The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah! woe is mee, who sighe forlorne,
Sith woe has fixed depe his thorne
In thys poor harte!
The milkmaid's songe when morne doeth smyle,
And Phœbus gildeth fielde and style,
Doth greefe emparte.

I envy birdes that cleave the skye;
Ye live in freedom, imps! I sighe,
Then droppe a tear:
And eke I cast an envious looke
Upon the little babbling brooke
That runneth neare.

Like the swete brooke I wish to flee
From fielde to fielde in merry glee;
But my poor harte doth pant in vayne
To joine the milkmayde on the plaine,
Who seemes so blest!
Dispayre approaches, and thus cryes:
‘To Freedom cease to turne thine eyes
Sith I'm thy guest.’
O drear companion! ah, most drear!
Whose voice is horror to mine ear!

104

TO THE GLASS.

Give me the glasse that felt her lippe,
And happy, happy shall I sippe:
And when is fled the daintie wyne,
Something remaineth still divyne.

Heaven's dewes that on the flower doe falle,
Make them to smyle and fayre withal;
And thus the dewe of her sweet kisse
Doth bathe my heart with balmy blisse:

But dewes to vapoure flye awaye,
While her rich fragrance lasts for aye.

J. D.

TO THE DAISIE.

O modest flow'r! thou tellest of the springe!
Welcome unto this little fielde of myne!
With joy I see thee from the green earth springe,
And smiling in thy silvery vesture shine!

Ah! nought disturbeth thy fayre tender frame;
Zephyrus kisseth thee, and tastes thy sweet:
Thou dost not chide the wanton rogue—no blame,
Nor biddest him sighe lowly at thy feet.

Agayne he whispereth love; and now agayne
He tasteth of thy honey'd leaves, and sighs!
And though he wantons, thou dost not complayne;
Thy little snowy bosom nought denyes.

105

O gentle daisie! speak to her I love
When she doeth come, and casteth lookes on thee;
Persuade her my pure passion to approve,
And not with coldness from her shepheard flee:

But imitate thy ways, and learne thy smyle,
When I, like Zephyrus, doe press her cheke;
Then may no tempest rude thy form defyle,
And of thy snowy beauties make a wreck!

A PRAISE OF FAYRE GERALDINE,

BY LORD SURREY.

I sighe mournfulle for Geraldine,
For lovelie Geraldine I playne;
And oft I wish her harte was mine,
But vaine are sighes, and teares are vaine.

But she perchaunce mote cruel be,
And slighten of Cupid the bande,
Because she may not fynde a he
That meriteth her lilied hande.

Ah me! sith none but such may wooe,
And turne to her with hope his eyes;
Far hence fayre Geraldine must goe,
And seek a lover in the skyes.

106

BALLADE OF LOVE.

Thou art the loadsterre of my love,
Which love doth many tempests fynde;
But thou canst all the stormes remove,
And whisper calme unto my mynde.
Thy balmy breathe can fille the sayle,
And bless me with a prosperous gale.

But, no—for this I may not hope;
On rocks thou doomest me to mourne:
My vessel without maste or rope,
All on the black rock piece-meal torne:
And there I wis without a sighe,
Thou lettest my poore vessel lye,

But if thy smile would fix on me,
A safe porte then my shippe may fynde;
Then Phœbus' beams break out, I see,
And leave the tossing waves behinde.
With jocund heart then I do prove,
Thou art the loadsterre of my love.

BALLADE OF GRIEF.

I know not joy, when far from thee,
For thou art all the world to me:
Then come away.
Though thou art farre, yet Love's swift darte,
For ever flying, wounds my harte,
From day to day.

107

I seeke to sleepe away the hours,
But thy image my calme devours,
And keepes me waking:
And when, alack! I close myne eye,
I starte, and with keen anguish sighe,
‘Thou'rt me forsaking!’

Then come, fayre mayde, and with thee bringe
In thy twin cheeks the blossom'd springe,
And sommer's gold
In thy twin eyes, that I may find
The sommer's beam within my mind,
Not winter's cold.

THE PETITION OF THE LOVER.

Ah! say not ‘No’ unto my pray'r,
For I have loved thee full long;
To these twin eyes thou art most fayre,
Surpassing praise of sweetest song.
Then say not ‘No’ unto my pray'r,
But be so kind as thou art fayre.

Why art thou with rare beauty blest?
Only to bless mankynde, I wiss;
Not for to robbe the harte of rest,
But fill it with a sea of blisse.
Then say not ‘No’ unto my pray'r,
But be so kynde as thou art fayre.

The sun was made to warme the earthe,
And plenty make, and kepe off blite;
So should thy beauty's sunne give birthe
To our soul's harvests of delyte.
Then say not ‘No’ unto my pray'r,
But be so kynde as thou art fayre.

108

ODE ON AN INCONSTANT.

Those peerless lips are both forsworne;
Those lips that roses blooms adorn,
Ah, too deceiving fayre!
I thought no guile upon thy tongue,
I thought that mouth could say no wrong,
Nor lay for hearts a snare.

But now I see thy vaine, vaine mind,
And now thy cruelty I find
That taketh pride in woe:
In every sigh thy guile I hear,
And see my wrongs in ev'ry tear
Which Sorrow bids to flow.

Where'er I go, I hear thy name,
And hear fierce Anger cry out ‘Shame!’
On beauty so renown'd.
Know, beauty was design'd for joy,
Which thou dost cruelly employ
To give the world a wound.

THE LOVER'S PITYE.

My lute, who makedst sweetest sound,
Awake thee now, alack! to playne;
Sith my poore harte doth feel a wound,
And never may rejoice again!
Oh, let thy sounds with my sighs flow,
For her who lies in death below!

109

O lute! how jocund was thy voice
When she did make thy chords rejoice,
When roses blushed on her cheek!
But now that she in deth lies pale,
Thy voice must tell a doleful tale,
And every harte with sorrow breake!

My lute, thou must no more be gladde,
But tune to dying straines and sadde,
And think no more of jouissance.
Grief openeth of myne eyes the springes,
And oft my teares will wet thy stringes,
And make thee mourne our dread mischance.
Then list to me, my favourite lute—
Be sadde, or lye for ever mute!

TO A FLY.

By the Princess Elizabeth, in Prison.

Thou little animal, I wiss,
Thou seemest me a child of bliss,
And runnest, fleest here and there
Withoute a pang, and eke a tear;
While, borne to thinke of sceptres, I
Do envy thee, thou little fly!

Fortune doth make small giftes to me,
But what is mine I give to thee:
The bread, the wine upon my boarde,
I yield to thee with much accorde.
Come when thou list, and to thy mynde
Thou something to thy taste shall fynde.

110

Though gladde thou frisketh to and fro,
Thy life, poor worme, is shorte, I know;
A little while thy legs outspread,
I see thee on the table ded;
And, while thou art at peace, I wail,
And think on thy lyfe's little tale.

But while thou canst my crumbs enjoy,
Thou here may hum withoute annoy;
Runne here and there, and spread thy wing,
And with thy own companions sing.
Though man be cruel unto me,
My hand shall give delyte to thee.

ON THE FAYRE GERALDYNE.

Goe, Muse to Hunsdon, and espye
What giveth to myne harte a sighe;
And yet to every other harte
Bright floodes of joyance doeth emparte.

There may thou see a sunne that cloude
Did never yet with darkness shroude;
And straunge, no mortals on that sunne
Withouten hurte may looke uponne.

Now, Lady Muse, should it be so,
Thou doest not this my loadsterre knowe,
Goe unto Hunsdon, caste thyne eien
On all the world's fayre Geraldyne.

111

THE BRENNED MOTH, A BALLADE.

Ah! silly moth, what hast thou done?
To such mishap why didst thou runne?
Brent be thy legges, and eke thy wings,
And Fate doth pierce thee with his stings.

What folly could thy mynde perswade
To leave thy fields of dew and shade,
Where glow-worms light with lanterns sheen
The little elves that praunce the green?

There mightest thou on pennons light
Enjoy the silence of mute nighte,
And flicker hill and vale around,
Withoute a foe—withoute a wound.

Poor fly!—but why thy folly blame?
We, wiser mortals, act the same!
On mad ambitious fires we gaze,
And, doating, perish in the blaze.

WYATT TO BRYAN, FROM HIS PRISON.

The summer of my hope is ded,
Whyche made my daies, so passing fayre:
Now Hope no more may lift her hed,
Sore chilled by wynter of despayre.

112

But, Bryan, my dark prison doore
Doest boast of lyght when thou dost come;
Syth Frendshipp's sun hath beames a store,
To make a palace of a tombe.

Then come, and Frendshipp's beame y spred,
And I'll forget that Hope is ded.

WYATT TO POINS, IN PRAISE OF LIBERTY.

To crawle in courtes is bondage harde!
For who y chooseth chaines I wot?
Yet some, for pleasures of rewarde,
Will flatter—and blow colde and hot.

But Liberty will I emplore,
Though Poverty knock at my doore.

What be our wants?—some thinges, not all.
Contentment lyeth not in heaps;
Who hath a little field, though small,
It grete is, if enough he reaps.

Then Liberty will I emplore,
Though Poverty knock at my doore.

113

SIR T. WYATT.

Retired to the Country, to Arlington, where he passed a Life of Tranquillity; he despised Harry the Eighth's Court.—Wyatt boasts of his Liberty.

Free am I nowe—I courtes do follow not,
But myne own pleasure dayly I persue;
I aske aboute no courtiers—no, God wot,
Sith I to courtes have bidden longe adieu:
For when at courtes, on hands and knees they crawl,
Like whipped dogs, and be for aye inthrall.

When morne doth glister, oft bayte I myne hook,
And forthe I go the river's bank besyde;
And there I privilye do searche the brooke,
And trye if fish unneath the surface glyde,
And often do I bringe them to the lande,
And then unhooke them with a happy hande.

She whoame I love doth sumtime straye,
And sees me dragge the pris'ner from the floude;
And that it is most cruelle, she doth saye,
To spille of little fish the harmless bloode.
‘Eche little fish,’ she telleth with a teare,
‘Which thou dost kille, perchaunce hath got his dere.’

And oft she pulleth a fish from my hande,
And putteth him agayne into the brooke;
Sayinge, ‘Go fishe, thyne liberty commande,
And learne t'avoide, poor foole, the hyden hooke.’
And then she smylinge doth a moral fynde,
And lykeneth fishe betray'd to woman-kynde.

114

A BALLADE OF PRAYER,

By Sir James Melville.

Addressed to Queen Elizabeth, on his presuming to listen privately to her Majesty, while she played on the Virginals; delivered by Lord Hunsdon.

Oh! in your gracious goodnesse deigne
To pardon mee, most mighty queene,
Who dared (not to be forgeven)
To heare on erth the songes of Heaven!

I strofe to flye from soche swete sounde,
But nail'd was I unto the grounde;
My feet, entraunced, could not move,
And all my mynde was lost in love.

What punishment your gracious sense
Ordaineth for my rude offence,
Yet be it grate, and life destroye,
It may not equal my past joye.

If you would more than cruel be,
Deth must not be devis'd for me;
But take my ears' quick sense away,
When you, grate queene, shall singe and playe.

115

BALLADE,

By Vere, Earl of Oxford.

Where is the mayde that erst was myne,
Who did with love myne harte begile!
No more on me doeth beauty shine,
No more I proudly boaste her smile.

The roses of her cheek so bright,
Her lippe of berries' purple hue,
No more for me may blush delyte;
To them may Fansie say, adieu.

When I did first her lookes beholde,
Me seemes 'twas summer in her eye;
Me seemes I mark'd two sunnes of golde,
Upon her face's smiling skye.

Me seemes that on her roseate cheeke
I spyed the season of the springe;
And when that she did courteous speke,
The feather'd minstrels seem'd to singe.

But all is past and gone, I weene:
From her I meete with icy cold;
I marke no more her eyes' bright sheen,
Nor marke her sunnes of brightest golde.

Sadde is the chaunge sith she's unkynde:
Now cloudes all mirkie darke my daye;
For Zephyrus blow wynter wyndes,
And frost hath kill'd the gentle May.

116

BALLADE.

Couldst thou looke into myne harte,
Thou wouldst see a mansion drear;
Some old haunted tower aparte,
Where the spectre bands appear:
Sighing, gliding, ghostly forms,
'Mid the ruin shook by storms.

Yet my harte, whiche Love doth slighte,
Was a palace passing fair;
Which did hold thyne image bright,
Thee the queen of beauty rare;
Which the laughing Pleasures fill'd,
And fair Fortune's sunne did gild.

When shall my poor harte, alas,
Pleasure's palace be againe?
That, sweete mayde, may come to pass,
When thou ceasest thy disdaine:
For thy smiles, like beams of day,
Banish spectre forms away.

A BALLADE.

The maid who pants for lover's sighs,
Doth lay for her own peace a snare;
She rues the conquests of her eyes,
And mourns that she was ever fair:

Then, lasses, mind the proverb well,
‘Too oft the pitcher went to well.’

117

Where Beauty doth display its rose,
In tribes the busy swains are found;
And where the richest nect'rine grows,
The hungry flies will buzz around:

Then, lasses, mind the proverb well,
‘Too oft the pitcher went to well.’

THE THREAT OF OBERON THE FAIRY.

Maidens fair, attend to me:
Constant to your shepherds be:
If ye break your vows of love,
Ye my rage will sorely prove.

I know all your dreams by night;
Therefore fear, O maids, my spite:
All your secret thoughts I know;
Fear then my sharp anger's blow.

And, O men! I pray, beware;
Do not harm the maidens fair;
Sigh not love, and then betray,
If ye wish my rage away.

By the moon's pure beam I swear,
If I mark a virgin tear,
I will give the shepherd dread,
And will tear him from his bed.

If I hear a shepherd sigh,
Maids, in jeopardy ye lie;
Spoil'd will be the dimple sleek,
Breast of snow, and rosy cheek.

118

Love our fairy train delights,
While we sport in moony nights;
Eke our elfin king and queene,
As they gambol on the greene.

Love was sent to soften wo,
Sent to bless the world below;
Full of smile, with roses crown'd:
Why should Love then feel a wound?

A BALLADE OF WYNTER.

Loud blowe the wyndes with blustering breath
And snows fall cold upon the heath,
And hill and vale looke drear;
The torrents foam with headlong roar,
And trees their chilly loads deplore,
And droppe the icy tear.

The little birdes, with wishfull eye,
For almes unto my cottage flye,
Sithe they can boaste no hoarde:
Sharpe in myne house the pilgrims peep,
But Robin will not distance keepe,
So percheth on my boarde.

Now on the cradle doth he hye,
And kenneth down, with connying eye,
Upon my babe below;
And finding comfort in my cote,
He tweedles forth a simple note,
And shakes his wings of snow.

Come in, ye little minstrels swete,
And from your feathers shake the sleete,

119

And warme your freezing bloode:
No cat shall touch a single plume;
Come in, sweet choir—nay, fill my room,
And take of grain a treat.

Then flicker gay about my beams,
And hoppe and doe what pleasaunt seemes,
And be a joyfull throng,
Till Spring may cloath the naked grove;
Then go and build your nests, and love,
And thank me with a song.

TO HER HIGH MAJESTY,

On her vouchsafing to reward her humblest of Servants, Edward Fairfax.

Bright sun of England, nay, a sun,
That hath so bright a cercle run,
And on far realms doth spread a blaze!
The humblest servant of your isle
Doth thank your beauty for the smile
That graceth me with golden rays.

Though homely be my muse's speeche
And poore, your praise can make it rich,
Such is the power of your high name.
What you, greet queen, may deign to praise,
Although a dwarf you to a giant can it raise,
Sith your voice is the voice of Fame.

120

With a Gyfte of a Glow-worm to the fayre Geraldine, in the Country.

Fayre Geraldine, behold, I bring
This elfin imp that gildeth night;
So beauteous was it 'mid the shade,
So calm, so mild its lonely light,
The insects of the dew-dropp'd fielde
To its pure beame did homage yielde.

When first I didde this worm espye,
Aloude I said, and with a sighe,
‘Oh, little imp of night, I see
Semblance of Geraldine in thee.’
Amid the shade as it doth shyne,
So fares it with fayre Geraldine.

This worm beneath the leaf doth hyde,
Desyring not to be espied;
Natheless it yieldeth all so brighte
A jewel to emblazon night:
And thus on this dark worlde do shyne
The wit and charmes of Geraldine.

BALLADE ON THE VIOLET.

Sweete infant of the fielde, myne eye
Doth joye thy modest form to spy,
For thou goode news doth say;
How winter, with his horrid yell,
Hath bid at laste his rude farewell,
And borne his blasts away.

121

While Wynter his wilde rule did spread,
Thou couldst not show thy tender head,
But from his rage didst hide;
And golden cup, and primrose pale,
Did peeping tremble in their vale,
And eke the daisie pied.

The surly wight your robes had torne,
And on his wings of tempest borne,
And scatter'd through the skies;
But now the gentle Zephyr's breath
Doth whisper, ‘There's no dread of death,’
And bids you fearless rise.

Sweet is thy lot, O little flower!
Like man thou dost not life devour,
Well pleas'd on dews to dine—
Of Heaven's pure balm to make thy fayre:
What pity 'tis we cannot share
An innocence like thine.

BALLADE TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE.

Why flyest thou away, with fear?
Trust me, there's nought of danger near,
I have no wicked hooke,
All cover'd with a snaring bait,
Alas! to tempt thee to thy fate,
And dragge thee from the brooke.

O harmless tenant of the flood,
I do not wish to spill thy blood;

122

For Nature unto thee
Perchance hath given a tender wife,
And children dear, to charme thy life,
As she hath done for me.

Enjoy thy streame, O harmless fish;
And when an angler, for his dish,
Through Gluttony's vile sin,
Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out,
God give thee strength, O gentle trout,
To pull the raskall in!

TO THE LARK.

O little harbinger of day,
Who welcomest the blushing light!
With glee I list thy cheerful lay,
Sweet recompence for dreary night.

O'er fair Astræa's rosy bow'r,
Go, tuneful sprite, and wave thy wing;
Go, charm Astræa's morning hour,
To her thy choicest ditties sing.

For, if thou please that peerless queen,
Thrice lucky were thy little voice;
For when Astræa gladde is seen,
Her smile doth all the world rejoice.

123

ANCIENT SIMPLICITY.

Folk be too fond of mounting Fortune's wheel;
And though she humbleth thousands in the muck,
Ambition's flame their brenning bosoms feel,
Pardie! they must crawl up, and try their luck.

But when aloft—themselves they scarcely know,
Despisefull squinting on the world below:
But when they tumble, none lament their thrall,
But grin, and point their finger to their fall.

To show that I am now not uttering lies,
I'll tell a little tale in Æsop guise.

THE YOUNG CROWS AND THE YOUNG WRENS.

A Crow upon a lofty tree
Did build her sticky nest;
And younglings did she bring to light,
In number five at least.

One morning, on a summer's day,
Did peep eche youngling crow,
And spied upon a brambling bush
Some youngling wrens below.

These simple wrens in happy glee
Did spread their little wing;
And, lightsome, hopp'd from bush to bush,
And merrily did sing.

124

‘Poor humble creatures,’ cry'd the crows,
‘Eche is a beggar wight;
Look up to us, and see our state,
Our houses lofty hight.

‘We look into the beamy skies,
While you through hedges wade;
We gaze upon the morning sun,
While ye are lost in shade.

‘Poor imps, departe, nor here offend;
Take off eche selie face;
This hill was only made for crows,
Then do not us disgrace.

‘If you do not this region quit,
We'll dung upon you soon.’
The smiling wrens made answer none,
But trill'd their little tune.

Short time had pass'd, when suddenly
Grim Boreas 'gan howl;
The thunder crack'd, the lightning flash'd,
And frighted man and fowl.

While thus the dredefull thunder crack'd,
And lightning broad did flash;
The limb whereon the crows were perch'd
Did give a sudden crash.

Down came the limb, and with it down
Did tumble eche young crow;
Some broke their legs, and some their wings,
And doleful look'd below.

'Twas now the time for wrens to jeer;
So forth did fly the train,
And, twittering, saw with smiles the crows
All sprawling on the plain.

Then taunting an arch wren began:
‘Sir Crows, of high renowne,
Ye came, by this your dirty trim,
All in a hurry down.

125

‘And by the looke of all your limbs,
And feathers sous'd with rain,
It will be some small time before
Your graces mount again.

‘Proud fooles, how selie ye descend
From skies to dirty fens!
Thank Heaven, with hedges we're content,
And happy to be wrens.’

TO AUTHORS

That endite on the Passion of Love.

Ye who do songs of love endite,
Knoweth not well of that ye write,
Sith ye nere with passion strove;
Go moan, and hide in groves, and sighe,
Adore her name, and wish to dye,
And then ye well may wryte of love.

But ye may answer make, and cry,
‘Where is the object for our sigh?
Who is the mayde may make hearts pine?’
Ah, did ye never marke a mayde
That wandereth in Windsor shade,
Then larne—it is fayre Geraldine.

126

BALLADE.

When Summer's bloome did paynte my cheeke,
I thought of Frendship's tye;
Of Frendship I could onely speke,
Unweting so was I.

But now I fynde this grievous truthe,
That frendship is the dream of youthe.

Although I lov'd the fayrest mayde,
My ladye I would yield,
To give a frend a hand of aid,
And be that frend's bold shield.

But now I fynde, &c.

Alas, I mete with no return,
For love I mete with hate;
Instead of smyle myne eyes do mourne
With early tears and late!

But now I fynde, &c.

Frendship's a sunne, I whilom sayd,
That warmeth every harte;
But now that hartes of ice are made,
Which Winter's colds emparte;

But now I fynde, &c.

Frendship, sayd I, a forme doth boast,
A gyant's forme, I ween;
But nowe I see him, a poore ghost,
With pale and dreary mien.

But now I fynde, &c.

127

Then let no mynstrell, in his song,
Of Frendship take the parte;
Syth 'tis a vertue of the tongue,
But never of the harte.

But now I fynde, &c.