LIBRARY 
 
 IVELLJS-

 
 COMPANION POETS. 
 in.
 
 t.'SRARY 
 
 ^ v-rt:,rrv O 
 
 < CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DJEGO 
 
 IRoutle&ge's Companion poets. 
 
 PUBLISHED MONTHLY. 
 
 Uniform with this Volume. 
 
 I. AYTOUN'S LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH 
 CAVALIERS. 
 
 II. A BUNDLE OF BALLADS. 
 
 Also in Crown 8vo, 
 
 An Edition de Luxe of the above, 
 
 Limited to 500 copies.
 
 Companion poets 
 
 POEMS 
 
 GEORGE WITHER 
 
 EDITED 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTION 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY MORLEY, LL.D. 
 
 EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND 
 
 LITERATURE AT UNIVERSITY COLLEGE 
 
 LONDON' 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, LIMITED 
 
 BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL, 
 GLASGOW, MANCHESTER, AND NEW YORK 
 
 1891
 
 1'ruited by BAI.I.AXTYNJ-, HANSON & Co. 
 Edinburgh and London
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PACK 
 
 NTRODUCTION 7-10 
 
 'AIRE VIRTUE, MISTRESS OF PHIL A - 
 
 RKTE II-IIQ 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL .... 121-123 
 SONNET UPON A STOLEN Kiss . 124 
 
 BALLAD 125-128 
 
 DREAM ...... 129-131 
 
 riiE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING . . . 133-182 
 ROM WITHER'S HYMNS AND SONGS 
 OF THE CHURCH : 
 
 THE TEN COMMANDMENTS . . 183-184 
 THE LORD'S PRAYER ... 185 
 THE APOSTLES' CREEP . . . 186 
 CHRISTMAS DAY .... 187 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY 188-190
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 GEORGE WITHER, who lived to a good old age, 
 and Andrew Marvell, were the only poets of mark 
 who, like Milton, were not on the side of the 
 Cavaliers in the great controversy of the time of 
 Charles I. and the Commonwealth. In his younger 
 days, when he wrote "The Shepherd's Hunting" 
 and " Faire Virtue," the pieces contained in this 
 volume, he was full of a free music, that he poured 
 out with a rare freshness of tone and frequent 
 happiness of thought and phrase. As he grew 
 older, he became more combatant and argumenta- 
 tive. Not less a poet than he had been from the 
 first, he became less careful in revision, misled, 
 perhaps, by the facility with which he rhymed his 
 thoughts, and by the fact that he did put his true 
 mind into all he said. I know no other poet of 
 as fine a touch whose later verse is so unequal in 
 its quality. If any one could do for Wither what 
 he ought to have done for himself, an edition of 
 his works would give him a lasting place among 
 the poets whom we choose for our companions. 
 However that may be, " Faire Virtue " calls for no 
 abridgment. Its very diffuseness may be said to 
 add another grace. That and ''The Shepherd's 
 Hunting " can stand just as they sprang out of 
 their writer's mind. 
 
 George Wither was born on the nth of June 
 1588 in the year of the Spanish Armada at Bent-
 
 3iittronttcttott. 
 
 worth, near Alton, in Hampshire. He was the 
 mly son of George Wither of Bentworth, who 
 vas the second son of John Wither of Manydowne, 
 iear Wootton St. Lawrence, in the same county, 
 riis mother's name before marriage was Anne 
 >erle. George Wither, in 1613, praised in a poem 
 is old schoolmaster, a teacher of mark in his day, 
 ohn Greaves of Colemore. From school he was 
 ent to Oxford and entered at Magdalen College, 
 vhere his tutor was John Warner, afterwards 
 Bishop of Rochester. He had only begun to 
 r-arm into his college studies when he was called 
 iome to give his mind to the farm at Bentworth. 
 ie was not apt for the work, studied, wrote verse, 
 iad aspirations of his own, and, as he was of little 
 ise upon the farm, there was suggestion of putting 
 lim to trade. 
 
 It was at this time that Wither wrote his early 
 x>em of " Faire Virtue the Mistress of Phil'arete." 
 'hil'arete is only Greek for the Lover of Virtue, 
 vho has, therefore, Faire Virtue for Mistress. The 
 >astoral opening of the poem describes hi? own 
 ountry in Hampshire, with the Isle of Wight in 
 iew from the hills. He is himself the shepherd's 
 >oy, who sings in solitude of his love for the high 
 deal of all earthly good. He fashions Virtue as a 
 t-oman to be loved, pours out all praise of good- 
 iest perfections as types of the highest spiritual 
 >eauty. 
 
 " I must praise her as I may, 
 Which I do mine own rude way : 
 Sometime setting forth her glories 
 By unheard-of allegories. 
 
 Though I praise her skin by snow, 
 Or by pearls her double row, 
 'Tis that you may gather thence 
 Her unmatched excellence." 
 
 The fair ladies who come in upon his lonely 
 singing, to whom the young poet pours out his
 
 3introBuctio!t. 
 
 solitary song in praise of his ideal, and to whom 
 in intervals of rest lie gives his songs to read, may 
 typify the fair audience of right-minded men and 
 women who will hereafter take delight in Wither 's 
 rflusic. The songs he shows them, that are set be- 
 tween the parts of ' ' Faire Virtue," represent Wither's 
 gjenius in its youth, and include one or two " Shall 
 r wasting in despair ;" "Hence away, you sirens, 
 l^ave me " that will always rank with the best 
 English lyrics. Indeed, the whole charm of this 
 e(irly poem is so great that it deserves wide cur- 
 rency. Hitherto it has been a scarce book, in 
 vVhich poets have delighted, and which English 
 students find a pleasure in possessing. 
 
 From Bentworth, Wither at last found his way 
 to London by entering himself as a law student 
 at Lincoln's Inn. He sought the poets and was 
 welcomed among their company. William Browne, 
 whom Wither calls 
 
 " That happy swain that shall 
 Sing Britannia's Pastoral," 
 
 .s of the Inner Temple, and was among his friends. 
 Voung Wither had honoured in lines of his " Faire 
 Virtue " Spenser, Sidney, Drayton. He obtained 
 ri London the good will of Ben Jonson. In 1612 
 ae joined the choir of poets who wrote elegies upon 
 :he death of Prince Henry. 
 
 ! In 1613, George Wither, twenty-five years old, 
 published a book of satires upon the Vices, under 
 :ne name of "Abuses Stript and Whipt," in two 
 opoks. It was a very honest outpouring, that 
 :^>ndemned the vices of the time, in satires on 
 :He several passions as Love, Lust, Hate, Envy, 
 Revenge and he said, 
 
 " If the great ones to offend be bold 
 I see no reason but they should be told." 
 
 tie satires were as generous as they were sharp
 
 3!ntronuctton. 
 
 in their attack on vice. He would tell what be 
 knew, 
 
 " And then if any frown (as sure they dare not), 
 So I speak truth, let them frown still, I care not." 
 
 Wither was imprisoned in the Marshaisea for 
 the offence he gave to some of the great ones. 
 In prison he translated a Greek poem on the 
 Nature of Man, wrote "A Satire to the King" 
 in justification of himself, and wrote also the other 
 work reprinted in this volume, the set of pastorals 
 called " The Shepheard's Hunting : being certain 
 Eclogues written during the time of the Author's 
 Imprisonment in the Marshaisea." The Shepheard 
 is Philarete, himself, who, with ten couples of dogs, 
 namely, the satires in "Abuses Stript and Whipt" 
 sixteen in the first book of those satires and four 
 in the second had hunted those foxes, wolves, 
 and beasts of prey that spoil our folds and bear 
 our lambs away. Wither's motto Nee habeo, nee 
 careo, nee euro " I have not, care not, want not," 
 was published in 1618. In 1622 he published his 
 early poems as "Juvenilia," and at the same 
 time his " Faire Virtue," his age being in that 
 year thirty-four. 
 
 The " silver lake" at the beginning of the poem 
 is at Alresford " by transposition called the ford of 
 Arle." It is Alresford Pond, covering twenty-three 
 acres. From it the Itchen flows to Southampton, 
 where "brave Arthur kept his royal court." 
 "North-east, not far from this great Pool," lies 
 Bentworth. Wither begins, therefore, with de- 
 scription of the scenery about his father's farm. 
 
 H. M.
 
 THE MISTRESS OF PHIL ARETE. 
 
 Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make 
 
 Within one valley a large silver lake : 
 
 About whose banks the fertile mountains stood 
 
 In ages passe'd bravely crowned with wood, 
 
 Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it grace 
 
 To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place ; 
 
 And from her father Neptune's brackish court, 
 
 Fair Thetis thither often would resort, 
 
 Attended by the fishes of the sea, 
 
 Which in those sweeter waters came to plea. 
 
 There would the daughter of the Sea God dive, 
 
 And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve 
 
 To wait upon her : bringing for her brows 
 
 Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs. 
 
 For pleasant was that pool, and near it then 
 
 Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen, 
 
 It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge, 
 
 Nor grew there rudely then along the edge 
 
 A bending willow, nor a prickly bush, 
 
 Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush. 
 
 But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers, 
 
 There grassy plots set round about with flowers. 
 
 Here you might through the water see the land 
 
 Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand ; 
 
 Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs 
 
 Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs
 
 12 JFaire Firtuc 
 
 On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than 
 
 The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan, 
 
 MVith all those flocks of fowls which to this day, 
 
 Upon those quiet waters breed and play. 
 
 I 'or though those excellences wanting be 
 
 Which once it had, it is the same that wi- 
 
 I>y transposition name the Ford of Arle, 
 
 And out of which, along a chalky marie, 
 
 'that river trills whose waters wash the fort 
 
 Ii which brave Arthur kept his royal court. 
 
 Tjlorth-east, not far from this great pool, there lies 
 
 I . tract of beechy mountains, that arise, 
 
 With leisurely ascending, to such height 
 
 As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight 
 
 You in the ocean's bosom may espy, 
 
 r . 'hough near two furlongs thence it lie. 
 
 "I 'he pleasant way, as up those hills you climb, 
 
 I s strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme, 
 
 > Vhich grows unset. The hedgerows do not want 
 
 r . 'he cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant 
 
 ' 'bat freshly scents : as birch, both green and tall ; 
 
 I xjw sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall ; 
 
 I 'air woodbines, which about the hedges twine ; 
 
 5 mooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine, 
 
 A V\th many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair 
 
 ' 'he earth adorn and oft perfume the air. 
 
 When you unto the highest do attain. 
 / ct\ intermixture both of wood and plain 
 You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie, 
 Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry, 
 o much, at least, as little needeth more, 
 I f not enough to merchandise their store. 
 
 In every row hath nature planted there 
 i ome banquet for the hungry passenger. 
 I 'or here the hazel-nut and filbert grows, 
 "here bullice, and, a little farther, sloes. 
 On this hand standeth a fair weilding-trec, 
 On that large thickets of blackberries be.
 
 of Pfittarete. 13 
 
 The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there, 
 The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are, 
 Aind had the King of Rivers blessed those hills 
 With some small number of such pretty rills 
 As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen 
 .\ sweeter plot of earth than this had been. 
 
 For what offence this place was scanted so 
 Of springing waters, no record doth show, 
 >Jor have they old tradition left that tells ; 
 B^tt till this day at fifty fathom wells 
 The shepherds drink. And strange it was to hear 
 Of any swain that ever live'd there, 
 'Vy'ho either in a pastoral ode had skill, 
 Of knew to set his fingers to a quill. 
 Ftor rude they were who there inhabited, 
 And to a dull contentment being bred 
 They no such art esteemed, nor took much heed 
 Olf anything the world without them did. 
 
 Even there, and in the best frequented place 
 Ojf all these mountains, is a little space 
 Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees, 
 Ahd those so thick that Phoebus scarcely sees 
 Tfie earth they grow on once in all the year, 
 Nfor what is done among the shadows there. 
 
 Along those lowly paths, where never came 
 Report of Pan, or of Apollo's name, 
 N T or rumour of the Muses till of late, 
 S<J>me nymphs were wandering, and by chance or 
 
 fate 
 
 Upon a laund arrived, where they met 
 r|ie little flock of pastor Philaret. 
 They were a troop of beauties known well nigh 
 Through all the plains of happy Brittany. 
 A.J shepherd's lad was he, obscure and young, 
 Who, being first that ever there had sung, 
 
 [r 
 
 homely verse expressed country loves, 
 
 Aid only told them to the beechy groves ; 
 
 AS if to sound his name he never meant 
 
 <B :yond the compass that his sheep-walk went.
 
 14 JFaire Utrtue 
 
 They saw not him ; nor them perceived he : 
 For in the branches of a maple-tree 
 He shrouded sat, and taught the hollow hill 
 To echo forth the music of his quill, 
 Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound 
 That where he was concealed they quickly found. 
 And there they heard him sing a madrigal 
 That soon I-etrayed his cunning to them all. 
 
 Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a song 
 Those rustic and obscured shades among 
 Was never heard, they say, by any ear 
 Until his Muses had inspired him there. 
 Though mean and plain his country habit seemed, 
 Yet by his song the ladies rightly deemed 
 That either he had travelled abroad 
 Where swains of better knowledge make abode, 
 Or else that some brave nymph who used that grove 
 Had deigne'd to enrich him with her love. 
 
 Approaching nearer, therefore, to this swain, 
 They him saluted, and he them again, 
 In such good fashion as well seemed to be 
 According to their state and his degree. 
 Which greetings being passe'd, and much chat 
 Concerning him, the place, and this and that, 
 He to an arbour doth those beauties bring, 
 Where he them prays to sit, they him to sing, 
 And to express that untaught country art 
 In setting forth the mistress of his heart, 
 Which they o'erheard him practice, when, unseen, 
 He thought no ear had witness of it been. 
 
 At first, as much unable, he refused, 
 And seeme'd willing to have been excused 
 From such a task. For, ' ' Trust me, nymphs," quoth 
 
 he, 
 
 ' ' I would not purposely uncivil be, 
 Nor churlish in denying what you crave, 
 But, as I hope great Pan my flock will save, 
 I rather wish that I might, heard of none, 
 Enjoy my music by myself alone,
 
 of p^ilatete. 15 
 
 Or that the. murmurs of some little flood, 
 
 Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood, 
 
 Might be the impartial umpires of my wit, 
 
 Than vent it where the world might hear of it. 
 
 And doubtless I had sung less loud while-ere 
 
 Had I but thought of any such so near. 
 
 Not that I either wish obscurified 
 
 Her matchless beauty, or desire to hide 
 
 Her sweet perfections ; for, by Love, I swear 
 
 The utmost happiness I aim at here 
 
 Is but to compass worth enough to raise 
 
 A high-built trophy equal to her praise, 
 
 Which, fairest ladies, I shall hope in vain. 
 
 For I was meanly bred on yonder plain, 
 
 And though I can well prove my blood to be 
 
 Derived from no ignoble stems to me, 
 
 Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crost, 
 
 That with their fortunes their esteem is lost. 
 
 And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win, 
 
 Now from myself alone it must begin ; 
 
 For I have nor estate, nor friends, nor fame, 
 
 To purchase either credit to my name 
 
 Or gain a good opinion, though I do 
 
 Ascend the height I shall aspire unto. 
 
 If any of those virtues left I have 
 
 Which honour to my predecessors gave, 
 
 There's all that's left me. And though some 
 
 contemn 
 
 Such needy jewels, yet it was for them 
 My Fair One did my humble suit affect, 
 And deigne'd my adventurous love respect. 
 And by their help I passage hope to make 
 Through such poor things as I dare undertake. 
 
 " But, you may say, what goodly thing, alas, 
 Can my despised meanness bring to pass? 
 Or what great Monument of honour raise 
 To Virtue in these Vice-abounding days, 
 In which a thousand times more honour finds 
 Ignoble gotten means than noble minds? 
 Indeed, the world affordeth small reward
 
 JFatrc Firtue 
 
 For honest minds, and therefore her regard 
 
 seek not after ; neither do I care, 
 I have bliss, how others think I fare. 
 
 For, so my thoughts have rest, it irks not mr 
 1 hough none but I do know how blest they be. 
 
 "Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden 
 plains, 
 
 pleased sit alone, and many strains 
 I carol to myself these hills among, 
 Where no man comes to interrupt my song. 
 Whereas if my rude lays make known I should 
 Ejeyond their home, perhaps some carpers would, 
 Because they have not heard from whence we be, 
 TjYaduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me. 
 For if our great and learned shepherds, who 
 Are graced with wit, and fame, and favours too, 
 With much ado escape uncensured may, 
 \^hat hopes have I to pass unscoffed, I pray, 
 Who yet unto the Muses am unknown, 
 t- nd live unhonoured here among mine own ? 
 
 " A gadding humour seldom taketh me 
 '] 'o range out further than yon mountains be, 
 I Tor hath applausive Rumour borne my name 
 I fpon the speeding wings of sounding Fame. 
 ? lor can I think, fair nymphs, that you resort 
 F or other purpose than to make a sport 
 / 1 that simplicity which shall appear 
 .mong the rude untutored shepherds here. 
 I know that you my noble Mistress ween 
 . J .t best a homely milk-maid on the green, 
 C ir some such country lass as taske'd stays 
 t servile labour, until holy days ; 
 I or poor men's virtues so neglected grow, 
 nd are now prized at a rate so low, 
 s 'tis impossible you should be brought 
 1 'o let it with belief possess your thought 
 ". 'hat any nymph whose love might worthy be, 
 A Vould deign to cast respective eyes on me.
 
 of pijtiame. 17 
 
 Vou see I live possessing none of those 
 ay things with which the world enamoured 
 
 grows. 
 To woo a courtly beauty I have neither 
 
 s, bracelets, jewels, nor a scarf, nor feather. 
 )[ use no double dyd cloth to wear ; 
 ^o scrip, embroidered richly, do I bear ; 
 No silken belt, nor sheep-hook laid with pearls, 
 jTo win me favour from the shepherds' girls. 
 
 place of office or command I keep, 
 But this my little flock of homely sheep ; 
 \nd in a word, the sum of all my pelf 
 s this, I am the master of myself. 
 
 " No doubt in courts of princes you have 
 
 been, 
 
 \nd all the pleasures of the palace seen. 
 ' There you beheld brave courtly passages 
 Between heroes and their mistresses. 
 You there, perhaps in presence of the King, 
 Have heard his learned bards and poets sing. 
 And what contentment then can wood or field 
 'jTo please your curious understandings yield ? 
 
 know you walked hither but to prove 
 What silly shepherds do conceive of love. 
 Or to make trial how our simpleness 
 Compassion's force, or Beauty's power express, 
 And when you are departed, you will joy 
 ' To laugh or descant on the shepherd's boy. 
 
 " But yet, I vow, if all the art I had 
 tould any more esteem or glory add 
 To her unmatched worth, I would not weigh 
 Vhat you intended." " Prithee, lad," quoth 
 
 they, 
 
 Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem. 
 Her nobleness can never want esteem, 
 Jor thy concealed measures be disgraced, 
 r Chough in a meaner person they were placed, 
 If thy too modestly reserved quill 
 1 Jut reach that height which we suppose it will.
 
 i8 jfatre Firtue 
 
 Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong 
 
 The nymph thou shall eternise in thy song, 
 
 For as it higher rears thy glory that 
 
 A noble Mistress thou hast aime'd ar, 
 
 So more unto her honour it will prove 
 
 That whilst deceiving shadows others move, 
 
 Her constant eyes could pass unmoved by 
 
 The subtle times' bewitching bravery. 
 
 And those obscured virtues love in thee 
 
 That with despised meanness clouded be. 
 
 Now then for her sweet sake whose beauteous 
 
 eye 
 
 Hath filled thy soul with heavenly Poesie, 
 Sing in her praise some new inspired strain : 
 And if within our power there shall remain 
 A favour to be done may pleasure thee, 
 Ask, and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be." 
 
 "Fair ladies," quoth the lad, "such words as 
 
 these 
 
 Compel me can." And therewithal he rose, 
 Returned them thanks, obeisance made, and 
 
 than 
 Down sat again, and thus to sing began. 
 
 You, that at a blush can tell 
 Where the best perfections dwell, 
 And the substance can conjecture 
 By a shadow or a picture, 
 Come and try if you by this 
 Know my Mistress, who she is. 
 
 For though I am far unable 
 Here to match Apelles' table ; 
 Or draw Zeuxis' cunning lines, 
 Who so painted Bacchus' vines 
 That the hungry birds did muster 
 Round the counterfeited cluster ;
 
 of Pfjilarete. 19 
 
 Though I vaunt not to inherit 
 Petrarch's yet unequalled spirit, 
 Nor to quaff this sacred well 
 Half so deep as Astrophel, 
 Though the much commended Coelia, 
 Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia, 
 Who in former times excelled, 
 Live in lines unparalleled, 
 Making us believe 'twere much 
 Earth should yield another such : 
 Yet, assisted but by Nature, 
 I assay to paint a creature 
 Whose rare worth in future years 
 Shall be praised as much as theirs. 
 
 Nor let any think amiss 
 That I have presumed this : 
 For a gentle nymph is she, 
 And hath often honoured me. 
 She's a noble spark of light, 
 In each part so exquisite, 
 Had she in times passe'd been 
 They had made her beauty's queen. 
 
 Then shall cowardly despair 
 Let the most unblemished fair, 
 For default of some poor art, 
 Which her favour may impart, 
 And the sweetest beauty fade 
 That was ever born or made ? 
 Shall of all the fair ones she 
 Only so unhappy be 
 As to live in such a time, 
 In so rude, so dull a clime, 
 Where no spirit can ascend 
 High enough to apprehend 
 Her unprized excellence, 
 Which lies hid from common sense? 
 Neither shall a stain so vile 
 Blemish this our Poets' Isle,
 
 JFairc Finite 
 
 I myself will rather run 
 And seek out for Helicon. 
 I will wash and make me clean 
 In the waves of Hippocrene, 
 And in spite of Fortune's bars 
 Climb the Hill that braves the stars. 
 Where, if I can get no Muse 
 That will any skill infuse, 
 Or my just attempt prefer, 
 I will njake a Muse of Her : 
 Whose kind heart shall soon distil 
 Art into my ruder quill. 
 By her favour I will gain 
 Help to reach so rare a strain 
 That the learned hills shall wonder 
 How the untaught valleys under 
 Met with rapture so divine 
 Without knowledge of the Nine. 
 
 I that am a shepherd's swain, 
 Piping on the lowly plain, 
 And no other Music can 
 Than what learned I have of Pan ; 
 I who never sung the lays 
 That deserve Apollo's bays, 
 Hope not only here to frame 
 Measures which shall keep her name 
 From the spite of wasting times, 
 But enshrined in sacred rimes, 
 Place her where her form divine 
 Shall to after ages shine ; 
 And without respect of odds 
 Vie renown with demigods. 
 
 Then whilst of her praise I sing, 
 Hearken valley, grove, and spring ; 
 Listen to me, sacred fountains. 
 Solitary rocks and mountains ; 
 Satyrs, and you wanton elves 
 That do nightly sport yourselves ;
 
 of Pfjtlamc. 
 
 Shepherds, you that on the reed 
 Whistle while your lambs do feed ; 
 Aged woods and floods that know 
 What hath been long time ago, 
 Your more serious notes among 
 Hear how I can, in my song, 
 Set a nymph's perfection forth : 
 And when you have heard her worth, 
 Say if such another lass 
 Kver known to mortal was. 
 
 Listen, lordings, you that most 
 Of your outward honours boast ; 
 And you gallants that think scorn 
 We to lowly fortunes born 
 Should attain to any graces 
 Where you look for sweet embraces. 
 See if all those vanities 
 Whereon your affection lies 
 Or the titles or the power 
 By your fathers' virtues your, 
 Can your mistresses enshrine 
 In such state, as I will mine, 
 Who am force'd to importune 
 Favours in despite of Fortune. 
 
