Venus by Adonis' sideCrying kiss'd, and kissing cried,Wrung her hands and tore her hairFor Adonis dying there.Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!Nature surely doth not giveTo the earth her sweetest flowersTo be seen but some few hours.On his face, still as he bledFor each drop a tear she shed,Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,Else had drown'd him where he lay.Fair Proserpina (quoth she)Shall not have thee yet from me;Nor my soul to fly beginWhile my lips can keep it in.Here she clos'd again. And someSay Apollo would have comeTo have cur'd his wounded limb,But that she had smothered him.
Venus by Adonis' sideCrying kiss'd, and kissing cried,Wrung her hands and tore her hairFor Adonis dying there.
Venus by Adonis' side
Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried,
Wrung her hands and tore her hair
For Adonis dying there.
Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!Nature surely doth not giveTo the earth her sweetest flowersTo be seen but some few hours.
Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!
Nature surely doth not give
To the earth her sweetest flowers
To be seen but some few hours.
On his face, still as he bledFor each drop a tear she shed,Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,Else had drown'd him where he lay.
On his face, still as he bled
For each drop a tear she shed,
Which she kiss'd or wip'd away,
Else had drown'd him where he lay.
Fair Proserpina (quoth she)Shall not have thee yet from me;Nor my soul to fly beginWhile my lips can keep it in.
Fair Proserpina (quoth she)
Shall not have thee yet from me;
Nor my soul to fly begin
While my lips can keep it in.
Here she clos'd again. And someSay Apollo would have comeTo have cur'd his wounded limb,But that she had smothered him.
Here she clos'd again. And some
Say Apollo would have come
To have cur'd his wounded limb,
But that she had smothered him.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,Love's neglect is time's abusing,They and beauty are but lent you;Take the one and keep the other;Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;Beauty gone you will repent you.'Twill be said when ye have proved,Never swains more truly loved:Oh then fly all nice behaviour!Pity fain would (as her duty)Be attending still on Beauty,Let her not be out of favour.
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,Love's neglect is time's abusing,They and beauty are but lent you;Take the one and keep the other;Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;Beauty gone you will repent you.
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing,
Love's neglect is time's abusing,
They and beauty are but lent you;
Take the one and keep the other;
Love keeps fresh what age doth smother;
Beauty gone you will repent you.
'Twill be said when ye have proved,Never swains more truly loved:Oh then fly all nice behaviour!Pity fain would (as her duty)Be attending still on Beauty,Let her not be out of favour.
'Twill be said when ye have proved,
Never swains more truly loved:
Oh then fly all nice behaviour!
Pity fain would (as her duty)
Be attending still on Beauty,
Let her not be out of favour.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Thomalin.Where is every piping ladThat the fields are not ycladWith their milk-white sheep?Tell me: is it holiday,Or if in the month of MayUse they long to sleep?Piers.Thomalin, 'tis not too late,For the turtle and her mateSitten yet in nest:And the thrustle hath not beenGath'ring worms yet on the green,But attends her rest.Not a bird hath taught her young,Nor her morning's lesson sungIn the shady grove:But the nightingale in darkSinging woke the mounting lark:She records her love.Not the sun hath with his beamsGilded yet our crystal streams;Rising from the sea,Mists do crown the mountains' tops,And each pretty myrtle drops:'Tis but newly day.
Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green,
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young,
Nor her morning's lesson sung
In the shady grove:
But the nightingale in dark
Singing woke the mounting lark:
She records her love.
Not the sun hath with his beams
Gilded yet our crystal streams;
Rising from the sea,
Mists do crown the mountains' tops,
And each pretty myrtle drops:
'Tis but newly day.
The Shepherd's Pipe.
Willie.Roget, droop not, see the springIs the earth enamelling,And the birds on every treeGreet this morn with melody:Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,And her mate as proudly vants itSee how every stream is dress'dBy her margin with the bestOf Flora's gifts; she seems gladFor such brooks such flow'rs she had.All the trees are quaintly tiredWith green buds, of all desired;And the hawthorn every daySpreads some little show of May:See the primrose sweetly setBy the much-lov'd violet,All the banks do sweetly cover,As they would invite a loverWith his lass to see their dressingAnd to grace them by their pressing:Yet in all this merry tideWhen all cares are laid aside,Roget sits as if his bloodHad not felt the quick'ning goodOf the sun, nor cares to play,Or with songs to pass the dayAs he wont: fie, Roget, fie,Raise thy head, and merrilyTune us somewhat to thy reed:See our flocks do freely feed,Here we may together sit,And for music very fitIs this place; from yonder woodComes an echo shrill and good,Twice full perfectly it willAnswer to thine oaten quill.Roget, droop not then, but singSome kind welcome to the spring.
Roget, droop not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet this morn with melody:
Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it
See how every stream is dress'd
By her margin with the best
Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad
For such brooks such flow'rs she had.
All the trees are quaintly tired
With green buds, of all desired;
And the hawthorn every day
Spreads some little show of May:
See the primrose sweetly set
By the much-lov'd violet,
All the banks do sweetly cover,
As they would invite a lover
With his lass to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tide
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his blood
Had not felt the quick'ning good
Of the sun, nor cares to play,
Or with songs to pass the day
As he wont: fie, Roget, fie,
Raise thy head, and merrily
Tune us somewhat to thy reed:
See our flocks do freely feed,
Here we may together sit,
And for music very fit
Is this place; from yonder wood
Comes an echo shrill and good,
Twice full perfectly it will
Answer to thine oaten quill.
Roget, droop not then, but sing
Some kind welcome to the spring.
The Shepherd's Pipe.
All.Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veinsWith kind and active fire,And made green liv'ries for the plains,And every grove a quire:Sing me a song of merry glee,And Bacchus fill the bowl.1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to meAnd every thirsty soul.Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt,Nor never shall do mine;I have no cradle going yet,Not I, by this good wine.No wife at home to send for me,No hogs are in my ground,No suit in law to pay a fee,Then round, old Jocky, round.All.Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,But see that no man 'scapeTo drink of the sherry,That makes us so merry,And plump as the lusty grape.Welcome, welcome, do I sing,Far more welcome than the spring;He that parteth from you neverShall enjoy a spring for ever.Love, that to the voice is nearBreaking from your iv'ry pale,Need not walk abroad to hearThe delightful nightingale.Welcome, welcome, then I sing,Far more welcome than the spring;He that parteth from you neverShall enjoy a spring for ever.Love, that looks still on your eyes,Though the winter have begunTo benumb our arteries,Shall not want the summer's sun.Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.Love that still may see your cheeks,Where all rareness still reposes,Is a fool, if e'er he seeksOther lilies, other roses.Welcome, welcome, &c.Love, to whom your soft lip yields,And perceives your breath in kissing,All the odours of the fieldsNever, never shall be missing.Welcome, welcome, &c.Love, that question would anewWhat fair Eden was of old,Let him rightly study you,And a brief of that behold.Welcome, welcome, then I &c.
Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veinsWith kind and active fire,And made green liv'ries for the plains,And every grove a quire:
Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veins
With kind and active fire,
And made green liv'ries for the plains,
And every grove a quire:
Sing me a song of merry glee,And Bacchus fill the bowl.1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to meAnd every thirsty soul.
Sing me a song of merry glee,
And Bacchus fill the bowl.
1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to me
And every thirsty soul.
Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt,Nor never shall do mine;I have no cradle going yet,Not I, by this good wine.
Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt,
Nor never shall do mine;
I have no cradle going yet,
Not I, by this good wine.
No wife at home to send for me,No hogs are in my ground,No suit in law to pay a fee,Then round, old Jocky, round.
No wife at home to send for me,
No hogs are in my ground,
No suit in law to pay a fee,
Then round, old Jocky, round.
All.Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,But see that no man 'scapeTo drink of the sherry,That makes us so merry,And plump as the lusty grape.
Shear sheep that have them, cry we still,
But see that no man 'scape
To drink of the sherry,
That makes us so merry,
And plump as the lusty grape.
Welcome, welcome, do I sing,Far more welcome than the spring;He that parteth from you neverShall enjoy a spring for ever.
Welcome, welcome, do I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
Love, that to the voice is nearBreaking from your iv'ry pale,Need not walk abroad to hearThe delightful nightingale.Welcome, welcome, then I sing,Far more welcome than the spring;He that parteth from you neverShall enjoy a spring for ever.
Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your iv'ry pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing,
Far more welcome than the spring;
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
Love, that looks still on your eyes,Though the winter have begunTo benumb our arteries,Shall not want the summer's sun.Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.
Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Though the winter have begun
To benumb our arteries,
Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.
Love that still may see your cheeks,Where all rareness still reposes,Is a fool, if e'er he seeksOther lilies, other roses.Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,
Is a fool, if e'er he seeks
Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, to whom your soft lip yields,And perceives your breath in kissing,All the odours of the fieldsNever, never shall be missing.Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,
All the odours of the fields
Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, that question would anewWhat fair Eden was of old,Let him rightly study you,And a brief of that behold.Welcome, welcome, then I &c.
Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,
Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then I &c.
Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs,And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks;Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.The pleasant meadows sadly layIn chill and cooling sweatsBy rising fountains, or as theyFear'd winter's wastfull threats.
Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs,
And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks;
Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours,
And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountains, or as they
Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.
The Shepherd's Pipe.
Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,All beaten mariners,Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,A prey to passengers;Perfumes far sweeter than the bestWhich makes the Phœnix' urn and nest.Fear not your ships,Nor any to oppose you save our lips,But come on shore,Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.For swelling waves our panting breasts,Where never storms arise,Exchange; and be awhile our guests:For stars gaze on our eyes.The compass love shall hourly sing,And as he goes about the ring,We will not missTo tell each point he nameth with a kiss.CHORUS.Then come on shore,Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,All beaten mariners,Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,A prey to passengers;Perfumes far sweeter than the bestWhich makes the Phœnix' urn and nest.Fear not your ships,Nor any to oppose you save our lips,But come on shore,Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,
All beaten mariners,
Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines,
A prey to passengers;
Perfumes far sweeter than the best
Which makes the Phœnix' urn and nest.
Fear not your ships,
Nor any to oppose you save our lips,
But come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,Where never storms arise,Exchange; and be awhile our guests:For stars gaze on our eyes.The compass love shall hourly sing,And as he goes about the ring,We will not missTo tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
For swelling waves our panting breasts,
Where never storms arise,
Exchange; and be awhile our guests:
For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compass love shall hourly sing,
And as he goes about the ring,
We will not miss
To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
CHORUS.
Then come on shore,
Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
The Inner Temple Masque.
Son of Erebus and Night,Hie away; and aim thy flightWhere consort none other fowlThan the bat and sullen owl;Where upon the limber grassPoppy and mandragorasWith like simples not a fewHang for ever drops of dew.Where flows Lethe without coilSoftly like a stream of oil.Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:With this Greek no longer keep.Thrice I charge thee by my wand;Thrice with moly from my handDo I touch Ulysses' eyes,And with the jaspis: Then arise,Sagest Greek....
Son of Erebus and Night,
Hie away; and aim thy flight
Where consort none other fowl
Than the bat and sullen owl;
Where upon the limber grass
Poppy and mandragoras
With like simples not a few
Hang for ever drops of dew.
Where flows Lethe without coil
Softly like a stream of oil.
Hie thee thither, gentle Sleep:
With this Greek no longer keep.
Thrice I charge thee by my wand;
Thrice with moly from my hand
Do I touch Ulysses' eyes,
And with the jaspis: Then arise,
Sagest Greek....
The Inner Temple Masque.
Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:Not to make good that poets never canLong time without a chosen mistress be,Do I sing thus; or my affections ranWithin the maze of mutability;What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,Which ruin'd now by death, if I can findThe saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,I may adore it there, and love the cellFor entertaining what I lov'd so well.
Lo, I the man that whilom lov'd and lost,
Not dreading loss, do sing again of love;
And like a man but lately tempest-toss'd,
Try if my stars still inauspicious prove:
Not to make good that poets never can
Long time without a chosen mistress be,
Do I sing thus; or my affections ran
Within the maze of mutability;
What last I lov'd was beauty of the mind,
And that lodg'd in a temple truly fair,
Which ruin'd now by death, if I can find
The saint that liv'd therein some otherwhere,
I may adore it there, and love the cell
For entertaining what I lov'd so well.
Why might I not for once be of that sect,Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right,Some other bodies to themselves elect;And sunlike make the day, and license night?That soul, whose setting in one hemisphereWas to enlighten straight another part;In that horizon, if I see it there,Calls for my first respect and its desert;Her virtue is the same and may be more;For as the sun is distant, so his powerIn operation differs, and the storeOf thick clouds interpos'd make him less our.And verily I think her climate such,Since to my former flame it adds so much.
Why might I not for once be of that sect,
Which hold that souls, when Nature hath her right,
Some other bodies to themselves elect;
And sunlike make the day, and license night?
That soul, whose setting in one hemisphere
Was to enlighten straight another part;
In that horizon, if I see it there,
Calls for my first respect and its desert;
Her virtue is the same and may be more;
For as the sun is distant, so his power
In operation differs, and the store
Of thick clouds interpos'd make him less our.
And verily I think her climate such,
Since to my former flame it adds so much.
Fairest, when by the rules of palmistryYou took my hand to try if you could guessBy lines therein if any wight there beOrdain'd to make me know some happiness;I wish'd that those characters could explain,Whom I will never wrong with hope to win;Or that by them a copy might be ta'en,By you alone what thoughts I have within.But since the hand of Nature did not set(As providently loath to have it known)The means to find that hidden alphabet.Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone:By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair,If now you see her that doth love me there.
Fairest, when by the rules of palmistry
You took my hand to try if you could guess
By lines therein if any wight there be
Ordain'd to make me know some happiness;
I wish'd that those characters could explain,
Whom I will never wrong with hope to win;
Or that by them a copy might be ta'en,
By you alone what thoughts I have within.
But since the hand of Nature did not set
(As providently loath to have it known)
The means to find that hidden alphabet.
Mine eyes shall be th' interpreters alone:
By them conceive my thoughts, and tell me, fair,
If now you see her that doth love me there.
Were't not for you, here should my pen have restAnd take a long leave of sweet poesy;Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,Should hear no more mine oaten melody;Yet shall the song I sung of them awhileUnperfect lie, and make no further knownThe happy loves of this our pleasant Isle;Till I have left some record of mine own.You are the subject now, and, writing you,I well may versify, not poetize:Here needs no fiction: for the graces trueAnd virtues clip not with base flatteries.Here could I write what you deserve of praise,Others might wear, but I should win the bays.
Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest
And take a long leave of sweet poesy;
Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,
Should hear no more mine oaten melody;
Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile
Unperfect lie, and make no further known
The happy loves of this our pleasant Isle;
Till I have left some record of mine own.
You are the subject now, and, writing you,
I well may versify, not poetize:
Here needs no fiction: for the graces true
And virtues clip not with base flatteries.
Here could I write what you deserve of praise,
Others might wear, but I should win the bays.
Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps,And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deepsWould teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereavesMine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)Give way, that I in silence may admire.Is not her sleep like that of innocents,Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,Almost in death, than are the ornamentsOf fruitful trees, which newly budding are?She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lieAnd sleep for ever, for she cannot die.
Sing soft, ye pretty birds, while Cælia sleeps,
And gentle gales play gently with the leaves;
Learn of the neighbour brooks, whose silent deeps
Would teach him fear, that her soft sleep bereaves
Mine oaten reed, devoted to her praise,
(A theme that would befit the Delphian lyre)
Give way, that I in silence may admire.
Is not her sleep like that of innocents,
Sweet as herself; and is she not more fair,
Almost in death, than are the ornaments
Of fruitful trees, which newly budding are?
She is, and tell it, Truth, when she shall lie
And sleep for ever, for she cannot die.
I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea,Singing a sad farewell unto the vale,While fishes leapt to hear her melody,And on each thorn a gentle nightingaleAnd many other birds forbore their notes,Leaping from tree to tree, as she alongThe panting bosom of the current floats,Rapt with the music of her dying song:When from a thick and all-entangled springA neatherd rude came with no small ado,Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,And quickly struck her tender neck in two;Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed,And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.
I saw a silver swan swim down the Lea,
Singing a sad farewell unto the vale,
While fishes leapt to hear her melody,
And on each thorn a gentle nightingale
And many other birds forbore their notes,
Leaping from tree to tree, as she along
The panting bosom of the current floats,
Rapt with the music of her dying song:
When from a thick and all-entangled spring
A neatherd rude came with no small ado,
Dreading an ill presage to hear her sing,
And quickly struck her tender neck in two;
Whereat the birds, methought, flew thence with speed,
And inly griev'd for such a cruel deed.
A rose, as fair as ever saw the North,Grew in a little garden all alone;A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known:The maidens danc'd about it morn and noon,And learned bards of it their ditties made;The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moonWater'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.But well-a-day, the gard'ner careless grew;The maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought the caterpillars threwThemselves upon the bud and every spray.God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
A rose, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danc'd about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Water'd the root and kiss'd her pretty shade.
But well-a-day, the gard'ner careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! if heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
Down in a valley, by a forest's side,Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves,I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,As if the lilies grew to be his slaves;The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass;The humble violet, that lowly downSalutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass:These, with a many more, methought, complain'dThat Nature should those needless things produce,Which not alone the sun from others gain'dBut turn it wholly to their proper use:I could not choose but grieve that Nature madeSo glorious flowers to live in such a shade.
Down in a valley, by a forest's side,
Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves,
I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,
As if the lilies grew to be his slaves;
The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,
Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass;
The humble violet, that lowly down
Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass:
These, with a many more, methought, complain'd
That Nature should those needless things produce,
Which not alone the sun from others gain'd
But turn it wholly to their proper use:
I could not choose but grieve that Nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.
A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,That well could tune his pipe, and deftly playThe nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,Methought I saw, upon a summer's day,Take up a little satyr in a wood,All masterless forlorn as none did know him,And nursing him with those of his own blood,On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him;But with the god he long time had not been,Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot,And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd betweenPan and all good befell the poor man's lot:Whereat all good men griev'd, and strongly sworeThey never would be foster-fathers more.
A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady,
That well could tune his pipe, and deftly play
The nymphs asleep with rural minstrelsy,
Methought I saw, upon a summer's day,
Take up a little satyr in a wood,
All masterless forlorn as none did know him,
And nursing him with those of his own blood,
On mighty Pan he lastly did bestow him;
But with the god he long time had not been,
Ere he the shepherd and himself forgot,
And most ingrateful, ever stepp'd between
Pan and all good befell the poor man's lot:
Whereat all good men griev'd, and strongly swore
They never would be foster-fathers more.
May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,Nor Flora's pride!In thee all flowers and roses spring,Mine only died.
May! Be thou never grac'd with birds that sing,
Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring,
Mine only died.
W. B.
Underneath this sable herseLies the subject of all verse:Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:Death, ere thou hast slain another,Fair and learn'd, and good as she,Time shall throw a dart at thee.Marble piles let no man raiseTo her name: for after daysSome kind woman born as she,Reading this, like NiobeShall turn marble, and becomeBoth her mourner and her tomb.
Underneath this sable herse
Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother:
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Fair and learn'd, and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.
Marble piles let no man raise
To her name: for after days
Some kind woman born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.