The Poetry of George Wither :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetry of George Wither

Edited by Frank Sidgwick

Wither, George (1588-1667)

VOL. I

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING

Fidelia

EPITHALAMIA: OR NVPTIALL POEMS

II.

VOL. II

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I. VOL. I
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Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING

To those honoured, noble, and right virtuous friends, my visitants in the Marshalsea: And to all other my unknown favourers, who either privately or publicly wished me well in my imprisonment.

THE FIRST ECLOGUE. Willy leaves his flock awhile

The Argument.

Willy leaves his flock awhile,
To lament his friend's exile;
Where, though prison'd, he doth find,
He's still free that's free in mind:
And that there is no defence
Half so firm as innocence.

Philarete. Willy.
Philarete.

Willy, thou now full jolly tun'st thy reeds,
Making the nymphs enamour'd on thy strains,
And whilst thy harmless flock unscared feeds,
Hast the contentment of hills, groves, and plains:

Trust me, I joy thou and thy Muse so speeds
In such an age, where so much mischief reigns:
And to my care it some redress will be,
Fortune hath so much grace to smile on thee.

Willy.

To smile on me? I ne'er yet knew her smile,
Unless 'twere when she purposed to deceive me;
Many a train, and many a painted wile
She casts, in hope of freedom to bereave me:
Yet now, because she sees I scorn her guile
To fawn on fools, she for my Muse doth leave me.
And here of late, her wonted spite doth tend
To work me care, by frowning on my friend.

Philarete.

Why then I see her copper coin's no starling,
'Twill not be current still, for all the gilding,
A knave or fool must ever be her darling,
For they have minds to all occasions yielding:
If we get anything by all our parling,
It seems an apple, but it proves a wilding:
But let that pass: sweet shepherd, tell me this,
For what beloved friend thy sorrow is?

Willy.

Art thou, Philarete, in durance here,
And dost thou ask me for what friend I grieve?

Can I suppose thy love to me is dear,
Or this thy joy for my content believe?
When thou think'st thy cares touch not me as near:
Or that I pin thy sorrows at my sleeve?
I have in thee reposed so much trust,
I never thought to find thee so unjust.

Philarete.
Why, Willy?

Willy.

Prithee do not ask me why.
Doth it diminish any of thy care,
That I in freedom maken melody;
And think'st I cannot as well somewhat spare
From my delight, to moan thy misery?
'Tis time our loves should these suspects forbear:
Thou art that friend, which thou unnamed should'st know,
And not have drawn my love in question so.

Philarete.

Forgive me, and I'll pardon thy mistake,
And so let this thy gentle anger cease;
I never of thy love will question make
Whilst that the number of our days increase,
Yet to myself I much might seem to take,
And something near unto presumption prease,

To think me worthy love from such a spirit,
But that I know thy kindness past my merit.

Besides, methought thou spak'st now of a friend,
That seem'd more grievous discontents to bear,
Some things I find that do in show offend,
Which to my patience little trouble are,
And they ere long I hope will have an end;
Or though they have not, much I do not care:
So this it was made me that question move,
And not suspect of honest Willy's love.

Willy.

Alas, thou art exiled from thy flock,
And, quite beyond the deserts here confined,
Hast nothing to converse with but a rock,
Or at least outlaws in their caves half pined:
And dost thou at thy own misfortune mock,
Making thyself too to thyself unkind?
When heretofore we talk'd we did embrace;
But now I scarce can come to see thy face.

Philarete.

Yet all that, Willy, is not worth thy sorrow,
For I have mirth here thou would'st not believe;
From deepest cares the highest joys I borrow.
If ought chance out this day may make me grieve,
I'll learn to mend, or scorn it by to-morrow.
This barren place yields somewhat to relieve:
For, I have found sufficient to content me,
And more true bliss than ever freedom lent me.

Willy.
Are prisons then grown places of delight?

Philarete.

'Tis as the conscience of the prisoner is;
The very grates are able to affright
The guilty man, that knows his deeds amiss;
All outward pleasures are exiled quite,
And it is nothing (of itself) but this:
Abhorred loneness, darkness, sadness, pains
Numb cold, sharp hunger, scorching thirst, and chains.

Willy.
And these are nothing?

Philarete.
Nothing yet to me.
Only my friends' restraint is all my pain.
And since I truly find my conscience free,
From that my loneness too I reap some gain.

Willy.

But grant in this no discontentment be,
It doth thy wished liberty restrain:
And to thy soul I think there's nothing nearer,
For I could never hear thee prize ought dearer.

Philarete.

True, I did ever set it at a rate
Too dear for any mortal's worth to buy,

'Tis not our greatest shepherd's whole estate
Shall purchase from me my least liberty:
But I am subject to the powers of fate,
And to obey them is no slavery:
They may do much, but when they have done all,
Only my body they may bring in thrall.

And 'tis not that, my Willy, 'tis my mind;
My mind's more precious freedom I so weigh,
A thousand ways they may my body bind
In thousand thralls, but ne'er my mind betray:
And thence it is that I contentment find,
And bear with patience this my load away:
I'm still myself, and that I'd rather be,
Than to be lord of all these downs in fee.

Willy.

Nobly resolved, and I do joy to hear 't,
For 'tis the mind of man indeed that's all;
There's nought so hard but a brave heart will bear 't;
The guiltless men count great afflictions small,
They'll look on death and torment, yet not fear 't,
Because they know 'tis rising so to fall:
Tyrants may boast they to much power are born,
Yet he hath more than tyrannies can scorn.

Philarete.
'Tis right, but I no tyrannies endure,
Nor have I suffered ought worth name of care.

Willy.
Whate'er thou'lt call 't, thou may'st, but I am sure,
Many more pine that much less pained are:
Thy look methinks doth say thy meaning's pure
And by this past I find what thou dost dare:
But I could never yet the reason know,
Why thou art lodged in this house of woe.

Philarete.

Nor I, by Pan, nor never hope to do,
But thus it pleases some; and I do guess
Partly a cause that moves them thereunto,
Which neither will avail me to express,
Nor thee to hear, and therefore let it go;
We must not say, they do so that oppress:
Yet I shall ne'er, to soothe them or the times,
Injure myself by bearing others' crimes.

Willy.
Then now thou may'st speak freely, there's none hears,
But he, whom I do hope thou dost not doubt.

Philarete.

True: but if doors and walls have gotten ears,
And closet-whisperings may be spread about,
Do not blame him that in such causes fears
What in his passion he may blunder out,
In such a place, and such strict times as these,
Where what we speak is took as others please.

But yet to-morrow, if thou come this way,
I'll tell thee all my story to the end;
'Tis long, and now I fear thou canst not stay,
Because thy flock must watered be and penned,
And night begins to muffle up the day,
Which to inform thee how alone I spend,
I'll only sing a sorry prisoner's lay
I framed this morn, which though it suits not fields,
Is such as fits me, and sad thraldom yields.

Willy.

Well, I will set my kit another string,
And play unto it whilst that thou dost sing.

Philarete.

SONNET.

Now that my body dead-alive,
Bereaved of comfort, lies in thrall,
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive,
And unto honey turn this gall;
So shall we both through outward woe,
The way to inward comfort know.

As to the flesh we food do give,
To keep in us this mortal breath:

So souls on meditations live
And shun thereby immortal death;
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,
Than when thou find'st me most opprest.

First think, my soul, if I have foes
That take a pleasure in my care,
And to procure these outward woes,
Have thus entrapped me unaware;
Thou should'st by much more careful be.
Since greater foes lay wait for thee.

Then when mew'd up in grates of steel,
Minding those joys mine eyes do miss,
Thou find'st no torment thou dost feel,
So grievous as privation is;
Muse how the damn'd, in flames that glow,
Pine in the loss of bliss they know.

Thou seest there's given so great might
To some that are but clay as I;
Their very anger can affright,
Which, if in any thou espy,
Thus think; if mortals' frowns strike fear,
How dreadful will God's wrath appear?

By my late hopes that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer be:
And make the freedom I have lost,
A means that may remember thee:
Had Christ not thy redeemer bin,
What horrid thrall thou had'st been in.

These iron chains, these bolts of steel,
Which other poor offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they do feel,
May bring some greater thing to mind;
For by their grief thou shalt do well,
To think upon the pains of hell.

Or, when through me thou seest a man
Condemn'd unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with fear his panting breath;
Think, if in that such grief thou see,
How sad will ‘Go, ye cursed,’ be.

Again, when he that fear'd to die
Past hope doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his eye,
And then convey it to thy thought;
There think, betwixt thy heart and thee,
How sweet will ‘Come, ye blessed,’ be.

Thus if thou do, though closed here,
My bondage I shall deem the less,
I neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewail my sad distress;
For whether live, or pine, or die,
We shall have bliss eternally.

Willy.

Trust me I see the cage doth some birds good,
And, if they do not suffer too much wrong,

Will teach them sweeter descants than the wood:
Believe 't, I like the subject of thy song,
It shows thou art in no distempered mood:
But 'cause to hear the residue I long,
My sheep to-morrow I will nearer bring,
And spend the day to hear thee talk and sing.

Yet ere we part, Philarete, arede,
Of whom thou learn'dst to make such songs as these,
I never yet heard any shepherd's reed
Tune in mishap a strain that more could please;
Surely thou dost invoke at this thy need
Some power that we neglect in other lays:
For here's a name and words that but few swains
Have mention'd at their meeting on the plains.

Philarete.

Indeed 'tis true; and they are sore to blame,
They do so much neglect it in their songs,
For thence proceedeth such a worthy fame,
As is not subject unto envy's wrongs:
That is the most to be respected name
Of our true Pan, whose worth sits on all tongues;
And the most ancient shepherds use to praise
In sacred anthems, sung on holy days.

He that first taught his music such a strain
Was that sweet shepherd, who, until a king,

Kept sheep upon the honey-milky plain,
That is enrich'd by Jordan's watering;
He in his troubles eased the body's pain
By measures raised to the soul's ravishing:
And his sweet numbers only most divine
Gave the first being to this song of mine.

Willy.
Let his good spirit ever with thee dwell,
That I might hear such music every day.

Philarete.
Thanks, swains: but hark, thy wether rings his bell.
And, swains, to fold, or homeward drive away.

Willy.
And yon goes Cuddy; therefore fare thou well;
I'll make his sheep for me a little stay;
And, if thou think it fit, I'll bring him too
Next morning hither.

Philarete.
Prithee, Willy, do.

THE SECOND ECLOGUE. Cuddy here relates

The Argument.

Cuddy here relates, how all
Pity Philarete's thrall;
Who, requested, doth relate
The true cause of his estate;
Which broke off, because 'twas long,
They begin a three-man song.
Willy. Cuddy. Philarete.
Willy.
Lo, Philaret, thy old friend here, and I,
Are come to visit thee in these thy bands,
Whilst both our flocks in an enclosure by
Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands.
He tells me thy restraint of liberty
Each one throughout the country understands,
And there is not a gentle-natured lad
On all these downs, but for thy sake is sad.

Cuddy.
Not thy acquaintance and thy friends alone
Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do,
But some, that have but seen thee, for thee moan;
Yea, many that did never see thee too.
Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none;
So divers ways do divers rumours go;
And at all meetings where our shepherds be,
Now the main news that's extant is of thee.

Philarete.
Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept
Sheep on the mountains till the day of doom,
My name should in obscurity have slept
In brakes, in briars, shrubbed furze and broom;
Into the world's wide ear it had not crept,
Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room:
But what cause of my suffering do they know?
Good Cuddy, tell me, how doth rumour go?

Cuddy.
Faith, 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that:
Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause,
And many a one, prating he knows not what,
Comes out with proverbs and old ancient saws,
As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not:
Then doth he speak half sentences, then pause:
That what the most would say, we may suppose;
But what to say the rumour is, none knows.

Philarete.
Nor care I greatly, for it skills not much
What the unsteady common-people deems;
His conscience doth not always feel least touch
That blameless in the sight of others seems:
My cause is honest, and because 'tis such,
I hold it so, and not for men's esteems:
If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad;
If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad.

Willy.
I like that mind: but, shepherd, you are quite
Beside the matter that I long to hear:
Remember what you promised yester-night,
You'd put us off with other talk, I fear;
Thou know'st that honest Cuddy's heart's upright,
And none but he, except myself, is near:
Come, therefore, and betwixt us two relate
The true occasion of thy present state.

Philarete.

My friends, I will; you know I am a swain,
That keep a poor flock on a barren plain:
Who, though it seems I could do nothing less,
Can make a song, and woo a shepherdess.

And not alone the fairest where I live,
Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give:
But, though I say 't, the noblest nymph of Thame
Hath graced my verse, unto my greater fame.
Yet, being young, and not much seeking praise,
I was not noted out for shepherds' lays
Nor feeding flocks, as, you know, others be:
For the delight that most possessed me
Was hunting foxes, wolves, and beasts of prey
That spoil our folds, and bear our lambs away.
For this, as also for the love I bear
Unto my country, I laid by all care
Of gain, or of preferment, with desire
Only to keep that state I had entire,
And like a true-grown huntsman sought to speed
Myself with hounds of rare and choicest breed,
Whose names and natures, ere I further go,
Because you are my friends I'll let you know.
My first-esteemed dog that I did find,
Was by descent of old Actæon's kind;
A brach, which if I do not aim amiss,
For all the world is just like one of his:
She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty;
Her dam's my lady's pretty beagle, Beauty.
I bred her up myself with wondrous charge,
Until she grew to be exceeding large,
And wax'd so wanton, that I did abhor it,
And put her out amongst my neighbours for it.

The next is Lust, a hound that's kept abroad
'Mongst some of mine acquaintance; but a toad
Is not more loathsome: 'tis a cur will range
Extremely, and is ever full of mange:
And 'cause it is infectious, she's not wont
To come among the rest, but when they hunt.
Hate is the third, a hound both deep and long:
His sire is true, or else supposed, Wrong.
He'll have a snap at all that pass him by,
And yet pursues his game most eagerly.
With him goes Envy coupled, a lean cur,
And yet she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far:
She pineth much, and feedeth little too,
Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do.
Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouthed dog,
So fleet I'm fain to hunt him with a clog,
Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds,
And hunts not closely with the other hounds:
He'll venture on a lion in his ire:
Curst Choler was his dam, and Wrong his sire.
This Choler is a brach that's very old,
And spends her mouth too much to have it hold:
She's very testy; an unpleasing cur,
That bites the very stones, if they but stir:
Or when that ought but her displeasure moves,
She'll bite and snap at any one she loves.
But my quick-scented'st dog is Jealousy;
The truest of this breed's in Italy.
The dam of mine would hardly fill a glove,
It was a lady's little dog, called Love:

The sire, a poor deformed cur, named Fear,
As shagged and as rough as is a bear:
And yet the whelp turn'd after neither kind,
For he is very large, and near-hand blind.
Far off, he seemeth of a pretty colour,
But doth not prove so when you view him fuller.
A vile suspicious beast, whose looks are bad,
And I do fear in time he will grow mad.
To him I couple Avarice, still poor,
Yet she devours as much as twenty more;
A thousand horse she in her paunch can put,
Yet whine as if she had an empty gut;
And having gorged what might a land have found,
She'll catch for more, and hide it in the ground.
Ambition is a hound as greedy full,
But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull;
He scorns to lick up crumbs beneath the table,
He'll fetch 't from boards and shelves, if he be able;
Nay, he can climb, if need be; and for that
With him I hunt the marten and the cat:
And yet sometimes in mounting, he's so quick
He fetches falls are like to break his neck.
Fear is well-mouthed, but subject to distrust;
A stranger cannot make him take a crust:
A little thing will soon his courage quail,
And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his tail.
With him Despair now often coupled goes,

Which by his roaring mouth each huntsman knows.
None hath a better mind unto the game;
But he gives off, and always seemeth lame.
My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind,
Hunts to the death, and never comes behind;
Who, but she's strapp'd and muzzled too withal,
Would eat her fellows and the prey and all.
And yet she cares not much for any food
Unless it be the purest harmless blood.

All these are kept abroad at charge of many;
They do not cost me in a year a penny.
But there's two couple of a middling size,
That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes.
Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn;
Compassion, that on every one will fawn.
This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits play
Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away:
Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then
Catch you a hare, and let her go again.
The two last, Joy and Sorrow, make me wonder,
For they can ne'er agree, nor bide asunder.
Joy's ever wanton, and no order knows,
She'll run at larks, or stand and bark at crows.
Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye:
Yet both do serve to help make up the cry:
Then comes behind all these to bear the base,

Two couple more of a far larger race,
Such wide-mouth'd trollops, that 'twould do you good,
To hear their loud-loud echoes tear the wood:
There's Vanity, who by her gaudy hide
May far away from all the rest be spied,
Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there;
Nay, look about you, and she's everywhere:
Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase,
Right so, Inconstancy fills every place;
And yet so strange a fickle-natured hound,
Look for her, and she's nowhere to be found.
Weakness is no fair dog unto the eye,
And yet she hath her proper quality.
But there's Presumption; when he heat hath got,
He drowns the thunder, and the cannon-shot:
And when at start he his full roaring makes,
The earth doth tremble, and the heaven shakes:
These were my dogs, ten couple just in all,
Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call:
Mad curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them,
But I'm in danger to be bitten by them.
Much pains I took, and spent days not a few,
To make them keep together, and hunt true:
Which yet I do suppose had never bin,
But that I had a Scourge to keep them in.

