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

A lad whose faith will constant prove,
And never know an end,
Late by an oversight in love,
Displeas'd his dearest friend.
For which incens'd, she did retake
The favours which he wore,
And said he never for her sake
Should wear or see them more.

The grief whereof, how near it went,
And how unkindly took,
Was figur'd by the discontent
Appearing in his look.
At first he could not silence break,
So heavy sorrow lay,
But when his sighs gave way to speak,
Thus sadly did he say:

“My only dear;” and with that speech,
Not able to sustain
The floods of grief at sorrow's breach,
He paus'd awhile again.

At length, nigh fainting, did express
These words, with much ado:
“Oh, dear, let not my love's excess
Me and my love undo.”

She, little moved with his pain,
His much distraction eyed;
And changing love into disdain,
Thus, still unkind, replied:
“Forbear to urge one kindness more,
Unless you long to see
The good respect you had before
At once all lost in me.”

With that, dismay'd, his suit he ceased,
And down his head he hung;
And as his reason's strength decreased,
His passion grew more strong.
But, seeing she did slight his moan,
With willow garlands wreath'd,
He sat him down, and all alone
This sad complaint he breath'd:

“Oh heavens!” quoth he, “why do we spend
Endeavours thus in vain;
Since what the Fates do fore-intend,
They never change again?
Nor faith, nor love, nor true desert,
Nor all that man can do,
Can win him place within her heart,
That is not born thereto.

“Why do I fondly waste my youth
In secret sighs and tears?
Why to preserve a spotless truth,
Taste I so many cares?
For women, that no worth respect,
Do so ungentle prove,
That some shall win by their neglect
What others lose with love.

“Those that have set the best at naught,
And no man could enjoy,
At last by some base gull are caught,
And gotten with a toy.
Yea, they that spend an age's light,
Their favours to obtain,
For one unwilling oversight
May lose them all again.

“How glad, and fain, alas! would I
For her have underwent
The greatest care, ere she should try
The smallest discontent?
Yet she that may my life command,
And doth those passions know,
Denieth me a poor demand,
In height of all my woe.

“Oh, if the noblest of her time,
And best beloved of me,
Could for so poor, so slight a crime,
So void of pity be,

Sure, had it been some common one
Whose patience I had tried,
No wonder I had been undone,
Or unforgiven died.

“A thousand lives I would have laid,
So well I once believed
She would have deign'd to lend me aid,
If she had seen me grieved.
But now I live to see the day
Where I presumed so,
I neither dare for pity pray,
Nor tell her of my woe.

“Yet let not, poor despised heart,
Her worth ought question'd be
Hadst thou not failed in desert,
She had not failed thee.
But lest, perhaps, they flout thy moan,
That should esteem thee dear,
Go, make it by thyself alone,
Where none may come to hear.

“Still keep thy forehead crown'd with smiles,
What passion e'er thou try,
That none may laugh at thee, the whiles
Thou discontented lie.
And let no wrong by chance disdain
A love so truly fair,
But rather never hope again,
And thou shalt ne'er despair.”

2.

O'ertired by cruel passions that oppress me,
With heart nigh broken, time no hope would give me,
Upon my bed I laid me down to rest me;
And gentle sleep I wooed to relieve me.
But oh, alas! I found that on the morrow
My sleeping joys brought forth my waking sorrow.

For lo! a dream I had so full of pleasure,
That to possess what to embrace I seem'd
Could not affect my joy in higher measure
Than now it grieves me that I have but dream'd.
Oh, let my dreams be sighs and tears hereafter,
So I that sleeping weep, may wake in laughter.

Fain would I tell how much that shadow pleased me;
But tongue and pen want words and art in telling:
Yet this I'll say, to show what horror seized me
When I was robb'd of bliss, so much excelling:
Might all my dreams be such, oh, let me never
Awake again, but sleep and dream for ever.

For when I waking saw myself deceived,
And what an inward Hell it had procured,
To find myself of all my hopes bereaved,
It brought on passions not to be endured:
And knew I next night had such dreams in keeping,
I'd make my eyes forswear for ever sleeping.

3.

You woody hills, you dales, you groves,
You floods, and every spring,
You creatures, come, whom nothing moves,
And hear a shepherd sing.
For to heroës, nymphs, and swains,
I long have made my moan;
Yet what my mournful verse contains
Is understood of none.

In song Apollo gave me skill;
Their love his sisters deign:
With those that haunt Parnassus' hill
I friendship entertain:
Yet this is all in vain to me,
So haplessly I fare,
As those things which my glory be
My cause of ruin are.

For Love hath kindled in my breast
His never-quenched fire:
And I, who often have exprest
What other men desire,
Because I could so dive into
The depth of others' moan,
Now I my own affliction show,
I heeded am of none.

Oft have the nymphs of greatest worth
Made suit my songs to hear:
As oft, when I have sighed forth
Such notes as saddest were,
“Alas!” said they, “poor gentle heart,
Whoe'er that shepherd be:”
But none of them suspects my smart,
Nor thinks it meaneth me.

When I have reach'd so high a strain
Of passion in my song,
That they have seen the tears to rain
And trill my cheek along,
Instead of sigh, or weeping eye,
To sympathize with me,
“Oh, were he once in love,” they cry,
“How moving would he be!”

Oh, pity me, you powers above,
And take my skill away;
Or let my hearers think I love,
And feign not what I say:
For if I could disclose the smart
Which I unknown do bear,
Each line would make them sighs impart,
And every word a tear.

“Had I a mistress,” some do think,
“She should revealed be;
And I would favours wear, or drink
Her health upon my knee.”

Alas, poor fools! they aim awry,
Their fancy flags too low:
Could they my love's rare course espy,
They would amazed grow.

But let nor nymph nor swain conceive
My tongue shall ever tell
Who of this rest doth me bereave,
Or where I am not well.
But if you sighing me espy,
Where rarest features be,
Mark where I fix a weeping eye,
And swear you, there is she.

Yet, ere my eyes betray me shall,
I'll swell and burst with pain:
And for each drop they would let fall,
My heart shall bleed me twain.
For since my soul more sorrow bears
Than common lovers know,
I scorn my passions should, like theirs,
A common humour show.

Ear never heard of, heretofore,
Of any love like mine.
Nor shall there be for evermore
Affection so divine.
And that to feign it none may try,
When I dissolv'd must be,
The first I am it lived by,
And die it shall with me.