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

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.