Now when that I this kennel first had got,
Out of mine own demesnes I hunted not,
Save on these downs, or among yonder rocks,
After those beasts that spoiled our parish flocks:
Nor during that time was I ever wont
With all my kennel in one day to hunt:
Nor had done yet, but that this other year,
Some beasts of prey that haunt the deserts here
Did not alone for many nights together
Devour, sometime a lamb, sometime a wether,
And so disquiet many a poor man's herd,
But that of losing all they were afeared.
Yea, I among the rest did fare as bad,
Or rather worse; for the best ewes I had,
Whose breed should be my means of life and gain,
Were in one evening by these monsters slain:
Which mischief I resolved to repay,
Or else grow desperate and hunt all away.
For in a fury such as you shall see
Huntsmen in missing of their sport will be,
I vowed a monster should not lurk about
In all this province, but I'd find him out;
And thereupon, without respect or care
How lame, how full, or how unfit they were,
In haste unkennell'd all my roaring crew,
Who were as mad, as if my mind they knew;
And ere they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce curs,

Had roused a hart, and through brakes, briars, and furze
Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Fear
Got in together, and had surely there
Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in
'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin.
Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing overthwart,
Despair came in, and gripp'd him to the heart.
I halloed in the res'due to the fall,
And for an entrance there I flesh'd them all:
Which having done, I dipp'd my staff in blood,
And onward led my thunder to the wood;
Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon;
My keeper calls me, and I must be gone.
Go, if you please, awhile attend your flocks,
And when the sun is over yonder rocks,
Come to this cave again, where I will be,
If that my guardian so much favour me.
Yet, if you please, let us three sing a strain,
Before you turn your sheep into the plain.

Willy.
I am content.

Cuddy.
As well content am I.

Philarete.
Then Will begin, and we'll the rest supply.

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

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.

Willy.
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.

Philarete.
Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then
Come meet you here this afternoon again;
But fare you well, since wishes have no power,
Let us depart and keep the pointed hour.

THE THIRD ECLOGUE. Philaret with his three friends

The Argument.

Philaret with his three friends;
Here his hunting story ends.
Kind Alexis with much ruth
Wails the banish'd shepherd's youth.
But he slighteth fortune's stings,
And in spite of thraldom sings.
Philarete. Cuddy. Alexis. Willy.
Philarete.
So, now I see y' are shepherds of your word,
Thus were you wont to promise, and to do.

Cuddy.
More than our promise is, we can afford;
We come ourselves, and bring another too,
Alexis, whom thou know'st well is no foe,
Who loves thee much; and I do know that he
Would fain a hearer of thy hunting be.

Philarete.
Alexis, you are welcome, for you know
You cannot be but welcome where I am;

You ever were a friend of mine in show,
And I have found you are indeed the same:
Upon my first restraint you hither came,
And proffered me more tokens of your love,
Than it were fit my small deserts should prove.

Alexis.
'Tis still your use to underprize your merit;
Be not so coy to take my proffered love,
'Twill neither unbeseem your worth nor spirit.
To offer court'sy doth thy friend behove:
And which are so, this is a place to prove.
Then once again I say, if cause there be,
First make a trial, if thou please, of me.

Philarete.
Thanks, good Alexis; sit down by me here,
I have a task, these shepherds know, to do;
A tale already told this morn well near,
With which I very fain would forward go,
And am as willing thou should'st hear it too:
But thou canst never understand this last,
Till I have also told thee what is past.

Willy.
It shall not need, for I so much presumed,
I on your mutual friendships might be bold,
That I a freedom to myself assumed

To make him know what is already told.
If I have done amiss, then you may scold.
But in my telling I prevised this,
He knew not whose, nor to what end it is.

Philarete.
Well, now he may, for here my tale goes on:
My eager dogs and I to wood are gone,
Where, beating through the coverts, every hound
A several game had in a moment found:
I rated them, but they pursued their prey,
And as it fell (by hap) took all one way.
Then I began with quicker speed to follow,
And teased them on with a more cheerful hollo,
That soon we passed many weary miles,
Tracing the subtle game through all their wiles.
These doubled, those redoubled on the scent,
Still keeping in full chase where'er they went,
Up hills, down cliffs, through bogs, and over plains,
Stretching their music to the highest strains.
That when some thicket hid them from mine eye,
My ear was ravish'd with their melody.
Nor cross'd we only ditches, hedges, furrows,
But hamlets, tithings, parishes, and boroughs:
They followed wheresoe'er the game did go,
Through kitchen, parlour, hall, and chamber too.
And, as they pass'd the city, and the court,
My prince look'd out, and deigned to view my sport;

Which then, although I suffer for it now,
If some say true he liking did allow;
And so much, had I had but wit to stay,
I might myself perhaps have heard him say.
But I, that time, as much as any daring,
More for my pleasure than my safety caring;
Seeing fresh game from every covert rise,
Crossing by thousands still before their eyes,
After I rush'd, and following close my hounds,
Some beasts I found lie dead, some full of wounds,
Among the willows, scarce with strength to move:
One I found here, another there, whom Love
Had gripp'd to death: and, in the self-same state,
Lay one devoured by Envy, one by Hate;
Lust had bit some, but I soon passed beside them,
Their fester'd wounds so stunk, none could abide them.
Choler hurt divers, but Revenge kill'd more:
Fear frightened all, behind him and before.
Despair drave on a huge and mighty heap,
Forcing some down from rocks and hills to leap,
Some into water, some into the fire;
So on themselves he made them wreak his ire.
But I remember, as I pass'd that way,
Where the great king and prince of shepherds lay,
About the walls were hid some, once more known,
That my fell cur Ambition had o'erthrown:

Many I heard, pursued by Pity, cry;
And oft I saw my blood-hound, Cruelty,
Eating her passage even to the heart,
Whither once gotten, she is loth to part.
All plied it well, and made so loud a cry,
'Twas heard beyond the shores of Britany.
Some rated them, some storm'd, some liked the game,
Some thought me worthy praise, some worthy blame.
But I, not fearing th' one, mis-'steeming t'other,
Both in shrill hallooes and loud yearnings smother.
Yea, the strong mettled and my long-breath'd crew,
Seeing the game increasing in their view,
Grew the more frolic, and the course's length
Gave better breath, and added to their strength.
Which Jove perceiving, for Jove heard their cries
Rumbling amongst the spheres' concavities,
He mark'd their course, and courage's increase,
Saying, 'twere pity such a chase should cease.
And therewith swore their mouths should never waste,
But hunt as long 's mortality did last.
Soon did they feel the power of his great gift,
And I began to find their pace more swift:
I follow'd, and I rated, but in vain
Strived to o'ertake, or take them up again.
They never stayed since, nor nights nor days,

But to and fro still run a thousand ways:
Yea, often to this place where now I lie,
They'll wheel about to cheer me with their cry;
And one day in good time will vengeance take
On some offenders, for their master's sake:
For know, my friends, my freedom in this sort
For them I lose, and making myself sport.

Willy.
Why, was there any harm at all in this?

Philarete.
No, Willy, and I hope yet none there is.

Willy.
How comes it then?

Philarete.
Note, and I'll tell thee how.
Thou know'st that truth and innocency now,
If placed with meanness, suffers more despite
Than villainies accompanied with might.
But thus it fell, while that my hounds pursued
Their noisome prey, and every field lay strew'd
With monsters, hurt and slain,—upon a beast
More subtle and more noisome than the rest,

My lean-flank'd bitch, call'd Envy, hapt to light;
And, as her wont is, did so surely bite
That, though she left behind small outward smart,
The wounds were deep, and rankled to the heart.
This, joining to some other, that of late
Were very eagerly pursued by Hate,
To fit their purpose having taken leisure,
Did thus conspire to work me a displeasure.
For imitation far surpassing apes,
They laid aside their fox and wolfish shapes,
And shrouded in the skins of harmless sheep
Into by-ways and open paths did creep;
Where they, as hardly drawing breath, did lie,
Showing their wounds to every passer by,
To make them think that they were sheep so foil'd,
And by my dogs, in their late hunting, spoil'd.
Beside, some other that envied my game,
And, for their pastime, kept such monsters tame—
As, you do know, there's many for their pleasure
Keep foxes, bears, and wolves, as some great treasure
Yea, many get their living by them too,
And so did store of these, I speak of, do—
Who, seeing that my kennel had affrighted,
Or hurt some vermin wherein they delighted,
And finding their own power by much too weak
Their malice on my innocence to wreak,
Swoll'n with the deepest rancour of despite
Some of our greatest shepherds' folds by night
They closely entered; and there having stain'd

Their hands in villainy, of me they plain'd
Affirming, without shame or honesty,
I and my dogs had done it purposely.
Whereat they storm'd, and call'd me to a trial,
Where innocence prevails not, nor denial:
But for that cause here in this place I lie,
Where none so merry as my dogs and I.

Cuddy.
Believe it, here's a tale will suiten well,
For shepherds in another age to tell.

Willy.
And thou shalt be remember'd with delight
By this hereafter, many a winter's night;
For of this sport another age will ring;
Yea, nymphs that are unborn thereof shall sing,
And not a beauty on our greens shall play
That hath not heard of this thy hunting day.

Philarete.
It may be so, for if that gentle swain
Who woos by Tavy on the western plain,
Would make the song, such life his verse can give,
Then I do know my name might ever live.

Alexis.
But tell me, are our plains and nymphs forgot,
And canst thou frolic in thy trouble be?

Philarete.
Can I, Alexis, say'st thou? Can I not,
That am resolved to scorn more misery?

Alexis.

Oh, but thy youth's yet green, and young blood hot,
And liberty must needs be sweet to thee,
But now most sweet, whilst every bushy vale
And grove and hill rings of the nightingale.

Methinks, when thou rememberest those sweet lays
Which thou would'st lead thy shepherdess to hear
Each evening-tide among the leafy sprays,
The thought of that should make thy freedom dear;
For now, whilst every nymph on holidays
Sports with some jolly lad, and maketh cheer,
Thine sighs for thee, and mew'd up from resort,
Will neither play herself, nor see their sport.

Those shepherds that were many a morning wont
Unto their boys to leave the tender herd,
And bear thee company when thou didst hunt—
Methinks the sport thou hast so gladly shared
Among those swains should make thee think upon 't,
For 't seems all vain now, that was once endear'd.

It cannot be, since I could make relation
How for less cause thou hast been deep in passion.

Philarete.

'Tis true: my tender heart was ever yet
Too capable of such conceits as these;
I never saw that object, but from it
The passions of my love I could increase.
Those things which move not other men a whit,
I can and do make use of, if I please:
When I am sad, to sadness I apply
Each bird, and tree, and flower that I pass by.

So, when I will be merry, I as well
Something for mirth from everything can draw,
From misery, from prisons, nay, from hell:
And as, when to my mind grief gives a flaw,
Best comforts do but make my woes more fell,
So when I'm bent to mirth, from mischief's paw,
Though seized upon me, I would something cull,
That spite of care should make my joys more full.

I feel those wants, Alexis, thou dost name,
Which spite of youth's affections I sustain;
Or else, for what is 't I have gotten fame,
And am more known than many an elder swain,
If such desires I had not learn'd to tame,
Since many pipe much better on this plain?
But tune your reeds, and I will in a song
Express my care, and how I take this wrong.

SONNET.

I that erstwhile the world's sweet air did draw
Graced by the fairest ever mortal saw,
Now closely pent with walls of ruthless stone,
Consume my days and nights and all alone.

When I was wont to sing of shepherds' loves,
My walks were fields, and downs, and hills, and groves:
But now, alas! so strict is my hard doom,
Fields, downs, hills, groves, and all's but one poor room.

Each morn, as soon as daylight did appear,
With nature's music birds would charm mine ear;
Which now, instead of their melodious strains,
Hear rattling shackles, gyves, and bolts, and chains.

But though that all the world's delight forsake me,
I have a Muse, and she shall music make me;
Whose airy notes, in spite of closest cages,
Shall give content to me, and after ages.

Nor do I pass for all this outward ill,
My heart's the same, and undejected still;
And, which is more than some in freedom win,
I have true rest, and peace, and joy within.

And then my mind, that spite of prison's free,
Whene'er she pleases anywhere can be;
She's in an hour in France, Rome, Turkey, Spain,
In earth, in hell, in heaven, and here again.

Yet there's another comfort in my woe;
My cause is spread, and all the world may know
My fault's no more but speaking truth and reason;
Nor debt, nor theft, nor murder, rape, or treason.

Nor shall my foes, with all their might and power,
Wipe out their shame, nor yet this fame of our:
Which when they find, they shall my fate envy,
Till they grow lean, and sick, and mad, and die.

Then though my body here in prison rot,
And my wrong'd satires seem awhile forgot:
Yet when both fame and life hath left those men,
My verse and I'll revive, and live again.

So thus enclosed I bear affliction's load,
But with more true content than some abroad;
For whilst their thoughts do feel my scourge's sting,
In bands I'll leap, and dance, and laugh, and sing.

Alexis.
Why now I see thou droop'st not with thy care,
Neither exclaim'st thou on thy hunting day,
But dost with unchanged resolution bear
The heavy burthen of exile away.
All that did truly know thee, did conceive
Thy actions with thy spirit still agreed;
Their good conceit thou dost no whit bereave,
But shew'st that thou art still thyself indeed.

If that thy mind to baseness now descends,
Thou'lt injure virtue, and deceive thy friends.

Willy.
Alexis, he will injure virtue much,
But more his friends, and most of all himself;
If on that common bar his mind but touch,
It wracks his fame upon disgrace's shelf.
Whereas if thou steer on that happy course,
Which in thy just adventure is begun,
No thwarting tide nor adverse blast shall force
Thy bark without the channel's bounds to run.
Thou art the same thou wert, for ought I see,
When thou didst freely on the mountains hunt;
In nothing changed yet, unless it be
More merrily disposed than thou wert wont.
Still keep thee thus, so other men shall know,
Virtue can give content in midst of woe;
And see, though mightiness with frowns doth threat,
That, to be innocent, is to be great.
Thrive and farewell.

Alexis.
In this thy trouble flourish.

Cuddy.
While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish.

THE FOURTH ECLOGUE. Philaret on Willy calls

To his truely beloved loving Friend, Mr. William Browne of the Inner Temple.

The Argument.

Philaret on Willy calls,
To sing out his pastorals,
Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes
Spite of envy and the times;
And shows how in care he uses
To take comfort from his Muses.

Philarete. Willy.
Philarete.
Prithee, Willy, tell me this,
What new accident there is,
That thou, once the blithest lad,
Art become so wondrous sad,
And so careless of thy quill,
As if thou had'st lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks

Hast so cheer'd me with thy song,
That I have forgot my wrong.
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old wont thou hast lost.
Tell me, have I ought mis-said
That hath made thee ill-a-paid?
Hath some churl done thee a spite?
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night?
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass?
Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Worse than this my banishment?

Willy.
Why, doth that so evil seem
That thou nothing worse dost deem?
Shepherd, there full many be,
That will change contents with thee.
Those that choose their walks at will,
On the valley or the hill,
Or those pleasures boast of can,
Groves or fields may yield to man,
Never come to know the rest,
Wherewithal thy mind is blest.
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troop at sports,
And in company somewhile,
Happens to strain forth a smile,

Feels more want, more outward smart,
And more inward grief of heart,
Than this place can bring to thee,
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth,
But what find'st thou in this earth,
Wherein ought may be believed
Worth to make me joy'd or grieved?
And yet feel I, natheless,
Part of both, I must confess.
Sometime I of mirth do borrow,
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But my present state is such,
As nor joy nor grieve I much.

Philarete.
Why hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall
His well-tuned pastoral,
And my ears that music bar,
Which I more long after far
Than the liberty I want?

Willy.
That were very much to grant.
But doth this hold alway, lad,
Those that sing not must be sad?
Did'st thou ever that bird hear
Sing well, that sings all the year?
Tom the Piper doth not play
Till he wears his pipe away:
There's a time to slack the string,
And a time to leave to sing.

Philarete.
Yea, but no man now is still,
That can sing or tune a quill.
Now to chant it were but reason;
Song and music are in season.
Now in this sweet jolly tide,
Is the earth in all her pride:
The fair Lady of the May,
Trimm'd up in her best array,
Hath invited all the swains
With the lasses of the plains,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.
Corydon with his bold rout
Hath already been about
For the elder shepherds' dole,
And fetch'd in the summer-pole:
Whilst the rest have built a bower,

To defend them from a shower,
Ciel'd so close, with boughs all green,
Titan cannot pry between.
Now the dairy-wenches dream
Of their strawberries and cream,
And each doth herself advance
To be taken in to dance;
Every one that knows to sing,
Fits him for his carolling;
So do those that hope for meed,
Either by the pipe or reed:
And though I am kept away,
I do hear this very day
Many learned grooms do wend
For the garlands to contend,
Which a nymph that hight Desart,
Long a stranger in this part,
With her own fair hand hath wrought
A rare work, they say, past thought,
As appeareth by the name,
For she calls them wreaths of fame.
She hath set in their due place
Every flower that may grace;
And among a thousand mo,
Whereof some but serve for show,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,
That they may not blasted be.
Which with thyme she edged about,
Lest the work should ravel out.
And that it might wither never,

Intermix'd it with live-ever.
These are to be shared among,
Those that do excel for song,
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then for those among the rest
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a kidling with the dam,
A fat wether, and a lamb.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar,
There's appointed guerdons too:
He that best the first can do,
Shall, for his reward, be paid
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid
With fine bone, of a strange beast
That men bring from out the West:
For the next, a scrip of red,
Tassell'd with fine coloured thread:
There's prepared for their meed
That in running make most speed,
Or the cunning measures foot,
Cups of turned maple-root,
Whereupon the skilful man
Hath engraved the loves of Pan:
And the last hath for his due,
A fine napkin wrought with blue.

Then, my Willy, why art thou
Careless of thy merit now?
What dost thou here with a wight
That is shut up from delight
In a solitary den,
As not fit to live with men?
Go, my Willy, get thee gone,
Leave me in exile alone;
Hie thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy song.
Thou art young, yet such a lay
Never graced the month of May,
As, if they provoke thy skill,
Thou canst fit unto thy quill;
I with wonder heard thee sing,
At our last year's revelling.
Then I with the rest was free,
When unknown I noted thee,
And perceived the ruder swains
Envy thy far sweeter strains.
Yea, I saw the lasses cling
Round about thee in a ring,
As if each one jealous were
Any but herself should hear.
And I know they yet do long
For the res'due of thy song.
Haste thee then to sing it forth;
Take the benefit of worth,
And Desert will sure bequeathe

Fame's fair garland for thy wreath;
Hie thee, Willy, hie away.

Willy.
Phila, rather let me stay,
And be desolate with thee,
Than at those their revels be;
Nought such is my skill, I wis,
As indeed thou deem'st it is.
But whate'er it be, I must
Be content, and shall, I trust.
For a song I do not pass
'Mong'st my friends, but what, alas!
Should I have to do with them
That my music do contemn?
Some there are, as well I wot,
That the same yet favour not;
Yet I cannot well avow
They my carols disallow;
But such malice I have spied,
'Tis as much as if they did.

Philarete.
Willy, what may those men be
Are so ill to malice thee?

Willy.
Some are worthy, well-esteem'd,
Some without worth are so deem'd.

Others of so base a spirit,
They have nor esteem, nor merit.

Philarete.
What's the wrong?

Willy.
A slight offence,
Wherewithal I can dispense;
But hereafter for their sake
To myself I'll music make.

Philarete.
What, because some clown offends,
Wilt thou punish all thy friends?

Willy.
Do not, Phil, misunderstand me,
Those that love me may command me;
But, thou know'st, I am but young,
And the pastoral I sung,
Is by some supposed to be
By a strain too high for me:
So they kindly let me gain
Not my labour for my pain.
Trust me, I do wonder why
They should me my own deny.
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
On the wings of borrowed wit.

I'll make my own feathers rear me
Whither others cannot bear me.
Yet I'll keep my skill in store,
Till I've seen some winters more.

Philarete.
But, in earnest, mean'st thou so?
Then thou art not wise, I trow:
Better shall advise thee Pan,
For thou dost not rightly than;
That's the ready way to blot
All the credit thou hast got.
Rather in thy age's prime,
Get another start of Time,
And make those that so fond be,
Spite of their own dulness see
That the sacred Muses can
Make a child in years a man.
It is known what thou canst do,
For it is not long ago,
When that Cuddy, thou, and I,
Each the others' skill to try,
At Saint Dunstan's charmed well,
As some present there can tell,
Sang upon a sudden theme,
Sitting by the crimson stream;
Where if thou didst well or no,
Yet remains the song to show.
Much experience more I've had,

Of thy skill, thou happy lad,
And would make the world to know it,
But that time will further show it.
Envy makes their tongues now run
More than doubt of what is done.
For that needs must be thy own,
Or to be some other's known:
But how then will 't suit unto
What thou shalt hereafter do?
Or, I wonder, where is he
Would with that song part to thee?
Nay, were there so mad a swain,
Could such glory sell for gain,
Phœbus would not have combined
That gift with so base a mind.
Never did the Nine impart
The sweet secrets of their art
Unto any that did scorn
We should see their favours worn.
Therefore unto those that say,
Were they pleased to sing a lay,
They could do 't, and will not tho',
This I speak, for this I know;
None e'er drunk the Thespian spring,
And knew how, but he did sing.
For that once infused in man
Makes him show't, do what he can.
Nay, those that do only sip,
Or but ev'n their fingers dip
In that sacred fount, poor elves,
Of that brood will show themselves.

Yea, in hope to get them fame,
They will speak, though to their shame.
Let those then at thee repine
That by their wits measure thine;
Needs those songs must be thine own,
And that one day will be known.
That poor imputation too,
I myself do undergo;
But it will appear ere long,
That 'twas envy sought our wrong,
Who at twice-ten have sung more
Than some will do at fourscore.
Cheer thee, honest Willy, then,
And begin thy song again.

Willy.
Fain I would, but I do fear
When again my lines they hear,
If they yield they are my rhymes,
They will fain some other crimes;
And 'tis no safe vent'ring by
Where we see detraction lie.
For do what I can, I doubt
She will pick some quarrel out;
And I oft have heard defended,
Little said is soon amended.

Philarete.
Seest thou not in clearest days
Oft thick fogs cloud heaven's rays,
And that vapours which do breathe
From the earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem not to us with black steams
To pollute the sun's bright beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemish'd fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With detraction's breath and thee.
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains,
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
'Twixt men's judgments and her light:
But so much her power may do,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing, she gets power:
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still the more:
Till she to the high'st hath past,

Then she rests with fame at last.
Let nought therefore thee affright,
But make forward in thy flight;
For if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb,
There begin again, and fly
Till I reach'd eternity.
But, alas, my Muse is slow;
For thy pace she flags too low:
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipp'd of late,
And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Am myself put up a-mewing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did.
And though for her sake I'm crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double,
I would love and keep her too
Spite of all the world could do.
For though banish'd from my flocks,
And, confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flow'ry fields,

With those sweets the springtide yields,
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chant their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel,
Though of all those pleasures past
Nothing now remains at last,
But remembrance, poor relief,
That more makes than mends my grief;
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will,
Whence she should be driven too,
Were 't in mortal's power to do.
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rusteling;
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed,

Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness.
The dull loneness, the black shade
That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves,
This black den which rocks emboss
Overgrown with eldest moss,
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight,
This my chamber of neglect,
Wall'd about with disrespect;
From all these and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er heav'n to mortals lent,
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn
That to nought but earth are born,
Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call thee madness,
Let me never taste of gladness
If I love not thy mad'st fits,
More than all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them
Oh, high power! that oft doth carry
Men above—

Willy.
Good Philarete, tarry,
I do fear thou wilt be gone
Quite above my reach anon.
The kind flames of poesy
Have now borne thy thoughts so high,
That they up in heaven be,
And have quite forgotten me.
Call thyself to mind again;
Are these raptures for a swain
That attends on lowly sheep,
And with simple herds doth keep?

Philarete.
Thanks, my Willy; I had run
Till that time had lodged the sun,

If thou had'st not made me stay;
But thy pardon here I pray.
Loved Apollo's sacred sire
Had raised up my spirits higher,
Through the love of poesy,
Than indeed they use to fly.
But as I said, I say still,
If that I had Willy's skill,
Envy nor detraction's tongue
Should e'er make me leave my song,
But I'd sing it every day
Till they pined themselves away.
Be thou then advised in this
Which both just and fitting is;
Finish what thou hast begun,
Or at least still forward run.
Hail and thunder ill he'll bear
That a blast of wind doth fear:
And if words will thus affray thee,
Prithee how will deeds dismay thee?
Do not think so rathe a song
Can pass through the vulgar throng,
And escape without a touch,
Or that they can hurt it much:
Frosts we see do nip that thing
Which is forward'st in the spring:
Yet at last for all such lets
Somewhat of the rest it gets.

And I'm sure that so may'st thou.
Therefore, my kind Willy, now,
Since thy folding time draws on
And I see thou must be gone,
Thee I earnestly beseech
To remember this my speech,
And some little counsel take
For Philarete his sake:
And I more of this will say,
If thou come next holiday.

THE FIFTH ECLOGUE. Philaret Alexis moves

To Master W. F. of the Middle Temple.

The Argument.

Philaret Alexis moves,
To embrace the Muses' loves;
Bids him never careful seem,
Of another's disesteem;
Since to them it may suffice,
They themselves can justly prize.

Philarete. Alexis.
Philarete.
Alexis, if thy worth do not disdain
The humble friendship of a meaner swain,
Or some more needful business of the day,
Urge thee to be too hasty on thy way;
Come, gentle shepherd, rest thee here by me,
Beneath the shadow of this broad-leaved tree:
For though I seem a stranger, yet mine eye
Observes in thee the marks of courtesy,

And if my judgment err not, noted too
More than in those that more would seem to do;
Such virtues thy rare modesty doth hide,
Which by their proper lustre I espied;
And though long mask'd in silence they have been,
I have a wisdom through that silence seen,
Yea, I have learned knowledge from thy tongue,
And heard when thou hast in concealment sung,
Which me the bolder and more willing made
Thus to invite thee to this homely shade;
And though it may be thou could'st never spy
Such worth in me, I might be known thereby,
In thee I do, for here my neighbouring sheep
Upon the border of these downs I keep:
Where often thou at pastorals and plays,
Hast graced our wakes on summer holidays;
And many a time with thee at this cold spring
Met I, to hear your learned shepherds sing,
Saw them disporting in the shady groves,
And in chaste sonnets woo their chaster loves:
When I, endued with the meanest skill,
'Mongst others have been urged to tune my quill.
But, 'cause but little cunning I had got,
Perhaps thou saw'st me, though thou knew'st me not.

Alexis.
Yes, Philaret, I know thee, and thy name.
Nor is my knowledge grounded all on fame:

Art thou not he that but this other year
Scared'st all the wolves and foxes in the shire?
And, in a match at football lately tried,
Having scarce twenty satyrs on thy side,
Held'st play, and though assailed kept'st thy stand
'Gainst all the best-tried ruffians in the land?
Didst thou not then in doleful sonnets moan,
When the beloved of great Pan was gone?
And at the wedding of fair Thame and Rhine,
Sing of their glories to thy valentine?
I know it, and I must confess that long
In one thing I did do thy nature wrong:
For, till I mark'd the aim thy satyrs had,
I thought them over-bold, and thee half mad.
But since I did more nearly on thee look,
I soon perceived that I had all mistook;
I saw that of a cynic thou mad'st show,
Where since I find that thou wert nothing so,
And that of many thou much blame had'st got,
Whenas thy innocence deserved it not.
But that too good opinion thou hast seem'd
To have of me, not so to be esteem'd,
Prevails not ought to stay him who doth fear
He rather should reproofs than praises hear.
'Tis true, I found thee plain and honest too,
Which made me like, then love, as now I do;

And, Phila, though a stranger, this I'll say,
Where I do love, I am not coy to stay.

Philarete.
Thanks, gentle swain, that dost so soon unfold
What I to thee as gladly would have told,
And thus thy wonted courtesy exprest
In kindly entertaining this request.
Sure, I should injury my own content
Or wrong thy love to stand on compliment,
Who hast acquaintance in one word begun,
As well as I could in an age have done.
Or by an overweening slowness mar
What thy more wisdom hath brought on so far.
Then sit thou down, and I'll my mind declare,
As freely as if we familiars were;
And if thou wilt but deign to give me ear,
Something thou may'st for thy more profit hear.

Alexis.
Philarete, I willingly obey.

Philarete.
Then know, Alexis, from that very day,
Whenas I saw thee at that shepherd's cote,

Where each I think of other took first note;
I mean that pastor who by Tavy's springs
Chaste shepherds' loves in sweetest numbers sings,
And with his music, to his greater fame,
Hath late made proud the fairest nymphs of Thame;
E'en then, methought, I did espy in thee
Some unperceived and hidden worth to be,
Which in thy more apparent virtues shined;
And, among many, I in thought divined,
By something my conceit had understood,
That thou wert mark'd one of the Muses' brood.
That made me love thee, and that love I bear
Begat a pity, and that pity, care:
Pity I had to see good parts conceal'd,
Care I had how to have that good reveal'd,
Since 'tis a fault admitteth no excuse,
To possess much, and yet put nought in use.
Hereon I vow'd if we two ever met
The first request that I would strive to get
Should be but this, that thou would'st show thy skill,
How thou could'st tune thy verses to thy quill,
And teach thy Muse in some well-framed song,
To show the art thou hast suppressed so long:
Which if my new acquaintance may obtain,
I will for ever honour this day's gain.

Alexis.
Alas! my small experience scarce can tell
So much as where those nymphs the Muses dwell,

Nor, though my slow conceit still travels on,
Shall I e'er reach to drink of Helicon.
Or, if I might so favour'd be to taste
What those sweet streams but overflow in waste,
And touch Parnassus, where it low'st doth lie,
I fear my skill would hardly flag so high.

Philarete.
Despair not, man, the gods have prized nought
So dear that may not be with labour bought:
Nor need thy pain be great, since Fate and Heaven
That, as a blessing, at thy birth have given.

Alexis.
Why, say they had?

Philarete.
Then use their gifts thou must,
Or be ungrateful, and so be unjust:
For if it cannot truly be denied,
Ingratitude men's benefits do hide;
Then more ungrateful must he be by odds,
Who doth conceal the bounty of the gods.

Alexis.
That's true indeed, but Envy haunteth those
Who, seeking fame, their hidden skill disclose,
Where else they might, obscured from her espying,
Escape the blasts and danger of envying.

Critics will censure our best strains of wit,
And purblind ignorance misconster it.
All which is bad; yet worse than this doth follow,
Most hate the Muses and contemn Apollo.

Philarete.
So let them: why should we their hate esteem?
Is 't not enough we of ourselves can deem?
'Tis more to their disgrace that we scorn them,
Than unto us that they our art contemn.
Can we have better pastime than to see
Their gross heads may so much deceived be
As to allow those doings best, where wholly
We scoff them to their face and flout their folly?
Or to behold black Envy in her prime
Die self-consumed, whilst we vie lives with time,
And, in despite of her, more fame attain
Than all her malice can wipe out again?

Alexis.
Yea, but if I applied me to those strains,
Who should drive forth my flocks unto the plains,
Which, whilst the Muses rest and leisure crave,
Must watering, folding, and attendance have?
For if I leave with wonted care to cherish
Those tender herds, both I and they should perish.

Philarete.
Alexis, now I see thou dost mistake,
There is no meaning thou thy charge forsake;

Nor would I wish thee so thyself abuse
As to neglect thy calling for thy Muse,
But let these two so each of other borrow,
That they may season mirth, and lessen sorrow.
Thy flock will help thy charges to defray,
Thy Muse to pass the long and tedious day:
Or whilst thou tun'st sweet measures to thy reed,
Thy sheep, to listen, will more near thee feed;
The wolves will shun them, birds above thee sing,
And lambkins dance about thee in a ring.
Nay, which is more, in this thy low estate,
Thou in contentment shalt with monarchs mate;
For mighty Pan and Ceres to us grants,
Our fields and flocks shall help our outward wants:
The Muses teach us songs to put off cares,
Graced with as rare and sweet conceits as theirs:
And we can think our lasses on the greens
As fair or fairer than the fairest queens:
Or, what is more than most of them shall do,
We'll make their juster fames last longer too,
And have our lines by greatest princes graced
When both their name and memory's defaced.
Therefore, Alexis, though that some disdain
The heavenly music of the rural plain,
What is 't to us, if they o'erseen contemn
The dainties which were ne'er ordain'd for them?
And though that there be other-some envy
The praises due to sacred Poesy,
Let them disdain, and fret till they are weary,

We in ourselves have that shall make us merry:
Which he that wants, and had the power to know it,
Would give his life that he might die a poet.

Alexis.
A brave persuasion.

Philarete.
Here thou seest me pent
Within the jaws of strict imprisonment;
A forlorn shepherd, void of all the means
Whereon man's common hope in danger leans:
Weak in myself, exposed to the hate
Of those whose envies are insatiate:
Shut from my friends, banish'd from all delights,
Nay, worse, excluded from the sacred rites.
Here I do live 'mongst outlaws mark'd for death,
As one unfit to draw the common breath,
Where those who to be good did never know
Are barred from the means should make them so.
I suffer, 'cause I wish'd my country well;
And what I more must bear I cannot tell.
I'm sure they give my body little scope,
And would allow my mind as little hope:
I waste my means, which of itself is slender,
Consume my time, perhaps my fortunes hinder,
And many crosses have, which those that can
Conceive no wrong that hurts another man,
Will not take note of; though if half so much

Should light on them, or their own person touch,
Some that themselves, I fear, most worthy think,
With all their helps would into baseness shrink.
But, spite of hate, and all that spite can do,
I can be patient yet, and merry too.
That slender Muse of mine, by which my name,
Though scarce deserved, hath gain'd a little fame,
Hath made me unto such a fortune born,
That all misfortunes I know how to scorn,
Yea, midst these bands can slight the great'st that be,
As much as their disdain mis'steems of me.
This cave, whose very presence some affrights,
I have oft made to echo forth delights,
And hope to turn, if any justice be,
Both shame and care on those that wish'd it me.
For while the world rank villainies affords,
I will not spare to paint them out in words;
Although I still should into troubles run,
I knew what man could act, ere I begun;
And I'll fulfil what my Muse draws me to,
Maugre all jails, and purgatories too.
For whilst she sets me honest tasks about,
Virtue or she I know will bear me out:
And if, by fate, th' abused power of some
Must, in the world's-eye, leave me overcome,
They shall find one fort yet so fenced, I trow,
It cannot fear a mortal's overthrow.
This hope and trust that great power did infuse,

That first inspired into my breast a Muse,
By whom I do, and ever will, contemn
All these ill haps, my foes despite, and them.

Alexis.
Th' hast so well, young Philaret, played thy part,
I am almost in love with that sweet art,
And if some power will but inspire my song,
Alexis will not be obscured long.

Philarete.
Enough, kind pastor: but oh! yonder see
Two honest shepherds walking hither be;
Cuddy and Willy, that so dearly love,
Who are repairing unto yonder grove:
Let's follow them, for never braver swains
Made music to their flocks upon these plains.
They are more worthy, and can better tell
What rare contents do with a poet dwell.
Then whiles our sheep the short sweet grass do shear,
And till the long shade of the hills appear,
We'll hear them sing, for though the one be young,
Never was any that more sweetly sung.

Fidelia

An Elegiacal Epistle of FIDELIA to her unconstant friend.

The Argument.

This Elegiacal Epistle, being a fragment of some greater poem, discovers the modest affections of a discreet and constant woman, shadowed under the name of Fidelia; wherein you may perceive the height of their passions, so far as they seem to agree with reason, and keep within such decent bounds as beseemeth their sex; but further it meddles not. The occasion seems to proceed from some mutability in her friend, whose objections she here presupposing confuteth, and in the person of him justly upbraideth all that are subject to the like change or fickleness in mind. Among the rest, some more weighty arguments than are, perhaps, expected in such a subject, are briefly, and yet somewhat seriously handled.

Oft I heard tell, and now for truth I find,
Once out of sight, and quickly out of mind.
And that it hath been rightly said of old,
Love that's soon'st hot, is ever soonest cold.

Or else my tears at this time had not stain'd
The spotless paper, nor my lines complain'd.
I had not now been forced to have sent
These for the nuncios of my discontent,
Or thus exchanged so unhappily
My songs of mirth, to write an elegy.
But now I must; and since I must do so,
Let me but crave thou wilt not flout my woe,
Nor entertain my sorrows with a scoff,
But at least read them, ere thou cast them off.
And, though thy heart's too hard to have compassion,
If thou'lt not pity, do not blame my passion;
For well thou know'st (alas, that e'er 'twas known)
There was a time, although that time be gone,
I, that for this scarce dare a beggar be,
Presumed for more to have commanded thee.
Yea, the day was (but see how things may change)
When thou and I have not been half so strange,
But oft embraced with a gentle greeting,
And no worse words than ‘turtle-dove’ or ‘sweeting.’
Yea, had thy meaning and those vows of thine
Proved but as faithful and as true as mine,
It still had been so; for (I do not feign)

I should rejoice it might be so again.
But, sith thy love grows cold, and thou unkind,
Be not displeas'd I somewhat breathe my mind;
I am in hope my words may prove a mirror,
Whereon thou looking may'st behold thine error.
And yet the heaven and my sad heart doth know
How griev'd I am, and with what feeling woe
My mind is tortured, to think that I
Should be the brand of thy disloyalty,
Or live to be the author of a line
That shall be tainted with a fault of thine;
Since if that thou but slightly touched be,
Deep wounds of grief and shame it strikes in me;
And yet I must; ill hap compels me to
What I ne'er thought to have had cause to do.
And therefore, seeing that some angry Fate
Imposes on me what I so much hate,
Or since it is so, that the powers divine
Me miserable to such cares assign,
Oh that Love's patron, or some sacred Muse,
Amongst my passions would such art infuse,
My well-framed words and airy sighs might prove
The happy blasts to re-inflame thy love.
Or at least touch thee with thy fault so near,
That thou might'st see thou wrong'st who held thee dear,
Seeing, confess the same, and so abhor it,
Abhorring, pity, and repent thee for it.

But, dear,—I hope that I may call thee so,

For thou art dear to me, although a foe—
Tell me, is 't true that I do hear of thee,
And by thy absence now so seems to be?
Can such abuse be in thy court of Love,
False and inconstant now, thou he should'st prove,
He, that so woeful and so pensive sate
Vowing his service at my feet of late?
Art thou that quondam lover, whose sad eye
I never saw yet in my presence dry,
And from whose gentle-seeming tongue I know
So many pity-moving words could flow?
Was 't thou so soughtst my love, so seeking that
As if it had been all th' hadst aimed at,
Making me think thy passion without stain,
And gently quite thee with my love again?
With this persuasion I so fairly placed it,
Nor Time nor Envy should have e'er defaced it.
Is 't so? have I done thus much? and art thou
So overcloyed with my favours now?
Art wearied since with loving, and estranged
So far? Is thy affection so much changed,
That I of all my hopes must be deceived,
And all good thoughts of thee be quite bereaved?

Then I find true, which long before this day
I fear'd myself, and heard some wiser say,
That there is nought on earth so sweet that can
Long relish with the curious taste of man.

Happy was I; yea, well it was with me,
Before I came to be bewitch'd by thee.
I joy'd the sweet'st content that ever maid
Possessed yet; and truly well-a-paid,
Made to myself alone as pleasant mirth
As ever any virgin did on earth.
The melody I used was free, and such
As that bird makes whom never hand did touch;
But, unallured with fowlers' whistling, flies
Above the reach of human treacheries.

And, well I do remember, often then
Could I read o'er the policies of men,
Discover what uncertainties they were,
How they would sigh, look sad, protest, and swear;
Nay, feign to die, when they did never prove
The slend'rest touch of a right worthy love,
But had chilled hearts, whose dulness understood
No more of passion than they did of good.
All which I noted well, and in my mind,
A general humour amongst womenkind,
This vow I made, thinking to keep it than,
That never the fair tongue of any man,
Nor his complaint, though never so much grieved,
Should move my heart to liking whilst I lived.

But, who can say, what she shall live to do?
I have believed, and let in liking too,
And that so far, I cannot yet see how
I may so much as hope to help it now;
Which makes me think, whate'er we women say,
Another mind will come another day;

And that men may to things unhoped for climb,
Who watch but opportunity and time.

For 'tis well known we were not made of clay,
Or such coarse and ill-temper'd stuff as they.
For He that framed us of their flesh, did deign
When 'twas at best, to new refine 't again.
Which makes us ever since the kinder creatures,
Of far more flexible and yielding natures.
And as we oft excel in outward parts,
So we have nobler and more gentle hearts;
Which you well knowing, daily do devise
How to imprint on them your cruelties.

But do I find my cause thus bad indeed?
Or else on things imaginary feed?
Am I the lass that late so truly jolly
Made myself merry oft, at others' folly?
Am I the nymph that Cupid's fancies blamed,
That was so cold, so hard to be inflamed?
Am I myself? or is myself that she
Who from this thraldom or such falsehoods free,
Late own'd mine own heart, and full merry then,
Did forewarn others to beware of men?
And could not, having taught them what to do,
Now learn myself to take heed of you too?
Fool that I am, I fear my guerdon's just,
In that I knew this, and presumed to trust.
And yet, alas, for ought that I could tell,
One spark of goodness in the world might dwell:
And then I thought, if such a thing might be,
Why might not that one spark remain in thee?
For thy fair outside, and thy fairer tongue,

Promised much, although thy years were young.
And Virtue, wheresoever she be now,
Seem'd then to sit enthroned upon thy brow.
Yea, sure it was: but, whether 'twere or no,
Certain I am, I was persuaded so:
Which made me loth to think that words of fashion,
Could be so framed, so overlaid with passion,
Or sighs so feeling feign'd from any breast.
Nay, say thou hadst been false in all the rest,
Yet from thy eye, my heart such notice took,
Methought, guile could not feign so sad a look.
But now I've tried, my bought experience knows,
They are oft worse that make the fairest shows.
And howsoe'er men feign an outward grieving,
'Tis neither worth respecting, nor believing:
For, she that doth one to her mercy take,
Warms in her bosom but a frozen snake,
Which, heated with her favours, gathers sense,
And stings her to the heart in recompense.

But tell me why, and for what secret spite
You in poor women's miseries delight?
For so it seems; else why d'ye labour for
That which, when 'tis obtain'd, you do abhor?
Or to what end do you endure such pain
To win our love, and cast it off again?
Oh! that we either your hard hearts could borrow,
Or else your strengths, to help us bear our sorrow.

100

But we are cause of all this grief and shame,
And we have none but our own selves to blame:
For still we see your falsehoods for our learning,
Yet never can have power to take 't for warning;
But, as if born to be deluded by you,
We know you trustless, and yet still we try you.

Alas, what wrong was in my power to do thee?
Or what despite have I e'er done unto thee
That thou shouldst choose me, above all the rest,
To be thy scorn, and thus be made a jest?
Must men's ill natures such true villains prove them,
To make them only wrong those most that love them?
Couldst thou find none in country, town, or court,
But only me, to make thy fool, thy sport?
Thou know'st I have no wanton courses run,
Nor seemed easy unto lewdness won;
And, though I cannot boast me of much wit,
Thou saw'st no sign of fondness in me yet;
Nor did ill nature ever so o'ersway me,
To flout at any that did woo or pray me.
But grant I had been guilty of abusage,
Of thee I'm sure I ne'er deserved such usage.
But thou wert grieved to behold my smilings,
When I was free from love and thy beguilings,
Or to what purpose else didst thou bestow
Thy time and study to delude me so?
Hast thou good parts? and dost thou bend them all
To bring those that ne'er hated thee in thrall?

101

Prithee take heed, although thou yet enjoy'st them,
They'll be took from thee, if thou so employ'st them.
For though I wish not the least harm to thee,
I fear, the just heavens will revenged be.

Oh! what of me by this time had become,
If my desires with thine had happed to roam,
Or I unwisely had consented to
What, shameless, once thou didst attempt to do?
I might have fall'n by those immodest tricks,
Had not some power been stronger than my sex;
And if I should have so been drawn to folly,
I saw thee apt enough to be unholy;
Or if my weakness had been prone to sin,
I poorly by thy strength had succour'd bin.
You men make us believe you do but try;
And that's your part, you say; ours to deny.
Yet I much fear, if we through frailty stray,
There's few of you within your bounds will stay,
But, maugre all your seeming virtue, be
As ready to forget yourselves as we.

I might have fear'd thy part of love not strong,
When thou didst offer me so base a wrong;
And that I after loath'd thee not, did prove
In me some extra-ordinary love.
For sure had any other but in thought
Presum'd unworthily what thou hast sought,
Might it appear, I should do thus much for him,
With a scarce reconciled hate abhor him.

My young experience never yet did know
Whether desire might range so far, or no,

102

To make true lovers carelessly request,
What rash enjoying makes them most unblest,
Or blindly thorough frailty give consenting
To that, which done brings nothing but repenting.
But in my judgment it doth rather prove
That thou art fired with lust, than warm'd with love.
And if it be for proof men so proceed,
It shows a doubt; else what do trials need?
And where is that man living ever knew
That false distrust could be with love that's true?
Since the mere cause of that unblamed effect,
Such an opinion is, that hates suspect.
And yet, I will thee and thy love excuse,
If thou wilt neither me nor mine abuse.
For I'll suppose thy passion made thee proffer
That unto me thou to none else wouldst offer.
And so, think thou, if I have thee denied,
Whom I more loved than all men else beside,
What hope have they such favours to obtain
That never half so much respect could gain?

Such was my love, that I did value thee
Above all things below eternity.
Nothing on earth unto my heart was nearer,
No joy so prized, nor no jewel dearer.
Nay, I do fear I did idolatrize;
For which heaven's wrath inflicts these miseries,

103

And makes the things which it for blessings sent,
To be renewers of my discontent.
Where was there any of the Naiades,
The Dryads, or the Hamadryades?
Which of the British shires can yield again
A mistress of the springs, or wood, or plain?
Whose eye enjoyed more sweet contents than mine,
Till I received my overthrow by thine?
Where's she did more delight in springs and rills?
Where's she that walk'd more groves, or downs, or hills?
Or could by such fair artless prospects, more
Add by conceit to her contentment's store
Than I, whilst thou wert true, and with thy graces
Didst give a pleasing presence to those places?
But now what is, what was hath overthrown,
My rose-deck'd alleys now with rue are strown;
And from those flowers that honeyed use to be,
I suck nought now but juice to poison me.

For ev'n as she, whose gentle spirit can rise
To apprehend Love's noble mysteries,
Spying a precious jewel richly set
Shine in some corner of her cabinet,
Taketh delight at first to gaze upon
The pretty lustre of the sparkling stone,
And pleased in mind, by that doth seem to see
How virtue shines through base obscurity,
But prying nearer, seeing it doth prove
Some relic of her dear deceased love,

104

Which to her sad remembrance doth lay ope
What she most sought and sees most far from hope,
Fainting almost beneath her passion's weight,
And quite forgetful of her first conceit,
Looking upon 't again, from thence she borrows
Sad melancholy thoughts to feed her sorrows:

So I, beholding Nature's curious bowers,
Ciel'd, strow'd, and trimm'd up with leaves, herbs, and flowers,
Walk pleased on a while, and do devise
How on each object I may moralize.
But ere I pace on many steps, I see
There stands a hawthorn that was trimm'd by thee:
Here thou didst once slip off the virgin sprays
To crown me with a wreath of living bays.
On such a bank I see how thou didst lie,
When, viewing of a shady mulberry,
The hard mishap thou didst to me discuss
Of loving Thisbe and young Pyramus:
And oh, think I, how pleasing was it then,
Or would be yet, might he return again.
But if some neighbouring row do draw me to
Those arbours, where the shadows seem to woo
The weary lovesick passenger to sit
And view the beauties Nature strows on it;
How fair, think I, would this sweet place appear
If he I love were sporting with me here!
Nay, every several object that I see
Doth severally, methinks, remember thee.

105

But the delight I used from it to gather,
I now exchange for cares, and seek them rather.

But those whose dull and gross affections can
Extend but only to desire a man,
Cannot the depth of these rare passions know,
For their imaginations flag too low.
And 'cause their base conceits do apprehend
Nothing but that whereto the flesh doth tend;
In Love's embraces they ne'er reach unto
More of content than the brute creatures do.
Neither can any judge of this, but such
Whose braver minds for braver thoughts do touch
And having spirits of a nobler frame,
Feel the true heat of Love's unquenched flame;
They may conceive aright what smarting sting
To their remembrances the place will bring,
Where they did once enjoy, and then do miss,
What to their souls most dear and precious is.
With me 'tis so; for those walks that once seem'd
Pleasing, when I of thee was more esteem'd,
To me appear most desolate and lonely,
And are the places now of torment only.
Where I the highest of contents did borrow,
There am I paid it home with treble sorrow.

Unto one place, I do remember well,
We walk'd the evenings to hear Philomel;
And that seems now to want the light it had;
The shadow of the grove's more dull and sad,

106

As if it were a place but fit for fowls
That screech ill-luck; as melancholy owls,
Or fatal ravens that, seld boding good,
Croak their black auguries from some dark wood.

Then if from thence I half-despairing go,
Another place begins another woe:
For thus unto my thought it seems to say,
“Hither thou saw'st him riding once that way
Thither to meet him thou didst nimbly haste thee,
Yond he alighted, and ev'n there embraced thee:”
Which whilst I sighing wish to do again,
Another object brings another pain.
For passing by that green, which, could it speak,
Would tell it saw us run at barley-break,
There I beheld what on a thin-rind tree
Thou hadst engraven for the love of me,
When we two all alone in heat of day
With chaste embraces drave swift hours away.
Then I remember too, unto my smart,
How loth we were when time compell'd to part;
How cunningly thy passions thou couldst feign
In taking leave, and coming back again
So oft, until, as seeming to forget
We were departing, down again we set,
And freshly in that sweet discourse went on,
Which now I almost faint to think upon.

Viewing again those other walks and groves

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That have been witnesses of our chaste loves,
When I beheld those trees whose tender skin
Hath that cut out which still cuts me within,
Or come, by chance, unto that pretty rill
Where thou wouldst sit, and teach the neighbouring hill
To answer, in an echo, unto those
Rare problems which thou often didst propose;
When I come there, think I, if these could take
That use of words and speech which we partake,
They might unfold a thousand pleasures then
Which I shall never live to taste again.
And thereupon, remembrance doth so rack
My thoughts, with representing what I lack,
That in my mind those clerks do argue well,
Which hold privation the great'st plague of hell.
For there's no torment gripes me half so bad,
As the remembrance of those joys I had.

Oh, hast thou quite forgot, when sitting by
The banks of Thame, beholding how the fry
Play'd on the silver-waves—there where I first
Granted to make my fortune thus accurst;
There where thy too-too earnest suit compelled
My over-soon believing heart to yield
One favour first, which then another drew
To get another, till, alas, I rue
That day and hour, thinking I ne'er should need,
As now, to grieve for doing such a deed:
So freely I my courtesies bestow'd,
That whose I was unwarily I show'd,
And to my heart such passage made for thee

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Thou canst not to this day removed be;
And what breast could resist it, having seen
How true thy love had in appearance been?
For, I shall ne'er forget, when thou hadst there
Laid open every discontent and care
Wherewith thou deeply seem'dst to me opprest
When thou, as much as any could protest,
Hadst vow'd and sworn, and yet perceived'st no sign
Of pity moving in this breast of mine,
“Well, love,” said'st thou, “since neither sigh nor vow,
Nor any service may prevail me now:
Since neither the recital of my smart,
Nor those strong passions that assail my heart,
Nor anything may move thee to belief
Of these my sufferings, or to grant relief;
Since there's no comfort, nor desert, that may
Get me so much as hope of what I pray;
Sweet love, farewell; farewell, fair beauty's light,
And every pleasing object of the sight;
My poor despairing heart here biddeth you
And all content for evermore adieu.”

Then ev'n as thou seem'dst ready to depart,
Reaching that hand, which after gave my heart,
And thinking this sad “Farewell” did proceed
From a sound breast, but truly moved indeed,
I stayed thy departing from me so,
Whilst I stood mute with sorrow, thou for show.
And the meanwhile, as I beheld thy look,

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My eye the impression of such pity took,
That, with the strength of passion overcome,
A deep-fetch'd sigh my heart came breathing from:
Whereat thou, ever wisely using this
To take advantage when it offered is,
Renew'dst thy suit to me, who did afford
Consent, in silence first, and then in word.

So for that yielding thou may'st thank thy wit;
And yet whenever I remember it,
Trust me, I muse, and often, wond'ring, think
Thorough what cranny or what secret chink
That love, unwares, so like a sly close elf,
Did to my heart insinuate itself.

Gallants I had, before thou cam'st to woo,
Could as much love, and as well court me too;
And, though they had not learned so the fashion
Of acting such well-counterfeited passion,
In wit and person they did equal thee,
And worthier seem'd, unless thou'lt faithful be.
Yet still unmov'd, unconquer'd I remained;
No, not one thought of love was entertained;
Nor could they brag of the least favour to them,
Save what mere courtesy enjoin'd to do them.
Hard was my heart, but would 't had harder bin,
And then, perhaps, I had not let thee in;
Thou, tyrant, that art so imperious there,
And only tak'st delight to domineer.
But held I out such strong, such oft assailing,

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And ever kept the honour of prevailing?
Was this poor breast from love's allurings free?
Cruel to all and gentle unto thee?
Did I unlock that strong affection's door,
That never could be broken ope before,
Only to thee? and, at thy intercession,
So freely give up all my heart's possession,
That to myself I left not one poor vein,
Nor power, nor will, to put thee from 't again?
Did I do this? and all on thy bare vow?
And wilt thou thus requite my kindness now?
Oh, that thou either hadst not learn'd to feign,
Or I had power to cast thee off again!
How is it that thou art become so rude
And over-blinded by ingratitude?
Swar'st thou so deeply that thou wouldst persever,
That I might thus be cast away for ever?
Well, then 'tis true, that lovers' perjuries
Among some men are thought no injuries,
And that she only hath least cause of grief
Who of your words hath small'st, or no belief.

Had I the wooer been, or fondly woon,
This had been more though than thou couldst have done;
But, neither being so, what reason is
On thy side that should make thee offer this?

I know, had I been false, or my faith fail'd,
Thou wouldst at women's fickleness have rail'd;
And if in me it had an error bin,
In thee shall the same fault be thought no sin?
Rather I hold that which is bad in me

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Will be a greater blemish unto thee,
Because by Nature thou art made more strong,
And therefore abler to endure a wrong.
But 'tis our fortune, you'll have all the power,
Only the care and burden must be our.
Nor can you be content a wrong to do,
Unless you lay the blame upon us too.
Oh, that there were some gentle-minded poet
That knew my heart, as well as now I know it,
And would endear me to his love so much,
To give the world though but a slender touch
Of that sad passion which now clogs my heart,
And show my truth and thee how false thou art,
That all might know, what is believed by no man,
There's fickleness in men and faith in woman.

Thou saw'st I first let pity in, then liking,
And lastly, that which was thy only seeking:
And, when I might have scorn'd that love of thine,
As now ungently thou despisest mine,
Among the inmost angles of my breast,
To lodge it by my heart I thought it best:
Which thou hast stol'n too, like a thankless mate,
And left me nothing but a black self-hate.
What canst thou say for this, to stand contending?
What colour hast thou left for thy offending?
That wit, perhaps, hath some excuse in store,
Or an evasion to escape a sore.
But well I know, if thou excuse this treason,

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It must be by some greater thing than reason.

Are any of those virtues yet defaced,
On which thy first affection seemed placed?
Hath any secret foe my true faith wronged,
To rob the bliss that to my heart belonged?
What then? shall I condemned be unheard
Before thou knowest how I may be clear'd?
Thou art acquainted with the times' condition,
Know'st it is full of envy and suspicion,
So that the wariest in thought, word, and action,
Shall be most injured by foul-mouth'd detraction:
And therefore thou, methinks, shouldst wisely pause
Before thou credit rumours without cause.
But I have gotten such a confidence
In thy opinion of my innocence,
It is not that, I know, withholds thee now;
Sweet, tell me then, is it some sacred vow?
Hast thou resolved not to join thy hand
With any one in Hymen's holy band?
Thou shouldst have done it then, when thou wert free,
Before thou hadst bequeath'd thyself to me.
What vow dost deem more pleasing unto heaven
Than what is by unfeigned lovers given?
If any be, yet sure it frowneth at
Those that are made for contradicting that.
But, if thou wouldst live chastely all thy life,
That thou may'st do, though we be man and wife;
Or, if thou long'st a virgin death to die,

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Why, if it be thy pleasure, so do I.
Make me but thine, and I'll contented be
A virgin still, yet live and lie with thee.
Then let not thy inventing brain essay
To mock, and still delude me every way,
But call to mind how thou hast deeply sworn
Not to neglect nor leave me thus forlorn.
And if thou wilt not be to me as when
We first did love, do but come see me then;
Vouchsafe that I may sometime with thee walk,
Or sit and look on thee or hear thee talk;
And I that most content once aimed at
Will think there is a world of bliss in that.

Dost thou suppose that my desire denies
With thy affections well to sympathize?
Or such perverseness hast thou found in me,
May make our natures disagreeing be?
Thou know'st when thou didst wake I could not sleep,
And if thou wert but sad, that I should weep.
Yet, even when the tears my cheek did stain,
If thou didst smile, why I could smile again.
I never did contrary thee in ought;
Nay, thou canst tell, I oft have spake thy thought.
Waking, the self-same course with thee I run,
And sleeping, oftentimes our dreams were one.

The dial-needle, though it sense doth want,
Still bends to the beloved adamant;
Lift the one up, the other upward tends;
If this fall down, that presently descends:
Turn but about the stone, the steel turns too;

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Then straight returns, if but the other do;
And, if it stay, with trembling keeps one place,
As if it, panting, long'd for an embrace.
So was 't with me: for, if thou merry wert,
That mirth of thine moved joy within my heart:
I sighed too, when thou didst sigh or frown;
When thou wert sick, thou hast perceived me swoun;
And being sad have oft, with forced delight,
Striv'd to give thee content beyond my might.
When thou wouldst talk, then have I talk'd with thee,
And silent been when thou wouldst silent be.
If thou abroad didst go, with joy I went;
If home thou lov'dst, at home was my content:
Yea, what did to my nature disagree
I could make pleasing, 'cause it pleased thee.

But, if 't be either my weak sex, or youth,
Makes thee misdoubt my undistained truth,
Know this; as none, till that unhappy hour
When I was first made thine, had ever power
To move my heart by vows, or tears' expense,
No more, I swear, could any creature since.
No looks but thine, though aim'd with passion's art,
Could pierce so deep to penetrate my heart.
No name but thine was welcome to my ear;
No word did I so soon so gladly hear:
Nor ever could my eyes behold or see,
What I was since delighted in, but thee.

And sure thou wouldst believe it to be so
If I could tell, or words might make thee know,

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How many a weary night my tumbled bed
Hath known me sleepless, what salt tears I've shed;
What scalding sighs, the marks of souls opprest,
Have hourly breathed from my careful breast.
Nor wouldst thou deem those waking sorrows feign'd,
If thou might'st see how sleeping I am pain'd.
For if sometimes I chance to take a slumber,
Unwelcome dreams my broken rest doth cumber;
Which dreaming makes me start, starting with fears
Wakes; and so waking I renew my cares,
Until my eyes o'er-tired with watch and weeping,
Drown'd in their own floods fall again to sleeping.
Oh! that thou couldst but think, when last we parted,
How much I, grieving for thy absence, smarted:
My very soul fell sick, my heart to aching,
As if they had their last farewells been taking,
Or feared by some secret divination
This thy revolt and causeless alteration.
Didst thou not feel how loth that hand of mine
Was to let go the hold it had of thine?
And with what heavy, what unwilling look
I leave of thee, and then of comfort took?
I know thou didst; and though now thus thou do,
I am deceived but then it grieved thee too.

Then if I so with love's fell passion vext
For thy departure only was perplext,
When I had left to strengthen me some trust,
And hope that thou wouldst ne'er have proved unjust,

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What was my torture then and hard endurance
When of thy falsehood I received assurance?

Alas, my tongue awhile with grief was dumb,
And a cold shuddering did my joints benumb,
Amazement seized my thought, and so prevailed,
I found me ill, but knew not what I ailed.
Nor can I yet tell, since my suffering then
Was more than could be shown by poet's pen,
Or well conceived by any other heart
Than that which in such care hath borne a part.

Oh me, how loth was I to have believed
That to be true, for which so much I grieved?
How gladly would I have persuaded bin
There had been no such matter, no such sin.
I would have had my heart think that I knew
To be the very truth, not to be true.
Why may not this, thought I, some vision be,
Some sleeping dream or waking phantasy
Begotten by my over-blinded folly,
Or else engendered through my melancholy?
But finding it so real, thought I then,
Must I be cast from all my hopes again?
What are become of all those fading blisses,
Which late my hope had, and now so much misses?
Where is that future fickle happiness
Which I so long expected to possess?
And, thought I too, where are his dying passions,
His honeyed words, his bitter lamentations?
To what end were his sonnets, epigrams,
His pretty posies, witty anagrams?
I could not think all that might have been feign'd,

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Nor any faith I thought so firm been stain'd.
Nay, I do sure and confidently know
It is not possible it should be so,
If that rare art and passion was thine own
Which in my presence thou hast often shown.
But, since thy change, my much-presaging heart
Is half afraid thou some impostor wert;
Or that thou didst but, player-like addrest,
Act that which flow'd from some more gentle breast.
Thy puffed invention, with worse matter swollen,
Those thy conceits from better wits hath stolen:
Or else I know it could not be that thou
Shouldst be so over-cold as thou art now;
Since those, who have that feelingly their own,
Ever possess more worth conceal'd than known.
And if Love ever any mortals touch,
To make a brave impression, 'tis in such,
Who, sworn love's chaplains, will not violate
That whereunto themselves they consecrate.

But oh, you noble brood, on whom the world
The slighted burthen of neglect hath hurl'd,
Because your thoughts, for higher objects born,
Their grovelling humours and affection scorn,
You, whom the gods, to hear your strains, will follow,
Whilst you do court the sisters of Apollo,
You, whom there's none that's worthy can neglect,
Or any that unworthy is affect;
Do not let those that seek to do you shame
Bewitch us with those songs they cannot frame:

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The noblest of our sex, and fairest too,
Do ever love and honour such as you.
Then wrong us not so much to give your passion
To those that have it but in imitation,
And in their dull breasts never feel the power
Of such deep thoughts as sweetly move in your.
As well as you, they us thereby abuse,
For, many times, when we our lovers choose,
Where we think Nature that rich jewel sets
Which shines in you, we light on counterfeits.

But see, see whither discontentment bears me,
And to what uncouth strains my passion rears me:
Yet, pardon me, I here again repent
If I have erred through that discontent.
Be what thou wilt, be counterfeit or right,
Be constant, serious, or be vain, or light,
My love remains inviolate the same:
Thou canst be nothing that can quench this flame,
But it will burn as long as thou hast breath
To keep it kindled, if not after death.
Ne'er was there one more true than I to thee,
And though my faith must now despised be,
Unpriz'd, unvalued at the lowest rate,
Yet this I'll tell thee; 'tis not all thy state,
Nor all that better-seeming worth of thine,
Can buy thee such another love as mine:
Liking it may, but oh, there's as much odds,
'Twixt love and that, as between men and gods,
And 'tis a purchase not procured with treasure,
As some fools think, nor to be gain'd at pleasure;

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For were it so, and any could assure it,
What would not some men part with to procure it?
But though thou weigh 't not as thou ought'st to do,
Thou know'st I love, and once didst love me too.
Then where's the cause of this dislike in thee?
Survey thyself, I hope there's none in me.
Yet look on her from whom thou art estranged;
See, is my person or my beauty changed?
Once thou didst praise it, prithee view 't again,
And mark if 't be not still the same 'twas then.
No false vermilion dye my cheek distains,
'Tis the poor blood dispersed through pores and veins,
Which thou hast oft seen through my forehead flushing,
To show no dauby colour hid my blushing,
Nor never shall; Virtue, I hope, will save me,
Contented with that beauty Nature gave me.
Or, if 't seem less, for that grief's veil hath hid it,
Thou threw'st it on me, 'twas not I that did it,
And canst again restore what may repair
All that's decay'd, and make me far more fair.
Which if thou do, I'll be more wary than,
To keep 't for thee unblemish'd, what I can;
And 'cause at best 'twill want much of perfection,
The rest shall be supplied with true affection.

But I do fear it is some other's riches,
Whose more abundance that thy mind bewitches;
So that base object, that too general aim,
Makes thee my lesser fortune to disclaim.

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Fie, canst thou so degenerate in spirit,
As to prefer the means before the merit?
Although I cannot say it is in me,
Such worth sometimes with poverty may be
To equalize the match she takes upon her,
Tho' th' other vaunt of birth, wealth, beauty, honour:
And many a one that did for greatness wed,
Would gladly change it for a meaner bed.
Yet are my fortunes known indifferent,
Not basely mean, but such as may content;
And though I yield the better to be thine,
I may be bold to say thus much for mine;
That if thou couldst of them and me esteem,
Neither thy state nor birth would misbeseem;
Or if it did, how can I help 't, alas,
Thou, not alone, before knew'st what it was.
But I, although not fearing so to speed,
Did also disenable 't more than need,
And yet thou woo'dst, and wooing didst persever
As if thou hadst intended love for ever:
Yea, thy account of wealth thou mad'st so small,
Thou hadst not any question of 't at all;
But hating much that peasant-like condition,
Didst seem displeas'd I held it in suspicion.
Whereby I think, if nothing else do thwart us,
It cannot be the want of that will part us.

Yea, I do rather doubt indeed, that this
The needless fear of friends' displeasure is.
That is the bar which stops out my delight,

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And all my hope and joy confoundeth quite.
But bears there any in thy heart such sway
To shut me thence, and wipe thy love away?
Can there be any friend that hath the power
To disunite hearts so conjoin'd as our?
Ere I would have so done by thee, I'd rather
Have parted with one dearer than my father.
For though the will of our Creator binds
Each child to learn and know his parents' minds,
Yet sure I am so just a Deity
Commandeth nothing against piety;
Nor doth that band of duty give them leave
To violate their faith or to deceive.
And though that parents have authority
To rule their children in minority,
Yet they are never granted such power on them
That will allow to tyrannize upon them,
Or use them under their command so ill,
To force them, without reason, to their will.

For who hath read in all the Sacred Writ
Of any one compell'd to marriage yet?
What father so unkind, thereto required,
Denied his child the match that he desired,
So that he found the laws did not forbid it?
I think those gentler ages no men did it.
In those days therefore for them to have bin
Contracted without licence had been sin,
Since there was more good-nature among men,
And every one more truly loving then.
But now, although we stand obliged still
To labour for their liking and good-will,

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There is no duty whereby they may tie us
From ought which without reason they deny us:
For I do think it is not only meant
Children should ask, but parents should consent;
And that they err, their duty as much breaking
For not consenting as we not for speaking:
“It is no marvel many matches be
Concluded now without their privity;
Since they, through greedy avarice misled,
Their interest in that have forfeited.”
For some, respectless of all care, do marry
Hot youthful May to cold old January.
Some, for a greedy end, do basely tie
The sweetest fair to foul deformity,
Forcing a love from where 'twas placed late,
To re-ingraff it where it turns to hate.
It seems no cause of hindrance in their eyes
Though manners nor affections sympathize;
And two religions by their rules of state
They may in one made body tolerate,
As if they did desire that double stem
Should fruitful bear but neuters like to them.
Alas, how many numbers of both kinds,
By that, have ever discontented minds,
And live, though seeming unto others well,
In the next torments unto those of hell?
How many, desperate grown by this their sin,
Have both undone themselves and all their kin?
Many a one, we see, it makes to fall
With the too-late repenting prodigal.

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Thousands, though else by Nature gentler given,
To act the horrid'st murthers oft are driven;
And, which is worse, there's many a careless elf,
Unless heaven pity, kills and damns himself.
Oh, what hard heart, or what unpitying eyes,
Could hold from tears to see those tragedies,
Parents, by their neglect in this, have hurl'd
Upon the stage of this respectless world?
'Tis not one man, one family, one kin,
No, nor one country that hath ruin'd bin
By such their folly, which the cause hath proved
That foreign, oft, and civil wars were moved.
By such beginnings many a city lies
Now in the dust, whose turrets braved the skies:
And divers monarchs by such fortunes crost,
Have seen their kingdoms fired, and spoil'd, and lost.

Yet all this while, thou seest, I mention not
The ruin shame and chastity hath got;
For 'tis a task too infinite to tell
How many thousands that would have done well,
Do, by the means of this, suffer desires
To kindle in their hearts unlawful fires:
Nay, some, in whose cold breast ne'er flame had bin,
Have only for mere vengeance fall'n to sin.
Myself have seen, and my heart bled to see 't,
A witless clown enjoy a match unmeet.
She was a lass that had a look to move
The heart of cold Diogenes to love:
Her eye was such, whose every glance did know
To kindle flames upon the hills of snow;
And by her powerful piercings could imprint

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Or sparkle fire into a heart of flint:
And yet, unless I much deceived be,
In very thought did hate immodesty.
And, had sh' enjoy'd the man she could have loved,
Might to this day have lived unreproved:
But being forced, perforce, by seeming friends,
With her consent she her contentment ends,
In that, compell'd, herself to him she gave,
Whose bed she rather could have wish'd her grave;
And since I hear, what I much fear is true,
That she hath bidden shame and fame adieu.

Such are the causes now that parents quite
Are put beside much of their ancient right;
The fear of this makes children to withhold
From giving them those dues which else they would;
And these thou seest are the too-fruitful ills
Which daily spring from their unbridled wills.
Yet they, forsooth, will have it understood,
That all their study is their children's good.
A seeming love shall cover all they do,
When, if the matter were well look'd into,
Their careful reach is chiefly to fulfil
Their own foul, greedy, and insatiate will:
Who, quite forgetting they were ever young,
Would have their children dote, with them, on dung.

Grant, betwixt two there be true love, content,
Birth not mis-seeming, wealth sufficient,
Equality in years, an honest fame,

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In every side the person without blame,
And they obedient too, what can you gather
Of Love, or of affection, in that father
That, but a little to augment his treasure,
Perhaps no more but only for his pleasure,
Shall force his child to one he doth abhor,
From her he loves and justly seeketh for;
Compelling him, for such misfortune grieved,
To die with care, that might with joy have lived?
This you may say is Love, and swear as well
There's pains in Heaven and delights in Hell;
Or, that the devil's fury and austerity
Proceeds out of his care of our prosperity.
Would parents, in this age, have us begin
To take by their eyes our affections in?
Or do they think we bear them in our fist,
That we may still remove them as they list?
It is impossible it should be thus,
For we are ruled by love, not love by us:
And so our power so much ne'er reacheth to,
To know where we shall love, until we do.
And when it comes, hide it awhile we may,
But it is not in our strengths to drive 't away.

Either mine own eye should my chooser be,
Or I would ne'er wear Hymen's livery.
For who is he so near my heart doth rest,
To know what 'tis that mine approveth best?

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I have myself beheld those men, whose frame
And outward personages had nought of blame;
They had, what might their good proportion grace,
The much more moving part, a comely face,
With many of those complements, which we
In common men of the best breeding see;
They had discourse, and wit enough to carry
Themselves in fashion at an ordinary;
Gallants they were, loved company and sport,
Wore favours, and had mistresses in court;
And every way were such that they might seem
Worthy of note, respect, and such esteem;
Yet hath my eye more cause of liking seen
Where nought perhaps by some hath noted been:
And I have there found more content by far
Where some of these perfections wanting are;
Yea, so much that their beauties were a blot
To them, methought, because he had them not.

There some peculiar thing innated is,
That bears an uncontrolled sway in this;
And nothing but itself knows how to fit
The mind with that which best shall suit with it.

Then why should parents thrust themselves into
What they want warrant for, and power to do?
How is it they are so forgetful grown
Of those conditions that were once their own?
Do they so dote amidst their wits' perfection,

127

To think that age and youth hath like affection,
When they do see 'mong those of equal years,
One hateth what another most endears?
Or do they think their wisdoms can invent
A thing to give that's greater than content?
No, neither shall they wrap us in such blindness,
To make us think the spite they do a kindness.
For as I would advise no child to stray
From the least duty that he ought to pay,
So would I also have him wisely know
How much that duty is which he doth owe;
That, knowing what doth unto both belong,
He may do them their right, himself no wrong.
For if my parents him I loathe should choose,
'Tis lawful, yea, my duty, to refuse;
Else how shall I lead so upright a life
As is enjoined to the man and wife?
Since that we see sometime there are repentings,
Ev'n where there are the most and best contentings.
What, though that by our parents first we live,
Is not life misery enough to give?
Which at their births the children doth undo,
Unless they add some other mischief too.
'Cause they gave being to this flesh of our,
Must we be therefore slaves unto their power?
We ne'er desired it, for how could we tell,
Not being, but that not-to-be was well?
Nor know they whom they profit by it, seeing
Happy were some, if they had had no being.

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Indeed, had they produced us without sin,
Had all our duty to have pleased them bin?
Of the next life could they assure the state,
And both beget us and regenerate,
There were no reason then we should withstand
To undergo their tyrannous't command,
In hope that either for our hard endurance,
We should, at last, have comfort in assurance;
Or, if in our endeavours we mis-sped,
At least feel nothing when we should be dead.

But what's the reason for 't that we shall be
Enthrall'd so much unto mortality,
Our souls on will of any men to tie
Unto an everlasting misery?
So far, perhaps too, from the good of either,
We ruin them, ourselves, and all together.

Children owe much, I must confess 'tis true,
And a great debt is to the parents due:
Yet if they have not so much power to crave
But in their own defence the lives they gave,
How much less then should they become so cruel
As to take from them the high-prized jewel
Of liberty in choice, whereon depends
The main contentment that the heaven here lends?
Worth life or wealth, nay, far more worth than either,
Or twenty thousand lives put all together.

Then howsoever some, severer bent,
May deem of my opinion or intent,
With that which follows thus conclude I do,

129

And I have reason for 't, and conscience too:
No parent may his child's just suit deny
On his bare will, without a reason why;
Nor he so used be disobedient thought,
If unapproved he take the match he sought.

So then if that thy faith uncrazed be,
Thy friends' dislike shall be no stop to me;
For, if their will be not of force to do it,
They shall have no cause else to drive them to it.
Let them bring all forth that they can allege;
We are both young and of the fittest age,
If thou dissembledst not, both love, and both
To admit hindrance in our loves were loth.
'Tis prejudicial unto none that lives;
And God's and human law our warrant gives;
Nor are we much unequal in degree;
Perhaps our fortunes somewhat different be,
But say that little means, which is, were not,
The want of wealth may not dissolve this knot.
For though some such preposterous courses wend,
Prescribing to themselves no other end,
Marriage was not ordained t'enrich men by,
Unless it were in their posterity;
And he that doth for other causes wed
Ne'er knows the true sweets of a marriage bed:
Nor shall he, by my will, for 'tis unfit
He should have bliss that never aim'd at it.

130

Though that bewitching gold the rabble blinds,
And is the object of the vulgar minds;
Yet those, methinks, that graced seem to be
With so much good as doth appear in thee,
Should scorn their better taught desires to tie
To that which fools do get their honour by.
I can like of the wealth, I must confess,
Yet more I prize the man, though moneyless.
I am not of their humour yet that can
For title or estate affect a man;
Or of myself one body deign to make
With him I loathe, for his possessions' sake.
Nor wish I ever to have that mind bred
In me, that is in those who, when they wed,
Think it enough they do attain the grace
Of some new honour, to fare well, take place,
Wear costly clothes, in others' sights agree,
Or happy in opinion seem to be.

I weigh not this: for were I sure before
Of Spencer's wealth, or our rich Sutton's store;
Had I therewith a man whom Nature lent
Person enough to give the eye content;
If I no outward due nor right did want,
Which the best husbands in appearance grant;
Nay, though alone we had no private jars,
But merry lived from all domestic cares;
Unless I thought his nature so incline
That it might also sympathize with mine,
And yield such correspondence with my mind,

131

Our souls might mutually contentment find,
By adding unto these which went before
Some certain unexpressed pleasures more,
Such as exceed the straight and curb'd dimensions
Of common minds and vulgar apprehensions,
I would not care for such a match, but tarry
In this estate I am, and never marry.

Such were the sweets I hoped to have possest,
When fortune should with thee have made me blest.
My heart could hardly think of that content
To apprehend it without ravishment.
Each word of thine, methought, was to my ears
More pleasing than that music which the spheres,
They say, do make the gods, when in their chime
Their motions diapason with the time.
In my conceit the opening of thine eye
Seem'd to give light to every object by,
And shed a kind of life unto my shew,
On everything that was within it view.
More joy I've felt to have thee but in place
Than many do in the most close embrace
Of their beloved'st friend, which well doth prove
Not to thy body only tends my love;
But, mounting a true height, grows so divine,
It makes my soul to fall in love with thine.

And sure now, whatsoe'er thy body do,
Thy soul loves mine, and oft they visit too.
For late I dreamed they went I know not whither,
Unless to heaven, and there play'd together;
And to this day I ne'er could know or see

132

'Twixt them or us the least antipathy.
Then what should make thee keep thy person hence,
Or leave to love, or hold it in suspense?
If to offend thee I unwares was driven,
Is 't such a fault as may not be forgiven?
Or if by frowns of fate I have been checked,
So that I seem not worth thy first respect,
Shall I be therefore blamed and upbraided
With what could not be holpen or avoided?
'Tis not my fault, yet 'cause my fortunes do
Wilt thou be so unkind to wrong me too?
Not unto thine, but thee, I set my heart,
So nought can wipe my love out while thou art:
Though thou wert poorer both of house and meat
Than he that knows not where to sleep or eat;
Though thou wert sunk into obscurity,
Become an abject in the world's proud eye;
Though by perverseness of thy fortune crost
Thou wert deformed, or some limb hadst lost,
That love which admiration first begot,
Pity would strengthen, that it failed not;
Yea, I should love thee still, and without blame,
As long as thou couldst keep thy mind the same,
Which is of virtues so compact, I take it,
No mortal change shall have the power to shake it.
This may, and will, I know, seem strange to those
That cannot the abyss of love disclose,
Nor must they think, whom but the outside moves,
Ever to apprehend such noble loves,

133

Or more conjecture their unfounded measure
Than can we mortals of immortal pleasure.

Then let not those dull unconceiving brains,
Who shall hereafter come to read these strains,
Suppose that no love's fire can be so great
Because it gives not their cold clime such heat,
Or think m' invention could have reached here
Unto such thoughts, unless such love there were;
For then they shall but show their knowledge weak,
And injure me that feel of what I speak.

But now my lines grow tedious, like my wrong,
And as I thought that, thou think'st this too long.
Or some may deem I thrust myself into
More than beseemeth modesty to do.
But of the difference I am not unwitting,
Betwixt a peevish coyness and things unfitting;
Nothing respect I who pries o'er my doing,
For here's no vain allurements nor fond wooing,
To train some wanton stranger to my lure,
But with a thought that's honest, chaste, and pure,
I make my cause unto thy conscience known,
Suing for that which is by right my own.
In which complaint, if thou do hap to find
Any such word as seems to be unkind,
Mistake me not, it but from passion sprung,
And not from an intent to do thee wrong.
Or if among these doubts my sad thoughts breed,
Some, peradventure, may be more than need,

134

They are to let thee know, might we dispute,
There's no objections but I could refute;
And spite of envy such defences make,
Thou shouldst embrace that love thou dost forsake.

Then do not, oh, forgetful man, now deem
That 'tis ought less than I have made it seem;
Or that I am unto this passion moved,
Because I cannot elsewhere be beloved;
Or that it is thy state whose greatness known
Makes me become a suitor for my own.
Suppose not so; for know this day there be
Some that woo hard for what I offer thee;
And I have ever yet contented bin
With that estate I first was placed in.
Banish those thoughts and turn thee to my heart;
Come once again and be what once thou wert.
Revive me by those wonted joys repairing,
That am nigh dead with sorrows and despairing:
So shall the memory of this annoy,
But add more sweetness to my future joy;
Yea, make me think thou meant'st not to deny me,
But only wert estranged thus, to try me.
And lastly, for that love's sake thou once bar'st me,
By that right hand thou gav'st, that oath thou swar'st me,
By all the passions, and, if any be,
For her dear sake that makes thee injure me,
I here conjure thee—no, entreat and sue,
That if these lines do overreach thy view,
Thou wouldst afford me so much favour for them

135

As to accept, or at least not abhor them.

So though thou wholly cloak not thy disdain,
I shall have somewhat the less cause to plain:
Or if thou needs must scoff at this, or me,
Do 't by thyself, that none may witness be.
Not that I fear 'twill bring me any blame,
Only I'm loth the world should know thy shame.
For all that shall this plaint with reason view
Will judge me faithful, and thee most untrue.
But if oblivion, that thy love bereft,
Hath not so much good-nature in thee left
But that thou must, as most of you men do
When you have conquer'd, tyrannize it too,
Know this before, that it is praise to no man
To wrong so frail a creature as a woman,
And to insult o'er one so much made thine,
Will more be thy disparagement than mine.

But oh—I pray that it portend no harms—
A cheering heat my chilled senses warms:
Just now I flashing feel into my breast
A sudden comfort, not to be exprest,
Which, to my thinking, doth again begin
To warm my heart, to let some hope come in;
It tells me 'tis impossible that thou
Shouldst live not to be mine; it whispers how
My former fears and doubts have been in vain,
And that thou mean'st yet to return again.
It says thy absence from some cause did grow,

136

Which or I should not or I could not know.
It tells me now that all those proofs, whereby
I seem'd assured of thy disloyalty,
May be but treacherous plots of some base foes
That in thy absence sought our overthrows.

Which if it prove, as yet methinks it may,
Oh, what a burden shall I cast away!
What cares shall I lay by, and to what height
Tower in my new ascension to delight!
Sure, ere the full of it I come to try,
I shall ev'n surfeit in my joy and die.
But such a loss might well be call'd a thriving,
Since more is got by dying so than living.

Come kill me then, my dear, if thou think fit,
With that which never killed woman yet:
Or write to me before, so shalt thou give
Content more moderate that I may live;
And when I see my staff of trust unbroken
I will unspeak again what is mis-spoken.
What I have written in dispraise of men
I will recant, and praise as much again;
In recompense I'll add unto their stories
Encomiastic lines to imp their glories.
And for those wrongs my love to thee hath done,
Both I and it unto thy pity run:
In whom, if the least guilt thou find to be,
For ever let thy arms imprison me.

Meanwhile I'll try if misery will spare
Me so much respite to take truce with care,

137

And patiently await the doubtful doom
Which I expect from thee should shortly come;
Much longing that I one way may be sped,
And not still linger 'twixt alive and dead.
For I can neither live yet as I should,
Because I least enjoy of that I would;
Nor quiet die, because, indeed, I first
Would see some better days, or know the worst.

Then hasten, dear; if to my end it be,
It shall be welcome, 'cause it comes from thee;
If to renew my comfort ought be sent,
Let me not lose a minute of content.
The precious time is short and will away,
Let us enjoy each other while we may.
Cares thrive, age creepeth on, men are but shades,
Joys lessen, youth decays, and beauty fades;
New turns come on, the old returneth never,
If we let our go past, 'tis past for ever.

138

THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET.

[_]

(1615 edition.)

Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she think not well of me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my seely heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?

139

Or her well-deservings known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may merit name of best,
If she be not such to me
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
She that bears a noble mind,
If not outward helps she find,
Thinks what with them he would do
That without them dares her woo;
And unless that mind I see
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die, ere she shall grieve:
If she slight me when I woo
I can scorn and let her go,
For if she be not for me
What care I for whom she be?

140

INTER EQUITAND: PALINOD

[_]

(1615, '17, '19, '20 editions.)

My Genius, say what thoughts these pantings move?
—Thy thoughts of Love.
What flames are these that set my heart on fire?
—Flames of Desire.
What are the means that these two underprop?
—Thy earnest Hope.
Then yet I'm happy in my sweet friend's choice,
For they in depth of passion may rejoice
Whose thoughts and flames and means have such blest scope
They may at once both Love, Desire, and Hope.

But tell, what fruit at last my love shall gain?
—Hidden Disdain.
What will that hope prove, which yet faith keeps fair?
—Hopeless Despair.
What end will run my passions out of breath?
—Untimely Death.
Oh me! that passion, joined with faith and love,
Should with my fortunes so ungracious prove
That she'll no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath,
But cruellest Disdain, Despair, and Death!

To what new study shall I now apply?
—Study to Die.

141

How might I end my care, and die content?
—Care to Repent.
And what good thoughts may make my end more holy?
—Think on thy Folly.
Well, so I will, and since my fate may give
Nothing but discontents whilst here I live,
My studies, cares, and thoughts I'll all apply
To weigh my Folly well, Repent, and Die.

SONNET.

Hence away, thou Siren, leave me;
Pish, unclasp your wanton arms;
Sugared words can ne'er deceive me
Though thou prove a thousand charms.
Fie, fie, forbear; no common snare
Can ever my affection chain;
Thy sugared baits of love-deceits
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

I have elsewhere vowed a duty:
Turn away thy tempting eye;
Show not me thy painted beauty;
These impostures I defy.
My spirit loathes where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain;
I love her so whose look swears “no,”
That all thy labour will be vain.

142

I'm no slave to such as you be;
Nor shall that soft snowy breast,
Rolling eye, nor lip of ruby
Ever rob me of my rest.
Go, go display thy beauty's ray
To some more-soon enamoured swain;
Thy forced wiles of sighs and smiles
Are all bestowed on me in vain.

Can he prize the tainted posies
That on other's breast are worn,
Which may pluck the virgin roses
From the never-touched thorn?
I can go rest on her sweet breast
That is the pride of Cynthia's train:
Then stay thy tongue; thy mermaid's song
Is all bestowed on me in vain.

He's a fool that basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him.
Shall I haunt the thronged valleys
When there's noble hills to climb?
No, no; though clowns are scared with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain;
Then those I'll prove, so will your love
Be all bestowed on me in vain.

Yet I would not deign embraces
With the fairest queens that be,

143

If another shared those graces
Which they had bestowed on me.
I'll grant that one my love, where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain;
The fickle heart makes tears, and art,
And all, bestowed on me in vain.

I do scorn to vow a duty
Where each lustful lad may woo;
Give me her whose sun-like beauty
Buzzards dare not soar unto.
She it is affords that bliss
For which I would refuse no pain,
But such as you, fond fools, adieu!
You seek to captive me in vain.

She that's proud in the beginning
And disdains each looker-on,
Is a harpy in the winning,
But a turtle being won.
Whate'er betide she'll ne'er divide
The favour she to one doth deign
But fondlings' loves uncertain proves;
All, all that trust in them are vain.

Therefore know, when I enjoy one,
And for love employ my breath,
She I court shall be a coy one,
Though I purchase 't with my death.

144

The pleasures there few aim at dare;
But if perhaps a lover plain
She is not won, nor I undone,
By placing of my love in vain.

Leave me, then, thou Siren, leave me;
Take away these charmed arms;
Craft thou seest can ne'er deceive me;
I am proof 'gainst women's charms.
Oft fools essay to lead astray
The heart that constant must remain;
But I the while do sit and smile
To see them spend their love in vain.

145

MASTER JOHNSON'S ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

[_]

The attribution of this poem has been questioned.

Withers.
Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair,
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Johnson.
Shall I mine affections slack
'Cause I see a woman's black,
Or myself with care cast down
'Cause I see a woman brown?
Be she blacker than the night,
Or the blackest jet in sight,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be?

Withers.
Shall my foolish heart be pined,
'Cause I see a woman's kind,
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined in a comely feature?
Be she kind or meeker than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

146

Johnson.
Shall my foolish heart be brust
'Cause I see a woman's curst,
Or a thwarting hoggish nature
Joined in as bad a feature?
Be she curst or fiercer then
Brutish beast or savage men,
If she [be] not so to me,
What care I how curst she be?

Withers.
Shall a woman's virtues make
Me to perish for her sake,
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
That may merit name of best,
If she seem not so to me,
What care I how good she be?

Johnson.
Shall a woman's vices make
Me her vices quite forsake,
Or her faults to me made known
Make me think that I have none?
Be she of the most accurst,
And deserve the name of worst,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how bad she be?

147

Withers.
'Cause her fortunes seem too high,
Should I play the fool and die?
He that bears a noble mind
If not outward help he find,
Think what with them he would do
That without them dares to woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Johnson.
'Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go?
He that bears an humble mind,
And with riches can be kind,
Think how kind a heart he'd have
If he were some servile slave.
And if that same mind I see,
What care I how poor she be?

Withers.
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, then believe
I will die, ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me when I woo,
I can slight and bid her go:
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be?

148

Johnson.
Poor, or bad, or curst, or black,
I will ne'er the more be slack,
If she hate me, then believe,
She shall die ere I will grieve:
If she like me when I woo,
I can like and love her too:
If that she be fit for me,
What care I what others be?

A LOVE SONNET.

I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba queen.
But fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Her hair like gold did glister,
Each eye was like a star;
She did surpass her sister,
Which passed all others far.
She would me honey call;
She'd, O she'd kiss me too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

149

In summer time to Medley,
My love and I would go;
The boatmen there stood ready,
My love and I to row.
For cream there would we call,
For cakes, and for prunes too;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad.
The tears stood in her eyes,
Like to the morning dew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

And as abroad we walked,
As lovers' fashion is,
Oft [as] we sweetly talked
The sun should steal a kiss.
The wind upon her lips
Likewise most sweetly blew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

150

Her cheeks were like the cherry.
Her skin as white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry,
She angel-like did show.
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire.
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

As we walked home together
At midnight through the town,
To keep away the weather
O'er her I'd cast my gown.
No cold my love should feel,
Whate'er the heavens could do;
But now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

151

Like doves we would be billing,
And clip and kiss so fast;
Yet she would be unwilling
That I should kiss the last.
They're Judas-kisses now,
Since that they proved untrue;
For now, alas! sh' 'as left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

To maidens' vows and swearing
Henceforth no credit give;
You may give them the hearing,
But never them believe.
They are as false as fair,
Unconstant, frail, untrue;
For mine, alas! has left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

'Twas I that paid for all things,
'Twas others drank the wine;
I cannot now recall things,
Live but a fool to pine.
'Twas I that beat the bush,
The bird to others flew;
For she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

152

If ever that dame Nature,
For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature
Like unto her would make,
Let her remember this,
To make the other true;
For this, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu,
Since she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

153

EPITHALAMIA: OR NVPTIALL POEMS

155

TO THE ALL-VERTVOVS AND THRICE EXCELLENT PRINCESSE Elizabeth, sole daughter to our dread Soueraigne, Iames by the grace of God, King of Great Britaine, France and Ireland, &c. AND WIFE TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE, Frederick the fifth, Count Palatine of the Rhein, Duke of Bauier, &c. Elector, and Arch-sewer to the sacred Roman Empire, during the vacancy Vicar of the same, and Knight of the most honorable Order of the Garter: George Wither wisheth all the Health; Ioyes, Honours, and Felicities of this World, in this life, and the perfections of eternity in the World to come.

157

To the Christian Readers.

158

EPITHALAMION.

Bright northern star, and fair Minerva's peer,
Sweet lady of this day, Great Britain's dear
Lo, thy poor vassal that was erst so rude
With his most rustic Satyrs to intrude,
Once more like a poor sylvan now draws near,
And in thy sacred presence dares appear.
Oh, let not that sweet bow, thy brow, be bent
To scare him with a shaft of discontent:
One look with anger, nay, thy gentlest frown,
Is twice enough to cast a greater down.
My will is ever, never to offend
These that are good; and what I here intend;
Your worth compels me to. For lately grieved
More than can be expressed or well believed
Minding for ever to abandon sport,
And live exiled from places of resort;
Careless of all, I yielding to security,
Thought to shut up my Muse in dark obscurity:
And in content the better to repose,
A lonely grove upon a mountain chose,
East from Caer Winn, midway 'twixt Arle and Dis,
Two springs where Britain's true Arcadia is.

159

But ere I entered my intended course,
Great Æolus began to offer force.
The boisterous king was grown so mad with rage,

He here remembers and describes the late winter, which was so exceeding tempestuous and windy.

That all the earth was but his fury's stage;
Fire, air, earth, sea, were intermixed in one;
Yet fire, through water, earth and air shone.
The sea, as if she meant to whelm them under,
Beat on the cliffs, and raged more loud than thunder:

The reason of the tempestuos winter.

And whilst the vales she with salt waves did fill,
The air shower'd floods that drench'd our highest hill;
And the proud trees, that would no duty know,
Lay overturned, twenties in a row.
Yea, every man for fear fell to devotion,
Lest the whole isle should have been drench'd in th' ocean.
Which I, perceiving, conjured up my Muse,
The spirit whose good help I sometimes use,
And though I meant to break her rest no more,
I was then fain her aid for to implore;
And by her help indeed I came to know
Why both the air and seas were troubled so;
For having urged her that she would unfold
What cause she knew, thus much at last she told.

160

Of late, quoth she, there is by powers divine
A match concluded, 'twixt great Thame and Rhine;
Two famous rivers, equal both to Nile:
The one, the pride of Europe's greatest isle;
Th' other, disdaining to be closely pent,
Washes a great part of the Continent,
Yet with abundance doth the wants supply
Of the still-thirsting sea, that's never dry.
And now these, being not alone endear'd
To mighty Neptune and his watery herd,
But also to the great and dreadful Jove
With all his sacred companies above,
Both have assented by their loves' inviting,
To grace with their own presence this uniting.
Jove called a summons, to the world's great wonder,
'Twas that we heard of late, which we thought thunder.
A thousand legions he intends to send them,
Of cherubins and angels to attend them:
And those strong winds that did such blustering keep
Were but the Tritons sounding in the deep,
To warn each river, petty stream, and spring
Their aid unto their sovereign to bring.
The floods and showers that came so plenteous down,
And lay entrench'd in every field and town,
Were but retainers to the nobler sort
That owe their homage at the watery court:

161

Or else the streams, not pleased with their own store,
To grace the Thames, their mistress, borrowed more,
Exacting from their neighbouring dales and hills,
But by consent all, nought against their wills.
Yet now, since in this stir are brought to ground
Many fair buildings, many hundreds drown'd,
And daily found of broken ships great store,
That lie dismembered upon every shore,
With divers other mischiefs known to all,
This is the cause that those great harms befall.
Whilst other things in readiness did make,
Hell's hateful hags from out their prisons brake,

The cause of all such dangers as fell out during the distemperature of the air.

And spiting at this hopeful match, began
To wreak their wrath on air, earth, sea, and man.
Some, having shapes of Romish shavelings got,
Spew'd out their venom, and began to plot
Which way to thwart it; others made their way
With much distraction thorough land and sea
Extremely raging. But almighty Jove
Perceives their hate and envy from above;
He'll check their fury, and in irons chain'd
Their liberty abus'd shall be restrain'd:

162

He'll shut them up from coming to molest
The merriments of Hymen's holy feast,
Where shall be knit that sacred Gordian knot
Which in no age to come shall be forgot;
Which policy nor force shall ne'er untie,
But must continue to eternity;
Which for the whole world's good was fore-decreed,
With hope expected long, now come indeed;
And of whose future glory, worth, and merit,
Much I could speak with a prophetic spirit.

Thus by my Muse's dear assistance finding
The cause of this disturbance, with more minding
My country's welfare than my own content,
And longing to behold this tale's event,
My lonely life I suddenly forsook,
And to the court again my journey took.

Meanwhile I saw the furious winds were laid;

He noteth the most admirable alteration of the weather a while before these nuptials.

The risings of the swelling waters stay'd.
The winter 'gan to change in everything,
And seem'd to borrow mildness of the spring.
The violet and primrose fresh did grow,
And as in April trimm'd both copse and row.
The city, that I left in mourning clad,
Drooping, as if it would have still been sad,

163

I found deck'd up in robes so neat and trim,
Fair Iris would have look'd but stale and dim
In her best colours, had she there appear'd.
The sorrows of the court I found well clear'd,
Their woeful habits quite cast off, and tired
In such a glorious fashion, I admired.

The glorious preparation of this solemnity, the state whereof is here allegorically described.

All her chief peers and choicest beauties too,
In greater pomp than mortals use to do,
Wait as attendants. Juno's come to see,
Because she hears that this solemnity
Exceeds fair Hippodamia's, where the strife
'Twixt her, Minerva, and lame Vulcan's wife
Did first arise, and with her leads along
A noble, stately, and a mighty throng.
Venus, attended with her rarest features,
Sweet lovely-smiling and heart-moving creatures,
The very fairest jewels of her treasure,
Able to move the senseless stones to pleasure,
Of all her sweetest saints hath robbed their shrines,
And brings them for the courtiers' valentines.
Nor doth dame Pallas from these triumphs lurk;
Her noblest wits she freely sets on work.
Of late she summoned them unto this place
To do your masques and revels better grace.

164

Here Mars himself, too, clad in armour bright,

Meaning the sea-fight, and the taking of the castle on the water, which was most artificially performed.

Hath shown his fury in a bloodless fight;
And both on land and water, sternly drest,
Acted his bloody stratagems in jest:
Which, to the people frighted by their error,
With seeming wounds and death did add more terror;
Besides, to give the greater cause of wonder,
Jove did vouchsafe a rattling peal of thunder:
Comets and meteors by the stars exhaled

The fireworks he alludeth to those exhalations.

