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 Fovrth Eglogve.
Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
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The Fovrth Eglogve. Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid
The Argvment.
In this the Author bewailes the death of one whom he shadoweth vnder the name of Philarete, compounded of the Greeke words φιλος and αρετη, a louer of vertue, a name well befitting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being sometime his truly loued (and now as much lamented) friend Mr Thomas Manvvood sonne to the worthy Sir Peter Manvvood Knight.
Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid,
Willy, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with ioy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighbring flockes:
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,
Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,
Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For vncouth paths vnknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.
Willy, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with ioy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighbring flockes:
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,
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Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For vncouth paths vnknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.
Autumne it was, when droop't the sweetest floures,
And Riuers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes;
Poore grew the day of Summers golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaues not halfe so fast
As did the Shepheards teares.
And Riuers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes;
Poore grew the day of Summers golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaues not halfe so fast
As did the Shepheards teares.
As was his seate, so was his gentle heart,
Meeke and deiected, but his thoughts as hye
As those aye-wandring lights, who both impart
Their beames on vs, and heauen still beautifie.
Sad was his looke, (ô heauy Fate!
That Swaine should be so sad
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate
With greatest pleasure clad.)
Broke was his tunefull pipe
That charm'd the Christall Floods,
And thus his griefe tooke airie wings
And flew about the woods.
Meeke and deiected, but his thoughts as hye
As those aye-wandring lights, who both impart
Their beames on vs, and heauen still beautifie.
Sad was his looke, (ô heauy Fate!
That Swaine should be so sad
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate
With greatest pleasure clad.)
Broke was his tunefull pipe
That charm'd the Christall Floods,
And thus his griefe tooke airie wings
And flew about the woods.
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Day, thou art too officious in thy place,
And night too sparing of a wished stay,
Yee wandring lampes, ô be ye fixt a space!
Some other Hemisphere grace with your ray.
Great Phœbus! Daphne is not heere,
Nor Hyacinthus faire;
Phœbe! Endimion and thy deere
Hath long since cleft the aire.
But yee haue surely seene
(Whom we in sorrow misse)
A Swaine whom Phœbe thought her loue,
And Titan deemed his.
And night too sparing of a wished stay,
Yee wandring lampes, ô be ye fixt a space!
Some other Hemisphere grace with your ray.
Great Phœbus! Daphne is not heere,
Nor Hyacinthus faire;
Phœbe! Endimion and thy deere
Hath long since cleft the aire.
But yee haue surely seene
(Whom we in sorrow misse)
A Swaine whom Phœbe thought her loue,
And Titan deemed his.
But he is gone; then inwards turne your light,
Behold him there: here neuer shall you more;
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!
Or change the gaudy green she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. Hyperion great
To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a louers heate
But blacke beseemes a mourner.
Yet neither this thou canst,
Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blindes thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on earth.
Behold him there: here neuer shall you more;
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!
Or change the gaudy green she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. Hyperion great
To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a louers heate
But blacke beseemes a mourner.
Yet neither this thou canst,
Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blindes thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on earth.
Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines
Tune notes of glee, as vsed were of yore!
For Philaret is dead, let mirthfull straines
With Philarete cease for euermore!
And if a fellow swaine doe liue
A niggard of his teares,
The Shepheardesses all will giue
To store him part of theirs.
Or I would lend him some,
But that the store I haue
Will all be spent before I pay
The debt I owe his graue.
Tune notes of glee, as vsed were of yore!
For Philaret is dead, let mirthfull straines
With Philarete cease for euermore!
And if a fellow swaine doe liue
A niggard of his teares,
The Shepheardesses all will giue
To store him part of theirs.
Or I would lend him some,
But that the store I haue
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The debt I owe his graue.
O what is left can make me leaue to mone,
Or what remains but doth increase it more?
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their masters gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked arms haue vowd our loue,
(Our loue which time shall see
In shepheards songs for euer moue,
And grace their harmony)
It solitary seemes.
Behold our flowrie beds;
Their beauties fade, and Violets
For sorrow hang their heads.
Or what remains but doth increase it more?
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their masters gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked arms haue vowd our loue,
(Our loue which time shall see
In shepheards songs for euer moue,
And grace their harmony)
It solitary seemes.
Behold our flowrie beds;
Their beauties fade, and Violets
For sorrow hang their heads.
Tis not a Cypresse bough, a count'nance sad,
A mourning garment, wailing Elegie,
A standing herse in sable vesture clad,
A Toombe built to his names eternitie,
Although the shepheards all should striue
By yearly obsequies,
And vow to keepe thy fame aliue
In spight of destinies
That can suppresse my griefe:
All these and more may be,
Yet all in vaine to recompence
My greatest losse of thee.
A mourning garment, wailing Elegie,
A standing herse in sable vesture clad,
A Toombe built to his names eternitie,
Although the shepheards all should striue
By yearly obsequies,
And vow to keepe thy fame aliue
In spight of destinies
That can suppresse my griefe:
All these and more may be,
Yet all in vaine to recompence
My greatest losse of thee.
Cypresse may fade, the countenance bee changed,
A garment rot, an Elegie forgotten,
A herse 'mongst irreligious rites bee ranged,
A toombe pluckt down, or else through age be rotten:
All things th' vnpartiall hand of Fate
Can raze out with a thought,
These haue a seu'rall fixed date
Which ended, turne to nought.
Yet shall my truest cause
Of sorrow firmly stay,
When these effects the wings of Time
Shall fanne and sweepe away.
A garment rot, an Elegie forgotten,
A herse 'mongst irreligious rites bee ranged,
A toombe pluckt down, or else through age be rotten:
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Can raze out with a thought,
These haue a seu'rall fixed date
Which ended, turne to nought.
Yet shall my truest cause
Of sorrow firmly stay,
When these effects the wings of Time
Shall fanne and sweepe away.
Looke as a sweet Rose fairely budding forth
Bewrayes her beauties to th' enamour'd morne,
Vntill some keene blast from the enuious North
Killes the sweet budd that was but newly borne;
Or else her rarest smels delighting
Make her her selfe betray,
Some white and curious hand inuiting
To plucke her thence away.
So stands my mournfull case,
For had he beene lesse good,
He yet (vncropt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.
Bewrayes her beauties to th' enamour'd morne,
Vntill some keene blast from the enuious North
Killes the sweet budd that was but newly borne;
Or else her rarest smels delighting
Make her her selfe betray,
Some white and curious hand inuiting
To plucke her thence away.
So stands my mournfull case,
For had he beene lesse good,
He yet (vncropt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.
Yet though so long hee liu'd not as hee might,
Hee had the time appointed to him giuen.
Who liueth but the space of one poore night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that Eeuen.
Who euer doth the period see
Of dayes by heau'n forth plotted,
Dyes full of age, as well as hee
That had more yeares alotted.
In sad Tones then my verse
Shall with incessant teares
Bemoane my haplesse losse of him,
And not his want of yeares.
Hee had the time appointed to him giuen.
Who liueth but the space of one poore night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that Eeuen.
Who euer doth the period see
Of dayes by heau'n forth plotted,
Dyes full of age, as well as hee
That had more yeares alotted.
In sad Tones then my verse
Shall with incessant teares
Bemoane my haplesse losse of him,
And not his want of yeares.
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In deepest passions of my griefe-swolne breast
(Sweete soule!) this onely comfort seizeth me,
That so few yeares did make thee so much blest,
And gaue such wings to reach Eternity.
Is this to dye? No: as a shippe
Well built with easie winde
A lazy hulke doth farre out-strippe,
And soonest harbour finde:
So Philarete fled,
Quicke was his passage giuen,
When others must haue longer time
To make them fit for heauen.
(Sweete soule!) this onely comfort seizeth me,
That so few yeares did make thee so much blest,
And gaue such wings to reach Eternity.
Is this to dye? No: as a shippe
Well built with easie winde
A lazy hulke doth farre out-strippe,
And soonest harbour finde:
So Philarete fled,
Quicke was his passage giuen,
When others must haue longer time
To make them fit for heauen.
Then not for thee these briny teares are spent,
But as the Nightingale against the breere
Tis for my selfe I moane, and doe lament
Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st mee heere:
Heere, where without thee all delights
Faile of their pleasing powre,
All glorious dayes seeme vgly nights;
Me thinkes no Aprill showre
Embroder should the earth,
But briny teares distill,
Since Flora's beauties shall no more
Be honour'd by thy quill.
But as the Nightingale against the breere
Tis for my selfe I moane, and doe lament
Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st mee heere:
Heere, where without thee all delights
Faile of their pleasing powre,
All glorious dayes seeme vgly nights;
Me thinkes no Aprill showre
Embroder should the earth,
But briny teares distill,
Since Flora's beauties shall no more
Be honour'd by thy quill.
And yee his sheepe (in token of his lacke),
Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine,
Yeane neuer Lambe, but bee it cloath'd in blacke:
Yee shady Sicamours, when any Swaine
To carue his name vpon your rinde
Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shedde droppes, if he be so vnkinde
To raze it with his hand.
And thou, my loued Muse,
No more should'st numbers moue,
But that his name should euer liue,
And after death my loue.
Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine,
Yeane neuer Lambe, but bee it cloath'd in blacke:
Yee shady Sicamours, when any Swaine
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Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shedde droppes, if he be so vnkinde
To raze it with his hand.
And thou, my loued Muse,
No more should'st numbers moue,
But that his name should euer liue,
And after death my loue.
This said, he sigh'd, and with o're-drowned eyes
Gaz'd on the heauens for what he mist on earth,
Then from the earth full sadly gan arise
As farre from future hope as present mirth;
Vnto his Cote with heauy pace
As euer sorrow trode
He went with minde no more to trace,
Where mirthfull Swaines abode,
And as he spent the day,
The night he past alone,
Was neuer Shepheard lou'd more deere,
Nor made a truer mone.
Gaz'd on the heauens for what he mist on earth,
Then from the earth full sadly gan arise
As farre from future hope as present mirth;
Vnto his Cote with heauy pace
As euer sorrow trode
He went with minde no more to trace,
Where mirthfull Swaines abode,
And as he spent the day,
The night he past alone,
Was neuer Shepheard lou'd more deere,
Nor made a truer mone.
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