University of Virginia Library

[Commendatory Verses.]

By the Same.

So much a Stranger my Seuerer Muse
Is not to Loue-straines, or a Shepwards Reed,
But that She knowes some Rites of Phœbus dues,
Of Pan, of Pallas, and hir Sisters meed.
Reade and Commend She durst these tun'd essaies
Of Him that loues her (She hath euer found
Hir studies as one circle.) Next She prayes
His Readers be with Rose and Myrtle crown'd!
No Willow touch them! As His

Baies (faire Readers) being the materials of Poets Girlands, (as Myrtle and Roses are for enioying Louers, and the fruitlesse Willow for them which your vnconstancy, too oft, makes most vnhappy) are supposed not subiect to any hurt of Jupiters thunderbolts, as other Trees are.

Baies are free
From wrong of Bolts, so may their Chaplets bee.

To his Friend the Avthor.

Driue forth thy Flock, young Pastor, to that Plaine,
Where our old Shepheards wont their flocks to feed;
To those cleare walkes, where many a skilfull Swaine
To'ards the calme eu'ning, tun'd his pleasant Reed.
Those, to the Muses once so sacred, Downes,
As no rude foot might there presume to stand:
(Now made the way of the vnworthiest Clownes,
Dig'd and plow'd vp with each vnhallowed hand)
If possible thou canst, redeeme those places,
Where, by the brim of many a Siluer Spring,
The learned Maidens, and delightfull Graces
Often haue sate to heare our Shepheards sing:
Where on those Pines the neighb'ring Groues among,
(Now vtterly neglected in these daies)
Our Garlands, Pipes, and Cornamutes were hung
The monuments of our deserued praise.
So may thy Sheepe like, so thy Lambs increase,
And from the Wolfe feed euer safe and free!
So maist thou thriue, among the learned prease,
As thou young Shepheard art belou'd of mee!

To his Ingenious and worthy Friend the Avthor.

He that will tune his Oaten-pipe aright,
To great Apollo's Harp: he that will write
A liuing Poem; must haue many yeeres,
And setled iudgement 'mongst his equall peeres,
In well-rig'd Barke to steere his doubtfull course;
Lest secret, rocky Enuy, or the source
Of froathy, but sky-towring Arrogance;
Or fleeting, sandy vulgar-censure chance
To leaue him ship-wrackt, on the desert Maine
Imploring aged Neptunes help in vaine.
The younger Cygnet, euen at best doth teare,
With his harsh squealings, the melodious eare:
It is the old, and dying Swan that sings
Notes worthy life, worthy the Thespian Springs.
But thou art young; and yet thy voice as sweet,
Thy Verse as smooth, Composure as discreet
As any Swans, whose tunefull Notes are spent
On Thames his bancks; which makes me confident,
He knowes no Musick, hath nor eares, nor tongue,
That not commends a voice so sweet, so young.

On him; a Pastorall Ode to his fairest Shepheardesse.

Syren more then earthly faire,
Sweetly breake the yeelding Ayre:
Sing on Albions whitest Rocks:
Sing; whilst Willy to his Flocks,
Deftly tunes his various Reed.
Sing; and hee, whilst younglings feed,
Answer shall thy best of singing,
With his Rurall Musicke, bringing
Equall pleasure; and requite
Musickes sweets with like delight.
What though Willyes Songs be plaine?
Sweet they be: for hee's a Swaine
Made of purer mould then earth,
Him did Nature from his birth,
And the Muses single out,
For a second Colin Clout.
Tityrus made him a Singer:
Pan him taught his Pipe to finger:
Numbers, curious eares to please,
Learn'd he of Philisides.
Kala loues him: and the Lasses
Point at him, as by he passes,
Wishing neuer tongue that's bad
Censure may so blithe a Lad.
Therefore well can he requite
Musicks sweets with like delight:
Sing then; breake the yeelding ayre,
Syren more then earthly faire.