 Beauties, listen ; chiefly you 
 That yet know not Virtue's due. 
 You that think there are no sports 
 Nor no honours but in Courts, 
 Though of thousands there live not 
 Two but die and are forgot : 
 See, if any palace yields 
 Aught more glorious than the fields, 
 And consider well if we 
 May not as high-flying be 
 In our thoughts as you that sing 
 In the chambers of a king. 
 See, if our contented minds, 
 Whom Ambition never blinds,
 
 22 JFaire Fittue 
 
 We that, clad in homespun gray, 
 On our own sweet meadows play, 
 Cannot honour if we please 
 Where we list as well as these, 
 Or as well of worth approve, 
 Or with equal passion love. 
 See, if beauties may not touch 
 Our soon-loving hearts as much, 
 Or our services effect 
 Favours with as true respect 
 In your good conceits to rise, 
 As our painted butterflies. 
 
 And, you Fairestf give her room 
 When your sex's pride doth come : 
 For that Subject of my song 
 I invoke these groves among 
 To be witness cf the lays 
 Which I carol in her praise. 
 And because she soon will see 
 If my measures faulty be, 
 Whilst I chant them let each rime 
 Keep a well-proportioned time, 
 And with strains that are divine 
 Meet her thoughts in every line. 
 Let each accent there present 
 To her soul a new content ; 
 And with ravishings so seize her 
 She may feel the height of pleasure. 
 
 You enchanting spells that lie 
 Lurking in sweet Poesie, 
 And to none else will appear 
 But to those that worthy are, 
 Make her know there is a power 
 Ruling in these charms of your 
 That transcends a thousand heights 
 Ordinary men's delights, 
 And can leave within her breast 
 Pleasures not to be exprest. 
 Let her linger on each strain 
 As if she would hear 't again,
 
 of P^tlarete. 23 
 
 And were loth to part from thence 
 Till she had the quintessence 
 Out of each conceit she meets, 
 And had stored her with those sweets. 
 Make her by your art to see, 
 I that am her swain was he 
 Unto whom all beauties here 
 Were alike and equal dear ; 
 That I could of freedom boast 
 And of favours with the most, 
 Yet now, nothing more affecting, 
 Sing of Her, the rest neglecting. 
 
 Make her heart, with full compassion, 
 Judge the merit of true passion, 
 And as much my love prefer 
 As I strive to honour her. 
 
 Lastly, you, that will, I know, 
 Hear me, whe'er you should or no ; 
 You that seek to turn all flowers, 
 By your breath's infectious powers, 
 Into such rank loathsome weeds 
 As your dunghill nature breeds, 
 Let your hearts be chaste, or here 
 Come not till you purge them clear. 
 Mark, and mark then what is worst, 
 For whate'er it seem at first, 
 If you bring a modest mind 
 You shall naught immodest find. 
 
 But if any too severe 
 Hap to lend a partial ear, 
 Or out of his blindness yawn 
 Such a word as " O, profane ! " 
 Let him know thus much from me 
 If here's aught profane, 'tis he, 
 Who applies these excellences 
 Only to the touch of senses, 
 And, dim-sighted, cannot see 
 Where the soul of this may be.
 
 24 JTattc Utttuc 
 
 Yet, that no offence may grow, 
 "1'is their choice to stay or go. 
 Or if any for despite 
 Rather comes, than for delight, 
 For his presence I'll not pray, 
 N'or his absence ; come he may. 
 Critics shall admitted be, 
 Though I know they'll carp at me ; 
 For I neither fear nor care, 
 What in this their censures are. 
 
 If the verse here use'd be 
 Their dislike, it liketh me. 
 If my method they deride, 
 Let them know, love is not tied 
 In his free discourse to choose 
 Such strict rules as arts-men use. 
 These may prate of love, but they 
 Know him not ; for he will play 
 From the matter now and then, 
 Off and on, and off again. 
 
 If this prologue tedious seem, 
 Or the rest too long they deem, 
 Let them know my love they win, 
 Though they go ere I begin ; 
 Just as if they should attend me 
 Till the last, and there commend me ; 
 For I will for no man's pleasure 
 Change a syllable or measure, 
 Neither for their praises add 
 Aught to mend what they think bad : 
 Since it never was my fashion 
 To make work of recreation. 
 
 Pedants shall not tie my strains 
 To our antique poets' veins, 
 As if we in latter days 
 Knew to love, but not to praise. 
 Being born as free as these, 
 I. will sing as I shall please,
 
 of plularrte. 25 
 
 Who as well new paths may run, 
 
 As the best before have done. 
 
 I disdain to make my song 
 
 For their pleasure short or long ; 
 
 If I please, I'll end it here ; 
 
 If I list, I'll sing this year : 
 
 And though none regard of it, 
 
 By myself I pleased can sit, 
 
 And with that contentment cheer me, 
 
 As if half the world did hear me. 
 
 But because I am assured, 
 All are either so conjured, 
 As they will my song attend 
 With the patience of a friend, 
 Or at least take note that I 
 Care not much ; now willingly 
 I these goodly colours lay, 
 Wind nor rain shall wear away, 
 But retain their purest glass 
 When the statues made of brass, 
 For some prince's more renown, 
 Shall be wholly overthrown, 
 Or (consumed with cankered rust) 
 Lie neglected in the dust. 
 
 And my reason gives direction, 
 When I sing of such perfection : 
 First, those beauties to declare, 
 Which (though her's) without her are. 
 To advance her fame I find, 
 Those are of a triple kind. 
 Privileges she hath store, 
 At her birth, since, and before. 
 From before her birth the fame 
 She of high descents may claim, 
 Whose well-gotten honours may 
 Her deservings more display ; 
 For from heavenly race she springs, 
 And from high and mighty kings.
 
 26 JFaire Utrtue 
 
 At her birth she was by fate 
 In those parents fortunate 
 Whose estates and virtues stood 
 Answerable to their blood. 
 
 Then the nation, time, arid place 
 To the rest may add some grace ; 
 For the people with the clime, 
 And the fashions of the time 
 (In all which she hath been blest 
 By enjoying them at best), 
 Do not only mend the features, 
 But oft-times make better natures. 
 Whereas those who hap not so, 
 Both deform'd and ruder grow. 
 
 In these climes and later days 
 To deserve sweet beauty's praise 
 (Where so many females dwell 
 That each seemeth to excel) 
 Is more glory twenty-fold 
 Than it was in days of old, 
 When our ordinary fair ones 
 Might have been esteemed rare ones, 
 And have made a subject fit 
 For the bravest poet's wit. 
 Little rush-lights or a spark 
 Shineth fairly in the dark, 
 And to him occasion gives, 
 That from sight of lesser lives 
 To adore it ; yet the ray 
 Of one torch will take away 
 All the light of twenty more 
 That shined very well before. 
 So those pretty beauties, which 
 Made the times before us rich, 
 Though but sparkles, seemed a flame, 
 Which hath been increased by fame, 
 And their true affections, who 
 Better never lived to know.
 
 of 
 
 Whereas, her if they had seen, 
 She had once adore'd been, 
 And taught ages past to sing 
 Sweeter in their sonneting. 
 
 Such a ray, so clear, so bright, 
 Hath outshineYl all the light 
 Of a thousand such as theirs 
 Who were then esteemed stars, 
 And would have enlightened near 
 Half the world's wide hemisphere. 
 She is fairest, that may pass 
 For a fair one where the lass 
 Trips it on the country green 
 That may equal Sparta's queen ; 
 Where in every street you see 
 Throngs of nymphs and ladies be, 
 That are fair enough to move 
 Angels, and enamour Jove, 
 She must matchless beauties bring, 
 That now moves a muse to sing ; 
 Whenas one small province may 
 Show more beauties in a day 
 Than the half of Europe could 
 Breed them in an age of old. 
 Such is she, and such a lot 
 Hath her rare perfections got. 
 
 Since her birth to make the colour 
 Of so true a beauty fuller, 
 And to give a better grace 
 To that sweetness in the face, 
 She hath all the furtherance had 
 Noble educations add. 
 And not only knovveth all 
 Which our ladies courtship call, 
 With those knowledges that do 
 Grace her sex, and suit thereto, 
 But she hath attained to find 
 (What is rare with womankind)
 
 28 JFatre Firtue 
 
 Excellences, whereby she 
 May in soul delighted be, 
 And reap more contentment than 
 One of twenty thousand can. 
 
 By this means hath bettered been 
 All without her and within ; 
 For it hath by adding arts 
 To adorn her native parts, 
 Raise'd to a noble flame, 
 Which shall lighten forth her fame, 
 Those dear sparks of sacred fire 
 Which the Muses did inspire 
 At her birth ; that she complete 
 Might with them befit a seat. 
 
 But perhaps I do amiss 
 To insist so long on this. 
 These are superficial things, 
 And but slender shadowings 
 To the work I have in hand : 
 Neither can you understand 
 What her excellences may be, 
 Till herself described you see. 
 Nor can mine or any pen 
 Paint her half so lovely then, 
 As she is indeed ; for here 
 Might those deities appear, 
 Which young Paris viewed at will 
 Naked upon Ida hill ; 
 That I from those three might take 
 All their beauties one to make ; 
 Those, no question, well compact, 
 Would have made up one exact ; 
 Something yet we miss of might 
 To express her sweetness right. 
 Juno's majesty would fit ; 
 Venus' beauty, Pallas' wit, 
 Might have brought to pattern her's 
 In some showed particulars ;
 
 S|9tetrei3sf of Pfrlarete. 29 
 
 But they never can express 
 Her whole form or worthiness 
 With those excellences which 
 Make both soul and body rich. 
 
 Pallas sometimes was untoward ; 
 Venus wanton ; Juno froward ; 
 Yea, all three infected were 
 With such faults as women are ; 
 And though falsely deified, 
 Frailties had which she'll deride. 
 
 By herself must therefore she, 
 Or by nothing, patterned be. 
 And I hope to paint her so 
 By herself, that you shall know 
 I have served no common dame 
 Of mean worth or vulgar fame, 
 But a nymph that's fairer than 
 Pen or pencil portrait can. 
 And to-morrow if you stray 
 Back again this uncouth way, 
 I my simple art will show ; 
 But the time prevents me now : 
 For except at yonder glade, 
 All the lawn is under shade ; 
 That before these ewes are told, 
 Those my wethers in the fold, 
 Ten young weanlings driven down 
 To the well beneath the town, 
 And my lambkins changed from 
 Broom-lease to the mead at home, 
 "Twill be far in night, and so 
 I shall make my father woe 
 For my stay, and be in fear 
 Somewhat is mischance'd here. 
 On your way I'll therefore bring you, 
 And a song or two I'll sing you, 
 Such as I, half in despair, 
 Made when first I woo'd my fair ; 
 Whereunto my boy shall play. 
 That my voice assist it may.
 
 30 Jaire Ftttue 
 
 COME, my muse, if thou disdain, 
 All my comforts are bereft me ; 
 
 No delight doth now remain, 
 
 I nor friend nor flock have left me, 
 
 They are scattered on the plain. 
 
 Men, alas ! are too severe, 
 
 And make scoffs at lover's fortunes ; 
 Women, hearted like the bear, 
 
 That regards not who importunes, 
 But doth all in pieces tear. 
 
 If I should my sorrow show 
 
 Unto rivers, springs, or fountains, 
 
 They are senseless of my woe : 
 So are groves, and rocks, and mountains. 
 
 Then, oh, whither shall I go? 
 
 Means of harbour me to shield 
 
 From despair, ah ! know you any ? 
 
 For, nor city, grange, nor field 
 (Though they lend content to many) 
 
 Unto me can comfort yield. 
 
 I have wept and sighe'd too, 
 
 For compassion to make trial ; 
 Yea, done all that words can do, 
 
 Yet have nothing but denial. 
 What way is there then to woo ? 
 
 Shall I swear, protest, and vow? 
 
 So have I. done most extremely. 
 Should I die? I know not how ; 
 
 For from all attempts unseemly, 
 Love and virtue keep me now. 
 
 I have heard that time prevails, 
 
 But I fear me 'tis a fable ; 
 Time and all endeavour fails : 
 
 To bear more my heart's unable, 
 Yet none careth what it ails. 
 
 Lines to some have oped the door, 
 And got entrance for affection ; 
 
 Words well spoken much implore 
 By their gesture's good direction ; 
 
 But a look doth ten times more.
 
 Q9tsit:reiS$f of pfjilarete. 31 
 
 "I'is the eye that only reads 
 To the heart love's deepest lectures ; 
 
 By a moving look it pleads 
 
 More than common sense conjectures, 
 
 And a way to pity, leads. 
 
 This I knowing did observe, 
 
 Both by words and looks complaining ; 
 Yet for pity I may starve : 
 
 There's no hope of my obtaining, 
 Till I better can deserve. 
 
 Yea, and he that thinks to win 
 
 By desert, may be deceived ; 
 For'they who have worthiest been, 
 
 Of their right have been bereaved, 
 And a groom admitted in. 
 
 Wherefore, Muse, to thee I call ; 
 
 Thou, since nothing else avails me, 
 Must redeem me from my thrall. 
 
 If thy sweet enchantment fails me, 
 Then adieu love, life, and all ! 
 
 TELL me, my heart, what thought these pantings 
 move ? 
 
 My thoughts of love. 
 What flames are these that set thee so on fire ? 
 
 Flames of desire. 
 
 What means hast thou, contentment's flower to 
 crop? 
 
 No means but hope. 
 
 Yet let us feed on hope, and hope the best ; 
 For they amid their griefs are something blest, 
 Whose thoughts, and flames, and means have such 
 
 free scope, 
 They may at once both love, desire, and hope. 
 
 But say, what fruit will love at last obtain ? 
 
 Fruitless disdain. 
 What will these hopes prove, which yet seem so fair ? 
 
 Hopeless despair. 
 What end shall run those passions out of breath ? 
 
 An endless death.
 
 32 JFatre Utttue 
 
 Oh ! can there be such cruelty in love? 
 And doth rny fortune so ungentle prove, 
 She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath, 
 But cruellest disdain, despair, and death. 
 
 Then what new study shall I now apply? 
 
 Study to die. 
 How might I end my care, and die content? 
 
 Care to repent. 
 
 And what good thoughts may make my end more 
 holy? 
 
 Think on thy folly. 
 
 Yes, so I will ; and since my fate can give 
 No hope, but ever without hope to live, 
 My studies, cares, and thoughts I'll all apply 
 To weigh my folly well, repent, and die. 
 
 SAD eyes, what do you ail 
 
 To be thus ill disposed? 
 Why doth your sleeping fail, 
 
 When all men's else are closed? 
 Was't I, who ne'er did bow 
 
 In any servile duty ; 
 And will you make me now 
 
 A slave to love and beauty ? . 
 
 What though thy mistress smile, 
 
 And in her love affects thee? 
 Let not her eye beguile, 
 
 I hear she disrespects thee. 
 Do not, poor heart, depend 
 
 On those vain thoughts that fill thee ; 
 They'll fail thee in the end, 
 
 So must thy passions kill thee. 
 
 What hopes have I that she 
 
 Will hold her favours ever, 
 When so few women be 
 
 That constant can perseVer? 
 Whate'er she do protest, 
 
 When fortunes do deceive me, 
 Then she, with all the rest, 
 
 I fear, alas ! will leave me.
 
 of P^Uarcte. 33 
 
 Whilst youth and strength remain, 
 
 With art that may commend her ; 
 Perhaps she'll not disdain 
 
 Her servant should attend her ; 
 But it is one to ten, 
 
 If crosses overtake me, 
 She will not know me then, 
 
 But scorn and so forsake me. 
 
 Shall then in earnest truth 
 
 My careful eyes observe her ? 
 Shall I consume my youth, 
 
 And short my time to serve her? 
 Shall I beyond my strength 
 
 Let passion's torments prove me, 
 To hear her say at length, 
 
 Away, I cannot love thee ? 
 
 Oh, rather let me die, 
 
 Whilst I thus gentle find her ; 
 'Twere worse than death if I 
 
 Should find she proves unkinder 
 One frown, though but in jest, 
 
 Or one unkindness feigned, 
 \Yould rob me of more rest 
 
 Than ere could be regained. 
 
 But in her eyes I find 
 
 Such sighs of pity moving, 
 She cannot be unkind, 
 
 Nor err, nor fail in loving ; 
 And on her forehead this 
 
 Seems written to relieve me ; 
 My heart no joy shall miss, 
 
 That love, or she, can give me 
 
 Which, if I find, I vow 
 
 My service shall perseVer ; 
 The same that I am now, 
 
 I will continue ever. 
 No other's high degree, 
 
 No beauteous look shall change me ; 
 My love shall constant be, 
 
 And no estate estrange me. 
 
 When other noble dames, 
 
 By greater men attended, 
 Shall with their lives and names 
 
 Have all their glories ended ;
 
 34 tfatre Ftttue 
 
 With fairest queens shall she 
 
 Sit, sharing equal glory, 
 And times to come shall be 
 
 Delighted with our story. 
 
 In spite of others' hates, 
 
 More honours I will do her 
 Than those that with estates 
 
 And helps of fortune woo her. 
 Yea, that true worth I spy, 
 
 Though monarchs strove to grace it, 
 They should not reach more high 
 
 Than I dare hope to place it. 
 
 And though I never vaunt 
 
 What favours are possessed, 
 Much less content I want, 
 
 Than if they were expressed. 
 Let others make their mirth 
 
 To blab each kiss or toying ; 
 I know no bliss on earth 
 
 Like secret love enjoying. 
 
 And this shall be the worst 
 
 Of all that can betide me ; 
 If I, like some accurst, 
 
 Should find my hopes deride me, 
 My cares will not be long, 
 
 I know which way to mend them ; 
 I'll think who did the wrong, 
 
 Sigh, break my heart, and end them. 
 
 HAIL, fair beauties ! and again, 
 Hail to all your goodly train ! 
 What I promised yesterday, 
 If it please you, hear ye may ; 
 For now once begun have I, 
 Sing I will, though none were by. 
 And, though freely on I run, 
 Yet confused paths to shun, 
 First, that part shall be disclosed 
 That's of elements composed. 
 There the two unequal pair, 
 Water, fire, earth, and air
 
 of pijtiarete. 35 
 
 (Each one suiting a complexion), 
 Have so cunning a commixion, 
 As they in proportion sweet 
 With the rarest tempers meet ; 
 Either in as much as needeth, 
 So as neither aught exceedeth. 
 This pure substance is the same 
 Which the body we do name. 
 Were that of immortal stuff, 
 'Tis refined and pure enough 
 To be called a soul ; for sure 
 Many souls are not so pure. 
 I, that with a serious look 
 Note of this rare model took, 
 Find, that nature in their places 
 So well couche'd all the graces, 
 As the curioust eyes that be 
 Can nor blot nor blemish see. 
 
 Like a pine it goeth straight 
 Reaching an approved height, 
 And hath all the choice perfections 
 That inflame the best affections. 
 In the motion of each part 
 Nature seems to strive with art 
 Which her gestures most shall bless 
 With the gifts of pleasingness. 
 
 When she sits, methinks I see 
 How all virtues fixed be 
 In a frame, whose constant mould 
 Will the same unchanged hold. 
 If you note her when she moves, 
 Cytherea drawn with doves 
 May come learn such winning motions 
 As will gain to love's devotions 
 More than all her painted wiles, 
 Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles. 
 
 Some, whose bodies want true graces, 
 Have sweet features in their faces ;
 
 36 JFattc Firtue 
 
 Others that do miss them there, 
 Lovely are some other where, 
 And to our desires do fit 
 In behaviour or in wit ; 
 Or some inward worth appearing 
 To the soul, the soul endearing : 
 But in her your eye may find 
 All that's good in womankind. 
 What in others we prefer 
 Are but sundry parts of her, 
 Who most perfect doth present 
 What might one and all content. 
 Yea he that in love still ranges, 
 And each day or hourly changes, 
 Had he judgment but to know 
 What perfections in her grow, 
 There would find the spring of store, 
 Swear a faith, and change no more. 
 
 Neither in the total frame 
 Is she only void of blame, 
 But each part surveyed asunder 
 Might beget both love and wonder. 
 If you dare to look so high, 
 Or behold such majesty, 
 Lift your wondering eyes and see 
 Whether aught can bettered be. 
 
 There's her hair with which love angles, 
 And beholders' eyes entangles ; 
 For in those fair curle"d snares 
 They are hampered unawares, 
 And compelled to swear a duty 
 To her sweet, enthralling beauty. 
 In my mind 'tis the most fair 
 That was ever called hair ; 
 Somewhat brighter than a brown, 
 And her tresses waving down 
 At full length, and so dispread, 
 Mantle her from foot to head.
 
 fi)9ti3tres!j! of Pfrlarete. 37 
 
 If you saw her arched brow, 
 Tell me, pray, what art knows how 
 To have made it in a line 
 More exact or more divine. 
 Beauty there may be descried 
 In the height of all her pride ; 
 "Tis a meanly rising plain, 
 Whose pure white hath many a vein 
 Interlacing, like the springs 
 In the earth's enamellings. 
 If the tale be not a toy 
 Of the little winged boy, 
 When he means to strike a heart, 
 Thence he throws the fatal dart ; 
 Which of wounds still makes a pair, 
 One of love, one of despair. 
 
 Round her visage, or so near 
 To a roundness doth appear, 
 That no more of length it takes 
 Than what best proportion makes. 
 
 Short her chin is, and yet so 
 As it is just long enow ; 
 Loveliness doth seem to glory 
 In that circling promontory. 
 Pretty moving features skip 
 'Twixt the hillock and the lip, 
 If you note her but the while 
 She is pleased to speak or smile. 
 
 And her lips, that show no dulness, 
 Full are in the meanest fulness ; 
 Those the leaves be, whose unfolding 
 Brings sweet pleasures to beholding ; 
 For such pearls they do disclose 
 Both the Indies match not those ; 
 Yet are so in order placed, 
 As their whiteness is more graced. 
 Each part is so well disposed, 
 And her dainty mouth composed!
 
 38 jFatre Ftttue 
 
 So as there is no distortion 
 Misbeseems that sweet proportion. 
 
 When her ivory teeth she buries 
 "Twixt her two enticing cherries, 
 There appear such pleasures hidden 
 As might tempt what were forbidden. 
 If you look again, the whiles 
 She doth part those lips in smiles, 
 Tis as when a flash of light 
 Breaks from heaven to glad the night. 
 
 Others may my pencil crave, 
 But those lips I cannot leave ; 
 For methinks, if I should go 
 And forsake those cherries so, 
 There's a kind of excellence 
 Would hold me from departing hence. 
 I would tell you what it were, 
 But my cunning fails me here. 
 They are like in their discloses 
 To the morning's dewy roses, 
 That beside the name of fair 
 Cast perfumes that fill the air. 
 Melting soft her kisses be, 
 And had I now two or three, 
 More inspired by their touch, 
 I had praised them twice as much. 
 
 But sweet Muses ! mark ye, how 
 Her fair eyes do check me now, 
 That I seemed to pass them so, 
 And their praises overgo ! 
 And yet blame me not, that I 
 Would so fain have passed them by, 
 For I feare'd to have seen them, 
 Lest there were some danger in them. 
 Yet such gentle looks they lend, 
 As might make her foe a friend, 
 And by their allurings move 
 All beholders unto love.
 
 of Pfrlarete. 39 
 
 Such a power is also there, 
 As will keep those thoughts in fear, 
 And command enough I saw 
 To hold impudence in awe. 
 There may he that knows to love 
 Read contents which are above 
 Their ignoble veins, who know 
 Nothing that so high doth grow. 
 Whilst she me beholding is, 
 My heart dares not think amiss, 
 For her sight, most piercing clear, 
 Seems to see what's written there. 
 
 Those bright eyes, that with their light 
 Oftentimes have blessed my sight, 
 And in turning thence their shining 
 Left me in sad darkness pining, 
 Are the rarest, loveliest grey, 
 And do cast forth such a ray, 
 As the man that black prefers, 
 More would like this grey of her's. 
 When their matchless beams she shrouds, 
 'Tis like Cynthia hid in clouds. 
 If again she show them light, 
 'Tis like morning after night. 
 And 'tis worthy well beholding 
 With how many a pretty folding 
 Her sweet eyelids grace that fair, 
 Meanly fringed with beaming hair, 
 Whereby neatly overspread, 
 Those bright lamps are shadowed. 
 
 'Twixt the eyes no hollow place, 
 Wrinkle, nor indecent space 
 Disproportions her in aught, 
 Though by envy faults were sought. 
 
 On those eyebrows never yet 
 Did disdainful scowling sit. 
 Love and goodness gotten thither, 
 Sit on equal thrones together,
 
 40 JFatte Firtuc 
 
 And do throw just scorn on them 
 That their government contemn. 
 
 Then, almost obscured, appears 
 Those her jewel-gracing ears, 
 Whose own beauties more adorn 
 Than the richest pearl that's worn 
 By the proudest Persian dames, 
 Or the best that nature frames. 
 Through the voice in love's meanders 
 Those their pretty circlings wanders, 
 Whose rare turnings will admit 
 No rude speech to enter it. 
 
 Stretching from Mount Forehead lies 
 Beauty's cape betwixt her eyes ; 
 Which two crystal-passing lakes 
 Love's delightful isthmus makes ; 
 Neither more nor less extending 
 Than most meriteth commending. 
 Those in whom that part hath been 
 Best deserving praises seen, 
 Or (surveyed without affection) 
 Came the nearest to perfection, 
 Would scarce handsome ones appear, 
 If with her compared they were. 
 For it is so much excelling 
 That it passeth means of telling. 
 
 On the either side of this 
 Love's most lovely prospect is ; 
 Those her smiling cheeks, whose colour 
 Comprehends true beauty fuller 
 Than the curioust mixtures can 
 That are made by art of man ; 
 It is beauty's garden-plot, 
 Where, as in a true-love's knot, 
 So the snowy lily grows 
 Mixe"d with the crimson rose, 
 That as friends they joine'd be ; 
 Yet they seem to disagree
 
 of Ptularete. 41 
 
 Whether of the two shall reign ; 
 And the lilies oft obtain 
 Greater sway, unless a blush 
 Help the roses at a push. 
 Hollow fallings none there are, 
 There's no wrinkle, there's no scar, 
 Only there's a little mole, 
 Which from Venus* cheek was stole. 
 
 If it were a thing in nature 
 Possible that any creature 
 Might decaying life repair 
 Only by the help of air, 
 There were no such salve for death 
 As the balm of her sweet breath. 
 Or if any human power 
 Might detain the soul an hour, 
 From the flesh to dust bequeathing, 
 It would linger on her breathing ; 
 And be half in mind that there 
 More than mortal pleasures were. 
 And whose fortune were so fair 
 As to draw so sweet an air, 
 Would no doubt let slighted lie 
 The perfumes of Araby. 
 For the English eglantine 
 Doth through envy of her pine ; 
 Violets and roses too 
 Fear that she will them undo ; 
 And it seems that in her breast 
 Is composed the phoenix's nest. 
 
 But descend awhile, mine eye, 
 See if polished ivory, 
 Or the finest fleeced flocks, 
 Or the whitest Albion rocks, 
 For comparisons may stand 
 To express that snowy hand. 
 When she draws it from her glove, 
 It hath virtue to remove,
 
 42 JFatre Ftrtue 
 
 Or disperse, if there be aught 
 Cloudeth the beholder's thought. 
 If that palm but toucheth your, 
 You shall feel a secret power 
 Cheer your heart, and glad it more, 
 Though it drooped with grief before. 
 
 Through the veins, disposed true, 
 Crimson yields a sapphire hue, 
 Which adds grace and more delight 
 By embracing with the white. 
 Smooth and moist, and soft and tender 
 Are her palms ; the fingers slender, 
 Tipt with mollified pearl : 
 And if that transformed girl, 
 Whose much cunning made her dare 
 With Jove's daughter to compare, 
 Had that hand worn, maugre spite, 
 She had shamed the goddess quite ; 
 For there is in every part 
 Nature perfecter than art. 
 
 These were joine'd to those arms, 
 That were never made for harms ; 
 But possess the sweetest graces 
 That may apt them for embraces. 
 Like the silver streams they be 
 Which from some high hill we see 
 Clipping in a goodly vale 
 That grows proud of such a thrall. 
 
 Neither alabaster rocks, 
 Pearl-strewed shores, nor Cotswold flocks, 
 Nor the mountains tipt with snow, 
 Nor the milk-white swans of Po, 
 Can appear so fair to me 
 As her spotless shoulders be. 
 They are like a work of state 
 Covered with the richest plate ; 
 And a presence have that strike 
 With devotions goddess-like.
 
 of Pljilarete. 43 
 
 'Twist those shoulders, meanly spread, 
 To support that globe-like head, 
 Riseth up her neck, wherein 
 Beauty seemeth to begin 
 To disclose itself in more 
 Tempting manner than before, 
 How therein she doth excel, 
 Though I would, I cannot tell; 
 For I nought on earth espy 
 That I may express it by. 
 Yea, from head to foot each feature 
 Shows her an unblemished creature, 
 In whom love with reason might 
 Find so matchless a delight, 
 That more cannot be acquired, 
 Nor a greater bliss desired. 
 
 Yet, if you will rest an hour 
 Under yonder shady bower, 
 I anon my muse will raise 
 To a higher pitch of praise. 
 But awhile with raspice-berries, 
 Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries, 
 Such as these our grove do bear, 
 We will cool our palates here. 
 And those homely cates among, 
 Now and then a pastoral song 
 Shall my lad here sing and play, 
 Such as you had yesterday. 
 
 A LAD, whose faith will constant prove, 
 
 And never know an end, 
 Late by an oversight in love 
 
 Displeased his dearest friend. 
 For which, incensed, she did retake 
 
 The favours which he wore, 
 And said, he never for her sake, 
 
 Should wear or see them more.
 
 44 JFatre Ftrtue 
 
 The grief whereof how near it went, 
 
 And how unkindly took, 
 Was figured by the discontent 
 
 Appeared in his look. 
 At first he could not silence break 
 
 (So heavy sorrow lay), 
 But when his sighs gave way to speak, 
 
 Thus sadly he did say : 
 
 " My only dear ! " and with that speech 
 
 Not able to sustain 
 The floods of grief at sorrow's breach, 
 
 He paused awhile again. 
 At length (nigh fainting) did express 
 
 These words with much ado, 
 " O dear ! let not my love's excess 
 
 Me and my love undo ! " 
 
 She, little move'd with his pain. 
 
 His much distraction eyed ; 
 And changing love into disdain, 
 
 Thus (still unkind) replied : 
 " Forbear to urge one kindness more, 
 
 Unless you long to see 
 The good respect you had before 
 
 At once all lost in me." 
 
 With that dismayed, his suit he ceased, 
 
 And down his head he hung ; 
 And as his reason's strength decreased 
 
 His passion grew more strong : 
 But seeing she did slight his moan, 
 
 With willosv garlands wreathed, 
 He sat him down, and all alone, 
 
 This sad complaint he breathed : 
 
 "O heavens ! "quoth he, " why do we spend 
 
 Endeavours thus in vain, 
 Since what the fates do fore-intend, 
 
 They never change again ? 
 Nor faith, nor love, nor true desert, 
 
 Nor all that man can do, 
 Can win him place within her heart 
 
 That is not born thereto. 
 
 " Why do I fondly waste my youth 
 
 In secret sighs and tears ? 
 Why to preserve a spotless truth 
 
 Taste I so many cares ?
 
 of pfjilarete. 45 
 
 For women that no worth respect 
 
 Do so ungentle prove, 
 That some shall win by their neglect 
 
 What others lose by love. 
 
 1 ' Those that have set the best at nought, 
 
 And no man could enjoy, 
 At last by some base gull are caught, 
 
 And gotten with a toy. 
 Yea, they that spend an age's light 
 
 Their favours to obtain, 
 For one unwilling oversight 
 
 May lose them all again. 
 
 " How glad and fain, alas, would I, 
 
 For her have underwent 
 The greatest care, ere she should try 
 
 The smallest discontent. 
 Yet she that may my life command, 
 
 And doth my passions know, 
 Denieth me a poor demand 
 
 In height of all my woe. 
 
 " Oh, if the noblest of her time, 
 
 And best beloved of me, 
 Could for so poor, so slight a crime, 
 
 So void of pity be ; 
 Sure had it been some common one 
 
 Whose patience I had tried ; 
 No wonder I had been undone, 
 
 Or unforgiven died. 
 
 " A thousand lives I would have laid, 
 
 So well I once believed 
 She would have deigned to lend me aid 
 
 If she had seen me grieved ; 
 But now I live to see the day 
 
 Where I presumed so, 
 I neither dare for pity pray, 
 
 Nor tell her of my woe. 
 
 " Yet let not, poor despised heart, 
 
 Her worth aught questioned be ; 
 Had'st thou not failed in desert, 
 
 She had not failed thee. 
 But lest perhaps they flout thy moan 
 
 That should esteem thee dear, 
 Go make it by thyself alone, 
 
 Where none may come to hear.
 
 46 JFafre Utrtuc 
 
 " Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles, 
 
 What passions e'er thou try, 
 That some may laugh at thee, the whiles 
 
 Thou discontented lie. 
 And let no wrong by change distain 
 
 A love so truly fair, 
 But rather never hope again, 
 
 And thou shall ne'er despair." 
 
 O, RETIRED by cruel passions that oppress me, 
 With heart nigh broken, time no hope would 
 
 give me, 
 
 Upon my bed I laid me down to rest me, 
 And gentle sleep I wooe'd to relieve me. 
 
 But ah, alas ! I found, that on the morrow 
 My sleeping joys brought on my waking 
 sorrow. 
 
 For, lo, a dream I had so full of pleasure, 
 That to possess what to embrace I seemed 
 
 Could not affect my joy in higher measure 
 Than now it grieves me, that I have but dreamed. 
 O, let my dreams be sighs and tears hereafter. 
 So I, that sleeping weep, may wake in 
 laughter ! 
 
 Fain would I tell how much that shadow pleased 
 
 me, 
 
 But tongue and pen want words and art in telling : 
 Yet this I'll say, to show what horror seized me 
 When I was robbed of bliss so much excelling, 
 Might all my dreams be such, O let me 
 
 never 
 Awake again, but sleep and dream for ever ! 
 
 For when I waking saw myself deceived, 
 And what an inward hell it had procured 
 
 To find myself of all my hopes bereaved, 
 It brought on passions not to be endure'd : 
 
 And knew I next night had such dreams in 
 
 keeping, 
 I'd make my eyes forswear for ever sleeping.
 
 of ptjtlarete. 47 
 
 You woody hills, you dales, you groves, 
 
 You floods and every spring, 
 You creatures come, whom nothing moves, 
 
 And hear a shepherd sing : 
 For to heroes, nymphs, and swains 
 
 I long have made my moan ; 
 Yet what my mournful verse contains 
 
 Is understood of none. 
 
 In song Apollo gave me skill, 
 
 Their love his sisters deign ; 
 With those that haunt Parnassus' hill 
 
 I friendship entertain. 
 Yet this is all in vain to me, 
 
 So haplessly I fare, 
 As those things which my glory be 
 
 My cause of ruin are. 
 
 For love hath kindled in my breast 
 
 His never-quenched fire, 
 And I, who often have expressed 
 
 What other men desire 
 (Because I could so dive into 
 
 The depth of others' moan), 
 Now I my own affliction show, 
 
 I heeded am of none. 
 
 Oft have the nymphs of greatest worth 
 
 Made suit my songs to hear, 
 As oft when 1 have sighdd forth 
 
 Such notes as saddest were, 
 Alas ! said they, poor gentle heart, 
 
 Whoe'er that shepherd be ; 
 But none of them suspect my smart, 
 
 Nor think it meaneth me. 
 
 When I have reached so high a strain 
 
 Of passion in my song, 
 That they have seen the tears to rain 
 
 And trill my cheek along ; 
 Instead of sigh, or weeping eye 
 
 To sympathise with me, 
 O were he once in love, they cry, 
 
 How moving would he be !
 
 48 JTatre Ftrtue 
 
 pity me, ye powers above, 
 And take my skill away ; 
 
 Or let my hearers think I love, 
 
 And feign not what I say. 
 For, if I could disclose the smart 
 
 Which I unknown do bear, 
 Each line would make them sighs impart, 
 
 And every word a tear. 
 
 Had I a mistress, some do think, 
 
 She should revealed be ; 
 And I would favours wear, or drink 
 
 Her health upon my knee. 
 Alas, poor fools, they aim awry, 
 
 Their fancy flags too low, 
 Could they my love's rare course espy 
 
 They would amaze'd grow. 
 
 But let nor nymph nor swain conceive 
 
 My tongue shall ever tell 
 Who of this rest doth me bereave, 
 
 Or where I am not well : 
 But if you sighing me espy, 
 
 Where rarest features be, 
 Mark where I fix a weeping eye 
 
 And swear you, there is she. 
 
 Yet ere my eyes betray me shall, 
 I'll swell and burst with pain ; 
 
 And for each drop they would let fall 
 My heart shall bleed me twain. 
 
 For since my soul more sorrow bears 
 Than common lovers know, 
 
 1 scorn my passions should like theirs 
 A common humour show. 
 
 Ear never heard of heretofore 
 
 Of any love like mine ; 
 Nor shall there be for evermore 
 
 Affection so divine. 
 And that to feign it none may try, 
 
 When I dissolved must be ; 
 The first I am it live'd by, 
 
 And die it shall with me.
 
 of Pfylarete. 49 
 
 BOY, have done, for now my brain 
 Is inspired afresh again, 
 And new raptures pressing are 
 To be sung in praise of her, 
 Whose fair picture lieth nigh 
 Quite unveiled to every eye. 
 No small favour hath it been 
 That such beauty might be seen ; 
 Therefore ever may they rue it 
 Who with evil eyes shall view it. 
 Yea, what ancient stories tell 
 Once to rude Actseon fell, 
 When with evil eyes he stood 
 Eying Cynthia in the flood, 
 May that fatal horned curse 
 Light upon them, or a worse. 
 
 But (whatever others be) 
 Lest some fault be found in me, 
 If imperfect this remain, 
 I will oyer-trim't again. 
 Therefore turn where we begun, 
 And now all is over-run, 
 Mark if every thing exprest 
 Suit not so unto the rest, 
 As if nature would prefer 
 All perfections unto her. 
 Wherefore seems it strange to any, 
 That they daily see so many 
 Who were else most perfect creatures, 
 In some one part want true features ? 
 Since from all the fair'st that live 
 Nature took the best, to give 
 Her perfection in each part ; 
 I alone except her heart : 
 For among all woman-kind, 
 Such as her's is hard to find. 
 
 If you truly note her face, 
 You shall find it hath a grace
 
 50 JFatte Utttue 
 
 Neither wanton, nor o'er serious, 
 Nor too yielding, nor imperious : 
 But with such a feature blest, 
 It is that which pleaseth best. 
 And delights each several eye 
 That affects with modesty. 
 Lowliness hath in her look 
 Equal place with greatness took, 
 And if beauty any where 
 Claims prerogatives, 'tis there : 
 For at once thus much 'twill do, 
 Threat, command, persuade, and woo. 
 
 In her speech there is not found 
 Any harsh, unpleasing sound, 
 But a well-beseeming power, 
 Neither higher, neither lower 
 Than will suit with her perfection ; 
 'Tis the loadstone of affection. 
 And that man whose judging eyes 
 Could well sound such mysteries. 
 Would in love make her his choice, 
 Though he did but hear her voice ; 
 For such accents breathe not whence 
 Beauty keeps non-residence. 
 Never word of her's I hear 
 But 'tis music to mine ear, 
 And much more contentment brings 
 Than the sweetly-touched strings 
 Of the pleasing lute, whose strains 
 Ravish hearers when it plains. 
 
 Raised by her discourse, I fly 
 In contented thoughts so high, 
 That I pass the common measures 
 Of the dulle'd sense's pleasures, 
 And leave far below my flight 
 Vulgar pitches of delight. 
 
 If she smile and merry be, 
 All about her are as she ;
 
 of pijtiarete. 
 
 For each looker-on takes part 
 Of the joy that's in her heart. 
 If she grieve, or you but spy 
 Sadness peeping through her eye, 
 Such a grace it seems to borrow, 
 That you'll fall in love with sorrow, 
 And abhor the name of mirth 
 As the hatefull'st thing on earth. 
 Should I see her shed a tear, 
 My poor eyes would melt, I fear ; 
 For much more in her's appears 
 Than in other women's tears. 
 And her look did never feign 
 Sorrow where there was no pain. 
 
 Seldom hath she been espied 
 So impatient as to chide ; 
 For if any see her so, 
 They'll in love with anger grow. 
 Sigh or speak, or smile or talk, 
 Sing or weep, or sit or walk, 
 Every thing that she doth do 
 Decent is and lovely too. 
 Each part that you shall behold 
 Hath within itself enrolled 
 What would you desire to see, 
 Or your heart conceive to be. 
 Yet if from that part your eye 
 Moving shall another spy, 
 There you see as much or more 
 Than you sought to praise before. 
 
 While the eye surveys it, you 
 Will imagine that her brow 
 Hath all beauty ; when her cheek 
 You behold, it is as like 
 To be deemed fairest too, 
 So much there can beauty do. 
 Look but thence upon her eye, 
 And you wonder by and by
 
 52 jfaire Utrttte 
 
 How there may be any where 
 So much worthy praise as there. 
 Yet if you survey her breast, 
 Then as freely you'll protest 
 That in it perfection is ; 
 Though I know that one poor kiss 
 From her tempting lips would then 
 Make all that forsworn again. 
 For the self-same moving grace 
 Is at once in every place. 
 
 She her beauty never foils 
 With your ointments, waters, oils, 
 Nor no loathsome fucus settles, 
 Mix'd with Jewish fasting-spittles. 
 Fair by nature being born, 
 She doth borrowed beauty scorn. 
 Whoso kisses her needs fear 
 No unwholesome varnish there ; 
 For from thence he only sips 
 The pure nectar of her lips ; 
 And at once with these he closes 
 Melting rubies, cherries, roses. 
 
 Then in her behaviour she 
 Striveth but herself to be ; 
 Keeping such a decent state, 
 As indeed she seems to hate 
 Precious leisure should be spent 
 In abuse'd compliment. 
 Though she knows what others do, 
 And can all their courtship too, 
 She is not in so ill case 
 As to need their borrowed grace. 
 
 Her discourses sweetened are 
 With a kind of artless care, 
 That expresseth greater art 
 Than affected words impart. 
 So her gestures, being none 
 But that freeness which alone
 
 of pfjtlarete. 53 
 
 Suits the braveness of her mind, 
 Make her of herself to find 
 Postures more becoming far 
 Than the mere acquired are. 
 
 If you mark, when for her pleasure, 
 She vouchsafes to foot a measure, 
 Though with others' skill she pace, 
 There's a sweet delightful grace 
 In herself which doth prefer 
 Art beyond that art in her. 
 
 Neither needs she beat her wit 
 To devise what dressing's fit ; 
 Her complexion and her feature 
 So beholding are to nature, 
 If she in the fashions go, 
 All the reason she doth so 
 Is, because she would not err 
 In appearing singular : 
 Doubtless not for any thought 
 That 'twill perfect her in aught. 
 
 Many a dainty-seeming dame 
 Is in native beauties lame ; 
 Some are grace'd by their tires, 
 As their coifs, their hats, their wires ; 
 One a ruff doth best become ; 
 Falling bands much altereth some ; 
 And their favours oft we see 
 Changed as their dressings be ; 
 Which her beauty never fears, 
 For it graceth all she wears. 
 If ye note her tire to-day, 
 That doth suit her best, you'll say ; 
 Mark what she next morn doth wenr, 
 That becomes her best you'll swear ; 
 Yea, as oft as her you see, 
 Such new graces still there be
 
 54 JFatre Fittue 
 
 As she ever seemeth graced 
 Most by that she weareth last, 
 Though it be the same she wore 
 But the very day before. 
 
 When she takes her tires about her 
 (Never half so rich without her) 
 At the putting on of them, 
 You may liken every gem 
 To those lamps which at a play 
 Are set up to light the day. 
 For their lustre adds no more 
 To what Titan gave before ; 
 Neither doth their pretty gleamings 
 Hinder aught his greater beamings. 
 And yet, which is strange to me, 
 When those costly deckings be 
 Laid away, there seems descried 
 Beauties which those veils did hide. 
 And she looks as doth the moon 
 Passed some cloud through which she shone ; 
 Or some jewel watch, whose case 
 Set with diamonds, seems to grace 
 What it doth contain within, 
 Till the curious work be seen ; 
 Then 'tis found that costly shrining 
 Did but hinder t'other's shining. 
 
 If you chance to be in place, 
 When her mantle she doth grace, 
 You would presently protest 
 Irish dressings were the best. 
 If again she lay it down, 
 While you view her in a gown, 
 And how those her dainty limbs 
 That close-bodied garment trims, 
 You would swear, and swear again, 
 She appeared loveliest then. 
 
 But if she, so truly fair, 
 Should untie her shining hair,
 
 af Aflame. 55 
 
 And at length that treasure shed, 
 Jove's endure'd Ganimed, 
 Neither Cytherea's joy, 
 Nor the sweet self-loving boy 
 Who in beauty did surpass, 
 Nor the fair'st that ever was, 
 Could to take you prisoner bring 
 Looks so sweetly conquering. 
 
 She excels her whom Apollo 
 Once with weeping eyes did follow ; 
 Or that nymph who, shut in towers, 
 Was beguiled with golden showers ; 
 Yea, and she whose love was wont 
 To swim o'er the Hellespont 
 For her sake (though in attire 
 Fittest to inflame desire) 
 Seemed not half so fair to be, 
 Nor so lovely as is she. 
 For the man whose happy eye 
 Views her in full majesty, 
 Knows she hath a power that moves 
 More than doth the queen of loves 
 When she useth all her power 
 To inflame her paramour. 
 
 And sometime I do admire 
 All men burn not with desire. 
 Nay, I muse her servants are not, 
 Pleading love ; but oh ! they dare not. 
 And I therefore wonder why 
 They do not grow sick and die. 
 Sure they would do so, but that 
 By the ordinance of fate 
 There is some concealed thing, 
 So each gazer limiting, 
 He can see no more of merit 
 Than beseems his worth and spirit. 
 For in her a grace there shines 
 That o'er-daring thoughts confines;
 
 56 JFairc Ftrttte 
 
 Making worthless men despair 
 
 To be loved of one so fair. 
 
 Yea the destinies agree 
 
 Some good judgments blind should be, 
 
 And not gain the power of knowing 
 
 Those rare beauties ia her growing. 
 
 Reason doth as much imply : 
 
 For if every judging eye 
 
 Which beholdeth her should there 
 
 Find what excellences are, 
 
 All, o'ercome by those perfections, 
 
 Would be captive to affections ; 
 
 So in happiness unblest, 
 
 She for lovers should not rest. 
 
 This well heeding think upon, 
 
 And if there be any one 
 
 Who alloweth not the worth 
 
 Which my Muse hath painted forth, 
 
 Hold it no defect in her ; 
 
 But that he's ordained to err. 
 
 Or if any female wight 
 
 Should detract from this I write, 
 
 She, I yield, may show her wit, 
 
 But disparage her no whit. 
 
 For on earth few women be 
 
 That from envy's touch are free ; 
 
 And who ever envy knew 
 
 Yield those honours that were due. 
 
 Though sometime my song I raise 
 To unusual heights of praise, 
 And break forth as I shall please 
 Into strange hyperboles, 
 'Tis to show conceit hath found 
 Worth beyond expression's bound. 
 Though her breath I do compare 
 To the sweet'st perfumes that are ; 
 Or her eyes, that are so bright, 
 To the morning's cheerful light ; 
 Yet I do it not so much 
 To infer that she is such,
 
 of Pljtlarete 57 
 
 As to show that being blest 
 With what merits name of best, 
 She appears more fair to me 
 Than all creatures else that be. 
 
 Her true beauty leaves behind 
 Apprehensions in my mind 
 Of more sweetness than all art 
 Or inventions can impart ; 
 Thoughts too deep to be expressed, 
 And too strong to be suppressed ; 
 Which oft raiseth my conceits 
 To such unbelieve'd heights, 
 That I fear some shallow brain 
 Thinks my Muses do but feign. 
 Sure he wrongs them if he do r 
 For could I have reached to 
 So like strains as these you see ; 
 Had there been no such as she ; 
 Is it possible that I, 
 Who scarce heard of poesy, 
 Should a mere idea raise 
 To as true a pitch of praise, 
 As the learned poets could 
 Now, or in the times of old, 
 All those real beauties bring 
 Honoured by their sonneting, 
 Having arts and favours too, 
 More to encourage what they do ? 
 No, if I had never seen 
 Such a beauty, I had been 
 Piping in the country shades 
 To the homely dairy-maids 
 For a country fiddler's fees, 
 Clouted cream, and bread and cheese. 
 
 I no skill in numbers had 
 More than every shepherd's lad, 
 Till she taught me strains that were 
 Pleasing to her gentle ear.
 
 58 JFaire Fttttte 
 
 Her fair splendour and her worth 
 From obscureness drew me forth ; 
 And because I had no Muse, 
 She herself deigned to infuse 
 All the skill, by which I climb 
 To these praises in my rhyme : 
 Which if she had pleased to add 
 To that art sweet Drayton had ; 
 Or that happy swain that shall 
 Sing Britannia's Pastoral ; 
 Or to theirs, whose verse set forth 
 Rosalind and Stella's worth ; 
 They had doubled all their skill 
 Gaine'd on Apollo's hill ; 
 And as much more set her forth. 
 As I'm short of them in worth. 
 They had unto heights aspired, 
 Might have justly been admired ; 
 And in such brave strains had moved, 
 As of all had been approved. 
 
 I must praise her as I may, 
 Which I do mine own rude way ; 
 Sometime setting forth her glories 
 By unheard-of allegories. 
 Think not that my Muse now sings 
 Mere absurd or feigned things, 
 If to gold I like her hair, 
 Or to stars her eyes so fair : 
 Though I praise her skin by snow, 
 Or by pearls her double row ; 
 'Tis that you may gather thence 
 Her unmatched excellence. 
 
 Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath she, 
 As stars fair, for stars, may be. 
 And each part as fair doth show 
 In its kind as white as snow. 
 'Tis no grace to her at all, 
 If her hair I sunbeams call ;
 
 of Pfitlatete, 59 
 
 For were there a power in art 
 
 So to pourtray every part , 
 
 All men might those beauties see 
 
 As they do appear to me, 
 
 I would scorn to make compare 
 
 With the glorioust things that are. 
 
 Nought I e'er saw fair enow 
 But the hair the hair to show ; 
 Yet some think him over-bold, 
 That compares it but to gold. 
 He from reason seems to err, 
 Who, commending of his dear, 
 Gives her lips the rubies' hue, 
 Or by pearls her teeth doth show. 
 But what pearls, what rubies can 
 Seem so lovely fair to man, 
 As her lips whom he doth love, 
 When in sweet discourse they move : 
 Or her lovelier teeth, the while 
 She doth bless him with a smile ! 
 
 Stars indeed fair creatures be ; 
 Yet among us where is he, 
 Joys not more the whilst he lies 
 Sunning in his mistress's eyes, 
 Than in all the glimmering light 
 Of a starry winter's night? 
 
 Him to flatter most suppose, 
 That prefers before the rose, 
 Or the lilies while they grow, 
 Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow, 
 Her complexion whom he loveth : 
 And yet this my Muse approveth. 
 For in such a beauty meets 
 Unexpressive moving sweets, 
 That the like unto them no man 
 Ever saw but in a woman. 
 Look on moon, on stars, on sun, 
 All GOD'S creatures overrun ;
 
 60 jfatte Firtue 
 
 See if all of them present 
 To your mind such sweet content ; 
 Or if you from them can take 
 Aught that may a beauty make 
 Shall one half so pleasing prove 
 As is hers, whom you do love ; 
 For indeed, if there had been 
 Other mortal beauties seen, 
 Objects for the love of men, 
 Vain was their creation then. 
 Yea, if this could well be granted, 
 Adam might his Eve have wanted. 
 But a woman is the creature 
 Whose proportion with our nature 
 Best agrees, and whose perfections 
 Sympathise with our affections. 
 And not only finds our senses 
 Pleasure in their excellences, 
 But our reason also knows 
 Sweetness in them, that outgoes 
 Human wit to comprehend, 
 Much more, truly to commend. 
 
 Note the beauty of an eye, 
 And if aught you praise it by- 
 Leave such passion in your mind, 
 Let my reason's eye be blind. 
 Mark if ever red or white' 
 Anywhere gave such delight 
 As when they have taken place 
 In a worthy woman's face. 
 He that so much hath not noted, 
 Will not, or is grown besotted. 
 
 Such as lovers are, conceive 
 What impressions beauty leave ; 
 And those hearts that fire have took 
 By a love-inflaming look, 
 Those believe what here I say, 
 And suppose not that I stray 
 In a word by setting forth 
 Any praise beyond true worth.
 
 of Pfrlarete. 61 
 
 And yet wherefore should I care 
 What another's censures are, 
 Since I know her to be such, 
 As no praise can be too much ? 
 All that see her will agree 
 In the self-same mind with me, 
 If their wit be worth the having, 
 Or their judgment merit craving. 
 And the man that kens her not, 
 Speaks at best he knows not what : 
 So his envy or good will 
 Neither doth her good nor ill. 
 
 Then fools' cavils I disdain, 
 And call back my Muse again 
 To decipher out the rest, 
 For I have too long digressed. 
 
 This is she in whom there meets 
 All variety of sweets ; 
 An epitome of all 
 That on earth we fair may call : 
 Nay, yet more I dare aver, 
 He that is possessed of her 
 Shall at once all pleasure find 
 That is reaped from womankind. 
 
 Oh, what man would further range, 
 That in one might find such change ? 
 What dull eye such worth can see, 
 And not sworn a lover be ? 
 Or from whence was he could prove 
 Such a monster in his love, 
 As in thought to use amiss 
 Such unequalled worth as this ? 
 Pity 'twere that such a creature, 
 Phcenix-like, for matchless feature, 
 Should so suffer, or be blamed 
 With what now the times are shamed.
 
 62 JFatre Utrtue 
 
 Beauty, unto me divine, 
 Makes my honest thoughts incline 
 Unto better things than that 
 Which the vulgar aimeth at. 
 And I vow I grieve to see 
 Any fair and false to be ; 
 Or when I sweet pleasures find 
 Matched with a defiled mind, 
 But, above all others, her 
 So much doth my soul prefer, 
 That to him whose ill desire 
 Should so nurse a lawless fire 
 As to tempt to that which might 
 Dim her sacred virtue's light, 
 I could wish that he might die, 
 Ere he did it, though 'twere I. 
 
 For if she should hap to stray, 
 All this beauty would away ; 
 And not her alone undo, 
 But kill him that praised her too. 
 But I know her Maker will 
 Keep her undistain^d still, 
 That ensuing ages may 
 Pattern out by her the way 
 To all goodness. And if fate, 
 That appoints all things a date, 
 Hear me would, I'd wish that she 
 Might for aye preserved be ; 
 And that neither wasting cares, 
 Neither all-consuming years, 
 Might from what she is estrange her, 
 Or in mind or body change her. 
 For, O why, should envious time 
 Perpetrate so vile a crime 
 As to waste, or wrong, or stain 
 What shall ne'er be matched again ! 
 
 Much I hope, it shall not be ; 
 For if love deceive not me
 
 Qj)itte8& of Pfylamc. 63 
 
 To that height of fair she grows, 
 Age or sickness (beauties' foes) 
 Cannot so much wrong it there, 
 But enough there will appear 
 Ever worthy to be loved ; 
 And that heart shall be more moved 
 (Where there is a judging eye) 
 With those prints it doth espy 
 Of her beauty wronged by time, 
 Than by others in their prime. 
 
 One advantage she hath more, 
 That adds grace to all before. 
 It is this ; her beauty's fame 
 Hath not done her honour shame : 
 For where beauty we do find, 
 Envy still is so unkind, 
 That although their virtues are 
 Such as pass their beauties far, 
 Yet on slander's rocks they be 
 Shipwrecked, oftentimes we see ; 
 And are subject to the wrongs 
 Of a thousand spiteful tongues, 
 When the greatest fault they had, 
 Was that some would make them bad ; 
 And not finding them for action, 
 Sought for vengeance by detraction. 
 
 But her benuty sure no tongue 
 Is so villainous to wrong. 
 Never did the jealous ear 
 Any muttering rumour hear 
 That might cause the least suspects 
 Of indifferent defects. 
 And which somewhat stranger is, 
 They whose slanders few can miss, 
 Though set on by evil will 
 And habituated ill, 
 Nothing can of her invent 
 Whence to frame disparagement.
 
 64 JFatre Firtuc 
 
 Which, if we respect the crimes 
 Of these loose injurious times, 
 Doth not only truly prove 
 Great discretion in her love, 
 And that she hath lived upright 
 In each jealous tongue's despite ; 
 But it must be understood 
 That her private thoughts are good. 
 Yea, 'tis an apparent sign 
 That her beauty is divine, 
 And that angels have a care 
 Men's polluting tongues should spare 
 To defile what GOD hath given 
 To be dear to earth and heaven. 
 
 Tell me, you that hear me now, 
 Is there any one of you 
 Wanteth feeling of affection, 
 Or that loves not such perfection ? 
 Can there be so dull an ear 
 As of so much worth to hear 
 And not seriously incline 
 To this saint-like friend of mine? 
 If there be, the fault doth lie 
 In my artless poesy ; 
 For if I could reach the strain, 
 Which methinks I might obtain, 
 Or but make my measures fly 
 Equal with my fantasy, 
 I would not permit an ear 
 To attend unravished here ; 
 If but so much sense it knew 
 As the blocks that Orpheus drew. 
 
 Think on this description well. 
 And you noblest ladies tell, 
 Which of you that worth can see, 
 This my mistress would not be ? 
 
 You, brave English, who have run 
 From the rising of the sun.
 
 S)tj3tr!jS of Pfrlarete. 65 
 
 "Till in travelling you found 
 Where he doth conclude his round ; 
 You that have the beauties seen 
 Which in farthest lands have been, 
 And surveyed the fair resorts 
 Of the French and Spanish courts, 
 With the best that fame renowns 
 In the rich Trans-Alpine towns, 
 Do not, with our brainless fry, 
 That admire each novelty, 
 Wrong your country's fame in aught, 
 But here freely speak your thought ; 
 And I durst presume you'll swear 
 She's not matched anywhere. 
 
 Gallants, you that would so fain 
 Nymphs' and ladies' loves obtain ; 
 You that strive to serve and please 
 Fairest queens and empresses : 
 Tell me this, and tell me right, 
 If you would not, so you might, 
 Leave them all despised to prove 
 What contents are in her love ? 
 
 Could your fathers ever tell 
 Of a nymph did more excel ? 
 Or hath any story told 
 Of the like in times of old ? 
 Dido was not such an one, 
 Nor the Trojan's Paragon, 
 Though they so much favour found, 
 As to have their honours crowned 
 By the best of poet's pens, 
 Ever known before or since. 
 
 For had Dido been so fair, 
 Old Anchises' noble heir 
 Jove's command had disobeyed, 
 And with her in Carthage stayed ; 
 Where he would have quite foreswore, 
 Seems; the Lavinian shore :
 
 66 JFaire Ftrttte 
 
 Or had Leda's daughter been, 
 When she was the Spartan queen, 
 Equal with this lovely one, 
 Menelaus had never gone 
 From her sight so far away 
 As to leave her for a prey, 
 And his room to be possest 
 By her wanton Phrygian guest 
 
 But lest yet among you some 
 Think, she may behind these come, 
 Stay a little more and hear me, 
 In another strain I'll rear me. 
 I'll unmask a beauty now 
 Which to kiss, the gods may bow ; 
 And so feelingly will move, 
 That your souls shall fall in love. 
 
 I have yet the best behind, 
 Her most fair unequalled Mind. 
 This that I have here exprest 
 Is but that which veils the rest, 
 An incomparable shrine 
 Of a beauty more divine. 
 Whereof ere I farther speak, 
 Off again my song I'll break ; 
 And if you among the roses, 
 Which yon quickset hedge encloses, 
 Will with plucking flowers beguile 
 Tedious-seeming time awhile, 
 Till I step to yonder green 
 Whence the sheep so plain are seen, 
 I will be returned ere 
 You an hour have staye'd there. 
 And excuse me, now, I pray, 
 Though I rudely go away, 
 For affairs I have to do 
 Which, unless I look into, 
 I may sing out summer here 
 Like the idle grasshopper,
 
 of Pfnlarete. 67 
 
 And at winter hide my head, 
 Or else fast till I am dead. 
 
 Yet if rustic pastoral measures 
 Can aught add unto your pleasures, 
 I will leave you some of those 
 Which it pleased me to compose 
 When despairing fits were over ; 
 And I, made a happy lover, 
 Exercised my loving passion 
 In another kind of fashion, 
 Than to utter I devised 
 When I feared to be despised ; 
 Those shall lie in gage for me 
 Till I back returned be, 
 And in writing here you have them : 
 Either sing, or read, or leave them. 
 
 ADMIRE riot, Shepherd's Boy, 
 
 Why I my pipe forbear, 
 My sorrows and my joy 
 Beyond expression are. 
 
 Though others may 
 
 In songs display 
 Their passions while they woo, 
 
 Yet mine do fly 
 
 A pitch too high 
 For words to reach unto. 
 
 If such weak thoughts as those 
 
 With others fancy 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.
 
 68 JFaire Firtue 
 
 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 use'd to, 
 And my delights 
 Take such high flights 
 My joys will me undo. 
 
 I have a I^ove 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 dare 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 title's store, 
 I'm born but to myself, 
 Nor do I care for more. 
 Add to your earth , 
 Wealth, honours, birth,
 
 of Pljitarete. 69 
 
 And all you can thereto, 
 You cannot prove 
 The 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 mixed 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.
 
 70 JFaire Ftttue 
 
 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. 
 
 n. 
 
 HENCE away, you Syrens, leave me 
 
 And unclasp your wanton arms ; 
 Sugared 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 bestowed 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
 
 of Pfjilarete. 71 
 
 To some o'er soon enamoured swain ; 
 
 Those common wiles 
 
 Of sighs and smiles 
 Are all bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 I have elsewhere vowed a duty ; 
 Turn away thy tempting eyes. 
 Show not me a naked beauty, 
 Those impostures I despise. 
 
 My spirit loathes 
 
 Where gaudy clothes 
 And feigne'd 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 bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 He's a fool that basely dallies 
 
 Where each peasant mates with him. 
 Shall I haunt the thronged vallies 
 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 bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 Yet I would not deign embraces 
 With the greatest, fairest she, 
 
 If another shared those graces 
 Whicb had been bestowed on me.
 
 72 JFaire 
 
 I gave that one 
 
 My love, where none 
 
 Shall come to rob me of my gain, 
 Your fickle hearts 
 Make tears, and arts, 
 
 And all bestowed on me in vain. 
 
 I do scorn to vow a duty 
 
 Where each lustful lad may woo. 
 Give me her whose sun-like beauty 
 Buzzards dare not soar unto. 
 She, 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 seemed in the beginning, 
 
 And disdained my looking on : 
 But- that coy one in the winning 
 Proved a true one being won. 
 
 Whate'er betide 
 
 Shall 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.
 
 of pfjtlarete. 73 
 
 Leave me then, you Syrens, 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. 
 
 OH, how honoured are my songs, 
 Graced by your melodious tongues ! 
 And how pleasing do they seem, 
 Now your voices carol them ! 
 Were not yet that task to do 
 Which my word enjoins me to, 
 I should beg of you to hear 
 What your own inventions were. 
 But before I aught will crave 
 What I promised you shall have. 
 And as I on mortal creatures 
 Called to view her body's features, 
 Showing how to make the senses 
 Apprehend her excellences, 
 Now, I speak of no worse subject 
 Than a Soul's and Reason's object, 
 And relate a beauty's glories 
 Fitting heavenly auditories, 
 Therefore, whilst I sit and sing, 
 Hem me, Angels, in a ring ! 
 Come, ye Spirits which have eyes 
 That can gaze on Deities, 
 And unclogged with brutish senses 
 Comprehend such excellences. 
 Or if any mortal ear 
 Would be granted leave to hear
 
 74 JFatre 
 
 And find profit with delight 
 In what now I shall indite, 
 Let him first be sure to season 
 A prepared heart with reason, 
 And with judgment drawing nigh, 
 Lay all fond affections by : 
 So through all her veilings he 
 Shall the soul of beauty see. 
 
 But avoid you earth-bred wights, 
 Cloyed with sensual appetites ; 
 On base objects glut your eyes, 
 Till your starveling pleasure dies ; 
 Feed your ears with such delights 
 As may match your gross conceits ; 
 For within your muddy brain 
 These you never can contain. 
 
 Think not you, who by the sense 
 Only judge of excellence, 
 Or do all contentment place 
 In the beauty of a face, 
 That these highest thoughts of our 
 Soar so base a pitch as your. 
 I can give, as well as you, 
 Outward beauties all their due ; 
 I can most contentments see 
 That in love or women be. 
 
 Though I doat not on the features 
 Of our daintiest female creatures, 
 Nor was e'er so void of shames 
 As to play their lawless games ; 
 I more prize a snowy hand 
 Than the gold on Tagus' strand ; 
 And a dainty lip before 
 All the greatest monarch's store. 
 Yea, from these I reap as true 
 And as large contents as you. 
 
 Yet to them I am not tied ; 
 I have rarer sweets espied,
 
 of PJ)!{arete. 75 
 
 Wider prospects of true pleasure 
 
 Than your curbe'd thoughts can measure. 
 
 In her soul my soul descries 
 
 Objects that may fill her eyes ; 
 
 And the beauty of her mind 
 
 Shows my reason where to find 
 
 All my former pleasures doubled ; 
 
 Neither with such passion troubled 
 
 As wherewith it oft was crost, 
 
 Nor so easy to be lost. 
 
 I, that ravished lay well nigh, 
 By the lustre of her eye, 
 And had almost sworn affection 
 To the fore-expressed perfection, 
 As if nothing had been higher 
 Whereunto I might aspire; 
 Now have found by seeking nearer 
 Inward worth, that shining clearer 
 By a sweet and secret moving, 
 Draws me to a dearer loving ; 
 And whilst I that love conceive, 
 Such impressions it doth leave 
 In the intellective part, 
 As defaceth from my heart 
 Ev'ry thought of those delights 
 Which allure base appetites ; 
 And my mind so much employs 
 In contemplating those joys 
 Which a purer sight doth find 
 In the beauty of her mind, 
 That I so thereon am set, 
 As methinks I could forget 
 All her sweetest outward graces, 
 Though I lay in her embraces. 
 
 But some, thinking with a smile 
 What they would have done the while, 
 Now suppose my words are such 
 As exceed my power too much :
 
 76 jFatre ITtrtue 
 
 For all those our wantons hold 
 Void of vigour, dull, and cold, 
 Or at best but fools, whose flame 
 Makes not way unto their shame ; 
 Though at length with grief they see, 
 They the fools do prove to be. 
 
 These the body so much minded, 
 That their reason, over-blinded 
 By the pleasures of the sense, 
 Hides from them that excellence 
 And that sweetness, whose true worth 
 I am here to blazon forth. 
 
 'Tis not, 'tis not, those rare graces 
 That do lurk in women's faces ; 
 'Tis not a displayed perfection, 
 Youthful eyes nor clear co'mplexion, 
 Nor a skin smooth satin-like, 
 Nor a dainty rosy cheek, 
 That to wantonness can move 
 Such as virtuously do love. 
 Beauty rather gently draws 
 Wild desires to reason's laws, 
 And oft frights men from that sin 
 They had else transgressed in, 
 Through a sweet amazement strook 
 From an over-ruling look. 
 Beauty never tempteth men 
 To lasciviousness, but when 
 Careless idleness hath brought 
 Wicked longings into thought 
 Xor doth youth, or heat of blood, 
 Make men prove what is not good ; 
 Nor the strength of which they vaunt. 
 'Tis the strength and power they want, 
 And the baseness of the mind, 
 Make their brute desires inclined 
 To pursue those vain delights, 
 Which affect their appetites ;
 
 of pfjilame. 77 
 
 And so blinded do they grow, 
 Who are overtaken so, 
 As their dulness cannot see, 
 Nor believe that better be. 
 Some have blood as hot as their 
 Whose affections loosest are ; 
 Bodies that require no art 
 To supply weak nature's part, 
 Youth they have, and sure might too 
 Boast of what some shameless do. 
 Yet their minds, that aim more high 
 Than those baser pleasures lie, 
 Taught by virtue, can suppress 
 All attempts of wantonness ; 
 And such powerful motives frame 
 To extinguish passion's flame, 
 That by reason's good direction, 
 Qualifying loose affection, 
 They'll, in midst of beauty's fires, 
 Walk unscorched of ill desires. 
 
 Yet no such as stupid shame 
 Keeps from actions worthy blame, 
 But in all so truly man, 
 That their apprehensions can 
 Prize the body's utmost worth, 
 And find many pleasures forth 
 In those beauties, more than you 
 That abuse them, ever knew. 
 
 But perhaps her outward grace 
 Here described hath ta'en such place 
 In some o'er-enamoured breast, 
 And so much his heart possest, 
 As he thinks it passeth telling 
 How she may be more excelling, 
 Or what worth I can prefer 
 To be more admired in her. 
 Therefore, now I will be brief, 
 To prevent that misbelief;
 
 78 JFatrc Firtue 
 
 And if there be present here 
 Any one, whose nicer ear 
 Tasks my measures as offending, 
 In too seriously commending 
 What affects the sense, or may 
 Injure virtue any way ; 
 Let them know 'tis understood. 
 That if they were truly good 
 It could never breed offence 
 That I showed the excellence, 
 With the power of GOD and nature, 
 In the beauty of His creature. 
 They from thence would rather raise 
 Cause to meditate His praise ; 
 And thus think how fair must He, 
 That hath made this fair one, be ! 
 
 That was my proposed end ; 
 And to make them more attend 
 Unto this, so much excelling 
 As it passeth means of telling. 
 
 But at worst, if any strain 
 Makes your memories retain 
 Sparks of such a baneful fire 
 As may kindle ill desire ; 
 This that follows after shall 
 Not alone extinguish all, 
 But e'en make you blush with shame 
 That your thoughts were so to blame. 
 Yet I know, when I have done, 
 In respect of that bright sun 
 Whose inestimable light 
 1 would blazon to your sight, 
 These ensuing flashes are, 
 As to Cynthia's beams, a star ; 
 Or a petty comet's ray 
 To the glorious orb of day. 
 For what power of words or art 
 Can her worth at full impart ?
 
 of Pfrlarew. 79 
 
 Or what is there may be found 
 Placed within the senses' bound, 
 That can paint those sweets to me 
 Which the eye of love doth see ? 
 Or the beauties of that mind 
 Which her body hath enshrined ? 
 
 Can I think the Guide of Heaven 
 Hath so bountifully given 
 Outward features, "cause He meant 
 To have made less excellent 
 Her divine part? Or suppose 
 Beauty goodness doth oppose ; 
 Like those fools who do despair 
 To find any good and fair ? 
 Rather there I seek a mind 
 Most excelling, where I find 
 GOD hath to the body lent 
 Most beseeming ornament. 
 But though he that did inspire 
 First the true Promethean fire, 
 In each several soul did place 
 Equal excellence and grace, 
 As some think ; yet have not they 
 Equal beauties every way : 
 For they more or less appear 
 As the outward organs are ; 
 Following much the temperature 
 Of the body, gross or pure. 
 And I do believe it true, 
 That as we the body view 
 Nearer to perfection grow, 
 So the soul herself doth show 
 Others more and more excelling 
 In her power, as in her dwelling : 
 For that pureness giveth way 
 Better to disclose each ray 
 To the dull conceit of man 
 Than a grosser substance can, 
 Thus, through spotless crystals, we 
 May the day's full glory see :
 
 So JFattc Fittue 
 
 When, if clearest sunbeams pass 
 
 Through a foul, polluted glass, 
 
 So discoloured they'll appear 
 
 As those stains they shone through were. 
 
 Let no critic cavil then, 
 If I dare affirm again, 
 That her mind's perfections are 
 Fairer than her body's far ; 
 And I need not prove it by 
 Axioms of philosophy, 
 Since no proof can better be 
 Than their rare effects in me ; 
 For, whilst other men complaining 
 Tell their mistresses' disdaining. 
 Free from care I write a story 
 Only of her worth and glory. 
 
 Whilst most lovers pining sit, 
 Robbed of liberty and wit, 
 Vassalling themselves with shame 
 To some proud imperious dame ; 
 Or in songs their fate bewailing, 
 Show the world their faithless failing, 
 I, enwreathed with bows of myrtle, 
 Fare like the belove'd turtle. 
 
 Yea, while most are most untoward, 
 Peevish, vain, inconstant, froward ; 
 While their best contentments bring 
 Nought but after-sorrowing ; 
 She those childish humours slighting, 
 Hath conditions so delighting, 
 And doth so my bliss endeavour, 
 As my joy increaseth ever. 
 
 By her actions, I can see 
 That her passions so agree 
 Unto reason, that they err 
 Seldom to distemper her.
 
 of ptjif arete. 
 
 Love she can, and doth, but so 
 As she will not overthrow 
 Love's content by any folly, 
 Or by deeds that are unholy. 
 Doatingly she ne'er affects, 
 Neither willingly neglects 
 Her honest love, but means doth find 
 With discretion to be kind. 
 'Tis not thundering phrase nor oaths, 
 Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes, 
 That can her good-liking gain, 
 If no other worth remain. 
 
 Never took her heart delight 
 In your court-hermaphrodite, 
 Or such frothy gallants as 
 For the times' heroes pass ; 
 Such who, still in love, do all 
 Fair, and sweet, and lady call, 
 And where'er they hap to stray 
 Either prate the rest away, 
 Or of all discourse to seek, 
 Shuffle in at cent or gleek. 
 
 Goodness more delights her than 
 All their mask of folly can. 
 Fond she hateth to appear, 
 Though she hold her friend as dear 
 As her part of life unspent, 
 Or the heart of her content. 
 If the best of youthful fires 
 Warm her blood with those desires 
 Which are by the course of nature 
 Stirred in every perfect creature ; 
 As those passions kindle, so 
 Doth heaven's grace and reason grow 
 Abler to suppress in her 
 Those rebellions ; and they stir 
 Never more affection than 
 One good thought allays again.
 
 82 JFaitc Firtue 
 
 I could say, so chaste is she 
 As the new-blown roses be, 
 Or the drifts of snow that none 
 Ever touched or looked upon. 
 But that were not worth a fly, 
 Seeing so much chastity 
 Old Pygmalion's picture had : 
 Yea, those eunuchs born or made 
 Ne'er to know desire, might say, 
 She deserved no more than they. 
 Whereas, whilst their worth proceeds 
 From such wants, as they must needs 
 Be unmoved, 'cause nature framed 
 No affections to be tamed, 
 Through her dainty limbs are spread 
 Vigour, heat, and freely shed 
 Lifeblood into every vein, 
 Till they fill and swell again ; 
 And no doubt they strive to force 
 Way in some forbidden course, 
 Which by grace she still resists, 
 And so curbs within their lists 
 Those desires, that she is chaster 
 Than if she had none to master. 
 
 Malice never lets she in ; 
 Neither hates she aught but sin. 
 Envy if she could admit, 
 There's no means to nourish it. 
 For her gentle heart is pleased 
 When she knows another's eased ; 
 And there's none who ever got 
 That perfection she hath not : 
 So, that no cause is there, why 
 She should any one envy". 
 
 Mildly angry she'll appear, 
 That the baser rout may fear 
 Through presumption to misdo : 
 Yet she often feigns that too.
 
 of JBTjtlame. 83 
 
 But let wrong be whatsoever, 
 She gives way to choler never. 
 
 If she e'er of vengeance thought, 
 'Twas nor life nor blood was sought ; 
 But at most some prayer to move 
 Justice for abuse'd love, 
 Or that fate would pay again 
 Love's neglectors with disdain. 
 
 If she ever craved of fate 
 To obtain a higher state, 
 Or ambitiously were given, 
 Sure 'twas but to climb to heaven. 
 Pride is from her heart as far 
 As the poles in distance are ; 
 For her worth not all this praise 
 Can her humble spirit raise 
 Less to prize me than before, 
 Or herself to value more. 
 
 Were she vain, she might allege 
 'Twas her sex's privilege ; 
 But she's such, as doubtless no man 
 Knows less folly in a woman. 
 
 To prevent her being idle, 
 Sometimes with her curious needle, 
 Though it be her meanest glory, 
 She so limns an antique story, 
 As Minerva, would she take it, 
 Might her richest sample make it. 
 
 Other while, again, she rather 
 Labours with delight to gather 
 Knowledge from such learned writs 
 As are left by famous wits ; 
 Where she chiefly seeks to know 
 GOD, herself, and what we owe 
 To our neighbour ; since with these 
 Come all needful knowledges.
 
 84 Jraire Ftttuc 
 
 She with Adam never will 
 Long to learn both good and ill ; 
 But, her state well understood, 
 Rests herself content with good. 
 
 Avarice abhorreth she, 
 As the loathsom'st thing that be ; 
 Since she knows it is an ill 
 That doth ripest virtue kill ; 
 And where'er it comes to rest, 
 Though in some strict matron's breast, 
 Be she ne'er so seeming just, 
 I'll no show of goodness trust : 
 For if you but gold can bring, 
 Such are hired to anything. 
 
 If you think she jealous be, 
 You are wide ; for, credit me, 
 Her strongest jealousies nought are, 
 Other than an honest care 
 Of her friends : and most can tell, 
 Whoso wants that, loves not well. 
 
 Though some little fear she shows, 
 "Tis no more than love allows ; 
 So the passion do not move her 
 Till she grieve or wrong her lover, 
 She may think he may do ill ; 
 Though she'll not believe he will ; 
 Nor can such a harmless thought 
 Blemish true affection aught ; 
 Rather, when as else it would 
 Through security grow cold, 
 This her passion, keeping measure, 
 Strengthens love and sweetens pleasure. 
 
 Cruelty her soul detests ; 
 For within her bosom rests 
 Noblest pity, ushered by 
 An unequalled courtesy, 
 And is grieved at good men's moan, 
 As the grief were all her own.
 
 of Pfrlarete. 85 
 
 Just she is ; so just, that I 
 Know she would not wrong a fly, 
 Or oppress the meanest thing 
 To be mistress to a king. 
 
 If our painters would include 
 Temperance and fortitude 
 In one picture, she would fit 
 For the nonce to pattern it. 
 
 Patient as the lamb is she ; 
 Harmless as the turtles be. 
 Yea, so largely stored with all 
 Which we mortals goodness call, 
 That if ever virtue were, 
 Or may be incarnate here, 
 This is she, whose praises I 
 Offer to eternity. 
 
 She's no image trimmed about, 
 Fair within, and foul without ; 
 But a gem, that doth appear, 
 Like the diamond, everywhere 
 Sparkling rays of beauty forth, 
 All of such unblemished worth, 
 That wer't possible your eye 
 Might her inmost thoughts espy, 
 And behold the dimmest part 
 Of the lustre in her heart, 
 It would find that centre pass 
 What the superficies was ; 
 And that every angle there 
 Like a diamond's inside were. 
 
 For although that excellence 
 Pass the piercing's! eye of sense, 
 By their operations we 
 Guess at things that hidden be. 
 So, beyond our common reach, 
 Wise men can bv reason teach
 
 86 JFaire Uirtue 
 
 What the influences have been 
 Of a planet, when unseen ; 
 Or the beauty of a star 
 That doth shine above us far. 
 So, by that wide beaming light 
 Wherewith Titan courts our sight, 
 By his clothing of the earth, 
 By the wond'rous, varied birth 
 Of new creatures, yearly bred 
 Through his heat and nourished ; 
 And by many virtues moe, 
 Which our senses reach unto, 
 We conclude, they are not all, 
 Which make fair that goodly ball. 
 
 Though she prize her honour more 
 Than the far-fetched precious store 
 Of the rich Molucchi, or 
 All the wealth was trafficked for 
 Since our vessels passage knew 
 Unto Mexico, Peru, 
 Or those spacious kingdoms which 
 Make the proud Iberians rich ; 
 'Tis not that uncertain blast 
 Keeps my mistress good or chaste. 
 She, that but for honour's sake 
 Doth of ill a conscience make ; 
 (More in fear what rumour says 
 Than in love to virtuous ways) 
 Though she seemed more civil than 
 You have seen a courtezan 
 For an honour ; and cries, fie ! 
 At each show of vanity ; 
 Though she with the Roman dame 
 Kill herself to purchase fame ; 
 She would prostitute become 
 To the meanest, basest groom, 
 If so closely they may do it 
 As the world should never know it. 
 So at best those women prove 
 That for honour Virtue love.
 
 of P$tlat. 87 
 
 Give me her that goodness chooseth 
 For its own sake, and refuseth 
 To have greatest honours gained, 
 With her secret conscience stained ; 
 Give me her that would be poor ; 
 Die disgraced ; nay, thought a whore, 
 And each time's reproach become, 
 Till the general day of doom, 
 Rather than consent to act 
 Pleasing sin, though by the fact 
 (With esteem of virtuous) she 
 Might the German empress be. 
 Such my mistress is ; and nought 
 Shall have power to change her thought. 
 Pleasures cannot tempt her eye 
 On their baits to glance awry, 
 For their good she still esteems, 
 As it is', not as it seems ; 
 And she takes no comfort in 
 Sweetest pleasure soured with sin. 
 
 By herself she hath such care, 
 That her actions decent are ; 
 For were she in secret hid, 
 None might see her what she did, 
 She would do, as if for spies 
 Every wall were stuck with eyes ; 
 And be chary of her honour, 
 'Cause the heavens do look upon her. 
 And, O what had power to move 
 Flames of lust, or wanton love, 
 So far to disparage us, 
 If we all were minded thus? 
 These are beauties that shall last 
 When the crimson blood shall waste, 
 And the shining hair wax grey, 
 Or with age be borne away : 
 These yield pleasures, such as might 
 Be remembered with delight, 
 When we gasp our latest breath 
 On the loathed bed of death.
 
 JFatre Firtue 
 
 Though discreetly speak she can, 
 She'll be silent rather than 
 Talk while others may be heard ; 
 As if she did hate or feared 
 Their condition, who will force 
 All to wait on their discourse. 
 Reason hath on her bestowed 
 More of knowledge than she owed 
 To that sex ; and grace with it 
 Doth aright her practice fit. 
 
 Yet hath fate so framed her 
 As she may at sometime err ; 
 But if e'er her judgment stray, 
 Tis that other women may 
 Those much pleasing beauties see 
 Which in yielding natures be. 
 For, since no perfection can 
 Here on earth be found in man, 
 There's more good in free submissions 
 Than there's ill in our transgressions. 
 Should you hear her once contend 
 In discoursing to defend 
 (As she can) a doubtful cause, 
 She such strong positions draws 
 From known truths, and doth apply 
 Reasons with such majesty, 
 As if she did undertake 
 From some oracle to speak ; 
 And you could not think what might 
 Breed more love or more delight. 
 
 Yet, if you should mark again 
 Her discreet behaviour, when 
 She finds reason to repent 
 Some wrong-pleaded argument, 
 She so temperately lets all 
 Her misheld opinions fall, 
 And can with such mildness bow, 
 As 'twill more enamour vou
 
 of pijtiarere. 89 
 
 Than her knowledge ; for, there are 
 Pleasing sweets without compare 
 In such yieldings, which do prove 
 Wit, humility, and love. 
 Yea, by those mistakings, you 
 Her condition so shall know, 
 And the nature of her mind 
 So undoubtedly shall find, 
 As will make her more endeared 
 Than if she had never erred. 
 
 Farther, that she nought may miss 
 Which worth praise in woman is, 
 This unto the rest I add ; 
 If I wound or sickness had, 
 None should for my curing run, 
 No, not to Apollo's son ; 
 She so well the virtue knows 
 Of each needful herb that grows, 
 And so fitly can apply 
 Salves to every malady, 
 That if she no succour gave me, 
 'Twere no means of art could save me. 
 
 Should my soul oppressed lie, 
 Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh, 
 She hath balm for minds distrest, 
 And could ease my paindd breast ; 
 She so well knows how to season 
 Passionate discourse with reason, 
 And knows how to sweeten it 
 Both with so much love and wit, 
 That it shall prepare the sense 
 To give way with less offence ; 
 For grieved minds can ill abide 
 Counsel churlishly applied ; 
 Which, instead of comfortings, 
 Desperation often brings. 
 
 But hark ye, nymphs ! methinks I hear 
 Music sounding in mine ear.
 
 90 JFatrc Utrtue 
 
 "Tis a lute ; and he's the best 
 
 For a voice in all the west, 
 
 That doth touch it. And the swain 
 
 I would have you hear so fain, 
 
 That my song forbear will I 
 
 To attend his melody. 
 
 Hither comes he, day by day, 
 In these groves to sing and play ; 
 And in yon close arbour he 
 Sitteth now, expecting me. 
 He so bashful is, that mute 
 Will his tongue be and his lute, 
 Should he happen to espy 
 This unlocked for company. 
 
 If you, therefore, like to hear him, 
 Let's with silence walk more near him. 
 'Twill be worth your pains, believe me, 
 If a voice content may give ye ; 
 And await you shall not long, 
 For he now begins a song. 
 
 WHAT is the cause, when elsewhere I resort, 
 
 I have my gestures and discourse more free ? 
 And, if I please, can any beauty court, 
 
 Yet stand so dull and so demure by thee ? 
 Why are my speeches broken whilst I talk ? 
 
 Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch ? 
 Why dare I not embrace thee as we walk, 
 
 Since with the greatest nymphs I've dared as 
 
 much? 
 Ah ! know that none of those I e'er affected ; 
 
 And therefore, used a careless courtship there ; 
 Because I neither their disdain respected, 
 
 Nor reckoned them nor their embraces dear. 
 But, loving thee, my love hath found content, 
 And rich delight in things indifferent.
 
 S9iStreiS0 of pjjilarete. 91 
 
 WHY covet I thy blessed eyes to see, 
 
 Whose sweet aspect may cheer the saddest mind ? 
 Why, when our bodies must divided be, 
 
 Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find ? 
 Why do I sleeping start, and waking moan, 
 
 To find that of my dreame'd hopes I miss ? 
 Why do I often contemplate alone 
 
 Of such a thing as thy perfection is ? 
 And wherefore, when we meet, doth passion stop 
 
 My speechless tongue, and leave me in a panting ? 
 Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and 
 hope 
 
 (In spite of reason), almost droop to fainting? 
 Because in me thy excellences moving 
 Have drawn me to an excellence in loving. 
 
 FAIR, since thy virtues my affections move, 
 
 And I have vowed my purpose is to join 
 In an eternal band of chastest love 
 
 Our souls, to make a marriage most divine, 
 Why (thou may'st think) then seemeth he to prize 
 
 An outward beauty's fading hue so much? 
 Why doth he read such lectures in mine eyes, 
 
 Arid often strive my tender palm to touch? 
 Oh, pardon my presuming ; for I swear, 
 
 My love is soiled with no lustful spot ; 
 Thy soul's perfections through those veils appear ; 
 
 And I half faint, that I embrace them not. 
 No foul desires doth make thy touches sweet, 
 But my soul striveth with thy soul to meet. 
 
 SHALL I, wasting in despair, 
 Die, because a woman's fair? 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care, 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 Be she fairer than the day, 
 Or the flow'ry meads in May ; 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how fair she be.
 
 92 jFat're Firme 
 
 Should my heart be grieved or pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind? 
 Or a well-dispose'd nature 
 Joined with a lovely creature ? 
 Be she meeker, kinder, than 
 Turtle-dove or pelican : 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how kind she be. 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well-deserving known, 
 Make me quite forget mine own ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may gain her name of best : 
 If she be not such to me, 
 What care I how good she be. 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die ? 
 Those that bear a noble mind. 
 Where they want of riches find, 
 Think what with them they would do 
 That without them dare to woo. 
 And unless that mind I see, 
 What care I though great she be. 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair ; 
 If she love me, this believe, 
 I will die ere she shall grieve. 
 If she slight me, when I woo, 
 I can scorn, and let her go. 
 For, if she be not for me, 
 What care I for whom she be. 
 
 I WANDERED out awhile agone, 
 And went I knew not whither ; 
 
 But there do beauties, many a one. 
 Resort, and meet together ; 
 
 And Cupid's power will there be shown, 
 If ever vou come thither.
 
 of Pljilatetc. 93 
 
 For, like two suns, two beauties bright, 
 
 I shining saw together ; 
 And, tempted by their double light, 
 
 My eyes I fixed on either : 
 Till both at once so thralled my sight, 
 
 I loved and knew not whether. 
 
 Such equal sweetness Venus gave, 
 That I preferred not either ; 
 
 And when for love I thought to crave, 
 I knew not well of whether. 
 
 For one while this I wished to have, 
 And then I that had liefer. 
 
 A lover of the curioust eye 
 
 Might have been pleased in either ; 
 And so, I must confess, might I, 
 
 Had they not been together. 
 Now, both must love, or both deny ; 
 
 In one enjoy I neither. 
 
 But yet at last I 'scaped the smart 
 
 I feared at coming hither ; 
 For, seeing my divided heart, 
 
 I choosing, knew not whether, 
 Love angry grew, and did depart ; 
 
 And now I care for neither. 
 
 SEE, these trees so ill did hide us 
 That the shepherd hath espied us, 
 And (as jealous of his cunning) 
 All in haste away is running. 
 To entreat him back again 
 Would be labour spent in vain. 
 You may therefore now betake ye 
 To the music I can make ye, 
 Who do purpose my invention, 
 Shall pursue my first intention. 
 For in her whose worth I tell, 
 Many excellences dwell 
 Yet unmentioned, whose perfections 
 Worthy are of best affections.
 
 94 JFafre Ftrtue 
 
 That, which is so rare to find 
 Both in man and womankind ; 
 That, whose absence love defaceth. 
 And both sexes more disgraceth 
 Than the spite of furrowed age, 
 Sicknesses, or sorrow's rage ; 
 That's the jewel so divine, 
 Which doth on her forehead shine : 
 And therewith endowed is she, 
 In an excellent degree ; 
 Constancy, I mean, the purest 
 Of all beauties, and the surest ; 
 
 This, a servant made me sworn, 
 Who before-time, held in scorn 
 To yield vassalage, or duty, 
 Though unto the queen of beauty. 
 Yet, that I her servant am, 
 It shall more be to my fame 
 Than to own these woods and downs, 
 Or be lord of fifty towns ; 
 And my mistress to be deemed, 
 Shall more honour be esteemed 
 Than those titles to acquire 
 Which most women most desire. 
 Yea, when you a woman shall 
 Countess or a duchess call, 
 That respect it shall not move, 
 Neither gain her half such love 
 As to say, lo ! this is she 
 That supposed is to be 
 Mistress to Phil'arete", 
 And that lovely nymph, which he, 
 In a pastoral poem famed, 
 And Fair Virtue there hath named. 
 Yea, some ladies (ten to one) 
 If not many now unknown, 
 Will be very well apaid 
 When by chance she hears it said, 
 She, that fair one is, whom I 
 Here have praised concealedly.
 
 (39ts!tre0]S of ptjilarete. 95 
 
 And, though now this age's pride 
 May so brave a hope deride ; 
 Yet, when all their glories pass 
 As the thing that never was, 
 And on monuments appear, 
 That they e'er had breathing here, 
 Who envy 1 it ; she shall thrive 
 In her fame, and honoured live, 
 Whilst Great Britain's shepherds sing 
 English in their sonneting. 
 And whoe'er in future days 
 Shall bestow the utmost praise 
 On his love that any man 
 Attribute to creature can, 
 'Twill be this, that he hath dared 
 His and mine to have compared. 
 
 O what stars did shine on me, 
 When her eyes I first did see ! 
 And how good was their aspect, 
 When we first did both affect ! 
 
 For, I never since to changing 
 Was inclined, or thought of ranging. 
 
 Me so oft my fancy drew 
 Here and there, that I ne'er knew 
 Where to place desire before 
 So that range it might no more 
 But, as he that passeth by 
 Where, in all her jollity, 
 Flora's riches in a row 
 Doth in seemly order grow, 
 And a thousand flowers stand 
 Bending, as to kiss his hand ; 
 Out of which delightful store 
 One he may take, and no more. 
 Long he pausing, doubteth whether 
 Of those fair ones he should gather. 
 
 First, the primrose courts his eyes, 
 Then the cowslip he espies ;
 
 96 JFatte Utrtue 
 
 Next the pansy seems to woo him, 
 Then carnations bow unto him ; 
 Which, whilst that enamoured swain 
 From the stalk intends to strain, 
 As half-fearing to be seen 
 Prettily her leaves between 
 Peeps the violet, pale, to see 
 That her virtues slighted be ; 
 Which so much his liking wins, 
 That to seize her he begins. 
 Yet, before he stooped so low, 
 He his wanton eye did throw 
 On a stem that grew more high, 
 And the rose did there espy, 
 Who, besides her precious scent 
 To procure his eyes content, 
 Did display her goodly breast, 
 Where he found at full exprest 
 All the good that nature showers 
 On a thousand other flowers. 
 Wherewith he, affected, takes it ; 
 His beloved flower he makes it, 
 And, without desire of more, 
 Walks through all he saw before. 
 
 So I, wandering but erewhile, 
 Through the garden of this isle, 
 Saw rich beauties I confess, 
 And in number, numberless. 
 Yea, so differing lovely too, 
 That I had a world to do 
 Ere I could set up my rest, 
 Where to choose and choose the best. 
 
 One I saw, whose hair excelled, 
 On another's brow there dwelled 
 Such a majesty, it seemed 
 She was best to be esteemed. 
 
 This had with her speeches won me ; 
 That with silence had undone me.
 
 of jpjjtlame. 97 
 
 On her lips the graces hung ; 
 
 The other charmed me with her tongue. 
 
 In her eyes a third did bear, 
 
 That which did anew ensnare. 
 
 Then a fourth did fairer show ; 
 
 Yet wherein I did not know, 
 
 Only this perceived I, 
 
 Somewhat pleased my fantasy. 
 
 Now the Wealth I most esteemed ; 
 
 Honour then I better deemed ; 
 
 Next the love of Beauty seized me, 
 
 And then Virtue better pleased me. 
 
 Juno's love I nought esteemed, 
 
 Whilst a Venus fairer seemed ; 
 
 Nay, both could not me suffice, 
 
 Whilst a Pallas was more wise. 
 
 Though I found enough in one 
 
 To content if still alone. 
 
 Amarillis I did woo, 
 And I courted Phillis too ; 
 Daphne, for her love, I chose ; 
 Cloris, for that damask rose 
 In her cheek, I held as dear ; 
 Yea, a thousand liked well near. 
 And, in love with all together, 
 Feare'd the enjoying either ; 
 'Cause to be of one possest, 
 Barred the hope of all the rest. 
 
 Thus I fondly feared, till fate, 
 Which (I must confess in that 
 Did a greater favour to me 
 Than the world can malice do me) 
 Showed to me that matchless flower, 
 Subject for this song of our. 
 Whose perfection having eyed, 
 Reason instantly espied 
 That desire (which ranged abroad) 
 There would find a period.
 
 jfatre Ftrtue 
 
 And no marvel if it might, 
 For it there hath all delight, 
 And in her hath nature placed 
 What each several fair one graced. 
 
 Nor am I alone delighted 
 With those graces all united, 
 Which the sense's eye doth find 
 Scattered throughout womankind ; 
 But my reason finds perfections 
 To inflame my soul's affections. 
 Yea, such virtues she possesseth, 
 As with firmest pleasures blesseth ; 
 And keeps sound that beauty's state. 
 Which would else grow ruinate. 
 
 In this flower are sweets such store, 
 I shall never wish for more ; 
 Nor be tempted out to stray 
 For the fairest buds in May. 
 
 Let who list (for me) advance 
 The admired flowers of France ; 
 Let who will praise and behold 
 The reserved marigold ; 
 Let the sweet-breathed violet now, 
 Unto whom she pleaseth, bow ; 
 And the fairest lily spread, 
 Where she will, her golden head : 
 I have such a flower to wear 
 That for those I do not care. 
 
 Never shall my fancy range, 
 Nor once think again of change ; 
 Never will I, never more, 
 Grieve or sigh, as heretofore ; 
 Nor within the lodgings lie 
 Of despair or jealousy. 
 
 Let the young and happy swains, 
 Playing on the Britain plains,
 
 of Pfcttarete. 99 
 
 Court unblamed their shepherdesses, 
 And with their gold curled tresses, 
 Toy uncensured until I 
 Grudge at their prosperity. 
 
 Let all times, both present, past, 
 And the age that shall be last, 
 Vaunt the beauties they bring forth. 
 I have found in one such worth, 
 That, content, I neither care 
 What the best before me were ; 
 Nor desire to live and see 
 Who shall fair hereafter be. 
 For I know the hand of nature 
 Will not make a fairer creature. 
 
 Which, because succeeding days 
 Shall confess, and add their praise 
 In approving, what my tongue, 
 Ere they had their being, sung : 
 Once again, come, lend an ear, 
 And a rapture you shall hear 
 (Though I taste no Thespian spring), 
 Will amaze you, whilst I sing. 
 I do feel new strains inspiring, 
 And to such brave heights aspiring, 
 That my Muse will touch a key 
 Higher than you heard to-day. 
 
 I have beauties to unfold 
 That deserve a pen of gold ; 
 Sweets that never dreamed of were ; 
 Things unknown, and such as ear 
 Never heard a measure sound, 
 Since the sun first ran his round. 
 
 When Apelles, limned to life 
 Loath6d Vulcan's lovely wife, 
 With such beauties he did trim 
 Each sweet feature, and each limb,
 
 JFaire iJtrttte 
 
 And so curiously did place 
 
 Every well-becoming grace, 
 
 That 'twas said, ere he could draw 
 
 Such a piece, he naked saw 
 
 Many women in their prime, 
 
 And the fairest of that time, 
 
 From all which he parts did take, 
 
 Which aright disposed, make 
 
 Perfect beauty. So, when you 
 
 Know what I have yet to show, 
 
 It will seem to pass so far 
 
 Those things that expressed are, 
 
 That you will suppose I've been 
 
 Privileged, where I have seen 
 
 All the good that's spread in parts, 
 
 Through a thousand women's hearts, 
 
 With their fair'st conditions lie 
 
 Bare, without hypocrisy ; 
 
 And that I have took from thence 
 
 Each dispersed excellence, 
 
 To express her who hath gained 
 
 More than ever one obtained. 
 
 And yet, soft ! I fear in vain 
 I have boasted such a strain ; 
 Apprehensions ever are 
 Greater than expression far. 
 And my striving to disclose 
 What I know, hath made me lose 
 My invention's better part ; 
 And my hopes exceed my art. 
 
 Speak I can, yet think I more ; 
 Words, compared with thoughts, are poor. 
 And I find, had I begun 
 Such a strain, it would be done 
 When we number all the sands 
 Washed o'er perjured Goodwin's lands ; 
 For of things I should indite, 
 Which I know are infinite.
 
 of pfjilarete. 
 
 I do yield ; my thoughts did climb 
 Far above the power of rhyme ; 
 And no wonder it is so, 
 Since there is no art can show 
 Red in roses, white in snow ; 
 Nor express how they do grow. 
 Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree 
 (That inferior creatures be) 
 Beauties have, which we confess, 
 Lines unable to express ; 
 They more hardly can enroll 
 Those that do adorn a soul. 
 But, suppose my measures could 
 Reach the height I thought they would, 
 Now relate I would not, though, 
 What did swell within me so. 
 For if I should all descry, 
 You would know as much as I ; 
 And those clowns the Muses hate 
 Would of things above them prate, 
 Or with their profaning eyes 
 Come to view those mysteries 
 Whereof (since they disesteemed them) 
 Heaven hath unworthy deemed them. 
 
 And, beside, it seems to me 
 That your ears nigh tire'd be. 
 I perceive, the fire that charmeth 
 And inspireth me, scarce warmeth 
 Your chill hearts. Nay, sure were I 
 Melted into poesy, 
 I should not a measure hit, 
 (Though Apollo prompted it) 
 Which would able be to leave 
 That in you which I conceive. 
 
 You are cold, and here I may 
 Waste my vital heat away, 
 Ere you will be moved so much 
 As to feel one perfect touch
 
 102 JFatrt Uittue 
 
 Of those sweets which, yet concealed, 
 Swell my breast to be revealed. 
 
 Now my words I therefore cease, 
 That my mounting thoughts, in peace, 
 May alone those pleasures share 
 Whereof lines unworthy are. 
 And so you an end do see 
 Of my song, though long it be. 
 
 No sooner had the shepherd Phil'arete 
 To this description his last period set, 
 But instantly, descending from a wood 
 (Which on a rising ground adjoining stood) 
 A troop of satyrs, to the view of all, 
 Came dancing of a new-devised brawl. 
 The measures they did pace by him were taught 
 
 them, 
 
 Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them, 
 That he had learned their rudeness, and observing 
 Of such respect unto the well-deserving, 
 As they became to no men else a terror, 
 But such as did persist in wilful error ; 
 And they the ladies made no whit afraid, 
 Though since that time they some great men have 
 
 scared. 
 
 Their dance, the ''Whipping of Abuse," they 
 
 named ; 
 And though the shepherd, since that, hath been 
 
 blamed, 
 
 Yet now 'tis daily seen in every town, 
 And there's no country-dance that's better known ; 
 Nor that hath gained a greater commendation 
 'Mongst those that love an honest recreation. 
 
 This scene presented, from a grove was heard 
 A set of viols ; and there was prepared
 
 of Pfjtlarcte. 103 
 
 A country banquet, which this shepherd made, 
 To entertain the ladies in the shade, 
 And 'tis supposed his song prolonged was 
 Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass. 
 So well it was performed, that each one deemed 
 The banquet might the city have beseemed. 
 Yet better was their welcome than their fare ; 
 Which they perceived, and the merrier were. 
 
 One beauty though there sat among the rest, 
 That looked as sad, as if her heart opprest 
 With love had been. Whom Phil'arete beholding 
 Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding ; 
 
 " Lady," quoth he, " am I, or this poor cheer, 
 The cause that you so melancholy are ? 
 For if the object of your thoughts be higher, 
 It fits not me to know them, nor inquire. 
 But if from me it cometh that offends, 
 I seek the cause, that I may make amends." 
 
 " Kind swain," said she, " it is nor so, nor so, 
 No fault in you, nor in your cheer, I know. 
 Nor do I think there is a thought in me 
 That can too worthy of your knowledge be. 
 Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had 
 Than here I find, though I have seemed sad. 
 
 " My heart is sometime heavy when I smile ; 
 And when I grieve I often sing the while. 
 Nor is it sadness that doth me possess, 
 But rather musing, with much seriousness, 
 Upon that multitude of sighs and tears, 
 With those innumerable doubts and fears 
 Through which you passe'd, ere you could acquire 
 A settled hope of gaining your desire. 
 For you dared love a nymph so great and fair 
 As might have brought a prince unto despair, 
 And sure, the excellency of your passions 
 Did then produce as excellent expressions.
 
 104 jFatre Ftrtue 
 
 " If, therefore, me the suit may well become, 
 And if to you it be not wearisome, 
 In name of all these ladies, I entreat 
 That one of those sad strains you would repeat 
 Which you composed when greatest discontent 
 Unsought-for help to your invention lent." 
 
 " Fair nymph," said Phil'arete, "I will do so ; 
 For though your shepherd doth no courtship know, 
 He hath humanity ; and what's in me 
 To do you service, may commanded be. " 
 
 So taking down a lute that near him hung, 
 He gave't his boy, who played, whilst this he 
 sung :
 
 of pjjtlame. 105 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 Am I the swain 
 
 That late from sorrow free 
 
 - Did all the cares on earth disdain ? 
 
 And still untouched, as at some safer games. 
 
 Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames? 
 
 Was't I could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will I 
 
 And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still! 
 
 And am I now, O heavens ! for trying this in vain, 
 
 So sunk that I shall never rise again? 
 
 Then let despair set sorrow's string, 
 
 For strains that doleful be ; 
 
 And I will sing, 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 But why, 
 
 O fatal time. 
 
 Dost thou constrain that I 
 
 Should perish in my youth's sweet prime ? 
 
 I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers !) 
 
 In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers. 
 
 And yet unscorned, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she, 
 
 That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see I 
 
 Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress ; 
 
 Yet I, poor I ! must perish ne'ertheless. 
 
 And (which much more augments my care) 
 
 Unmoaned I inn -t die, 
 
 And no man e'er 
 
 Know why. 
 
 Thy leave. 
 
 My dying song. 
 
 Yet take, ere grief bereave 
 
 The breath which I enjoy too long. 
 
 Tell thou that fair one this : my soul prefers 
 
 Her love above my life ; and that I died her's : 
 
 And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear. 
 
 Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here. 
 
 And now farewell ! thou place of my unhappy birth, 
 
 Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth : 
 
 Since me my wonted joys forsake, 
 
 And all my trust deceive ; 
 
 Of all I take 
 
 My leave. 
 
 E 2
 
 106 jraire Utrtue 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Sweet groves, to you ! 
 
 You hills, that highest dwell ; 
 
 And all you humble vales, adieu ! 
 
 You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks. 
 
 My dear companions all ! and you, my tender flocks ! 
 
 Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moviug strains 
 
 Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains! 
 
 You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart 
 
 Have, without pity, broke the truest heart) 
 
 Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy, 
 
 That erst did with me dwell, 
 
 And all other joys, 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Adieu! 
 
 Fair shepherdesses ! 
 
 Let garlands of sad yew 
 
 Adorn your dainty golden tresses. 
 
 I, that loved you, and often with my quill, 
 
 Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill; 
 
 I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace, 
 
 Yea, with a thousand rather favours) would vouchsafe to grace. 
 
 I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain ; 
 
 And never pipe, nor never sing again ! 
 
 I must, for evermore, be gone; 
 
 And therefore bid I you, 
 
 And every one. 
 
 Adieu! 
 
 I die ! ! 
 
 For, oh ! I feel 
 
 Death's horrors drawing nigh, 
 
 And all this frame of nature reel. 
 
 My hopeless heart, despairing of relief. 
 
 Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief; 
 
 Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein, 
 
 All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again 
 
 My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round 
 
 A shuddering dullness doth each sense confound 
 
 Benumbed is my cold sweating brow 
 
 A dimness shuts my eye. 
 
 And now, oh ! now, 
 
 I die : 1
 
 of Pfrlatete. 107 
 
 So mournfully these lines he did express, 
 And to a tune so full of heaviness, 
 As if indeed his purpose had been past, 
 To live no longer than the song did last ; 
 Which in the nymphs such tender passions bred, 
 That some of them did tears of pity shed. 
 
 This, she perceiving who first craved the song ; 
 " Shepherd," she said, " although it be no wrong 
 Nor grief to you those passions to recall 
 Which heretofore you have been pained withal, 
 But comforts rather ; since they now are over, 
 And you, it seemeth, an enjoying lover ; 
 Yet some young nymphs among us I do see, 
 Who so much move'd with your passions be 
 That, if my aim I taken have aright, 
 Their thoughts will hardly let them sleep to-night. 
 
 " I dare not, therefore, beg of you again 
 To sing another of the self-same strain, 
 For fear it breed within them more unrest 
 Than women's weaknesses can well digest. 
 Yet in your measures such content you have, 
 That one song more I will presume to crave., 
 And if your memory preserves, of those 
 Which you of your affections did compose 
 Before you saw this mistress. Let us hear 
 What kind of passions then within you were." 
 
 To which request he instantly obeyed, 
 And this ensuing song both sung and played. 
 
 You gentle nymphs, that on these meadows play, 
 And oft relate the loves of shepherds young ; 
 
 Come, sit you down, for if you please to stay, 
 Now may you hear an uncouth passion sung. 
 
 A lad there is, and I am that poor groom, 
 
 That's fallen in love, and cannot tell with whom.
 
 io8 JFatre Ftttue 
 
 Oh ! do not smile at sorrows as a jest ; 
 
 With others' cares good natures move'd be ; 
 And I should weep, if you had my unrest. 
 
 Then, at my grief, how can you merry be? 
 Ah ! where is tender pity now become ? 
 I am in love, and cannot tell with whom. 
 
 I that have oft the rarest features viewed, 
 And beauty in her best perfection seen ; 
 
 I that have laughed at them that love pursued, 
 And ever free from such affections been : 
 
 Lo ! now, at last, so cruel is my doom 
 
 I am in love, and cannot tell with whom. 
 
 My heart is full nigh bursting with desire, 
 Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow ; 
 
 My breast doth burn but she that lights the fire 
 I never saw, nor can I come to know. 
 
 So great a bliss my fortune keeps me from, 
 
 That, though I dearly love, I know not whom. 
 
 Ere I had twice four springs renewed seen, 
 The force of beauty I began to prove ; 
 
 And ere I nine years old had fully been. 
 It taught me how to frame a song of love. 
 
 And little thought I this day should have come, 
 
 Before that I to love had found out whom. 
 
 For on my chin the mossy down you see, 
 
 And in my veins well-heated blood doth glow ; 
 
 Of summers I have seen twice three times three, 
 And fast my youthful time away doth go : 
 
 That much I fear I age"d shall become, 
 
 And still complain I love I know not whom. 
 
 Oh ! why had I a heart bestowed on me, 
 To cherish dear affections, so inclined ; 
 
 Since I am so unhappy born, to be 
 No object for so true a love to find. 
 
 When I am dead, it will be missed of some ; 
 
 Yet, now I live I love, I know not whom. 
 
 I to a thousand beauteous nymphs am known ; 
 
 A hundred ladies' favours do I wear. 
 I with as many half in love am grown, 
 
 Yet none of them, I find, can be my dear. 
 Methinks I have a mistress yet to come, 
 Which makes me sing I love I know not whom.
 
 0i$!trei5iS of l^ilarere. 109 
 
 There lives no swain doth stronger passion prove, 
 For her whom most he covets to possess, 
 
 Than doth my heart, that being full of love, 
 Knows not to whom it may the same profess. 
 
 For, he that is despised hath sorrow some ; 
 
 But he hath more that loves, and knows not whom. 
 
 Knew I my love, as many others do, 
 
 To some one object might my thoughts be bent ; 
 So they divided should not wandering go, 
 
 Until the soul's united force be spent. 
 As his that seeks, and never finds a home : 
 Such is my rest that love, and know not whom. 
 
 Those whom the frowns of jealous friends divide, 
 May live to meet, and descant on their woe ; 
 
 And he hath gained a lady for his bride, 
 That durst not woo her maid awhile ago. 
 
 But oh ! what end unto my hopes can come? 
 
 That am in love, and cannot tell with whom. 
 
 Poor Colin grieves that he was late disdained ; 
 
 And Cloris doth for Willy's absence pine. 
 Sad Thyrsis weeps for his sick Phoebe pained, 
 
 But all their sorrows cannot equal mine. 
 A greater care, alas ! on me is come 
 I am in love, and cannot tell with whom. 
 
 Narcissus-like, did I affect my shade, 
 Some shadow yet I had to doat upon ; 
 
 Or did I love some passage of the dead, 
 Whose substance had not breathed long agone, 
 
 I might despair, and so an end would come ; 
 
 But oh, I love ! and cannot tell you whom. 
 
 Once, in a dream, methought my love I viewed ; 
 
 But never, waking, could her face behold : 
 And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed, 
 
 That more my tir6d heart torment it should. 
 For since that time more grieved I am become, 
 And more in love I cannot tell with whom. 
 
 When on my bed at night to rest I lie, 
 
 My watchful eyes with tears bedew my cheek ; 
 
 And then, " O would it once were day ! " I cry : 
 Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek. 
 
 For who can tell, though all the earth he roam, 
 
 Or when, or where, to find he knows not whom ?
 
 no JFatte Utrtue 
 
 Oh ! if she be among the beauteous trains 
 Of all you nymphs that haunt the silver rills ; 
 
 Or if you know her, ladies of the plains, 
 Or you that have your bowers on the hills, 
 
 Tell, if you can, who will my love become ; 
 
 Or I shall die ! and never know for whom. 
 
 THE ladies smiled oft when this they heard, 
 Because the passion strange to them appeared. 
 And stranger was it, since, by his expression 
 (As well as by his own unfeigned confession), 
 It seemed true : but having sung it out, 
 And seeing scarcely manners they it thought 
 To urge him farther ; thus to them he spake : 
 Fair ladies ! forasmuch as doubt you make 
 To re-command me, of my own accord, 
 Another strain I freely will afford. 
 
 It shall not be of love, nor any song 
 Which to the praise of beauty doth belong ; 
 But that hereafter, when you hence are gone, 
 Your shepherd may be sometime thought upon. 
 To show you also what content the field 
 And lovely grove to honest minds may yield. 
 That you my humble fate may not despise, 
 When you return unto your braveries ; 
 And not suppose, that in these homely bowers, 
 I hug my fortune, "cause I know not yours. 
 Such lines I'll sing, as were composed by me 
 When some proud courtiers, where I happed to be, 
 Did, like themselves, of their own glories prate, 
 As in contempt of my more happy state. 
 And these they be : 
 
 LORDLY gallants ! tell me this 
 
 (Though my safe content you weigh not), 
 In your greatness, what one bliss 
 
 Have you gained, that I enjoy not?
 
 of 
 
 You have honours, you have wealth ; 
 I have peace, and I have health : 
 All the day I merry make, 
 And at night no care J take. 
 
 Bound to none my fortunes be, 
 
 This or that man's fall I fear not ; 
 Him I love that loveth me, 
 For the rest a pin I care not. 
 You are sad when others chafe, 
 And grow merry as they laugh ; 
 I that hate it, and am free, 
 Laugh and weep as pleaseth me. 
 
 You may boast of favours shown , 
 Where your service is applied ; 
 But my pleasures are mine own, 
 And to no man's humour tied. 
 You oft flatter, sooth, and feign ; 
 I such baseness do disdain ; 
 And to none be slave I would, 
 Though my fetters might be gold. 
 
 By great titles, some believe, 
 
 Highest honours are attained ; 
 And yet kings have power to give 
 
 To their fools, what these have gained. 
 Where they favour there they may 
 All their names of honour lay ; 
 But I look not raised to be, 
 'Till mine own wing carry me. 
 
 Seek to raise your titles higher ; 
 
 They are toys not worth my sorrow : 
 Those that we to-day admire, 
 Prove the age's scorn to-morrow. 
 Take your honours ; let me find 
 Virtue in a free-born mind 
 This, the greatest kings that be 
 Cannot give, nor take from me. 
 
 Though I vainly do not vaunt 
 
 Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure ; 
 I have favours where you want, 
 That would buy respect with treasure. 
 You have lands lie here and there, 
 But my wealth is everywhere ; 
 And this addeth to my store 
 Fortune cannot make me poor.
 
 JFatre Firtue 
 
 Say you purchase with your pelf 
 
 Some respect, where you importune ; 
 Those may love me for myself, 
 That regard you for your fortune. 
 Rich or born of high degree, 
 Fools as well as you may be ; 
 But that peace in which I live 
 No descent nor wealth can give. 
 
 If you boast that you may gain 
 
 The respect of high-born beauties ; 
 Know I never wooed in vain, 
 Nor preferred scorne'd duties. 
 She I love hath all delight. 
 Rosy-red with lily-white, 
 And whoe'er your mistress be, 
 Flesh and blood as good as she. 
 
 Note of me was never took, 
 
 For my woman-like perfections ; 
 But so like a man I look, 
 It hath gained me best affections. 
 For my love as many showers 
 Have been wept as have for yours : 
 And yet none doth me condemn 
 For abuse, or scorning them. 
 
 Though of dainties you have store, 
 
 To delight a choicer palate, 
 Yet your taste is pleased no more 
 Than is mine in one poor sallet. 
 You to please your senses feed, 
 But I eat good blood to breed ; 
 And am most delighted than 
 When I spend it like a man. 
 
 Though you lord it over me, 
 
 You in vain thereof have braved ; 
 For those lusts my servants be 
 Whereunto your minds are slaved. 
 To yourselves you wise appear, 
 But, alas ! deceived you are ; 
 You do foolish me esteem, 
 And are that which I do seem. 
 
 When your faults I open lay, 
 
 You are moved, and mad with vexing ; 
 But you ne'er could do or say 
 
 Aught to drive me to perplexing.
 
 of pTjilarete. 113 
 
 Therefore, my despised power 
 Greater is, by far, than your. 
 And, whate'er you think of me, 
 In your minds you poorer be. 
 
 You are pleased, more or less, 
 
 As men well or ill report you ; 
 And show discontentedness, 
 
 When the times forbear to court you. 
 That in which my pleasures be, 
 No man can divide from me ; 
 And my care it adds not to, 
 Whatso others say or do. 
 
 Be not proud, because you view 
 
 You by thousands are attended ; 
 For, alas ! it is not you, 
 
 But your fortune that's befriended. 
 Where I show of love have got, 
 Such a danger fear I not : 
 Since they nought can seek of me, 
 But for love, beloved to be. 
 
 When your hearts have everything, 
 
 You are pleasantly disposed : 
 But I can both laugh and sing, 
 Though my foes have me enclosed. 
 Yea, when dangers me do hem, 
 I delight in scorning them, 
 More than you in your renown, 
 Or a king can in his crown. 
 
 You do bravely domineer, 
 
 Whilst the sun upon you shineth : 
 Yet, if any storm appear, 
 
 Basely, then, your mind declineth. 
 But, or shine, or rain, or blow, 
 I my resolutions know 
 Living, dying, thrall, or free, 
 At one height my mind shall be. 
 
 When in thraldom I have lain, 
 
 Me not worth your thought you prized ; 
 But your malice was in vain, 
 For your favours I despised. 
 And, howe'er you value me, 
 I with praise shall thought on be 
 When the world esteems you not 
 And your names shall be forgot.
 
 ii4 JFatre TJtrtue 
 
 In these thoughts my riches are ; 
 
 Now, though poor or mean you deem me, 
 I am pleased, and do not care 
 How the times or you esteem me. 
 For those toys that make you gay 
 Are but play-games for a day : 
 And when nature craves her due, 
 I as brave shall be as you. 
 
 HERE Phil'arete did give his song an ending, 
 To which the nymphs, so seriously attending, 
 About him sate, as if they had supposed 
 He still had somewhat more to be disclosed. 
 And well they knew not whether did belong 
 Most praise unto the shepherd or his song. 
 For though, they must confess, they often hear 
 Those lays which much more deeply learned are, 
 Yet, when they well considered of the place, 
 With how unlikely, in their thought, it was 
 To give them hope of hearing such a strain ; 
 Or that so young and so obscure a swain 
 Should such a matchless beauty's favour get, 
 And know her worth so well, to sing of it ; 
 They wondered at it. And some thus surmised, 
 That he a greater man was so disguised ; 
 Or else that she whom he so much had praised 
 Some goddess was : that those his measures raised 
 Of purpose, to that rare-attained height, 
 In envy's and presuming art's despite. 
 
 But, whilst they musing with themselves be- 
 thought 
 
 Which way out of this shepherd to have wrought 
 What nymph this fair one was, and where she 
 
 lived 
 
 Lo ! at that very instant there arrived 
 Three men, that by their habits courtiers seemed ; 
 For, though obscure, by some he is esteemed
 
 of p^tlarcte. 115 
 
 Among the greatest ; who do not contemn 
 
 In his retired walks to visit him. 
 
 And there they taste those pleasures of the mind, 
 
 Which they can nor in court nor city find. 
 
 Some news or message these new guests had 
 
 brought him, 
 And to make haste away, it seems, besought 
 
 him ; 
 
 For instantly he rose and that his nurture 
 Might not be taxe'd by a rude departure, 
 Himself excusing, he those nymphs did pray, 
 His noble friends might bring them on their way, 
 Who, as it seems (he said) were therefore come, 
 That they might wait upon them to their home. 
 So, with their favour, he departed thence : 
 And, as they thought, to meet her Excellence, 
 Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this, 
 But an idea of a MISTRESS is. 
 Because to none he yet had deigned the telling 
 Her proper name, nor shown her place of dwelling. 
 
 When he was gone, a lady from among 
 Those nymphs, took up his lute, and sung this 
 song : 
 
 THE NYMPH'S SONG. 
 
 GENTLE swain, good speed befall thee 
 And in love still prosper thou ! 
 
 Future times shall happy call thee, 
 Though thou lie neglected now. 
 
 Virtue's lovers shall commend thee, 
 
 And perpetual fame attend thee. 
 
 Happy are these woody mountains 
 In whose shadows thou dost hide ; 
 
 And as happy are those fountains 
 By whose murmurs thou dost bide. 
 
 For contents are here excelling 
 More than in a prince's dwelling.
 
 n6 jFaire Ftrtue 
 
 These thy flocks do clothing bring thee, 
 And thy food out of the fields ; 
 
 Pretty songs the birds do sing thee ; 
 Sweet perfumes the meadow yields ; 
 
 And what more is worth the seeing, 
 
 Heaven and earth thy prospect being? 
 
 None comes hither who denies thee 
 Thy contentments for despite ; 
 
 Neither any that envies thee, 
 That wherein thou dost delight : 
 
 But all happy things are meant thee, 
 
 And whatever may content thee. 
 
 Thy affection reason measures, 
 And distempers none it feeds : 
 
 Still so harmless are thy pleasures, 
 That no other's grief it breeds ; 
 
 And if night beget thee sorrow, 
 
 Seldom stays it till the morrow. 
 
 Why do foolish men so vainly 
 Seek contentment in their store ; 
 
 Since they may perceive so plainly, 
 Thou art rich in being poor ; 
 
 And that they are vexed about it, 
 
 Whilst thou merry art without it. 
 
 Why are idle brains devising 
 How high titles may be gained ; 
 
 Since by those poor toys despising, 
 Thou hast higher things obtained ; 
 
 For the man who scorns to crave them, 
 
 Greater is than they that have them. 
 
 If all men could taste that sweetness 
 Thou dost in thy meanness know, 
 
 Kings would be to seek where greatness 
 And their honours to bestow ; 
 
 For it such content would breed them 
 
 As they would not think they need them. 
 
 And if those who so aspiring 
 To the court preferments be, 
 
 Knew how worthy the desiring 
 Those things are enjoyed by thee ; 
 
 Wealth and titles would hereafter 
 
 Subjects be for scorn and laughter.
 
 of P^ilarete. 117 
 
 He that courtly styles affected 
 Should a May-Lord's honour have ; 
 
 He that heaps of wealth collected 
 Should be counted as a slave ; 
 
 And the man with few'st things cumbered, 
 
 With the noblest should be numbered. 
 
 Thou their folly hast discerned, 
 That neglect thy mind and thee ; 
 
 And to slight them thou hast learned, 
 Of what title e'er they be ; 
 
 That no more with thee obtaineth, 
 
 Than with them thy meanness gaineth. 
 
 All their riches, honours, pleasures, 
 
 Poor unworthy trifles seem, 
 If compared with thy treasures, 
 
 And do merit no esteem ; 
 For they true contents provide thee, 
 And from them can none divide thee. 
 
 Whether thralled or exited, 
 Whether poor or rich thou be ; 
 
 Whether praised or revile'd, 
 Not a rush it is to thee ; 
 
 This nor that thy rest doth win thee, 
 
 But the mind which is within thee. 
 
 Then, oh why, so madly dote we 
 On those things that us o'erload ? 
 
 Why no more their vainness note we, 
 But still make of them a God ? 
 
 For, alas ! they still deceive us, 
 
 And in greatest need they leave us. 
 
 Therefore have the fates provided 
 Well, thou happy swain, for thee ; 
 
 That may'st here, so far divided 
 From the world s distractions be. 
 
 Thee distemper let them never, 
 
 But in peace continue ever. 
 
 In these lonely groves enjoy thou 
 That contentment here begun ; 
 
 And thy hours so pleased employ thou, 
 Till the latest glass be run. 
 
 From a fortune so assured, 
 
 By no temptings be aliurd.
 
 u8 JFatre Utrttte 
 
 Much good do't them with their glories 
 Who in courts of princes dwell ; 
 
 We have read in antique stories, 
 How some rose and bow they fell. 
 
 And 'tis worthy well the heeding, 
 
 There's like end where's like proceeding. 
 
 Be thou still in thy affection 
 
 To thy noble mistress true ; 
 Let her never-matched perfection 
 
 Be the same unto thy view ; 
 And let never other beauty 
 Make thee fail in love or duty. 
 
 For if thou shall not estranged 
 From thy course professed be ; 
 
 But remain for aye unchanged, 
 Nothing shall have power on thee. 
 
 Those that slight thee now shall love thee, 
 
 And in spite of spite approve thee. 
 
 So those virtues now neglected 
 To be more esteemed will come ; 
 
 Yea, those toys so much affected, 
 Many shall be wooe'd from ; 
 
 And the golden age deplored 
 
 Shall by some be thought restored. 
 
 THUS sang the nymph, so rarely well inspired, 
 That all the hearers her brave strains admired : 
 And as I heard by some that there attended, 
 When this her song was finished, all was ended.
 
 of JBljtlarete. 119 
 
 A POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 IF any carp, for that my younger times 
 Brought forth such idle fruit as these slight rhymes ; 
 It is no matter, so they do not swear 
 That they so ill employed never were. 
 Whilst their desires, perhaps, they looselier spent, 
 I gave my heats of youth this better vent, 
 And oft by writing thus the blood have tamed, 
 Which some with reading wanton lays enflarned. 
 Nor care I though their censure some have past, 
 Because my songs exceed the fiddler's last ; 
 For do they think that I will make my measures 
 The longer or the shorter for their pleasures ? 
 Or maim or curtailise my free invention, 
 Because fools weary are of their attention : 
 No, let them know, who do their length contemn, 
 I make to please myself, and not for them.
 
 &fjrf0tmas Carol 
 
 So now is come our joyful feast, 
 
 Let every man be jolly ; 
 Each room with ivy leaves is drest, 
 And every post with holly. 
 
 Though some churls at our mirth repine, 
 Round your foreheads garlands twine, 
 Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, 
 And let us all be merry. 
 
 Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
 Their ovens they with baked meats choke, 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 
 Without the door let sorrow lie, 
 And if for cold it hap to die, 
 We'll bury it in a Christmas pie ; 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 Now every lad is wondrous trim, 
 And no man minds his labour ; 
 Our lasses have provided them 
 A bagpipe and a labour. 
 
 Young men and maids, and girls and boys 
 Give life to one another's joys ; 
 And you anon shall by their noise 
 Perceive that they are merry. 
 
 Rank misers now do sparing shun , 
 
 Their hall of music soundeth ; 
 And dogs thence with whole shoulders run, 
 
 So all things there aboundeth.
 
 122 Poem* bp eorge IBtt^er. 
 
 The country-folk themselves advance, 
 For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France ; 
 And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance, 
 And all the town be merry. 
 
 Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn, 
 
 And all his best apparel ; 
 Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn 
 With droppings of the barrel. 
 
 And those that hardly all the year 
 Had bread to eat or rags to wear, 
 Will have both clothes and dainty fare, 
 And all the day be merry. 
 
 Now poor men to the justices 
 
 With capons make their errands ; 
 And if they hap to fail of these, 
 
 They plague them with their warrants. 
 
 But now they feed them with good cheer, 
 And what they want they take in beer, 
 For Christmas comes but once a year. 
 And then they shall be merry. 
 
 Good farmers in the country nurse 
 
 The poor, that else were undone ; 
 Some landlords spend their money worse. 
 On lust and pride at London. 
 
 There the roysters they do play, 
 Drab and dice their land away, 
 Which may be ours another day ; 
 And therefore let 's be merry. 
 
 The client now his suit forbears, 
 The prisoner's heart is easecl ; 
 The debtor drinks away his cares, 
 And for the time is pleased. 
 
 Though others' purses be more fat, 
 Why should we pine or grieve at that ; 
 Hang sorrow, care will kill a. cat, 
 And therefore let 's be merry.
 
 Christmas! Carol. 123 
 
 Hark how the wags abroad do call 
 
 Each other forth to rambling ; 
 Anon you'll see them in the hall, 
 For nuts and apples scrambling. 
 
 Hark how the roofs with laughters sound, 
 Anon they'll think the house goes round ; 
 For they the cellar's depths have found, 
 And there they will be merry. 
 
 The wenches with their wassel-bowls 
 
 About the streets are singing ; 
 The boys are come to catch the owls. 
 The wild mare in is bringing. 
 
 Our kitchen boy hath broke his box, 
 And to the dealing of the ox 
 Our honest neighbours come by flocks, 
 And here they will be merry. 
 
 Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have, 
 
 And mate with everybody ; 
 The honest now may play the knave, 
 And wise men play at noddy. 
 
 Some youths will now a mumming go, 
 Some others play at rowland-hoe, 
 And twenty other gameboys moe ; 
 Because they will be merry. 
 
 Then wherefore in these merry days 
 
 Should we, I pray, be duller ? 
 
 No, let us sing some roundelays 
 
 To make our mirth the fuller. 
 
 And whilst we thus inspired sing, 
 Let all the streets with echoes ring ; 
 Woods, and hills, and everything 
 Bear witness we are mcrrv.
 
 Sonnet upon a Stolen l&iss. 
 
 Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, 
 
 Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe ; 
 And free access unto that sweet lip lies, 
 
 From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. 
 Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal 
 
 From those two melting rubies one poor kiss : 
 None sees the theft that would the thief reveal, 
 
 Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss. 
 Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, 
 
 There would be little sign I had done so ; 
 Why, then, should I this robbery delay? 
 
 Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow. 
 Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, 
 And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.
 
 BallaD. 
 
 Now, young man, thy days and thy glories appear 
 Like sunshine and blossoms in spring of the year ; 
 Thy vigour of body, thy spirits, thy wit 
 Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Misspend not a morning so excellent clear ; 
 
 Never, for ever, was happiness here. 
 
 Thy noontide of life hath but little delight, 
 
 And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 That strength and those beauties that grace thee 
 to-day, 
 
 To-morrow may perish and vanish away ; 
 
 Thy wealth, or thy pleasures, or'friends that now be 
 
 May waste, or deceive, or be traitors to thee : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Thy joints are yet nimble, thy sinews unslack, 
 And marrow unwasted doth strengthen thy back ; 
 Thy youth from diseases preserveth the brain, 
 And blood with free passage plumps every vein : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 But trust me, it will not for ever be so ; 
 Those arms that are mighty shall feebler grow,
 
 126 JBoemjS lip (Scorgc G3tt!jer. 
 
 And those legs so proudly supporting thee now, 
 With age or diseases will stagger and bow : 
 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Then all those rare features now graceful in thee 
 Shall ploughed with time's furrows quite ruine'd be ; 
 And they who admire'd and loved thee so much, 
 Shall loath or forget thou hadst ever been such : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Those tresses of hair which thy youth do adorn, 
 Will look like the meads in a winterly morn ; 
 And where red and white intermixed did grow, 
 Dull paleness a deadly complexion will show : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 That forehead imperious whereon we now view 
 A smoothness and whiteness enamelled with blue, 
 Will lose that perfection which now youth main- 
 tains, 
 
 And change it for hollowness, wrinkles, and stains : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Those ears thou with music didst oft entertain, 
 And charm with so many a delicate strain, 
 May miss of those pleasures wherewith they are fed 
 And never hear song more when youth is once fled : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Those eyes which so many so much did admire, 
 And with strange affections set thousands on fire, 
 Shut up in that darkness which age will constrain, 
 Shall never see mortal, no, never again : 
 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thv Maker above.
 
 a "BaHau. 127 
 
 Those lips whereon beauty so fully discloses 
 The colour and sweetness of rubies and roses, 
 Instead of that hue will ghastliness wear, 
 And none shall believe what perfection was there : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Thy teeth that stood firmly like pearls in a row, 
 
 Shall, rotten and scattered, disorderly grow ; 
 
 The mouth whose proportion earth's wonder was 
 thought, 
 
 Shall, robbed of that sweetness, be prize'd at nought : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 That gait and those gestures that win thee such 
 grace, 
 
 Will turn to a feeble and staggering pace ; 
 
 And thou, that o'er mountains rann'st nimbly to-day, 
 
 Shalt stumble at every rub in the way : 
 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 By these imperfections old age will prevail, 
 Thy marrow, thy sinews, and spirits will fail ; 
 And nothing is left thee, when those are once spent, 
 To give or thyself or another content : 
 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Those fancies that lull thee with dreams of delight 
 Will trouble thy quiet the comfortless night ; 
 And thou that now sleepest thy troubles away, 
 Shalt hear how each cockrel gives warning of day : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 Then thou that to-day art to thousands so dear, 
 Of all shall despised, or neglected appear ;
 
 128 J9oems! ~bv <>cotcr.e CHttfjer. 
 
 Which when thou perceiv'st, though now pleasant 
 it be, 
 
 Thy life will be grievous and loathsome to thee : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 That lust which thy youth can so hardly forego, 
 Will leave thee and leave thee repentance and woe ; 
 And then in thy folly no joy thou canst have, 
 Nor hope other rest than a comfortless grave : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 For next shall thy breath be quite taken away, 
 Thy flesh turned to dust, and that dust turned to 
 
 clay ; 
 
 And those thou hast Iov6d and shared of thy store, 
 Shall leave thee, forget thee, and mind thee no more : 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thy Maker above. 
 
 And yet if in time thou remember not this, 
 The slenderest part of thy sorrow it is ; 
 Thy soul to a torture more fearful shall wend 
 Hath ever, and ever, and never an end : 
 
 Now then, oh now then, if safety thou love, 
 Mind thou, oh mind thou, thv Maker above.
 
 WHEN bright Phoebus at his rest 
 
 Was reposed in the west, 
 
 And the cheerful daylight gone 
 
 Drew unwelcome darkness on ; 
 
 Night her blackness wrought about me. 
 And within 'twas as without me. 
 
 Therefore on my tumbled bed 
 
 Down I laid my troubled head ; 
 
 Where mine eyes inured to care 
 
 Seldom used to slumbering were ; 
 
 Yet, o'er tired of late with weeping, 
 Then by chance they fell a sleeping. 
 
 But such visions me diseased, 
 
 As in vain that sleep I seized ; 
 
 For I sleeping fancies had, 
 
 Which yet waking make me sad. 
 
 Some can sleep away their sorrow, 
 But mine doubles every morrow. 
 
 Walking to a pleasant grove, 
 
 Where I used to think of love ; 
 
 I methought a place did view, 
 
 Wherein Flora's riches grew ; 
 
 Primrose, hyacinth, and lilies 
 Cowslips, violets, daffodilies : 
 
 There a fountain close beside 
 I a matchless beauty spied ;
 
 130 Poem* fop eorjre GElit^er. 
 
 So she lay, as if she slept, 
 Rut much grief her waking kept ; 
 And she had no softer pillow 
 Than the hard root of a willow. 
 
 Down her cheeks the tears did flow 
 Which a grieved heart did show ; 
 Her fair eyes the earth beholding, 
 And her arms themselves enfolding, 
 She her passion to betoken 
 Sighed, as if her heart were broken. 
 
 So much grief methought she showed, 
 
 That my sorrow it renewed ; 
 
 But when nearer her I went, 
 
 It increased my discontent ; 
 
 For a gentle nymph she proved, 
 Who me long unknown had loved. 
 
 Straight on me she fixed her look 
 Which a deep impression took ; 
 " And of all that live," quoth she, 
 " Thou art welcomes! to me." 
 
 Then misdoubting to be blamed, 
 Thus she spake as half ashamed : 
 
 "Thee unknown I long affected, 
 
 And as long in vain expected ; 
 
 For I had a hopeful thought, 
 
 Thou would'st crave what others sought ; 
 And I, for thy sake, have staid 
 Many wanton springs a maid. 
 
 " Still when any woo6d me. 
 
 They renewed the thought of thee ; 
 
 And in hope thou would'st have tried, 
 
 Their affections I denied ; 
 
 But a lover, forced upon me 
 
 By my friends, hath now undone me.
 
 a Dream. 131 
 
 " What I waking dared not show, 
 
 In a dream thou now dost know ; 
 
 But to better my estate, 
 
 Now, alas, it is too late ; 
 
 And I both awake and sleeping, 
 Now consume my youth in weeping." 
 
 Somewhat then I would have said, 
 But replyings were denied ; 
 For methought when speak I would, 
 Not a word bring forth I could ; 
 
 And as I a kiss was taking, 
 
 That I lost too bv awaking.
 
 THE 
 
 SHEPHERD'S 
 
 HUNTING. 
 
 Being certain Eclogues written 
 during the time, of the Author's 
 Imprisonment in the 
 Marshalsea.
 
 Sfapfjerb's Bunting. 
 
 THE FIRST ECLOGUE 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Willy leaves his flock awhile, 
 To lament his friend 's exile ; 
 Where, though prisoned, he doth find 
 He's still free that s free in mind ; 
 And that there is no defence 
 Half so firm as innocence. 
 
 PIIILAKKTK. WILLY. 
 Philarete. 
 
 WILLY ! thou now full jolly tun'st thy reeds, 
 Making the nymphs enamoured on thy strains ; 
 And whilst thy harmless flock unseated 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. 
 ''35
 
 )9oemj( bp eortre CQitfjcr. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Why then 1 see her copper coin's no sterling, 
 '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 parting, 
 It seems an apple, but it proves a wilding. 
 
 But let that pass. Sweet shepherd, tell me this, 
 For what belove'd friend thy sorrow i.=. 
 
 Willy. 
 
 Art thou, PhilareW, 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'stthy 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.
 
 's Bunting. 137 
 
 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 seemed 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 ! tl.ou 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 dos' thou at thy own misfortune mock, 
 Making thyself, too, to thyself unkind ? 
 
 When heretofore we talked we did embrace, 
 But now I scarce can come to see thy face. 
 
 Philarele. 
 
 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 aught 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 
 
 Willy. 
 Are prisons then grown places of delight ?
 
 138 Poemsi ip eotge CHit^rr. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 'T\s us 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 friend's 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 hearthee prize aught dearer. 
 
 Philarele. 
 
 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 nly 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, butne'er my mind betray ;
 
 %T)ep^ern'js f^unttno;. 139 
 
 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 ail ; 
 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 lie hath more that tyrannies can scorn. 
 
 Philarcte. 
 
 'Tis right ; but I no tyrannies endure, 
 Nor have I suffered aught worth name of care. 
 
 Willy. 
 
 Whate'er thou'lt call 't thou may'st, but I am sure 
 Many more pine that much less paine'd 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 sooth them or the times, 
 Injure myself by bearing others' crimes. 
 
 Willy, 
 
 Then thou may'st speak freely : there's none hears 
 But he whom, I do hope, thou dost not doubt.
 
 140 ]Boan fcp (Seorge JBitljcr. 
 
 Philarctc. 
 
 True ; but if doors nnd 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 stock must watered be and penned 
 And night begins to muffle up the day ; 
 Whence to inform thee how alone I spend, 
 I'll only sing a sorry prisoner's lay 
 
 I framed this morn ; which, though it suits no 
 fields, 
 
 Is such as fits me and sad thraldom yields. 
 
 Wilty. 
 
 Well, I will set my kit another string, 
 And p:ay into it whilst that thou dost sing. 
 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Philaretc. 
 
 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.
 
 's! Bunting. 141 
 
 First, think, my soul, if I have foes 
 
 That take a pleasure in my care, 
 
 And to procure these outward woes 
 
 Have thus entrapt me unaware, 
 
 Thou should'st by much more careful be, 
 Since greater foes lay wait for thee. 
 
 Then, when mewed up in grates of steel, 
 Minding those joys mine eyes do miss, 
 Thou find'st no torment th'ou dost feel 
 So grievous as privation is ; 
 
 Muse how the damned, 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 mortal's 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 been, 
 What horrid thrall thou hadst 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 shall do well 
 To think upon the pains of hell. 
 
 Or when through me thou seest a man 
 Condemned 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 feared 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 my heart and thee, 
 How sweet will "Come, ve blessed !" be.
 
 142 JBoentjS fcp forge 
 
 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', areed 
 
 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 mentioned at their meeting on the plains. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Indeed, 'tis true ; and they are sore to blame 
 That 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 what the ancient shepherds used to praise 
 In sacred anthems upon holidays.
 
 ')'! Bunting. 143 
 
 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 enriched by Jordan's watering : 
 He in his troubles eased the body's pains 
 By measures raised to the soul's ravishing ; 
 And his sweet numbers only, most divine, 
 Gave first the 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, swain ! 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. 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Cuddy here relates, hmv 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.
 
 144 Poem* by eotge 
 
 WILLY. CUDDY. PHILARETK. 
 
 \Villy. 
 
 Lo, Philarete ! 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 
 Kach 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 tbee moan ; 
 
 Yea, many that did never see thee, too. 
 
 Siyne 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 sufferings 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 an one, prating he knows not what, 
 < "omes 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 sav the rumour is, none knows.
 
 Hunting. 145 
 
 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'ld 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 kept a poor flock on a barren plain ; 
 
 Who, though it seems I could do nothing less, 
 
 (Jan 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 shepherd's 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,
 
 146 Perm* lip eorg;e 
 
 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 Acteon's kind ; 
 
 A brache which, if I do not aim amiss, 
 
 For all the world is just like one of his : 
 
 She's nam6d 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 waxed 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 \vith 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 brache that's very old, 
 And spends her mouth too much to have it hold : 
 
 * The different passions here enumerated are those 
 which Wither has personified in his "Abuses Stript and 
 Whipt."
 
 CTje bep$ern'* Bunting. 147 
 
 She's very testy, an unpleasing cur, 
 
 That bites the very stones if they but stir ; 
 
 Or when that aught 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 deforme'd cur, named Fear, 
 
 As shagge'd and as rough as is a bear ; 
 
 And yet the whelp turned 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 martin 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, 
 W r hich 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 ;
 
 148 Poemis bp cotgc 
 
 \Yho, but she's strapt, 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 o\vn eyes ; 
 Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn ; 
 ( 'ompassion, that on every one will fawn. 
 This would, when 'twas a whelp, with rabbits 
 
 play, 
 
 Or lambs, and let them go unhurt away ; 
 N T ay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then 
 ( 'atch 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 conies, behind all these, to bear the bass, 
 Two couple more of a far larger race, 
 Such wide-mouthed 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, 
 
 Xay, look about you, and she's everywhere, 
 Yet ever with the rest, and still in chace. " 
 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.
 
 'iS Bunting. 149 
 
 These were my dogs, ten couple just in all, 
 
 Whom by the name of Satires 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 been, 
 
 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 thereof losing all were much 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 desp'rate 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 baste unkennelled all my roaring crew, 
 
 Who were as mad as if my mind they knew ; 
 
 And ere they trailed a flight-shot, the fierce curs 
 
 Had roused a hart, and through brakes, briars, and 
 
 furze 
 
 Followed 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 ;
 
 150 Poems ip eorge 
 
 Whereby he 'scaped, till coursing overthwart, 
 Despair came in, and griped him to the heart. 
 I hallooed in the res'due to the fall, 
 And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all ; 
 Which having done, I dipped 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 fortunes. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Mo ; I'll make this narrow scope, 
 
 (Since my fate doth so importune), 
 
 Means unto a wider hope. 
 
 Cuddy. 
 
 Would thy shepherdess were here, 
 Who belove'd, loves so dearly !
 
 'is Ipunttncr.. 151 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Not for both your flocks, I swear, 
 And the grain 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 feared not more my danger), 
 Where I am, to show her face. 
 
 Willy. 
 
 Shepherd, we would wish no harms, 
 But some thing 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 appointed hour.
 
 152 Poem* lip (Seorjre 
 
 THE THIRD ECLOGUE. 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Philarctc, with his three friends. 
 Here his liunting story ends. 
 King Alexis, with much ruth, 
 Wails the banished 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, toe 
 Alexis, %vhom 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. 
 
 Philarctc. 
 
 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.
 
 >fte])1xri)'0 Glutting. 153 
 
 Alexis. 
 
 "Pis still your use to underprize your merit. 
 
 Be not so coy to tnke 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 previse'd this ; 
 
 He knew not whose, nor to what end it is. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Well, now he may ; for here my taie 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 halloo ; 
 That soon we passe'd many weary miles, 
 Tracing the subtle game through all their wiles. 
 
 G 2
 
 154 Poemjf ibp Oeorge IHttfjcr. 
 
 These doubled, those re-doubled 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 ravished with their melody. 
 Nor crossed 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 passed the city and the court, 
 My prince looked 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 the wit to stay, 
 1 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 rushed, 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 griped 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 festered wounds so stunk, none could abide 
 
 them. 
 
 Choler hurt divers, but Revenge killed more 
 Fear frighted all behind him and before. 
 Despair drove 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 passed 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,
 
 %JjepI)etD'iS Bunting. 155 
 
 Many I heard, pursued by Pity cry, 
 
 And oft I saw my bloodhound, Cruelty, 
 
 Eating her passage even to the heart, 
 
 Whither once gotten she is loath to part. 
 
 All plied it well, and made so loud a cry, 
 
 'Twas heard beyond the shores of Brittany. 
 
 Some rated them, some stormed, some liked the 
 
 game, 
 Some thought me worthy praise, some worthy 
 
 blame ; 
 Hut I, not fearing the one, mis-'steeming the 
 
 other, 
 
 Both in shrill halloos and loud yearnings smother. 
 Yea, the strong-mettled, and my long-breathed 
 
 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 marked their course and courages increase, 
 Saying, " 'Twere pity such a chase should cease ; " 
 And therewith swore their mouths should nevei 
 
 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 followed, and I rated, but in vain 
 Strived to o'ertake or take them up again : 
 They never staye'd 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?
 
 156 Poem* fop eorgc JUitfier. 
 
 J'liilarctc. 
 No, Willy ; and I hope yet none there is. 
 
 Willy, 
 
 How comes it, then ? 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Note, and 1'il tell thee how ! 
 Thou knowest that Truth and Innocency now, 
 If placed with meanness, suffer more despite 
 Than Villainies accompanied with might. 
 But thus it fell : While that my hounds pursued 
 Their noisome prey, and every field lay strewed 
 With monsters, hurt and slain, upon a beast, 
 More subtle and more noisome than the rest, 
 My lean-flanked bitch, called Envy, happed 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 byeways 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 foiled, 
 And by my dogs in their late hunting spoiled. 
 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 ;
 
 QCfje f)enljer.B')S ^tinting. 157 
 
 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, 
 Swoln with the deepest rancour of despite, 
 Some of our greatest shepherds' folds by night 
 They closely entered ; and there having stained 
 Their hands in villainy, of me they 'plained, 
 Affirming, without shame or honesty, 
 I and my dogs had done it purposely. 
 Whereat they stormed, and called 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 shall be remembered 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 once 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 ! sayest thou? Can I not, 
 That am resolved to scorn more misery ?
 
 158 Poem* fop eorge EHtt^er. 
 
 A texts. 
 
 Oh, but that youth's yet green, and youngblood 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 wouldst 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 mewed 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 endeared. 
 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 arn 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
 
 'js Bunting. 159 
 
 (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 learned 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 erst-while 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, 
 Hears 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.
 
 i6o Pocmu bp corgc CJJtttjer. 
 
 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 knosv 
 My fault's no more but speaking truth and reason ; 
 No debt, nor theft, nor murder, rape, nor treason. 
 
 N'or 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 envf, 
 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 bonds 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 showest that thou'rt still thyself indeed. 
 If that thy mind to baseness now descends, 
 Thou'lt injure Virtue, and deceive thy friends 
 
 Willy. 
 
 Alexis, lie will injure Virtue much, 
 But more his friends, and most of all himself, 
 If on that common bar his mind but touch, 
 It wrecks his fame upon disgrace's shelf ;
 
 'jS Bunting;. 161 
 
 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 aught 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 others well shall know, 
 
 Virtue can give content in midst of woe ; 
 
 Ancl see, though mightiness with frowns doth threat, 
 
 That, to be innocent, is to be great. 
 
 Thrive and farewell ! 
 
 Alexis. 
 Tn this thy trouble flourish. 
 
 Cuddy. 
 While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish. 
 
 THE FOURTH ECLOGUE. 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Philarctc on \Villy calls 
 
 To sing out his pastorals ; 
 
 Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes, 
 
 'Spite of envy and the times ; 
 
 And shows hoiv in care he uses 
 
 To take comfort front his Mitses. 
 
 PHILARF.TK. WILI.V. 
 Philarete. 
 
 PRITHEE, Willy ! tell me this ; 
 What new accident there is, 
 That thou, once the blithest lad, 
 Art become so wond'rous sad,
 
 162 ^oernsi fc corse JHitljer. 
 
 And so careless of thy quill 
 As if thou hadst lost thy skill ? 
 Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks, 
 And among the massy rocks 
 Hast so cheered 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 aught missaid, 
 That hath made thee ill-apaid ? 
 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 ? 
 Shepherds 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 some while, 
 Happens to strain forth a smile, 
 Feels more want and 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 cf mirth, 
 But what find'st thou in this earth 
 Wherein aught may be believed 
 Worth to make me joyed or grieved ?
 
 'jS Dp tinting. 163 
 
 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-tune'd 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? 
 Didst 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 chaunt 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, 
 Trimmed up in her best array, 
 Hath invited all the swains, 
 With the lasses of the plains, 
 To attend upon her sport 
 At the rjlaces of resort.
 
 164 J0oem0 bp eorge G3itf)fr. 
 
 Corydon, with his bold rout, 
 
 Hath already been about 
 
 For the elder shepherds' dole, 
 
 And fetched in the summer-pole : 
 
 Whilst the rest have built a bower 
 
 To defend them from a shower, 
 
 Ceiled 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 Desert, 
 
 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 moe, 
 
 Whereof some but serve for show, 
 
 She hath wove in Daphne's tree, 
 
 That they may not blasted be ; 
 
 Which with Time she edged about, 
 
 Lest the work should ravel out. 
 
 And that it might wither never. 
 
 Intermixed it with Live-ever. 
 
 These are to be shared among 
 
 Those who do excel for song, 
 
 Or their passions can rehearse 
 
 In the smooth's! and sweetest verse. 
 
 Then, for those among the rest
 
 'S Bunting. 165 
 
 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 out of the West. 
 For the next, a scrip of red, 
 Tasselled with fine-coloured thread. 
 There's prepared for their meed 
 That in running make most speed, 
 Or the cunning measures foot, 
 Cups of turne'd 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, 
 Envv thV far sweeter strains.
 
 166 Poems lip corp 
 
 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 bequeath 
 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, Iwis, 
 
 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 
 
 'Mongst 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 ? 
 
 \Villy. 
 
 Some are worthy-well esteemed ; 
 Some without worth are so deemed ; 
 Others of so base a spirit, 
 They have nor esteem nor merit.
 
 * Hpunttng. 167 
 
 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.
 
 168 JpoemU tp eotge CHtt^et. 
 
 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 other's 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 shall 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, 
 
 Phoebus 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, 
 
 Where they pleased to sing a lay 
 
 * The Devil's Tavern in Fleet Street, where Ben Jonson 
 met his fellow poets.
 
 %f)ept)er.D'$! Bunting. 169 
 
 They could do't and will not though, 
 
 This I speak, for this I know, 
 
 None e'er drank 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 even 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 feign 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 fosrs cloud Heaven's ravs?
 
 170 J9oemsi ip (Seorge GHittjer. 
 
 And that vapours which do breathe 
 
 From the Earth's gross womb beneath, 
 
 Seem unto us with black steams 
 
 To pollute the Sun's bright beams, 
 
 And yet vanish into air, 
 
 Leaving it unblemished fair? 
 
 So, my Willy, shall it be 
 
 With Detraction's breath on 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 highest 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 reached eternity. 
 
 But, alas, my Muse is slow, 
 
 For thy place she flags too low ; 
 
 Yea, the more's her hapless fate, 
 
 Her short wings were clipt of late ; 
 
 And poor I, her fortune ruing, 
 
 Am put up myself 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
 
 J^unttna;. 
 
 Ten times more than ten times double, 
 
 I should love and keep her too, 
 
 Spite of all the world could do. 
 
 For though, banished from my flocks 
 
 And confined within these rocksT 
 
 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 flowery fields, 
 
 With those sweets the spring-tide yields ; 
 
 Though I may not see those groves, 
 
 Where the shepherds chaunt 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 rustling ; 
 
 By a daisy, whose leaves spread, 
 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
 
 Or a shady bush or tree ; 
 
 She could more infuse in me,
 
 172 Poem* ftp targe ECtittjer. 
 
 Than ail 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, 
 
 Walled 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 Heaven 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 maddest 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. 
 
 O high power ! that oft doth carry 
 
 Men above
 
 'si Bunting. 173 
 
 Willy. 
 
 Good Philarete ! tan-y : 
 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 hadst 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 Philaret^ his sake ; 
 And I more of this will say 
 If thou come next holiday. 
 
 THE FIFTH ECLOGUE. 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Philarete Alexis moves 
 To embrace the Muse's loves ; 
 Bids him. never careful seem 
 Of another s disesteem ; 
 Since to them it may suffice. 
 They themselves can justly prise. 
 
 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 ;
 
 CTje ^ep^etn's! Bunting. 175 
 
 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 masked 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 cotildst 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 use my quill ; 
 But, 'cause but little cunning I had got, 
 Perhaps thou saw'st me, though thou knew'st me 
 not. 
 
 Alexis. 
 
 Yes, Philarete ! I know thee, and thy name ; 
 Nor is my knowledge grounded all on Fame. 
 Art thou not he, that but this other year 
 Scaredst all the wolves and foxes in this 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 belove'd of great Pan was gone, 
 And at the wedding of fair Thame and Rhine,* 
 
 * Alluding to his Epithalamia on the marriage of the 
 Princess Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine.
 
 176 Poems foj <Seorge Klttfjcr. 
 
 Sing of their glories to thy Valentine ? 
 I know it, and I must confess that long, 
 In one thing I did to thy nature wrong ; 
 For, till I marked the aim thy Satires 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 niad'st show, 
 Where since I find, that thou wert nothing so ; 
 And that of many thou much blame hadst got, 
 Whenas thy innocence deserved it not 
 But that too good opinion thou hast seemed 
 To have of me, not so to be esteemed, 
 Prevails not aught 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, though a stranger, this to thee I'll say, 
 Where I do love, I am not coy to stay. 
 
 Philaretc. 
 
 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 injure much 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.
 
 <%>f)epT)erti'0 Bunting:. 177 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 Then know, Alexis ! from that very day 
 Whenas I saw thee at thy 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 marked one of the Muses' brood. 
 That made me love thee ; and that love I bear 
 Begot a pity, and that pity, care : 
 Pity I had to see good parts concealed, 
 Care I had how to have that good revealed ; 
 Since 'tis a fault admitteth no excuse 
 To possess much, and yet put nought in use. 
 Hereon I vowed, if we two ever met, 
 The first request that I would strive to get, 
 Should be but this, that thou wouldst show thy skill, 
 How thou couldst 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 favoured 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 fly so high.
 
 1 78 ]9oemj( 
 
 J'hilarete. 
 
 Despair not, man ! the gods have prized nought 
 So dear, that may not be with labour bought ; 
 Nor need thy pain be great, since Kate 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 misconstrue it ; 
 And, which is bad, yet worse than this doth follow, 
 Most hate the Muses and contemn Apollo. 
 
 Philarete. 
 
 So iet 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, 
 ('an 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,
 
 'si Jpunttnn;. 179 
 
 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 shall 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 ordained for them ?
 
 i8o Poem* ftp eorije 
 
 And though that there be other-some env\" 
 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, banished from all delights ; 
 Nay, worse, excluded from the sacred rites. 
 Here I do live, 'mongst outlaws marked for death, 
 As one unfit to draw the common breath ; 
 Where those who to be good did never know, 
 Are barre'd from the means should make them so. 
 I suffer, 'cause I wished 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 persons 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 gained a little fame,
 
 %T)epftert>'i3 Quitting. 181 
 
 Hath made me unto such a fortune born, . 
 That all misfortunes I know how to scorn ; 
 Yea, midst these bonds 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 wished 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, the abuse'd 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 those ill haps, my foes' despite, and them. 
 
 Alexis. 
 
 Th'ast so well, young Philarete ! 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 into yonder grove. 
 Let's follow them ; for never braver swains 
 Made music to their flocks upon these plains.
 
 182 Poem* lip eorcjc 
 
 They are more worthy, and can better tell 
 
 What rare contents do with a poet dwell. 
 
 Then, while 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.
 
 FROM WITHERS HYMNS AND SONGS 
 OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 W$t 3Ten Commandments. 
 
 (EXOD. XX.) 
 
 THE great Almighty spake, and thus said he : 
 I am the Lord thy God, and I alone 
 
 From cruel Egypt's thraldom set thee free ; 
 And other gods but me thou shalt have none. 
 
 Have mercy, Lord, and so our hearts incline, 
 That we may keep this blesse'd law of thine ! 
 
 Thou shalt not make an image to adore 
 
 Of aught on earth, above it, or below ; 
 A carved work thou shalt not bow before, 
 
 Nor any worship on the same bestow : 
 For I, thy God, a jealous God am known, 
 
 And on their seed the fathers' sins correct, 
 Until the third and fourth descent be gone ; 
 
 But them I always love that me affect. 
 
 The name of God thou never shalt abuse, 
 By swearing or repeating it in vain ; 
 
 For him that doth his name profanely use, 
 The Lord will as a guilty one arraign. 
 
 To keep the Sabbath holy bear in mind : 
 Six days thine own affairs apply thou to ; 
 
 The seventh is God's own day, for rest assigned, 
 And thou no kind of work therein shalt do-, 
 '83
 
 184 PoemjS 1)j> eorge G3ttljer. 
 
 Thou, nor thy child, thy servants, nor thy beast, 
 Nor he that guest-wise with thee doth abide ; 
 
 For after six days' labour God did rest, 
 And therefore he that day hath sanctified. 
 
 See that unto thy parents thou do give 
 Such honour as the child by duty owes, 
 
 That thou a long and blessed life may live 
 Within the land the Lord thy God bestows. 
 
 Thou shall be wary that thou no man slay. 
 
 Thou shall from all adultery be clear. 
 Thou shall not sleal anolher's goods away, 
 
 Nor wilness false against thy neighbour bear. 
 
 With whal is thine remaining well apaid, 
 
 Thou shall nol covel whal Ihy neighbour's is ; 
 
 His house, nor wife, his servant, man, nor maid, 
 His ox, nor ass, nor anything of his. 
 
 Thy mercy, Lord, Ihy mercy lei us have, 
 And in our heart these laws of thine engrave ! 
 
 QFt
 
 (MATT. vi. 7.) 
 
 OUR Father which in heaven art ! 
 
 We sanctify thy name : 
 Thy kingdom come ; thy will be done 
 
 In heaven and earth the same : 
 Give us this day our daily bread ; 
 
 And us forgive thou so, 
 As we on them, that do offend, 
 
 Forgiveness do bestow : 
 Into temptation lead us not ; 
 
 But us from evil free ; 
 For thine the kingdom, power, and praise, 
 
 Is and shall ever be. 
 
 185
 
 Apostles' 
 
 IN God the Father I believe, 
 
 Who made all creatures by his word ; 
 And true belief I likewise have 
 
 In Jesus Christ, his Son, our Lord ; 
 Who by the Holy Ghost conceived, 
 
 Was of the Virgin Mary born ; 
 Who meekly Pilate's wrongs received, 
 
 And crucified was with scorn ; 
 
 Who died, and in the grave hath lain ; 
 
 Who did the lowest pit descend ; 
 Who on the third day rose again, 
 
 And up to heaven did ascend ; 
 Who at his Father's right hand there, 
 
 Now throne'd sits, and thence shall come 
 To take his seat of judgment here, 
 
 And give both quick and dead their doom. 
 
 I in the Holy Ghost believe, 
 
 The holy Church Cath61ic too ; 
 And that the saints communion have, 
 
 Undoubtedly believe I do. 
 I well assured am likewise 
 
 A pardon for my sins to gain, 
 And that my flesh from death shall rise, 
 
 And everlasting life obtain.
 
 GDfjtisttnas Bag. 
 
 As on the night before this blessed morn 
 A troop of angels unto shepherds told, 
 Where, in a. stable, he was poorly born, 
 Whom nor the earth nor heaven of heavens can 
 hold; 
 
 Through Bethlem rung 
 This news at their return, 
 
 Yea, angels sung, 
 That God with us was born ; 
 And they made mirth because we should not mourn. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 His love, therefore, O let us all confess, 
 And to the sons of men his work express ! 
 
 This favour Christ vouchsafed for our sake : 
 
 To buy us thrones he in a manger lay ; 
 
 Our weakness took, that we his strength might 
 
 take, 
 And was disrobed that he might us array ; 
 
 Our flesh he wore, 
 Our sins to wear away ; 
 
 Our curse he bore, 
 
 That we escape it may ; 
 
 And wept for us, that we might sing for aye. 
 
 His love, therefore, O let us all confess, 
 And to the sons of men his works express ! 
 
 187
 
 GooO JFrtUau. 
 
 You that like heedless strangers pass along, 
 
 As if nought here concerned you to-day, 
 Draw nigh and hear the saddest passion-song 
 That ever you did meet with in your way : 
 So sad a story ne'er was told before, 
 Nor shall there be the like for evermore. 
 
 The greatest king that ever wore a crown, 
 
 More than the basest vassal was abused ; 
 The truest lover that was ever known, 
 
 By them beloved was most unkindly used ; 
 And he, that lived from all transgressions clear, 
 Was plagued for all the sins that ever were. 
 
 Even they, in pity of whose fall he wept, 
 
 Wrought for his ruin, whilst he sought their good, 
 
 And watche'd for him when they should have slept, 
 
 That they might quench their malice in his blood ; 
 
 Yet when their bonds from him he could have 
 
 thrown, 
 To save their lives he deigned to lose his own. 
 
 Those in whose hearts compassion should have 
 
 been, 
 
 Insulted o'er his poor afflicted soul ; 
 And those that nothing ill in him had seen, 
 As guilty him accused of treason foul ; 
 
 Nay, him that never had one idle thought, 
 They for blaspheming unto judgment brought ;
 
 oou jFrtBap. 189 
 
 Where, some to ask him vain demands begin, 
 And some to make a. sport with him devise ; 
 Some at his answers and behaviour grin, 
 And some do spit their filth into his eyes ; 
 
 Some give him blows, some mock, and some 
 
 revile, 
 And he, good heart ! sits quiet all the while. 
 
 Oh, that where such a throng of men should be, 
 
 No heart was found so gentle to relent ; 
 And that so good and meek a lamb as he 
 Should be so used, and yet no tear be spent ! 
 Sure, when once malice fills the heart of man, 
 Nor stone nor steel can be so hardened then. 
 
 For, after this, his clothes from him they stript, 
 
 And then, as if some slave this Lord had been, 
 With cruel rods and scourges him they whipt, 
 Till wounds were over all his body seen ; 
 In purple clad, and crowne'd too with thorn, 
 They set him forth and honoured him in scorn. 
 
 And when they saw him in so sad a plight, 
 
 As might have made a flinty heart to bleed, 
 They not a whit recanted at the sight, 
 But in their hellish fury did proceed : 
 
 Away with him ! Away with him ! they said ; 
 And crucify him ! crucify him ! cried. 
 
 A cross of wood, that huge and heavy was, 
 Upon his bloody shoulders next they lay, 
 Which onward to his execution place 
 He carried, till he fainted in the way ; 
 
 And, when he thither weak and tire'd came, 
 To give him rest they nailed him to the same. 
 
 Oh, could we but the thousandth part relate 
 
 Of those afflictions, which they made him bear, 
 
 Our hearts with passion would dissolve thereat, 
 
 And we should sit and weep for ever here ; 
 
 Nor should we glad again hereafter be, 
 
 But that we hope in glory him to see.
 
 J9oem0 bp corge JHttijer. 
 
 For while upon the cross he paine'd hung, 
 
 And was with foul tormentings also grieved, 
 Far more than can be told by any tongue, 
 Or in the hearts of mortals be conceived, 
 
 Those, for whose sake he underwent such pain, 
 Rejoiced thereat, and held him in disdain. 
 
 One offered to him vinegar and gall, 
 
 A second did his pious works deride, 
 To dicing for his robes did others fall, 
 
 And many mocked him, when to God he cried ; 
 .Yet he, as they his pain still more procured, 
 Still loud and for their good the more endured. 
 
 But though his matchless love immortal were, 
 
 It was a mortal body he had on, 
 That could no more than mortal bodies bear ; 
 Their malice therefore did prevail thereon ; 
 And lo ! their utmost fury having tried, 
 This Lamb of God gave up the ghost and died ; 
 
 Whose death though cruel unrelenting man 
 Could view without bewailing or affright, 
 The sun grew dark, the earth to quake began, 
 The temple veil did rend asunder quite ; 
 
 Yea, hardest rocks therewith in pieces brake, 
 And graves did open and the dead awake. 
 
 O therefore, let us all that present be, 
 
 This innocent with mov6d souls embrace ! 
 For this was our Redeemer, this was he, 
 Who thus for our unkindness us6d was : 
 Even he, the cursed Jews and Pilate slew, 
 Is he alone of whom all this is true. 
 
 Our sins of spite were part of those that day, 
 
 Whose cruel whips and thorns did make him smart ; 
 Our lusts were those, that tired him in the way, 
 Our want of love was that which pierced his heart ; 
 And still, when we forget or slight his pain, 
 We crucify and torture him again.
 
 " Whether encaged or roaming at liberty, Wittier 
 never seems to have abated one jot of that free spirit 
 which sets its mark upon his writings. . , . Skilled 
 in the ' sweet uses of adversity,' he knew how to ex- 
 tract the precious jewel from the head of the toad 
 without drawing any of the ugly venom along with 
 it. The prison notes of Wither are finer than the 
 wood notes of most of his poetical brethren. The de- 
 scription in the Fourth Eclogue of his ' Shepherd ' s 
 Hunting' (ivhich was composed during his impri- 
 sonment in the Marshalsea) of the power of the 
 Muse to extract pleasure from common objects, has 
 been oftener quoted, and is more known than any 
 part of his writings. . . . The praises of poetry 
 have been often sung in ancient and in modern times ; 
 strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence 
 over animate and inanimate auditors; its force 
 over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged ; but 
 before Wither, no one ever celebrated its power at 
 home, the wealth and the strength which this 
 divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and 
 that too after death, was all which hitherto the 
 poets had promised themselves from this art. It 
 seems to have been left to Wither to discover that 
 poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich 
 reversion, and that the Muse has a promise of both 
 lives, of this, and of that which was to come. " - 
 CHARLES LAMB.
 
 nted by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. 
 Edinburgh and London
 
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