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 |  |
Sweet Philomela (then he heard her sing)
I doe not enuy thy sweet carolling,
But doe admire thee, that each euen and morrow,
Canst carelesly thus sing away thy sorrow.
Would I could doe so too! and euer be
In all my woes still imitating thee:
But I may not attaine to that; for then
Such most vnhappy, miserable men
Would striue with Heauen, and imitate the Sunne,
Whose golden beames in exhalation,
Though drawn from Fens, or other grounds impure,
Turne all to fructifying nouriture.
When we draw nothing by our Sun-like eyes,
That euer turnes to mirth, but miseries:
Would I had neuer seene, except that she
Who made me wish so, loue to looke on me.
Had Colin Clout yet liu'd, (but he is gone)
That best on earth could tune a louers mone,
Whose sadder Tones inforc'd the Rocks to weepe,
And laid the greatest griefes in quiet sleepe:
Who when he sung (as I would doe to mine)
His truest loues to his faire Rosaline,
Entic'd each Shepherds eare to heare him play,
And rapt with wonder, thus admiring say:
Thrice happy plaines (if plaines thrice happy may be)
Where such a Shepherd pipes to such a Lady.
Who made the Lasses long to sit downe neere him;
And woo'd the Riuers frō their Springs to heare him.
Heauen rest thy Soule (if so a Swaine may pray)
And as thy workes liue here, liue there for aye.
Meane while (vnhappy) I shall still complaine
Loues cruell wounding of a seely Swaine.
I doe not enuy thy sweet carolling,
But doe admire thee, that each euen and morrow,
Canst carelesly thus sing away thy sorrow.
Would I could doe so too! and euer be
In all my woes still imitating thee:
But I may not attaine to that; for then
Such most vnhappy, miserable men
Would striue with Heauen, and imitate the Sunne,
Whose golden beames in exhalation,
Though drawn from Fens, or other grounds impure,
Turne all to fructifying nouriture.
When we draw nothing by our Sun-like eyes,
That euer turnes to mirth, but miseries:
Would I had neuer seene, except that she
Who made me wish so, loue to looke on me.
Had Colin Clout yet liu'd, (but he is gone)
That best on earth could tune a louers mone,
Whose sadder Tones inforc'd the Rocks to weepe,
And laid the greatest griefes in quiet sleepe:
Who when he sung (as I would doe to mine)
His truest loues to his faire Rosaline,
Entic'd each Shepherds eare to heare him play,
And rapt with wonder, thus admiring say:
Thrice happy plaines (if plaines thrice happy may be)
Where such a Shepherd pipes to such a Lady.
Who made the Lasses long to sit downe neere him;
And woo'd the Riuers frō their Springs to heare him.
Heauen rest thy Soule (if so a Swaine may pray)
And as thy workes liue here, liue there for aye.
Meane while (vnhappy) I shall still complaine
Loues cruell wounding of a seely Swaine.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |