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

Admire not, shepherd's boy,
Why I my pipe forbear;
My sorrows and my joy
Beyond expression are.
Though others may
In songs display
Their passions, when they woo,

Yet mine do fly
A pitch too high
For words to reach unto.

If such weak thoughts as those
With others' fancies move,
Or if my breast did close
But common strains of love,
Or passion's store
Learned me no more
To feel than others do,
I'd paint my cares
As black as theirs,
And teach my lines to woo.

But oh! thrice happy ye
Whose mean conceit is dull,
You from those thoughts are free
That stuff my breast so full:
My love's excess
Lets to express
What songs are used to,
And my delights
Take such high flights,
My joys will me undo.

I have a love that's fair,
Rich, wise, and nobly born;
She's true perfection's heir,
Holds nought but vice in scorn.

A heart to find
More chaste, more kind,
Our plains afford no moe;
Of her degree
No blab I'll be,
For doubt some prince should woo.

And yet I do not fear,
Though she my meanness knows,
The willow branch to wear,
No, nor the yellow hose.
For if great Jove
Should sue for love,
She would not me forego;
Resort I may
By night or day,
Which braver dare not do.

You gallants, born to pelf,
To lands, to titles' store,
I'm born but to myself,
Nor do I care for more.
Add to your earth,
Wealth, honours, birth,
And all you can thereto,
You cannot prove
That height of love
Which I in meanness do.

Great men have helps to gain
Those favours they implore;

Which, though I win with pain,
I find my joys the more.
Each clown may rise,
And climb the skies,
When he hath found a stair:
But joy to him
That dares to climb,
And hath no help but air.

Some say that love repents
Where fortunes disagree;
I know the high'st contents
From low beginnings be.
My love's unfeigned
To her that deigned
From greatness stoop thereto;
She loves 'cause I,
So mean, dared try
Her better worth to woo.

And yet, although much joy
My fortune seems to bless,
'Tis mix'd with more annoy
Than I shall e'er express:
For with much pain
Did I obtain
The gem I'll ne'er forego,
Which yet I dare
Nor show, nor wear,
And that breeds all my woe.

But fie, my foolish tongue,
How loosely now it goes!
First let my knell be rung,
Ere I do more disclose.
Mount thoughts on high,
Cease words, for why
My meaning to divine,
To those I leave
That can conceive
So brave a love as mine.

And now no more I'll sing
Among my fellow swains;
Nor groves nor hills shall ring
With echoes of my plains.
My measures be
Confused, you see,
And will not suit thereto;
'Cause I have more
Brave thoughts in store
Than words can reach unto.

SONNET 2.

Hence, away, you Sirens, leave me,
And unclasp your wanton arms;
Sugar'd words shall ne'er deceive me,
Though thou prove a thousand charms;
Fie, fie, forbear;
No common snare
Could ever my affection chain:

Your painted baits
And poor deceits
Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

I'm no slave to such as you be;
Neither shall a snowy breast,
Wanton eye, or lip of ruby,
Ever rob me of my rest.
Go, go, display
Your beauty's ray
To some o'er-soon enamour'd swain.
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

I have elsewhere vow'd a duty;
Turn away thy tempting eyes.
Show not me a naked beauty,
Those impostures I despise.
My spirit loathes
Where gaudy clothes
And feigned oaths may love obtain.
I love her so,
Whose look swears no,
That all your labours will be vain.

Can he prize the tainted posies
Which on every breast are worn,
That may pluck the spotless roses
From their never-touched thorn?

I can go rest
On her sweet breast,
That is the pride of Cynthia's train:
Then hold your tongues,
Your mermaid songs
Are all bestow'd on me in vain.

He's a fool that basely dallies
Where each peasant mates with him.
Shall I haunt the thronged valleys
Whilst there's noble hills to climb?
No, no; though clowns
Are scared with frowns,
I know the best can but disdain:
And those I'll prove;
So shall your love
Be all bestow'd on me in vain.

Yet I would not deign embraces
With the greatest, fairest she,
If another shared those graces
Which had been bestow'd on me.
I gave that one
My love where none
Shall come to rob me of my gain.
Your fickle hearts
Makes tears and arts
And all bestow'd 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, 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.

Proud she seem'd in the beginning,
And disdained my looking on;
But that coy one in the winning
Proves a true one being won.
Whate'er betide
She'll ne'er divide
The favour she to me shall deign.
But your fond love
Will fickle prove,
And all that trust in you are vain.

Therefore know, when I enjoy one,
And for love employ my breath,
She I court shall be a coy one,
Though I win her with my death.
A favour there
Few aim at dare.
And if, perhaps, some lover plain,
She is not won,
Nor I undone,
By placing of my love in vain.

Leave me then, you Sirens, leave me,
Seek no more to work my harms;
Crafty wiles cannot deceive me,
Who am proof against your charms.
You labour may
To lead astray
The heart that constant shall remain,
And I the while
Will sit and smile
To see you spend your time in vain.

SONNET 3.

When Philomela with her strains
The spring had welcomed in,
And Flora to bestrow the plains
With daisies did begin,
My love and I, on whom suspicious eyes
Had set a thousand spies,
To cozen Argus strove;
And seen of none
We got alone
Into a shady grove.

On every bush the eglantine,
With leaves perfumed hung,
The primrose made the hedgerows fine,
The woods of music rung.
The earth, the air, and all things did conspire
To raise contentment higher;

That, had I come to woo,
Nor means of grace,
Nor time, nor place,
Were wanting thereunto.

With hand in hand alone we walked,
And oft each other eyed;
Of love and passions past we talked,
Which our poor hearts had tried.
Our souls infus'd into each other were:
And what may be her care,
Did my more sorrow breed;
One mind we bore,
One faith we swore,
And both in one agreed.

Her dainty palm I gently prest,
And with her lips I play'd;
My cheek upon her panting breast,
And on her neck I laid.
And yet we had no sense of wanton lust:
Nor did we then mistrust
The poison in the sweet;
Our bodies wrought
So close, we thought,
Because our souls should meet.

With pleasant toil we breathless grew,
And kiss'd in warmer blood;
Upon her lips the honey-dew
Like drops on roses stood;

And on those flowers play'd I the busy bee,
Whose sweets were such to me,
Them could I not forego.
No, not to feast
On Venus' breast,
Whence streams of sweetness flow.

But kissing and embracing we
So long together lay,
Her touches all inflamed me,
And I began to stray.
My hands presum'd so far, they were too bold;
My tongue unwisely told
How much my heart was changed.
And virtue quite
Was put to flight,
Or for the time estranged.

Oh! what are we, if in our strength
We over-boldly trust?
The strongest forts will yield at length,
And so our virtues must.
In me no force of reason had prevailed
If she had also failed;
But ere I further strayed,
She sighing kissed
My naked wrist,
And thus in tears she said:

“Sweetheart,” quoth she, “if in thy breast
Those virtues real be,

Which hitherto thou hast profest,
And I believed in thee,
Thyself and me, oh, seek not to abuse.
Whilst thee I thus refuse
In hotter flames I fry;
Yet let us not
Our true love spot,
Oh, rather let me die.

“For if thy heart should fall from good,
What would become of mine?
As strong a passion stirs my blood,
As can distemper thine.
Yet in my breast this rage I smother would,
Though it consume me should,
And my desires contain:
For where we see
Such breaches be,
They seldom stop again.

“Are we the two that have so long
Each other's loves embraced?
And never did affection wrong,
Nor think a thought unchaste?
And shall, oh, shall we now our matchless joy
For one poor touch destroy,
And all content forego?
Oh no, my dear;
Sweetheart, forbear;
I will not lose thee so.

“For, should we do a deed so base,
As it can never be,
I could no more have seen thy face,
Nor would'st thou look on me.
I should of all our passions grow ashamed,
And blush when thou art named;
Yea, though thou constant wert,
I being nought,
A jealous thought
Would still torment my heart.

“What goodly thing do we obtain
If I consent to thee?
Rare joys we lose, and what we gain
But common pleasures be:
Yea, those, some say, who are to lust inclin'd,
Drive love out of the mind;
And so much reason miss,
That they admire
What kind of fire
A chaste affection is.

“No vulgar bliss I aimed at
When first I heard thee woo;
I'll never prize a man for that
Which every groom can do.
If that be love, the basest men that be
Do love as well as we,

100

Who, if we bear us well,
Do pass them then,
As angels men
In glory do excel.”

Whilst thus she spake a cruel band
Of passions seized my soul,
And what one seemed to command,
Another did control.
'Twixt good and ill I did divided lie.
But as I raised mine eye,
In her methought I saw
Those virtues shine
Whose rays divine
First gave desire a law.

With that I felt the blush of shame
Into my cheeks return;
And love did with a chaster flame
Within my bosom burn.
My soul her light of reason had renew'd;
And by those beams I view'd
How slyly lust ensnares:
And all the fires
Of ill desires
I quenched with my tears.

Go, wantons, now, and flout at this
My coldness, if you list;
Vain fools, you never knew the bliss
That doth in love consist.

101

You sigh, and weep, and labour to enjoy
A shade, a dream, a toy;
Poor folly you pursue;
And are unblessed,
Since every beast
In pleasure equals you.

You never took so rich content,
In all your wanton play,
As this to me hath pleasure lent,
That chaste she went away.
For as some sins which we committed have,
Sharp stings behind them leave,
Whereby we vexed are,
So ill suppressed
Begetteth rest
And peace without compare.

But lest this conquest slight you make,
Which on myself I won,
Twelve labours I will undertake
With Jove's victorious son,
Ere I will such another brunt endure.
For, had Diana pure
Thus tempted been to sin,
That queen of night,
With her chaste light,
Had scarce a maiden bin.