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 the musicke ended.
But Celadyne leaves not his pious guest:
For, as an artist curiously addrest
To some conclusion, having haply founde
A small incouragement on his first grounde,
Goes cheerefull on; nor from it can be wonne,
Till he have perfected what he begun;
Soe he pursues, and labours all he can
(Since he had heard the voice) to fynde the man.
But Celadyne leaves not his pious guest:
For, as an artist curiously addrest
To some conclusion, having haply founde
A small incouragement on his first grounde,
Goes cheerefull on; nor from it can be wonne,
Till he have perfected what he begun;
137
(Since he had heard the voice) to fynde the man.
A little dore, at last, he in the syde
Of the long stretched entry had descryde,
And coming to it with the lampe, he spyes
These lynes upon a table writt:—
Of the long stretched entry had descryde,
And coming to it with the lampe, he spyes
These lynes upon a table writt:—
Love!
when I mett her first whose slave I am,
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
Or els thy blyndnes not to see that daye?
Or if I needs must looke on her rare parts,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
Or els thy blyndnes not to see that daye?
Or if I needs must looke on her rare parts,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts,
Since I had not thy wings to fly away?
Winter was gone; and by the lovely spring
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,
Where day and night the carelesse birds did sing,
Love, when I mett her first whose slave I am.
Each pleasant grove a merry quire became,
Where day and night the carelesse birds did sing,
Love, when I mett her first whose slave I am.
She sate and listned (for she lov'd his strayne)
To one whose songs coulde make a tiger tame;
Which made me sighe, and crye, O happy swayne!
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
To one whose songs coulde make a tiger tame;
Which made me sighe, and crye, O happy swayne!
To make her myne, why had I not thy flame?
I vainely sought my passion to controule:
And therefore (since she loves the learned laye),
Homer, I should have brought with me thy soule,
Or else thy blyndnesse, nott to see that daye!
And therefore (since she loves the learned laye),
Homer, I should have brought with me thy soule,
Or else thy blyndnesse, nott to see that daye!
138
Yet would I not (myne eyes) my dayes outrun
In gazing (coulde I helpe it, or the arts),
Like him that dyde with looking on the sun;
Or if I needs must, looke on her rare parts!
In gazing (coulde I helpe it, or the arts),
Like him that dyde with looking on the sun;
Or if I needs must, looke on her rare parts!
Those, seen of one who every herbe would try,
And what the blood of elephants imparts
To coole his flame, yet would he (forced) cry,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts?
And what the blood of elephants imparts
To coole his flame, yet would he (forced) cry,
Love! why to wounde her had I not thy darts?
O Dedalus! the labrinth fram'd by thee
Was not soe intricate as where I straye;
There have I lost my dearest libertie,
Since I had not thy wings to flye awaye.
Was not soe intricate as where I straye;
There have I lost my dearest libertie,
Since I had not thy wings to flye awaye.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |