 | The Poetry of George Wither |  |
SONG.
Willy.Shepherd, would these gates were ope;
Thou might'st take with us thy fortune.
Philarete.
No, I'll make this narrow scope,
Since my fate doth so importune,
Means unto a wider hope.
Cuddy.
Would thy shepherdess were here,
Who beloved loves thee so dearly.
Philarete.
Not for both your flocks, I swear,
And the gain they yield you yearly,
Would I so much wrong my dear
And the gain they yield you yearly,
Would I so much wrong my dear
Yet to me, nor to this place,
Would she now be long a stranger.
She would hold it no disgrace,
If she fear'd not more my danger,
Where I am to show her face.
Would she now be long a stranger.
She would hold it no disgrace,
If she fear'd not more my danger,
Where I am to show her face.
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Shepherd, we would wish no harms,
But something that might content thee.
Philarete.
Wish me then within her arms,
And that wish will ne'er repent me,
If your wishes might prove charms.
Willy.
Be thy prison her embrace,
Be thy air her sweetest breathing.
Cuddy.
Be thy prospect her sweet face,
For each look a kiss bequeathing,
And appoint thyself the place.
| The Poetry of George Wither | |