To his Friend the Avthor vpon his Poem.

This Plant is knotlesse that puts forth these leaues,
Vpon whose Branches I his praise doe sing:
Fruitfull the Ground, whose verdure it receiues
From fertile Nature, and the learned Spring.
In zeale to Good; knowne, but vnpractiz'd Ill,
Chast in his thoughts, though in his youthfull Prime,
He writes of Past'rall Loue, with Nectar'd Quill,
And offers vp his first Fruits vnto Time.
Receiue them (Time) and in thy Border place them
Among thy various Flowers of Poesie;
No Enuy blast, nor Ignorance deface them,
But keepe them fresh in fairest Memorie!
And, when from Daphne's tree he plucks more Baies,
His Shepheards Pipe may chant more heau'nly laies.

To his Friend the Author.

On (Iolly Lad) and hye thee to the Field
Among the best Swains that the Vallies yeeld;
Goe boldly, and in presence of them all,
Proceed a Shepheard with this Pastorall.
Let Pan, and all his rurall Traine attending,
From stately Mountaines to the Plaines descending,
Salute this Pastor with their kinde embraces;
And entertaine him to their holy places.
Let all the Nymphes of Hills and Dales together
Kisse him for earnest of his welcome thither:
Crowne him with Garlands of the choicest flowres,
And make him euer dwell within their Bowres:
For well I wote in all the Plaines around,
There are but few such Shepheards to be found,
That can such learned Layes and Ditties frame,
Or aptly fit their tunes vnto the same.
And let them all (if this young Swaine should die)
Tune all their Reeds to sing his Memorie.

To the Avthor.

Had I beheld thy Muse vpon the Stage,
A Poesie in fashion with this age;
Or had I seene, when first I view'd thy taske,
An actiue wit dance in a Satyres Maske,
I should in those haue prais'd thy Wit and Art,
But not thy ground, A Poems better part:
Which being the perfect'st Image of the Braine,
Not fram'd to any base end, but to gaine
True approbation of the Artists worth,
When to an open view he sets it forth,
Iudiciously, he striues; no lesse t'adorne
By a choise Subiect, then a curious Forme:
Well hast thou then past o'er all other rhime,
And in a Pastorall spent thy leasures time:
Where fruit so faire, and field so fruitfull is,
That hard it is to iudge whether in This
The Substance or the fashion more excell,
So precious is the Iem, and wrought so well.
Thus rest thou prais'd of me, Fruit, Field, Iem, Art,
Doe claime much praise to equall such Desart.

To the Avthor.

Friend, Ile not erre in blazing of thy Worth;
This Worke in truest termes will set it forth:
In these few lines the all I doe intend,
Is but to shew that I haue such a Friend.

[Euterpe to her deerest Darling W. B.

Thy lines, thy worth, thy wit to prayse,
Were mine owne honor to upraise,
And those same gifts commend in thee
Which thou received hast of me;
Yet may I boast that by mine aide
All eares to thee are captive made,
And thy (amazed) country-men
Admire, extoll thy golden pen:
Hearing such madrigalls as these
Astonisht is Philisides,
And vanquisht by thy sweeter layes
Forsweares his pipe; yeilds thee the bayes:
Resigns his pipe; yeilds thee the bayes:
And Colyn Clout his oaten reede,
Which did to us such pleasure breede,
Resignes to thee; grieved because his
Mulla by Tavy, vanquisht is.
Marina fayns though in her neede
The storme did helpe; yet shee indeede
Was ravisht, but (tis her excuse)
Twas only with thy sweete-tongu'd muse;
That though the Robin Red-breast fed
Her body, yet sh' ad suffered
Death, hadst not thou with lines refind
As with ambrosia fed her minde,
Doridon weepes (although for who
He trows not) if t'be not for you;
Since thee to write he could not move
One Canto more on his true love:
See how each swaine yt should this day
Before Dame Thetis sing his lay,
Sighing gives backe, for he doth feare
Willy their Captaine won't be there.
All say thou art the elme (they know)
Wheerby the muses vine doth grow,
And that if Cœlia merit death,
All they must with her loose their breath,
That fairer boughs have pul'd from thee
Than ere grew on Pans golden tree.
Lastly thy Alatheia sayes,
That future times shall sing thy praise,
And th'-after ages strive in vaine,
As thou hast done, to do againe.—

Carmina amo, mihi Wille placet tua fistula: fælix! En re sonant laudes illa, vel illa tuas.

