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 |  |
By this was Philocel returning backe,
And in his hand the Lady; for whose wrack
Nature had cleane forsworne to frame a wight
So wholly pure, so truly exquisite:
But more deform'd and from a rough-hewne mold,
Since what is best liues seldome to be old.
Within their sight was fairest Cælia now;
Who drawing neere, the life-priz'd golden bough
Her Loue beheld. And as a Mother kinde
What time the new-cloath'd trees by gusts of winde
Vnmou'd, stand wistly listning to those layes
The feather'd Quiristers vpon their sprayes
Chaunt to the merry Spring, and in the Euen
She with her little sonne for pleasure giuen,
To tread the fring'd bankes of an amorous flood,
That with her musicke courts a sullen wood,
Where euer talking with her onely blisse
That now before and then behinde her is,
She stoopes for flowres the choisest may be had,
And bringing them to please her prittie Lad,
Spies in his hand some banefull flowre or weed,
Whereon he gins to smell, perhaps to feed,
With a more earnest haste she runs vnto him,
And puls that from him which might else vndoe him:
So to his Cælia hastned Philocel,
And raught the bough away: hid it: and fell
To question if she broke it, or if then
An eye beheld her? Of the race of men
(Replide she), when I tooke it from the tree
Assure your selfe was none to testifie,
But what hath past since in your hand, behold,
A fellow running yonder o're the Wold
Is well inform'd of. Can there (Loue) insue,
Tell me! oh tell me! any wrong to you
By what my hand hath ignorantly done?
(Quoth fearefull Cælia) Philocel! be won
By these vnfained teares, as I by thine,
To make thy greatest sorrowes partly mine!
Cleere vp these showres (my Sun), quoth Philocel,
The ground it needs not. Nought is so from Well
But that reward and kinde intreaties may
Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.
Thus wisely he supprest his height of woe,
And did resolue, since none but they did know
Truly who rent it: And the hatefull Swaine
That lately past by them vpon the Plaine
(Whom well he knew did beare to him a hate,
Though vndeserued, so inueterate
That to his vtmost powre he would assay
To make his life haue ended with that day)
Except in his had seene it in no hand,
That hee against all throes of Fate would stand,
Acknowledge it his deed, and so afford
A passage to his heart for Iustice sword,
Rather then by her losse the world should be
Despiz'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.
And in his hand the Lady; for whose wrack
Nature had cleane forsworne to frame a wight
So wholly pure, so truly exquisite:
But more deform'd and from a rough-hewne mold,
Since what is best liues seldome to be old.
Within their sight was fairest Cælia now;
Who drawing neere, the life-priz'd golden bough
Her Loue beheld. And as a Mother kinde
What time the new-cloath'd trees by gusts of winde
Vnmou'd, stand wistly listning to those layes
The feather'd Quiristers vpon their sprayes
Chaunt to the merry Spring, and in the Euen
She with her little sonne for pleasure giuen,
To tread the fring'd bankes of an amorous flood,
That with her musicke courts a sullen wood,
Where euer talking with her onely blisse
That now before and then behinde her is,
She stoopes for flowres the choisest may be had,
And bringing them to please her prittie Lad,
105
Whereon he gins to smell, perhaps to feed,
With a more earnest haste she runs vnto him,
And puls that from him which might else vndoe him:
So to his Cælia hastned Philocel,
And raught the bough away: hid it: and fell
To question if she broke it, or if then
An eye beheld her? Of the race of men
(Replide she), when I tooke it from the tree
Assure your selfe was none to testifie,
But what hath past since in your hand, behold,
A fellow running yonder o're the Wold
Is well inform'd of. Can there (Loue) insue,
Tell me! oh tell me! any wrong to you
By what my hand hath ignorantly done?
(Quoth fearefull Cælia) Philocel! be won
By these vnfained teares, as I by thine,
To make thy greatest sorrowes partly mine!
Cleere vp these showres (my Sun), quoth Philocel,
The ground it needs not. Nought is so from Well
But that reward and kinde intreaties may
Make smooth the front of wrath, and this allay.
Thus wisely he supprest his height of woe,
And did resolue, since none but they did know
Truly who rent it: And the hatefull Swaine
That lately past by them vpon the Plaine
(Whom well he knew did beare to him a hate,
Though vndeserued, so inueterate
That to his vtmost powre he would assay
To make his life haue ended with that day)
Except in his had seene it in no hand,
That hee against all throes of Fate would stand,
Acknowledge it his deed, and so afford
A passage to his heart for Iustice sword,
Rather then by her losse the world should be
Despiz'd and scorn'd for losing such as she.
| The Whole Works of William Browne | |