Were from the middle region lately called,
And to a place appointed made repair,
To show their fiery friscols in the air,
People innumerable do resort,
As if all Europe here would keep one court:
Yea, Hymen in his saffron-coloured weed
To celebrate his rites is full agreed.
All this I see: which seeing, makes me borrow
Some of their mirth awhile, and lay down sorrow.
And yet not this, but rather the delight
My heart doth take in the much-hoped sight
Of these thy glories, long already due;
And this sweet comfort, that my eyes do view
Thy happy bridegroom, Prince Count Palatine,
Now thy best friend and truest valentine;
Upon whose brow my mind doth read the story
Of mighty fame, and a true future glory.
Methinks I do foresee already how
Princes and monarchs at his stirrup bow:

165

I see him shine in steel, the bloody fields
Already won, and how his proud foe yields.
God hath ordain'd him happiness great store,
And yet in nothing is he happy more
Than in thy love, fair Princess; for, unless
Heaven, like to man, be prone to fickleness,
Thy fortunes must be greater in effect
Than time makes show of, or men can expect.
Yet, notwithstanding all those goods of fate,
Thy mind shall ever be above thy state:
For, over and beside thy proper merit,
Our last Eliza grants her noble spirit
To be redoubled on thee; and your names
Being both one shall give you both one fames.
Oh, blessed thou and they to whom thou giv'st
The leave to be attendants where thou liv'st:
And hapless we that must of force let go
The matchless treasure we esteem of so.
But yet we trust 'tis for our good and thine,
Or else thou shouldst not change thy Thame for Rhine.
We hope that this will the uniting prove
Of countries and of nations by your love,
And that from out your blessed loins shall come
Another terror to the whore of Rome,

166

And such a stout Achilles as shall make
Her tottering walls and weak foundation shake;
For Thetis-like thy fortunes do require
Thy issue should be greater than his sire.
But, gracious Princess, now since thus it fares,
And God so well for you and us prepares;
Since He hath deign'd such honours for to do you,
And shown Himself so favourable to you;
Since He hath changed your sorrows and your sadness
Into such great and unexpected gladness;
Oh, now remember you to be at leisure
Sometime to think on Him amidst your pleasure:
Let not these glories of the world deceive you,
Nor her vain favours of yourself bereave you.
Consider yet for all this jollity
Y' are mortal, and must feel mortality;
And that God can in midst of all your joys
Quite dash this pomp, and fill you with annoys.
Triumphs are fit for princes, yet we find
They ought not wholly to take up the mind,
Nor yet to be let past as things in vain;
For out of all things wit will knowledge gain,
Music may teach of difference in degree,
The best-tuned Common-weals will framed be:

167

And that he moves and lives with greatest grace
That unto time and measure ties his pace.
Then let these things be emblems to present

He declares what use is to be made of these shows and triumphs, and what meditations the mind may be occupied about when we behold them.

Your mind with a more lasting true content.
When you behold the infinite resort,
The glory and the splendour of the court,
What wondrous favours God doth here bequeath you,
How many hundred thousands are beneath you,
And view with admiration your great bliss,
Then with yourself you may imagine this:
'Tis but a blast or transitory shade,
Which in the turning of a hand may fade:
Honours, which you yourself did never win,
And might, had God been pleased, another's bin:
And think, if shadows have such majesty,
What are the glories of eternity!

Then by this image of a fight on sea,
Wherein you heard the thund'ring cannons play,
And saw flames breaking from their murthering throats,
Which in true skirmish fling resistless shots,
Your wisdom may, and will, no doubt, begin
To cast what peril a poor soldier's in:
You will conceive his miseries and cares,
How many dangers, deaths, and wounds he shares:

168

Then, though the most pass 't over and neglect them,
That rhetoric will move you to respect them.
And if hereafter you should hap to see
Such mimic apes that courts' disgraces be—
I mean such chamber-combatants, who never
Wear other helmet than a hat of beaver,
Or ne'er board pinnace but in silken sail,
And in the stead of boisterous shirts of mail
Go arm'd in cambric—if that such a kite,
I say, should scorn an eagle in your sight,
Your wisdom judge, by this experience, can,
Which hath most worth, hermaphrodite or man.
The night's strange prospects, made to feed the eyes
With artful fires mounted in the skies,

Fireworks.

Graced with horrid claps of sulphury thunders,
May make you mind th' Almighty's greater wonders.
Nor is there anything but you may thence
Reap inward gain, as well as please the sense.
But pardon me, oh fairest, that am bold
My heart thus freely, plainly to unfold.
What though I know you knew all this before,
My love this shows, and that is something more.

169

Do not my honest service here disdain,
I am a faithful though an humble swain.
I'm none of those that have the means or place
With shows of cost to do your nuptials grace;
But, only master of mine own desire,
Am hither come with others to admire.
I am not of those Heliconian wits,
Whose pleasing strains the court's known humour fits,
But a poor rural shepherd, that for need
Can make sheep music on an oaten reed:
Yet for my love, I'll this be bold to boast,
It is as much to you as his that's most.
Which, since I no way else can now explain,
If you'll in midst of all these glories deign
To lend your ears unto my Muse so long,
She shall declare it in a wedding song.

EPITHALAMION.

Valentine, good-morrow to thee,

The marriage being on S. Valentine's day, the Author shows it by beginning with the salutation of a supposed valentine.

Love and service both I owe thee,
And would wait upon thy pleasure,
But I cannot be at leisure;
For I owe this day as debtor
To a thousand times thy better.

170

Hymen now will have effected
What hath been so long expected:
Thame, thy mistress, now unwedded,
Soon must with a prince be bedded.
If thou'lt see her virgin ever,
Come and do it now or never.

Where art thou, oh fair Aurora?
Call in Ver and lady Flora:
And, you daughters of the morning,
In your neat'st and feat'st adorning,
Clear your foreheads and be sprightful
That this day may seem delightful.

All you nymphs that use the mountains,
Or delight in groves and fountains:
Shepherdesses, you that dally
Either upon hill or valley:
And you daughters of the bower,
That acknowledge Vesta's power,

Oh, you sleep too long; awake ye,
See how Time doth overtake ye.
Hark, the lark is up and singeth,
And the house with echoes ringeth.
Precious hours, why neglect ye,
Whilst affairs thus expect ye?

Come away, upon my blessing;
The bride-chamber lies to dressing:
Strow the ways with leaves of roses,
Some make garlands, some make posies:

171

'Tis a favour, and 't may joy you.
That your mistress will employ you,

Where's

Severn.

Sabrina with her daughters
That do sport about her waters,
Those that with their locks of amber
Haunt the fruitful hills of

Wales.

Camber?
We must have to fill the number
All the nymphs of Trent and Humber.

Fie, your haste is scarce sufficing,
For the bride's awake and rising.
Enter, beauties, and attend her,
All your helps and service lend her;
With your quaint'st and new'st devices
Trim your lady, fair Thamisis.

See, she's ready; with joys greet her;
Lads, go bid the bridegroom meet her;
But from rash approach advise him,
Lest a too much joy surprise him:
None I e'er knew yet that dared
View an angel unprepared.

Now unto the church she hies her;
Envy bursts, if she espies her:
In her gestures as she paces
Are united all the graces,
Which who sees and hath his senses
Loves in spite of all defences.

172

O most true majestic creature!
Nobles, did you note her feature?
Felt you not an inward motion
Tempting love to yield devotion,
And as you were e'en desiring
Something check you for aspiring?

That's her virtue, which still tameth
Loose desires and bad thoughts blameth;
For whilst others were unruly,
She observed Diana truly:
And hath by that means obtained
Gifts of her that none have gained.

Yon's the bridegroom, d'ye not spy him?
See how all the ladies eye him.
Venus his perfection findeth,
And no more Adonis mindeth.
Much of him my heart divineth,
On whose brow all virtue shineth.

Two such creatures Nature would not
Let one place long keep—she should not:
One she'll have, she cares not whether,
But our loves can spare her neither.
Therefore, ere we'll so be spited,
They in one shall be united.

Nature's self is well contented
By that means to be prevented.
And behold they are retired,
So conjoin'd, as we desired;

173

Hand in hand not only fixed,
But their hearts are intermixed.

Happy they and we that see it,
For the good of Europe be it.
And hear, heaven, my devotion,
Make this Rhine and Thame an ocean,
That it may with might and wonder
Whelm the pride of

Tiber is the river which runneth by Rome.

Tiber under.

Now yon

Whitehall.

hall their persons shroudeth,
Whither all this people crowdeth:
There they feasted are with plenty,
Sweet ambrosia is no dainty.
Grooms quaff nectar; for there's meeter,
Yea, more costly wines and sweeter.

Young men all, for joy go ring ye,
And your merriest carols sing ye.
Here's of damsels many choices,
Let them tune their sweetest voices.
Fet the Muses, too, to cheer them;
They can ravish all that hear them.

Ladies, 'tis their highness' pleasures
To behold you foot the measures;
Lovely gestures addeth graces,
To your bright and angel faces.
Give your active minds the bridle:
Nothing worse than to be idle.

174

Worthies, your affairs forbear ye,
For the state awhile may spare ye:
Time was that you loved sporting—
Have you quite forgot your courting?
Joy the heart of cares beguileth:

Semel in anno ridet Apol.

Once a year Apollo smileth.

Fellow shepherds, how I pray you
Can your flocks at this time stay you?
Let us also hie us thither,
Let's lay all our wits together,
And some pastoral invent them
That may show the love we meant them.

I myself though meanest stated,
And in court now almost hated,
Will knit up my

Abuses stript and whipt.

Scourge, and venter
In the midst of them to enter;
For I know there's no disdaining
Where I look for entertaining.

See, methinks the very season,

He noteth the mildness of the winter which, excepting that the beginning was very windy, was as temperate as the spring.

As if capable of reason,
Hath lain by her native rigour,
The fair sunbeams have more vigour;
They are Æol's most endeared,
For the air's still'd and cleared.

Fawns and lambs and kids do play,
In the honour of this day;

175

The shrill blackbird and the thrush
Hops about in every bush;
And among the tender twigs
Chant their sweet harmonious jigs.

Yea, and moved by this example

Most men are of opinion that this day every bird doth choose her mate for that year.

They do make each grove a temple
Where their time the best way using,
They their summer loves are choosing.
And, unless some churl do wrong them,
There's not an odd bird among them.

Yet I heard as I was walking
Groves and hills by echoes talking;
Reeds unto the small brooks whistling,
Whilst they danced with pretty rushling.
Then for us to sleep 'twere pity,
Since dumb creatures are so witty.

But oh, Titan, thou dost dally,
Hie thee to thy western valley;
Let this night one hour borrow,
She shall pay't again to-morrow;
And if thou'lt that favour do them,
Send thy sister Phœbe to them.

But she's come herself unasked,
And brings

By these he means the two masques, one of them being presented by the Lords, the other by the Gentry.

gods and heroes masked.
None yet saw or heard in story
Such immortal mortal glory.
View not without preparation,
Lest you faint in admiration.

176

Say, my lords, and speak truth barely,
Moved they not exceeding rarely?
Did they not such praises merit
As if flesh had all been spirit?
True indeed, yet I must tell them
There was one did far excel them.

But, alas! this is ill dealing,
Night unwares away is stealing:
Their delay the poor bed wrongeth
That for bride with bridegroom longeth,
And above all other places
Must be blest with their embraces.

Revellers, then now forbear ye,
And unto your rests prepare ye:
Let's awhile your absence borrow,
Sleep to-night and dance to-morrow.
We could well allow your courting,
But 'twill hinder better sporting.

They are gone, and night all lonely
Leaves the bride with bridegroom only.
Muse, now tell, for thou hast power
To fly through wall or tower,
What contentments their hearts cheereth,
And how lovely she appeareth.

And yet do not; tell it no man,
Rare conceits may so grow common:

177

Do not to the vulgar show them,
'Tis enough that thou dost know them.
Their ill hearts are but the centre,
Where all misconceivings enter.

But thou, Luna, that dost lightly
Haunt our downs and forests nightly;
Thou that favour'st generation,
And art help to procreation;
See their issue thou so cherish,
I may live to see it flourish.

And you planets, in whose power
Doth consist these lives of our,
You that teach us divinations,
Help with all your constellations,
How to frame in her a creature
Blest in fortune, wit, and feature.

Lastly, oh, you angels, ward them,
Set your sacred spells to guard them;
Chase away such fears or terrors
As not being seem through errors;
Yea, let not a dream's molesting
Make them start when they are resting.

But Thou chiefly, most adored,
That shouldst only be implored;
Thou to whom my meaning tendeth,
Whither e'er in show it bendeth;
Let them rest to-night from sorrow
And awake with joy to-morrow.

178

Oh, to my request be heedful,
Grant them that and all things needful.
Let not these my strains of folly
Make true prayer be unholy;
But if I have here offended,
Help, forgive, and see it mended.

Deign me this; and if my Muse's
Hasty issue she peruses,
Make it unto her seem grateful,
Though to all the world else hateful.
But howe'er yet, soul, persever
Thus to wish her good for ever.

Thus ends the day together with my song,
Oh, may the joys thereof continue long!
Let heaven's just, all-seeing, sacred power
Favour this happy marriage day of your;
And bless you in your chaste embraces so,
We Britons may behold before you go
The hopeful issue we shall count so dear,
And whom, unborn, his foes already fear.
Yea, I desire that all your sorrows may
Never be more than they have been to-day.
Which hoping, for acceptance now I sue,
And humbly bid your grace and court adieu.
I saw the sight I came for, which I know
Was more than all the world beside could show
But if amongst Apollo's lays you can
Be pleased to lend a gentle ear to Pan,

179

Or think your country shepherd loves as dear
As if he were a courtier or a peer,
Then I, that else must to my cell of pain,
Will joyful turn unto my flock again,
And there unto my fellow shepherds tell
Why you are lov'd, wherein you do excel.
And when we drive our flocks afield to graze them,
So chant your praises that it shall amaze them:
And think that fate hath new recall'd from death
Their still-lamented sweet Elizabeth.
For though they see the court but now and then,
They know desert as well as greater men:
And honoured fame in them doth live or die,
As well as in the mouth of majesty.
But taking granted what I here entreat,
At heaven for you my devotions beat;
And though I fear fate will not suffer me
To do you service where your fortunes be,
Howe'er my skill hath yet despised seem'd,
And my unripen'd wit been mis-esteem'd,
When all this costly show away shall flit,
And not one live that doth remember it,
If envy's trouble let not to persever,
I'll find a means to make it known for ever.

180

CERTAIN EPIGRAMS CONCERNING MARRIAGE.

Epigram 1.

'Tis said, in marriage above all the rest
The children of a king find comforts least,
Because without respect of love or hate
They must, and oft be, ruled by the State;
But if contented love, religion's care,
Equality in state, and years declare
A happy match, as I suppose no less,
Then rare and great's Eliza's happiness.

Epigram 2.

God was the first that marriage did ordain,
By making one, two; and two, and one again,

Epigram 3.

Soldier, of thee I ask, for thou canst best,
Having known sorrow, judge of joy and rest;
What greater bliss than after all thy harms
To have a wife that's fair and lawful thine,
And lying prison'd 'twixt her ivory arms,
There tell what thou hast 'scaped by powers divine?
How many round thee thou hast murthered seen,
How oft thy soul hath been near-hand expiring,
How many times thy flesh hath wounded been:
Whilst she thy fortune and thy worth admiring,
With joy of health and pity of thy pain,
Doth weep and kiss, and kiss and weep again.

181

Epigram 4.

Fair Helen having stain'd her husband's bed,
And mortal hatred 'twixt two kingdoms bred,
Had still remaining in her so much good
That heroes for her lost their dearest blood:
Then if with all that ill such worth may last,
Oh, what is she worth that's as fair—and chaste!

Epigram 5.

Old Orpheus knew a good wife's worth so well
That when his died he followed her to hell,
And for her loss at the Elysian grove
He did not only ghosts to pity move,
But the sad poet breath'd his sighs so deep,
'Tis said, the devils could not choose but weep.

Epigram 6.

Long did I wonder, and I wonder much,
Rome's Church should from her clergy take that due:
Thought I, why should she that contentment grutch?
What, doth she all with continence endue?
No; but why then are they debarr'd that state?
Is she become a foe unto her own?
Doth she the members of her body hate,
Or is it for some other cause unshown?
Oh yes, they find a woman's lips so dainty,
They tie themselves from one 'cause they'll have twenty.

182

Epigram 7.

Women, as some men say, unconstant be;
'Tis like enough, and so no doubt are men:
Nay, if their scapes we could so plainly see,
I fear that scarce there will be one for ten.
Men have but their own lusts that tempt to ill:
Women have lusts and men's allurements too:
Alas, if their strengths cannot curb their will,
What should poor women, that are weaker, do?
O, they had need be chaste and look about them,
That strive 'gainst lust within and knaves without them.

University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I[_] Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING

THE FIRST ECLOGUE. Willy leaves his flock awhile

The Argument.

SONNET.

THE SECOND ECLOGUE. Cuddy here relates

The Argument.

SONG.

THE THIRD ECLOGUE. Philaret with his three friends

The Argument.

SONNET.

THE FOURTH ECLOGUE. Philaret on Willy calls

The Argument.

THE FIFTH ECLOGUE. Philaret Alexis moves

The Argument.

Fidelia

An Elegiacal Epistle of FIDELIA to her unconstant friend.

The Argument.

THE AUTHOR'S RESOLUTION IN A SONNET.

INTER EQUITAND: PALINOD

SONNET.

MASTER JOHNSON'S ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS.[_] The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A LOVE SONNET.

EPITHALAMIA: OR NVPTIALL POEMS

EPITHALAMION.

EPITHALAMION.

CERTAIN EPIGRAMS CONCERNING MARRIAGE.

Epigram 1.

Epigram 2.

Epigram 3.

Epigram 4.

Epigram 5.

Epigram 6.

Epigram 7.

I. VOL. I
[_]

Square brackets denote editorial insertions or emendations.

MASTER JOHNSON'S ANSWER TO MASTER WITHERS.
[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.