But stop my muse, listen to Willys lays,
Harke whiles the Eccho doth resound his praise,
Let others speak, forbid not, but let mee
Thou charminge sweetly, listen unto thee.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

I'll take thy judgment golden Mydas now,
Nor will of Phœbus harmony allow,
Since Pan hath such a shepheard, whose sweet layes
May claim deservedly the Delphique bayes.
Thrice happy Syrinx, onely great in this,
Thou kissest him in metamorphosis.
Flocke hither satires, learne a roundelay
Of him to grace Sylvanus holyday.
Come hither shepheardes, let your bleating flockes
Of bearded goates browze on the mossy rockes.
Come from Arcadia, banisht shepheardes, come,
Let flourishing Britannia bee your home.
Crown'd with your anadems and chaplets trim,
And invocate no other Pan but him:
'Tis he can keepe you safe from all your flockes,
From greedy wolfe, or oft beguiling fox:
Let him but tune his notes, and you shall see
The wolfe abandon his rapacity,
And innocently trip and frisk among
Your wanton lambkins at his swanlike song;
Yea had the Thracian sung but half so well,
Hee had not left Euridice in hell,
Then rally swaine, astonish humane eyes,
And let thy Tavy high as Tyber rise.

On the Same.

AN ODE.

Feare not Willy, but goe on
With thy song of Dorydon,
Which will neer surpassed bee
By the best pipe in Arcady.
What though Roger of the plaines,
Hobinoll and other swaynes,
Joynd with Colin of the glen,
Perigot and other men,
Warble sweetly, thou when they
Sung on Pan's last holyday,
Wonst the chaplet which was made,
Hard by Tavy in a glade,
Walla, Marina, Fida too,
Doe thy lasting favour wooe:
The fountains god will rising bee,
From his waters to heare thee;
Hungring for thee makes us rave,
All shut up in Limos cave;
O bee thou the Redbreast, cherish
Those who but for thee would perish,
Or bee Triton who alone
Mayst remove the mighty stone,
Then in thine honour every shepheard shall
Keepe the day stricter than Pans festivall.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

Cease skilfull Orpheus, whose mellifluous straynes
Have earst made stones and trees skip ore the playnes,
A sweeter harmonye invites our eares
Than ere was sent from the celestiall spheeres:
Cleare Tavy now his silver head may rayse,
A shephearde of his owne can singe his prayse.
Sweet toung'd Arion strive not with such odds,
Thy song moved but the dolphins: his the godds.
O hadst thou daignd to move thy sweeter toung,
The wolfe had stayd to hearken to thy songe;
Had Pans eares suckt the nectar of thy breath,
For thy sake Cælia had beene free from death,
But that the Fates denyde, as who should say
By Willys pen her fame shall live for aye:
Walla a garland will compose noe more,
To crowne her Tavyes temples as before;
But as to them that best deserve the prayse,
She'll give to thee the garland and the bayes,
And if a verse thy glorye may confine,
Thou sing'st Brittannias prayse, Brittannia thine.

Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.

TO THE AUTHOR W. BROWNE.

αυτοχεδιαστικον:

To the now unparelleled Sydney of his time, W. B., the ingenuous Author of Brittannia's Pastorals.

Play on thy pipe new lessons, Willy strike
More such as these which may each shepheard like,
And if it chaunce Thetys doe once againe
Visit our coasts, bee thou the elected swayne,
To greet her with thy layes, let her admire
The varying accents of thy matchlesse lyre,
And so affect thee for thy poems sake,
Adopt thee hers, and thee her usher make,
But leave us not, blithe swayne, let Tavys streame
Leave of to murmurre listning to thy theame,
Lest thy sweet layes so great effect obtayne,
As here on land, so there upon the mayne,
As lasses here admired thy matchlesse verse,
So there the sea-nimphs still thy praise rehearse,
Twixt both a great contention it will breed,
Who hath most interest in thyne oaten reed,
Which harder will appeased bee than theires
Who strove to bee esteemed the blind bards heires:
Those claime thee theires in that thou dost forsake
Thy native cotes, and there thy mansion make:
The lambkins heere did friske to heare thee play,
Lesse nourished by theire grasse than with thy lay;
So would the dolphins then attend thy song,
And none left Triton whom to ride upon,
Which might incense him seeing one the frye,
And vaster sholes pressing to come most nye,
To heare thy melody, and to refuse
His trumpets sounds, to which they still did use
Before to thronge, to pry thee do not come,
But sweetly pipen at thy native home,
Continue still with us, and let our vales
Reverberate in eccho thy sweet tales.

An Ode entreating him to proceed in the continuation of his Brittannias Pastorals.

Willy see but how the swaines
Mourne thy silence on the plaines,
And do sadly pace along,
Cause they cannot heare thy song;
Roget grieves: these notes would heare,
Faine which ravishd earst his eare,
And to hear thy song alway
In his prison would he stay,
With most willingness then bee
Deprived thereof, though set free.
He and Cuddy, that blith swayne,
Whose flockes feed on yonder playne,
Would bee glad their skill to trye
At your opportunitye,
And though sent to bee one tome,
They would undergoe thy doome,
And bee glad to yeeld to thee,
To whom is due all victorye,
Tis their wish each place could tell,
Thy conquests like Saint Dunstanes well,
And that thy pipe would sound so well,
As't whilome did in thicke same dell;
Dorydon mourns 'cause his sweet
Guided is not by thy feet,
To her haven of wisht joy,
But is left to all annoy
By thy crueltye, he feares
Least by this shee's drownd in teares:
Old swaines would dye, could they have
Thee but write upon theire grave
Sith affoored thou wilt not all
Once to heare thy pastorall.
Each shepheardesse doth lament,
Cause thou art theire discontent,
And had it been another lad
Which theire wakes thus hindred had,
Theyd reveng it, and with speed
Discard his silent oaten reed,
But thy former layes have got
Thee praises neer to bee forgot,
Therefore they forbeare to spoyle
Thy pipe which hath given the foyle
To opposers: nor would bee
Cruell to thy pipe or thee.
All the swaines are yonder sate
On the hillocke, and are mete,
To celebrate Pans festivall
With some pleasing madrigall,
But theyre dumb, and so will bee,
Lesse that thou augment their glee,
For their custome's at this feast,
Here mongst shepheards that the best
Must begin, and then each one
Follows till they all have done.
Why dost then thy musique linger,
And suppresse theires? they would finger
Willingly their pipes, they stay
But till thou thy lesson play.
Hye thee, Willye, hye apace,
With all speed to the place
Where the shepheards are set round,
Wayting there till thy pipe sound,
At thy tuning, when thy lay
Thou hast ended, they will play,
For which art brave Thetys shall
Crowne with praise thy madrigall,
And Pan himselfe shall always bee
A patron to thy muse and thee,
When that he knowes in this her matchlesse lay,
Thy muse keepes his, not her own holyday.

To the Authour, W. B.

Rivers be silent, peace you muses nine,
Orpheus be dumbe, for now no praise is thine;
Bend all your eares unto Britannia's peere,
Ever be praising, nere to praise him feare;
Right as the painters garnish with theire sable
Their brighter colours in a curious table.
Time so will place thee in the shield of fame,
As chiefe of men t'immortalize thy name;
Yet why should I with rude rimes seeke to raise thee,
Let every sonnet in thy pastorals praise thee;
O dasht Apollo, hide thy face for shame,
Render to shepheards henceforth all the fame.

On the Author, W. B.

Shall I implore the muses nine,
To grace with sweetes my ruder line,
When all the art the muses cann
Are sweetely sung within this spann?
Or shal I invocate great Pann
To tune the song thy pipe best cann?
Pann swore to me the other day
He broke his pipe, and ran to heare thy lay.
Apollo lend thy sacred quill,
That I may chant a note more shrill.
Alas! Apollos drownd in teares,
To see a god oer rule his spheares;
Lets see what golden Spenser cann,
Hees dead, and thou the living mann:
The godde I see can weare no bayes
But what is pluckt from thy bright layes;
If Pann a song more smoother sings,
Tis cause twas dipt in Tavies springs.

To the unparalleled Author of the sequent Poems, W. B.

Haile Albions swaine, whose worthy brow those bayes
G'en to the victor in Pans pastoral playes,
Ere since thy pipes first birth have bound, whose toungue
Our loves on once lovd Syrinx freely sounge,
When mountains heads and storm wrongd shrubs did cast
Theyre long shades westward, and when shepheards hast,
To 'nbed their pended flocks, how ofte amonge
The various sonnets of a neighbouring thronge
Hast thou enchanted with a strong desire,
To learne thy accents great Sylvanus quire,
Who like younge infants willing to obtaine
Their nurses dialect and perfect straine,
Labored a repetition; heare the thrush
Stroove with his whistell; in next bordring bush,
Shrouded about, was the small redbreast set,
With listning eares, and unwiling to lett
Nought passe turned eccho to thy tunes, above
The soring larke did meditating move
Her gutling tounge, but each in vaine, at last
Though out of tune, proud Philomels distast,
To heare a rivall did dispose the choice
Of natrall notes into an artlike voice,
Thy heavenly harmonie sounding below
Among the vales, the river gods did draw
Above theyre streames shaking their silver haire,
Then lifted up the anthumes seemed more rare,
Rap'd with such musicke theire cold monarchie
Abandoned straight, they mounted up on hie,
There stood attentive all, as if uppon
Parnassus topp, Apollos station,
Hee harping lay, and with smooth Mercurie
Had shared the spheares by better melodie;
Thus long in admiration of both layes,
They gave the sentence, thou obtainest the praise,
And with insinuation did entreat
That Tavies banckes myght be thy frequent seat:
They had theire will, thou yealdst a loth consent,
Thy windes must calme theire swelling element,
And heare the water nymphes eer since that time,
Wee hindes remembering thy mellifluous rime,
Covett to drive our cheretie flockes alonge
That crystall lake to heare thy wonted songe,
That song which metamorphosed raping bares,
And trained the crafty fox into her snares,
The happier fates had favoured faire Marine,
Had thy lipps wood for her her Celadine,
If Rennard could persuade as thou canst move,
Had changd to hate that beauties disdaind love,
Nor had the labor of a deity
Needed to quicken her mortality,
Thy charming voice had don't, for thy songs sake
Caron had wherried from the Stygian lake
Againe her ghost, nor hath thy peerlesse verse
Don lesse, thou must immortalize thy herse,
Thoust quite forsook Pans sports, the more the griefe,
His joy the more, thou absent, he's the chiefe;
Weeve lost thy fellowship, not lost thy fame,
We'll teach our children to adore thy name.
When as our Cornish or Devonian swaines
Still sport among their lamkins on the plaines,
Or celebrate their festivalls, wee'll raise
Our old reed once to Pans, twice to thy praise;
And when great Jove thy soul angelicall
Shall summon us to singe thy madrigall,
Our [OMITTED] shall want their tallow, but we'll burn
Continual candels on thy lasting urne.

Idem ad Eundem.

AN ODE.

On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.