sitts the turtle when she is but one,
And soe all woe, as I, since she is gone.
To some fewe birds, kinde Nature hath
Made all the summer as one daye;
Which once enjoy'd, colde winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away.
Those happy creatures are, that knowe not yet
The payne to be depriv'd or to forgett.
Made all the summer as one daye;
Which once enjoy'd, colde winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping passe away.
Those happy creatures are, that knowe not yet
The payne to be depriv'd or to forgett.
I ofte have heard men saye there be
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpfull Art of Memorie;
But could they teach forgetfulnesse,
I'de learne, and try what further art coulde doe,
To make me love her and forgett her too.
Some, that with confidence professe
The helpfull Art of Memorie;
But could they teach forgetfulnesse,
I'de learne, and try what further art coulde doe,
To make me love her and forgett her too.
Sadd melancholy, that perswades
Men from themselves, to thincke they be
Headlesse, or other bodyes shades,
Hath long and bootles dwelt with me;
For coulde I thincke she some idea weare,
I still might love, forgett, and have her heere.
Men from themselves, to thincke they be
Headlesse, or other bodyes shades,
Hath long and bootles dwelt with me;
For coulde I thincke she some idea weare,
I still might love, forgett, and have her heere.
126
But such she is not: nor would I,
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved companye
Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then noe future tyme might hap to knowe
That she deserv'd, or I did love her soe.
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved companye
Hath brought to those I felt before,
For then noe future tyme might hap to knowe
That she deserv'd, or I did love her soe.
Yee houres, then, but as minutes be!
(Though soe I shall be sooner olde)
Till I those lovely graces see,
Which, but in her, can none beholde;
Then be an age! that we maye never trye
More griefe in parting, but growe olde and dye.
(Though soe I shall be sooner olde)
Till I those lovely graces see,
Which, but in her, can none beholde;
Then be an age! that we maye never trye
More griefe in parting, but growe olde and dye.
Griefe never ends ytselfe. And he doth knowe
Nothing but tyme or wisdome to allaye yt;
Tyme could not then; the other should not stay yt.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |