University of Virginia Library

Pastorall Verses written by the Shepheard Bonerto, to his beloued Shepheardesse Aglaia.

Pastor Primus.

Tell mee all yee shepheards swaines,
On Mineruas Mountaine plaines:
Yee that onely sit and keepe
Flockes (but of the fairest sheepe)
Did you see this blesséd day,
Faire Aglaia walke this way?
If yee did oh tell me then,
If yee bee true meaning men:
How shee fareth with her health,
All the world of all your wealth:
Say a truth, and say no more:
Did yee euer see before,
Such a shepherdesse as shee?
Can there such another bee?
Euer did your eies beholde,
Pearles, or pretious stones in golde,
Or the Starres in Phœbus skies,
Sparkle like her sunny eyes?
Doe but truth, and truth confesse:
Is she not that shepheardesse,
That in state of beauties stay,
Caries all the praise away?
Tell me truly, shepehard, tell,
On your plaines did euer dwell,
Such a peereles paragon,
For pure eyes to looke vpon?
Oh the chaste commaunding kindnes,
That disswades affection's blindenes!
Settes it not your hearts on fire?
Yet forbiddes yee to aspire.
Doth it not coniure your sences,
That yee fall not in offences?
Hath shee not that wit diuine,
That doth all your wittes refine.
And doth limite loue his measure,
That he purchase no displeasure.
Hath shee not your spirits wrought,
In obedience to her thought,
Where your hearts vnto her eye,
In a kinde of Simpathie,
Frame the best conceited fashion,
Of a blesséd fancie's passion,
Which may neuer passe that ace,
That may keepe you in her grace?
O yee truest harted creatures!
In the truest kindest natures
Who, when all your thought assemble,
Neuer doe in one dissemble:
In loue's beauties honour's face,
Let Aglaia be your grace.

Past. 2.

Siluan Muses can yee sing,
Of the beautie of the spring?
Haue yee seene on earth that Sunne,
That a heauenly course hath runne?
Haue yee liu'd to see those eyes?
Where the pride of beautie lies,
Haue yee heard that heauenly voice,
That may make loues heart reioyce?
Haue yee seene Aglaia, shee
Whome the world may ioy to see.
If yee haue not seene all these?
Then yee doe but labour leese,
While yee tune your pipes to play,
But an idle Roundelay.
And in sad discomfort's denne:
Euerie one goe bite her penne:
That shee cannot reach the skill,
How to clime that blesséd hill.
Where Aglaiae's prayses dwell
Whose exceedings doe excell,
And in simple truth confesse,
Shee is that faire Shepheardesse,
To whome fairest flockes a fielde,
Doe their seruice duely yeelde:
On whome neuer Muse hath gazéd,
But in musing is amazéd;
Where the honour is to much,
For their highest thoughtes to touch.
This confesse, and get yee gone,
To your places euery one.
And in silence onely speake
When yee find your speech to weake.
Blesséd be Aglaia yet,
Though the Muses die for it.
Come abroad you blesséd Muses,
Yee that Pallas chiefly choses,
When shee would commend a creature,
In the honour of loues nature.
For the sweet Aglaia faire,
All to sweeten all the ayre:
Is abroad this blesséd day,
Haste yee therefore, come away:
And to kill Loue's Maladies,
Meete her with your Melodies.
Flora hath bin all about,
And hath brought her wardrope out;
With her fairest sweetest flowers,
All to trimme vp all your Bowers.
Bid the Shepheards and their Swaynes
See the beautie of their plaines.
And commaund them with their flockes
To doe reuerence on the rockes.
Where they may so happie be
As her shadowe but to see.
Bidde the Birdes in euery bush,
Not a bird to be at hush:
But to sit, chirip, and sing,
To the beautie of the spring,
Call the siluan Nimphes together,
Bid them bring their musickes hither,
Trees, their barky silence breake,
Cracke yet though they cannot speake.
Bid the purest whitest Swanne,
Of her feathers make her fanne:
Let the Hound the Hare goe chase,
Lambes and Rabbets runne at bace.
Flies be dauncing in the Sunne:
While the Silke-wormes webbes are spunne.
Hange a fish on euerie hooke,
As shee goes along the brooke:
So with all your sweetest powers,
Entertaine her in your bowers.
Where her eare may ioy to heare,
How yee make your sweetest quire:
And in all your sweetest vaine,
Still Aglaia strike the straine.
But when shee her walke doth turne,
Then begin as fast to mourne:
All your flowers and Garlands wither,
Put vp all your pipes together:
Neuer strike a pleasing straine
Till shee come abrode againe.

Past. 3.

Who can liue in heart so glad,
As the merrie countrie lad?
Who vpon a faire greene balke
May at pleasures sit and walke?
And amidde the Azure skies,
See the morning Sunne arise?
While hee heares in euery spring,
How the Birdes doe chirpe and sing:
Or, before the houndes in crie,
See the Hare goe stealing by:
Or along the shallow brooke,
Angling with a baited hooke:
See the fishes leape and play,
In a blesséd Sunny day:
Or to heare the Partridge call,
Till shee haue her Couye all:
Or to see the subtill foxe,
How the villaine plies the box:
After feeding on his pray,
How he closely sneakes away,
Through the hedge and downe the furrow,
Till he geets into his burrowe.
Then the Bee to gather honey,
And the little blacke-haird Cony,
On a banke for Sunny place,
With her fore-feete wash her face:
Are not these with thousandes moe,
Then the Courts of Kinges doe knowe?
The true pleasing spirits sights,
That may breede true loues delightes,
But with all this happinesse,
To beholde that Shepheardesse,
To whose eyes all Shepheards yeelde,
All the fairest of the fielde.
Faire Aglaia in whose face,
Liues the Shepheard's highest Grace:
In whose worthy wonder praise,
See what her true Shepheard saies.
Shee is neither proude nor fine,
But in spirit more diuine:
Shee can neither lower nor leere,
But a sweeter smiling cheere:
She had neuer painted face,
But a sweeter smiling grace:
Shee can neuer loue dissemble,
Truth doth so her thoughts assemble,
That where wisdome guides her will,
Shee is kind and constant still,
All in summe she is that creature,
Of that truest comfortes Nature,
That doth shewe (but in exceedinges)
How their praises had their breedings:
Let then poetts faine their pleasure,
In their fictions of loue's treasure:
Proud high spirits seeke their graces,
In their Idoll painted faces:
My loue's spirit's lowlinesse,
In affections humblenesse,
Vnder heau'n no happines
Seekes but in this Shepheardesse.
For whose sake I say and sweare,
By the passions that I beare,
Had I got a Kinglie grace,
I would leaue my Kinglie place.
And in heart be truelie glad:
To become a Country Lad.
Hard to lie, and goe full bare,
And to feede on hungry fare:
So I might but liue to bee,
Where I might but sit to see,
Once a day, or all day long,
The sweet subiect of my song:
In Aglaiae's onely eyes,
All my worldly paradise.

A Solemne long enduring Passion.

Past. 4.

Wearie thoughts doe waite vpon me
Griefe hath to much ouer gone me
Time doth howerly ouer-toyle me,
While deepe sorrowes seeke to spoile me
Wit and sences all amazéd,
In their Graces ouer gazéd:
In exceeding torments tell me,
Neuer such a death befell mee.
Loue, oh life of more tormenting,
Then the world hath inuenting.
Neuer ceizd vpon a creature,
In a truer killing nature.
Not with Venus idle itching,
Nor with vaine affectes bewitching:
But with wit and reason's seeing,
Nature's beauties sweetest being:
Time and truth on earth declaring,
Excellence hath no comparing.
Not a Haire but hath in holding,
Honors hart, in loues beholding:
Not an eye, but in her glaunces,
Graceth reason in Loues traunces,
Not a looke but hath in louing,
Faith too fast for euery moouing.
Not a worde, but in commaunding,
Daunteth folly from demaunding.
Not a lippe, but makes the Cherrie,
Onely held a prettie Berrie:
Not a breath that softly blowes,
But perfumeth where it goes:
Not a truth but doth display,
All the Chesse in battaile ray:
Where the princely eye may see:
How they all in order bee.
King and Queene, Knight, Bishop, Rooke:
And the Pawne his place hath tooke.
Blesséd cheeke, the sweetest chaine,
Of affections sweetest vaine.
What can sweetest iudgements say,
But thou cariest sweete away?
Prettie cheeke, in whose sweet pit,
Loue would liue and die to sit.
Let mee thinke no more on thee,
Thou hast too much wounded me:
And that skarre vpon thy throate,
No such starre on Stellas coate.
Let me chide, yet with that stay,
That did weare the skinne away:
But alas shall I goe lower,
In sweet similies to showe her?
When to touch her praises tittle,
Nature's sweetnes is to little:
Where each Sinow, Limme and ioynt,
Perfect shape in euery point,
From corruptions eye concealed,
But to vertue loue reuealed,
Binde my thoughts to silence speaking,
While my hart must lye a breaking.
Petrarche, in his thoughts diuine,
Tasso in his highest line.
Ariosto's best inuention.
Dante's best obscur'd intention.
Ouid in his sweetest vaine:
Pastor Fidos purest straine.
With the finest Poet's wit,
That of wonders euer writ:
Were they all but now aliue,
And would for the Garland striue,
In the gratious praise of loue,
Heere they might their passions prooue.
On such excellences grownded;
That their wittes would be confounded.
And in enuie at my grace,
To beholde this blesséd face:
Finding all their wittes too weake,
Of her wonder worth to speake,
In a fretting humor'd vaine,
Runne into their graues againe.
But aye me! what inward wound,
Laies my comforts all a ground?
Absence, oh that world of woe,
That too neere the heart doth goe:
When the eye cannot beholde,
That the spirit hath in holde.
Loue must liue and looke a farre,
In a dreame vpon a starre:
But indeed beholde no light:
In darke absence onely night:
But what haue I said? aye me!
In the darkest night I see:
Sight of absence such a presence
Of Mineruas excellence.
In loue's liuing memorie,
That the light can neuer die.
No, first die all Poetts' loue,
Ere faith such a fiction prooue.
In obliuious light to place,
Such a blesséd starre of grace:
As in bright Aglaiae's eyes,
Shewes an earthly paradise.
If my Suite be not too great,
Thus much let thy swaine entreate:
Where no colde suspect can harme thee,
Looke into my hearte and warme thee,
Turne my Musicke to thy minde,
Let it know no other kinde.
Breake my pipe if that it play,
Other then the rounddelay.
Cut my throate if that I sing,
But vnto thy fauour's string.
Neuer grace my louely flocke,
But vpon the blessed rocke,
Where thy Grace may giue them feeding,
And thy blessing all their breeding.
I haue neither Plummes nor Cherries,
Nuttes, nor Aples, nor Straw-berries;
Pinnes nor Laces, Pointes nor gloues,
Nor a payre of painted Doues:
Shuttle-Cocke nor trundle ball,
To present thy loue with all:
But a heart as true and kinde,
As an honest faithfull minde
Can deuice for to inuent,
To thy patience I present:
At thy fairest feete it lies:
Blesse it with thy blesséd eyes:
Take it vp into thy handes,
At whose onely grace it standes,
To be comforted for euer,
Or to looke for comfort neuer:
Oh it is a strange affecte,
That my fancie doth effect.
I am caught and can not start,
Wit and reason, eye and heart:
All are witnesses to mee,
Loue hath sworne me slaue to thee,
Let me then be but thy slaue,
And no further fauour craue:
Send mee foorth to tende thy flocke,
On the highest Mountaine rocke.
Or commaund me but to goe,
To the valley grownd belowe:
All shall be a like to me,
Where it please thee I shall bee.
Let my face be what thou wilt:
Saue my life, or see it spilt.
Keepe fasting on thy Mountaine:
Charge me not come neere thy Fountaine.
In the stormes and bitter blastes,
Where the skie all ouercasts.
In the coldest frost and snowe,
That the earth did euer knowe:
Let me sit and bite my thumbes,
Where I see no comfort comes.
All the sorrowes I can prooue,
Cannot put me from my loue.
Tell me that thou art content,
To beholde me passion rente,
That thou know'st I deerely loue thee,
Yet withall it cannot mooue thee.
That thy pride doth growe so great,
Nothing can thy grace intreate,
That thou wilt so cruell bee,
As to kill my loue and mee:
That thou wilt no foode reserue,
But my flockes and I shall sterue.
Be thy rage yet nere so great,
When my little Lambes doe bleate,
To beholde their Shepheard die:
Then will truth her passion trie.
How a Hart it selfe hath spent,
With concealing of content.

Past. 5.

Now witts prooue what yee can doe,
I haue worke to set yee to:
That will trie the Quintessence
Of your humor's excellence.
Tis no dreadefull Tragœdy,
Nor no pleasant Comœdie,
Tis no fiction of a fancy,
Nor a furie of a franzie,
But a subject of that worth,
That must bring strange wonders foorth.
Yet take heede to flye to high,
Least you lose your winges thereby.
Keepe your compasse in that care,
That doth onely truth declare.
Where in safety of conceite,
Yee may winne your honor's height.
There if ye haue power to finde,
Prayses in their purest kinde:
In Aglaias blesséd name,
Worke to winne your worthy fame.
Seeke not out for Similes,
Least yee doe your labour leese.
And for figures neuer take them,
Least shee doe but Ciphers make them,
And for substance truely founded,
Loue will in her Grace be grounded.
But if in heigh Contemplation
Of your sence's Admiration,
Yee do finde in strange coniecture,
Reasons wonders Architecture:
In a frame of such a fashion,
As doth plundge the hart in passion,
In conceauing cares beholding,
How to fall vpon vnfolding,
Then in silence set it downe,
Of the blesséd Lawrell crowne:
Let Aglaia take the grace,
Where the graces haue their place.
And in fine let this suffise yee,
That I kindely doe aduise yee,
How so ere yee are conceited,
Thus let all your Cares be straited.
Mooue not from her, nor yet mooue her,
Loue but doe not say yee loue her:
So that passions sweetly wittie,
May in patience best haue pittie:
So liue happie to attend her,
But if needes yee must commend her,
To this counte your prayses call:
In her selfe, her selfe is all.