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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Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.
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 | The Whole Works of William Browne |  |
16
Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.
TO THE AUTHOR W. BROWNE.
αυτοχεδιαστικον:
1
Cease, cease Pierian dames,Be henceforth mute,
Leave of your wanton games,
Apollos lute
Hath crackt a stringe: it grates my eares,
'Tis harsh, as are the heavenly spheares:
List Willie sings and tunes his oaten reed,
To whom all hearts, all eares doe yield themsess: as meed.
2
Hearke, hearke, the joylly ladSo sweetly sings,
The vales as proude, as glad
The murmuring springes:
Both joyne to tell the neighbour hills
That theres no musicke like to Willes.
Eccho enamoured one the pipinge swaine
Recovers (sylly wretch!) her voice, repeats each straine.
3
The bucksome sheepheardesseHearke! ha! no more?
Ah! what unhappinesse
Wast left us poore,
Bereft by thy neglected songs
Of life, of joy! tell tell wt wrongs
What sad disaster (Willie) is betide,
That we thy laies (not yet half done) should be denyed?
17
4
What has some satyre rude,Wode to those groves
His wily snares bestrewd
To catch your loves?
To tempt a credlous sheepheardesse,
Who crying out in her distresse,
Have made you breake or flinge your pipe away,
Oh no! your charmes would erst have made the monster stay.
5
Or is your pipe ybroke,And 'twill not sounde?
Goe, goe unto the oake
By yonder mounde:
Take Colins pipe (there't hangs) in hand,
Or if not that you may command
The whillome jolly swaine's Philicides,
But ah your broken pipe will sound as well as these.
6
Has subtell Reynard caughtA friskinge lambe,
Or the fearce woolfe distraught
The bleatinge dam?
And you by riffling of their folds,
Which to regaine your sport witholds,
Or has your lagginge ewe a lambkin yean'd,
Which makes you cease your notes, and midwifrie attend.
7
Or did some sheepheards boy(Thy layes are good,)
Nod's head or pause and coy,
He understood,
18
(If there were such) dull ignorant,
Or else despairinge ere to rise so high,
Would worke thee swaine from thy deserved supremacy.
8
Did the round yesterday,Which thou beganst
Soe merriely to play,
Thou them entraunct'st?
O did they rayse thy worth soe high,
And made thee blush for modestie:
Did they with garlands girt thy curled locks,
Cald thee fine piper while thou lookest all griefe for mocks.
9
And wd th' had wood thee too,A second part,
Cause from their promisd vow
They gan to start:
In which th' hadst bound their seely swaine,
Nor to commend nor praise thy veine,
Yet when they did begin, and who could spare?
Thou cruell tor'st thy chaplets, and wouldst willow weare.
10
See cruell faire, see, seeEach sheapheards brow,
That wont to smile with glee,
Is tearswolne now;
And prisninge up their pearly wealth,
The straglinge drops get out by stealth,
Yet could they hope to win thee for their prize,
To finish up thy song theyde bankerupt all their eyes.
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11
The pretty birds were muteTo heare thee singe,
And see the shepheard youth
All wantonninge;
When having ceast thy noates all fitty,
They all reservd there mournful dittye:
Philomel fearinge tis her fate denyes,
Thy sweeter accents falls into thy breast and dyes.
12
The winds that erst were whistBeginne to roare,
Each tree yr songes beinge mist,
Skreeks as before:
Each sproutinge pauncie in the meade
For greife begins to hang a head,
The weepinge brooke in grumblinge tones glide[s] doune,
Dimples its once sleeke cheeks, and thanks you with a frowne.
13
Come, come lets heare your skill,Here say you can't,
Wt are you angrie still,
By Pan you sha'nt.
Nere let your modestie deprive
Y' of what will keepe your name alive,
Whilst ore the curld-haird-Tavies flowery side
There does on[e] shepheard lodge or seely sheepe abide.
14
Oh let not nice conceit,You are too younge,
That there are lads more feete
Ith shepheards thronge,
20
There soule in sonnets at their will,
If still to me you be obdurate then,
Let sheepe, birds, trees, winds, flowers, brooks, teach thee melt again.
Sam. Hardinge, E. Coll. Exon.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |