Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting makeWithin one valley a large silver lake:About whose banks the fertile mountains stoodIn ages passèd bravely crowned with wood,Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it graceTo 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 eveTo wait upon her: bringing for her browsRich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs.For pleasant was that pool, and near it thenWas neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen,It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge,Nor grew there rudely then along the edgeA 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 landAppear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand;Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffsWould make it rise and wash the little cliffsOn which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted thanThe gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,With all those flocks of fowls which to this day,Upon those quiet waters breed and play.For though those excellences wanting beWhich once it had, it is the same that weBy transposition name the Ford of Arle,And out of which, along a chalky marle,That river trills whose waters wash the fortIn which brave Arthur kept his royal court.North-east, not far from this great pool, there liesA tract of beechy mountains, that arise,With leisurely ascending, to such heightAs from their tops the warlike Isle of WightYou in the ocean's bosom may espy,Though near two furlongs thence it lie.The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,Is strewèd o'er with marjoram and thyme,Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not wantThe cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plantThat freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall;Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine;Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine,With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fairThe earth adorn and oft perfume the air.When you unto the highest do attainAn intermixture both of wood and plainYou shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry,So much, at least, as little needeth more,If not enough to merchandise their store.In every row hath nature planted thereSome banquet for the hungry passenger.For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows,There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree,On that large thickets of blackberries be.The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there,The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are,And had the King of Rivers blessed those hillsWith some small number of such pretty rillsAs flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seenA sweeter plot of earth than this had been.
Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make
Within one valley a large silver lake:
About whose banks the fertile mountains stood
In ages passèd 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
On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than
The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,
With all those flocks of fowls which to this day,
Upon those quiet waters breed and play.
For though those excellences wanting be
Which once it had, it is the same that we
By transposition name the Ford of Arle,
And out of which, along a chalky marle,
That river trills whose waters wash the fort
In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.
North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies
A 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,
Though near two furlongs thence it lie.
The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,
Is strewèd o'er with marjoram and thyme,
Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want
The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant
That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;
Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall;
Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine;
Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine,
With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair
The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.
When you unto the highest do attain
An intermixture both of wood and plain
You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,
Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry,
So much, at least, as little needeth more,
If not enough to merchandise their store.
In every row hath nature planted there
Some banquet for the hungry passenger.
For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows,
There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.
On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree,
On that large thickets of blackberries be.
The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there,
The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are,
And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills
With some small number of such pretty rills
As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen
A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.
FromFaire Virtue.
Her true beauty leaves behindApprehensions in my mindOf more sweetness than all artOr inventions can impart;Thoughts too deep to be expressed,And too strong to be suppressed....... What pearls, what rubies canSeem so lovely fair to man,As her lips whom he doth loveWhen in sweet discourse they move:Or her lovelier teeth, the whileShe doth bless him with a smile!Stars indeed fair creatures be;Yet amongst us where is heJoys not more the whilst he liesSunning in his mistress' eyes.Than in all the glimmering lightOf a starry winter's night?Note the beauty of an eye,And if aught you praise it byLeave such passion in your mind,Let my reason's eye be blind.Mark if ever red or whiteAnywhere gave such delightAs when they have taken placeIn a worthy woman's face.
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....
... 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 amongst us where is he
Joys not more the whilst he lies
Sunning in his mistress' eyes.
Than in all the glimmering light
Of a starry winter's night?
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.
FromFaire Virtue.
Ah me!Am I the swainThat late from sorrow freeDid 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?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 IShould 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 unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!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)Unmoanèd I must die,And no man e'erKnow why.Thy leave,My dying song,Yet take, ere grief bereaveThe breath which I enjoy too long,Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefersHer 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 takeMy leave.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 moving strainsDelighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smartHave, 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 yewAdorn 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 feelDeath'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 chillness doth each sense confound;Benumbed is my cold sweating browA dimness shuts my eye.And now, oh! now,I die!
Ah me!Am I the swainThat late from sorrow freeDid 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?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!
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?
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 IShould 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 unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!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)Unmoanèd I must die,And no man e'erKnow why.
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 unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,
That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!
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)
Unmoanèd I must die,
And no man e'er
Know why.
Thy leave,My dying song,Yet take, ere grief bereaveThe breath which I enjoy too long,Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefersHer 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 takeMy leave.
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.
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 moving strainsDelighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smartHave, without pity, broke the truest heart.Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy,That erst did with me dwell,And all other joys,Farewell!
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 moving 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 yewAdorn 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!
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 feelDeath'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 chillness doth each sense confound;Benumbed is my cold sweating browA dimness shuts my eye.And now, oh! now,I die!
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 chillness doth each sense confound;
Benumbed is my cold sweating brow
A dimness shuts my eye.
And now, oh! now,
I die!
FromFaire Virtue.
Lordly gallants! tell me this(Though my safe content you weigh not),In your greatness, what one blissHave you gained, that I enjoy not?You have honours, you have wealth;I have peace, and I have health:All the day I merry make,And at night no care I 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 chaff,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 giveTo their fools, what these have gained.Where they favour there they mayAll 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 findVirtue in a free born mind--This, the greatest kings that beCannot give, nor take from me.Though I vainly do not vauntLarge 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.Say you purchase with your pelfSome 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 liveNo descent nor wealth can give.If you boast that you may gainThe respect of high-born beauties;Know I never wooed in vain,Nor preferrèd scornèd 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 showersHave been wept as have for yours:And yet none doth me condemnFor abuse, or scorning them.Though of dainties you have store,To delight a choicer palate,Yet your taste is pleased no moreThan is mine in one poor sallet.You to please your senses feedBut I eat good blood to breed;And am most delighted thenWhen I spend it like a man.Though you lord it over me,You in vain thereof have braved;For those lusts my servants beWhereunto 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 sayAught to drive me to perplexing.Therefore, my despisèd powerGreater is, by far, than your.And, whate'er you think of me,In your minds you poorer be.You are pleasèd, 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 viewYou 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 beWhen the world esteems you notAnd your names shall be forgot.In these thoughts my riches are;Now, though poor or mean you deem me,I am pleased, and do not careHow the times or you esteem me.For those toys that make you gayAre but play-games for a day:And when nature craves her due,I as brave shall be as you.
Lordly gallants! tell me this(Though my safe content you weigh not),In your greatness, what one blissHave you gained, that I enjoy not?You have honours, you have wealth;I have peace, and I have health:All the day I merry make,And at night no care I take.
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?
You have honours, you have wealth;
I have peace, and I have health:
All the day I merry make,
And at night no care I 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 chaff,And grow merry as they laugh;I that hate it, and am free,Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
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 chaff,
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.
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 giveTo their fools, what these have gained.Where they favour there they mayAll their names of honour lay;But I look not raised to be,'Till mine own wing carry me.
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 findVirtue in a free born mind--This, the greatest kings that beCannot give, nor take from 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 vauntLarge 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.
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.
Say you purchase with your pelfSome 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 liveNo descent nor wealth can give.
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 gainThe respect of high-born beauties;Know I never wooed in vain,Nor preferrèd scornèd 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.
If you boast that you may gain
The respect of high-born beauties;
Know I never wooed in vain,
Nor preferrèd scornèd 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 showersHave been wept as have for yours:And yet none doth me condemnFor abuse, or scorning them.
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 moreThan is mine in one poor sallet.You to please your senses feedBut I eat good blood to breed;And am most delighted thenWhen I spend it like a man.
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 then
When I spend it like a man.
Though you lord it over me,You in vain thereof have braved;For those lusts my servants beWhereunto 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.
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 sayAught to drive me to perplexing.Therefore, my despisèd powerGreater is, by far, than your.And, whate'er you think of me,In your minds you poorer be.
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.
Therefore, my despisèd power
Greater is, by far, than your.
And, whate'er you think of me,
In your minds you poorer be.
You are pleasèd, 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.
You are pleasèd, 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 viewYou 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.
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.
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.
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 beWhen the world esteems you notAnd your names shall be forgot.
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.
In these thoughts my riches are;Now, though poor or mean you deem me,I am pleased, and do not careHow the times or you esteem me.For those toys that make you gayAre but play-games for a day:And when nature craves her due,I as brave shall be as you.
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.
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.Should my heart be grieved or pined'Cause I see a woman kind?Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely creature?Be she meeker, kinder thanTurtle-dove or pelican:If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be.Shall a woman's virtues moveMe to perish for her love?Or, her well-deserving known,Make me quite forget mine own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of bestIf 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 or riches find,Think what with them they would doThat 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.
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.
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.
Should my heart be grieved or pined'Cause I see a woman kind?Or a well-disposèd natureJoinèd with a lovely creature?Be she meeker, kinder thanTurtle-dove or pelican:If she be not so to me,What care I how kind she be.
Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd 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 moveMe to perish for her love?Or, her well-deserving known,Make me quite forget mine own?Be she with that goodness blestWhich may gain her name of bestIf she be not such to me,What care I how good 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 or riches find,Think what with them they would doThat without them dare to woo.And unless that mind I see,What care I though great she be.
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want or 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.
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.
Amarillis I did woo,And I courted Phillis too;Daphne, for her love, I chose;Cloris, for that damask roseIn her cheek, I held as dear;Yea, a thousand liked well near.And, in love with all together,Fearèd the enjoying either;'Cause to be of one possest,Barred the hope of all the rest.
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,
Fearèd the enjoying either;
'Cause to be of one possest,
Barred the hope of all the rest.
Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,And free access unto that sweet lip liesFrom 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.
Now gentle sleep hath closèd 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.
A Christmas CarolSo 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 themA bagpipe and a tabour.Young men and maids, and girls and boysGive life to one another's joys;And you anon shall by their noisePerceive 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.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 lawnWith droppings of the barrel.And those that hardly all the yearHad 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 justicesWith 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 nurseThe 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 easèd;The debtor drinks away his cares,And for the time is pleasèd.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.Hark how the wags abroad do callEach 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-bowlsAbout 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 oxOur 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 daysShould we, I pray, be duller?No, let us sing some roundelaysTo make our mirth the fuller.And whilst we thus inspirèd sing,Let all the streets with echoes ring;Woods, and hills, and everythingBear witness we are merry.
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.
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 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 themA bagpipe and a tabour.Young men and maids, and girls and boysGive life to one another's joys;And you anon shall by their noisePerceive that they are merry.
Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labour;
Our lasses have provided them
A bagpipe and a tabour.
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.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.
Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth;
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
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 lawnWith droppings of the barrel.And those that hardly all the yearHad bread to eat or rags to wear,Will have both clothes and dainty fare,And all the day 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 justicesWith 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.
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 nurseThe 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.
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 easèd;The debtor drinks away his cares,And for the time is pleasèd.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.
The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner's heart is easèd;
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleasèd.
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.
Hark how the wags abroad do callEach 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.
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-bowlsAbout 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 oxOur honest neighbours come by flocks,And here 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.
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 daysShould we, I pray, be duller?No, let us sing some roundelaysTo make our mirth the fuller.And whilst we thus inspirèd sing,Let all the streets with echoes ring;Woods, and hills, and everythingBear witness we are 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 inspirèd sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring;
Woods, and hills, and everything
Bear witness we are merry.
Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine earTo hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy father dear,His holy Spouse, thy mother too.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Though thy conception was in sin,A sacred bathing thou hast had;And, though thy birth unclean hath been,A blameless babe thou now art made.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,While thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine eldest brother is a King,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,For whosoever thee offends,By thy protector threat'ned are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes he took delight;Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in His sight.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.A little infant once was He,And, strength in weakness, then was laidUpon His virgin-mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.In this, thy frailty and thy need,He friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The King of kings, when he was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By Him such dressings were not worn,Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Within a manger lodged thy LordWhere oxen lay and asses fed;Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.The wants that He did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;And by His torments and His painThy rest and ease securèd be.My baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,What ails my darling thus to cry?Be still, my child, and lend thine earTo hear me sing thy lullaby.My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,
What ails my darling thus to cry?
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear
To hear me sing thy lullaby.
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?What thing to thee can mischief do?Thy God is now thy father dear,His holy Spouse, thy mother too.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?
What thing to thee can mischief do?
Thy God is now thy father dear,
His holy Spouse, thy mother too.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Though thy conception was in sin,A sacred bathing thou hast had;And, though thy birth unclean hath been,A blameless babe thou now art made.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,
Though thy conception was in sin,
A sacred bathing thou hast had;
And, though thy birth unclean hath been,
A blameless babe thou now art made.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,
While thus thy lullaby I sing,For thee great blessings ripening be;Thine eldest brother is a King,And hath a kingdom bought for thee.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
While thus thy lullaby I sing,
For thee great blessings ripening be;
Thine eldest brother is a King,
And hath a kingdom bought for thee.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,For whosoever thee offends,By thy protector threat'ned are,And God and angels are thy friends.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,
For whosoever thee offends,
By thy protector threat'ned are,
And God and angels are thy friends.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,In little babes he took delight;Such innocents as thou, my dear,Are ever precious in His sight.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When God with us was dwelling here,
In little babes he took delight;
Such innocents as thou, my dear,
Are ever precious in His sight.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He,And, strength in weakness, then was laidUpon His virgin-mother's knee,That power to thee might be conveyed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
A little infant once was He,
And, strength in weakness, then was laid
Upon His virgin-mother's knee,
That power to thee might be conveyed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this, thy frailty and thy need,He friends and helpers doth prepare,Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;For of thy weal they tender are.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
In this, thy frailty and thy need,
He friends and helpers doth prepare,
Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;
For of thy weal they tender are.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,Had not so much for outward ease;By Him such dressings were not worn,Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The King of kings, when he was born,
Had not so much for outward ease;
By Him such dressings were not worn,
Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy LordWhere oxen lay and asses fed;Warm rooms we do to thee afford,An easy cradle or a bed.Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Within a manger lodged thy Lord
Where oxen lay and asses fed;
Warm rooms we do to thee afford,
An easy cradle or a bed.
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustainHave purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;And by His torments and His painThy rest and ease securèd be.My baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
The wants that He did then sustain
Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;
And by His torments and His pain
Thy rest and ease securèd be.
My baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,A promise and an earnest gotOf gaining everlasting bliss,Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,
A promise and an earnest got
Of gaining everlasting bliss,
Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;
Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.
When with a serious musing I beholdThe grateful and obsequious marigold,How duly every morning she displaysHer open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;How she observes him in his daily walk,Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;How when he down declines, she droops and mourns,Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,As if she scornèd to be lookèd onBy an inferior eye; or did contemnTo wait upon a meaner light than him.When this I meditate, methinks the flowersHave spirits far more generous than ours,And give us fair examples to despiseThe servile fawnings and idolatries,Wherewith we court these earthly things below,Which merit not the service we bestow....
When with a serious musing I behold
The grateful and obsequious marigold,
How duly every morning she displays
Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;
How she observes him in his daily walk,
Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;
How when he down declines, she droops and mourns,
Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;
And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,
As if she scornèd to be lookèd on
By an inferior eye; or did contemn
To wait upon a meaner light than him.
When this I meditate, methinks the flowers
Have spirits far more generous than ours,
And give us fair examples to despise
The servile fawnings and idolatries,
Wherewith we court these earthly things below,
Which merit not the service we bestow....
Methought his royal person did foretellA kingly stateliness, from all pride clear;His look majestic seemèd to compelAll men to love him, rather than to fear.And yet though he were every good man's joy,And the alonely comfort of his own,His very name with terror did annoyHis foreign foes so far as he was known.Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale;Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea,(Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale,Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea)Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tideOf her o'er-daring and insulting pride.
Methought his royal person did foretell
A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear;
His look majestic seemèd to compel
All men to love him, rather than to fear.
And yet though he were every good man's joy,
And the alonely comfort of his own,
His very name with terror did annoy
His foreign foes so far as he was known.
Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale;
Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea,
(Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale,
Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea)
Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide
Of her o'er-daring and insulting pride.
Did I not know a great man's power and mightIn spite of innocence can smother right,Colour his villainies to get esteem,And make the honest man the villain seem?I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,Yet I protest if such a man I knew,That might my country prejudice or theeWere he the greatest or the proudest he,That breathes this day; if so it might be foundThat any good to either might redound,I unappalled, dare in such a caseRip up his foulest crimes before his face,Though for my labour I were sure to dropInto the mouth of ruin without hope.
Did I not know a great man's power and might
In spite of innocence can smother right,
Colour his villainies to get esteem,
And make the honest man the villain seem?
I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,
Yet I protest if such a man I knew,
That might my country prejudice or thee
Were he the greatest or the proudest he,
That breathes this day; if so it might be found
That any good to either might redound,
I unappalled, dare in such a case
Rip up his foulest crimes before his face,
Though for my labour I were sure to drop
Into the mouth of ruin without hope.
Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plotWhose equal all the world affordeth not!Show me who can so many crystal rills,Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills;Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;And if the earth can show the like again,Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot
Whose equal all the world affordeth not!
Show me who can so many crystal rills,
Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills;
Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines;
Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines;
And if the earth can show the like again,
Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
The year hath first his jocund spring,Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling,Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's dayPerfect the embryon blossom of each spray;Next cometh autumn, when the threshèd sheafLoseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm,Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn,And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
The year hath first his jocund spring,
Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling,
Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day
Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray;
Next cometh autumn, when the threshèd sheaf
Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf;
Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm,
Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn,
And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot,
Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
I have seen the Lady of the MaySet in an arbour, on a holiday,Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swainsDance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains,When envious night commands them to be goneCall for the merry youngsters one by one,And for their well performance soon disposes:To this a garland interwove with roses,To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip,Gracing another with her cherry lip;To one her garter, to another thenA handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again;And none returneth empty that hath spentHis pains to fill their rural merriment.
I have seen the Lady of the May
Set in an arbour, on a holiday,
Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains
Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains,
When envious night commands them to be gone
Call for the merry youngsters one by one,
And for their well performance soon disposes:
To this a garland interwove with roses,
To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip,
Gracing another with her cherry lip;
To one her garter, to another then
A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again;
And none returneth empty that hath spent
His pains to fill their rural merriment.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borneTo take the kind air of a wistful mornNear Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I oweMore strains than from my pipe can ever flow),Here have I heard a sweet bird never linTo chide the river for his clam'rous din;There seem'd another in his song to tell,That what the fair stream did he liked well;And going further heard another too,All varying still in what the others do;A little thence, a fourth with little painConn'd all their lessons, and them sung again;So numberless the songsters are that singIn the sweet groves of the too-careless spring,That I no sooner could the hearing loseOf one of them, but straight another rose,And perching deftly on a quaking spray,Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.. . . . .Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.
As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne
To take the kind air of a wistful morn
Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe
More strains than from my pipe can ever flow),
Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin
To chide the river for his clam'rous din;
There seem'd another in his song to tell,
That what the fair stream did he liked well;
And going further heard another too,
All varying still in what the others do;
A little thence, a fourth with little pain
Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again;
So numberless the songsters are that sing
In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring,
That I no sooner could the hearing lose
Of one of them, but straight another rose,
And perching deftly on a quaking spray,
Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.
. . . . .
Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
As I have seen when on the breast of ThamesA heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,With music give a farewell to the day,Or as they would, with an admired tone,Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne,Rapt with their melody a thousand moreRun to be wafted from the bounding shore.
As I have seen when on the breast of Thames
A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames,
In some calm ev'ning of delightful May,
With music give a farewell to the day,
Or as they would, with an admired tone,
Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne,
Rapt with their melody a thousand more
Run to be wafted from the bounding shore.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.The lofty treble sung the little wren;Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;The nightingale the tenor, and the thrushThe counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.And that the music might be full in parts,Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)There should some droning part be, therefore will'dSome bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,In embassy unto the King of Bees,To aid his partners on the flowers and treesWho, condescending, gladly flew alongTo bear the bass to his well-tuned song.The crow was willing they should be beholdingFor his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing,
Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.
The lofty treble sung the little wren;
Robin the mean, that best of all loves men;
The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush
The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.
And that the music might be full in parts,
Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts;
But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains,
Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains)
There should some droning part be, therefore will'd
Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field,
In embassy unto the King of Bees,
To aid his partners on the flowers and trees
Who, condescending, gladly flew along
To bear the bass to his well-tuned song.
The crow was willing they should be beholding
For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding,
He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb,
And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down,A golden tuft within a silver crown;(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there beNo shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)The primrose, when with six leaves gotten graceMaids as a true-love in their bosoms place;The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves beNoted the chaste thoughts of virginity;Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,The fit impresas for inflam'd desire;The harebell for her stainless azur'd hueClaims to be worn of none but those are true;The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands,The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'dTo be the badges of a jealous mind;The orange-tawny marigold: the nightHides not her colour from a searching sight....The columbine in tawny often taken,Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;Flora's choice buttons of a russet dyeIs hope even in the depth of misery.
The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down,
A golden tuft within a silver crown;
(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be
No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace
Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place;
The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be
Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity;
Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
The fit impresas for inflam'd desire;
The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue
Claims to be worn of none but those are true;
The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,
And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands,
The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd
To be the badges of a jealous mind;
The orange-tawny marigold: the night
Hides not her colour from a searching sight....
The columbine in tawny often taken,
Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;
Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye
Is hope even in the depth of misery.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yetHeld all the meadows in a cooling sweat,The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goadLaid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle budThe sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cudLow levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick stingEnforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ringTo tear the passive earth, nor lash his tailAbout his buttocks broad; the slimy snailMight on the wainscot, by his many mazes,Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slimeNot yet wip'd off. It was so early time,The careful smith had in his sooty forgeKindled no coal; nor did his hammers urgeHis neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly,And day as then might plead his in fancy.
The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet
Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat,
The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd,
Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad
Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud
The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud
Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting
Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring
To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail
About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail
Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes,
Winding meanders and self-knitting traces,
Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime
Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time,
The careful smith had in his sooty forge
Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge
His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly,
And day as then might plead his in fancy.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throneThat on the dancing waves in glory shone,For whose declining on the western shoreThe oriental hills black mantles wore,And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,That had from hideous caverns usheredAll-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet,By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweatMoist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky,The helps of darkness waited orderly.First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains;Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veinsWere conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;From standing pools and fens were followingUnhealthy fogs; each river, every rillSent up their vapours to attend her willThese pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heavenAnd as Night's chariot through the air was driven,Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's songAnd silence girt the woods; no warbling tongueTalk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,And all the upper world lay in a trance.Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;And little gales that from the green leaf sweptDry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.As loath to waken any singing bird.
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne
That on the dancing waves in glory shone,
For whose declining on the western shore
The oriental hills black mantles wore,
And thence apace the gentle twilight fled,
That had from hideous caverns ushered
All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet,
By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat
Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky,
The helps of darkness waited orderly.
First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains;
Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins
Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring;
From standing pools and fens were following
Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill
Sent up their vapours to attend her will
These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven
And as Night's chariot through the air was driven,
Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song
And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue
Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance,
And all the upper world lay in a trance.
Only the curled streams soft chidings kept;
And little gales that from the green leaf swept
Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.
As loath to waken any singing bird.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:The walks there mounting up by small degrees,The gravel and the green so equal lie,It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,Arising from the infinite repairOf odoriferous buds and herbs of price,(As if it were another Paradise)So please the smelling sense, that you are fainWhere last you walk'd to turn and walk again.There the small birds with their harmonious notesSing to a spring that smileth as she floats:For in her face a many dimples show,And often skips as it did dancing go:Here further down an over-arched alley,That from a hill goes winding in a valley,You spy at end thereof a standing lake,Where some ingenious artist strives to makeThe water (brought in turning pipes of leadThrough birds of earth most lively fashioned)To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,In singing well their own set madrigal.This with no small delight retains your ear,And makes you think none blest but who live there.Then in another place the fruits that beIn gallant clusters decking each good tree,Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,And liking one, taste every sort of them:Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence,Now pleasing one, and then another sense.Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,As if it were some hidden labyrinth;So loath to part and so content to stay,That when the gard'ner knocks for you away,It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,That you could wish that you had never seen it.
Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,
Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge:
Here the fine setting of well-shading trees:
The walks there mounting up by small degrees,
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye:
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price,
(As if it were another Paradise)
So please the smelling sense, that you are fain
Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing go:
Here further down an over-arched alley,
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
You spy at end thereof a standing lake,
Where some ingenious artist strives to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of lead
Through birds of earth most lively fashioned)
To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,
In singing well their own set madrigal.
This with no small delight retains your ear,
And makes you think none blest but who live there.
Then in another place the fruits that be
In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,
And liking one, taste every sort of them:
Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers,
Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers,
Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence,
Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th,
As if it were some hidden labyrinth;
So loath to part and so content to stay,
That when the gard'ner knocks for you away,
It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,
That you could wish that you had never seen it.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Now as an angler melancholy standingUpon a green bank yielding room for landing,A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,He long stands viewing of the curled stream;At last a hungry pike, or well-grown breamSnatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,Whilst furiously all up and down doth swimTh' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,There underneath the banks, then in the mud,And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:By this the pike, clean wearied, underneathA willow lies.
Now as an angler melancholy standing
Upon a green bank yielding room for landing,
A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook,
Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook:
Here pulls his line, there throws it in again,
Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain,
He long stands viewing of the curled stream;
At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream
Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away,
He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway,
Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill,
Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill;
Then all his line he freely yieldeth him,
Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim
Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud,
There underneath the banks, then in the mud,
And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal,
That each one takes his hide, or starting hole:
By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath
A willow lies.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
So when the pretty rill a place espies,Where with the pebbles she would wantonize,And that her upper stream so much doth wrong herTo drive her thence, and let her play no longer;If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,As being much incens'd to leave her play,A western, mild and pretty whispering galeCame dallying with the leaves along the dale,And seem'd as with the water it did chide,Because it ran so long unpacified:Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil,Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil:Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep,And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.
So when the pretty rill a place espies,
Where with the pebbles she would wantonize,
And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her
To drive her thence, and let her play no longer;
If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away,
As being much incens'd to leave her play,
A western, mild and pretty whispering gale
Came dallying with the leaves along the dale,
And seem'd as with the water it did chide,
Because it ran so long unpacified:
Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil,
Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil:
Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep,
And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.
FromBritannia's Pastorals.
Glide soft, ye silver floods,And every spring:Within the shady woodsLet no bird sing!Nor from the grove a turtle-doveBe seen to couple with her love;But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.But (of great Thetis' train)Ye mermaids fair,That on the shores do plainYour sea-green hair,As ye in trammels knit your locks,Weep ye; and so enforce the rocksIn heavy murmurs through the broad shores tellHow Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,To move a wave;But if with troubled mindsYou seek his grave;Know 'tis as various as yourselves,Now in the deep, then on the shelves,His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.Had he Arion-likeBeen judged to drown,He on his lute could strikeSo rare a sowne,A thousand dolphins would have comeAnd jointly strive to bring him home.But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.Great Neptune, hear a swain!His coffin take,And with a golden chainFor pity makeIt fast unto a rock near land!Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell,Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.
Glide soft, ye silver floods,And every spring:Within the shady woodsLet no bird sing!Nor from the grove a turtle-doveBe seen to couple with her love;But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
Glide soft, ye silver floods,
And every spring:
Within the shady woods
Let no bird sing!
Nor from the grove a turtle-dove
Be seen to couple with her love;
But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,
Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
But (of great Thetis' train)Ye mermaids fair,That on the shores do plainYour sea-green hair,As ye in trammels knit your locks,Weep ye; and so enforce the rocksIn heavy murmurs through the broad shores tellHow Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
But (of great Thetis' train)
Ye mermaids fair,
That on the shores do plain
Your sea-green hair,
As ye in trammels knit your locks,
Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks
In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell
How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,To move a wave;But if with troubled mindsYou seek his grave;Know 'tis as various as yourselves,Now in the deep, then on the shelves,His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds,
To move a wave;
But if with troubled minds
You seek his grave;
Know 'tis as various as yourselves,
Now in the deep, then on the shelves,
His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell,
Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
Had he Arion-likeBeen judged to drown,He on his lute could strikeSo rare a sowne,A thousand dolphins would have comeAnd jointly strive to bring him home.But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.
Had he Arion-like
Been judged to drown,
He on his lute could strike
So rare a sowne,
A thousand dolphins would have come
And jointly strive to bring him home.
But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell,
Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.
Great Neptune, hear a swain!His coffin take,And with a golden chainFor pity makeIt fast unto a rock near land!Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell,Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.
Great Neptune, hear a swain!
His coffin take,
And with a golden chain
For pity make
It fast unto a rock near land!
Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand,
And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell,
Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.