Nothing can be more loathsome than to seePower conjoin'd with Nature's cruelty.
Nothing can be more loathsome than to seePower conjoin'd with Nature's cruelty.
Nothing can be more loathsome than to seePower conjoin'd with Nature's cruelty.
I ask'd my Lucia but a kiss,And she with scorn denied me this;Say then, how ill should I have sped,Had I then ask'd her maidenhead?
I ask'd my Lucia but a kiss,And she with scorn denied me this;Say then, how ill should I have sped,Had I then ask'd her maidenhead?
I ask'd my Lucia but a kiss,And she with scorn denied me this;Say then, how ill should I have sped,Had I then ask'd her maidenhead?
Little you are, for woman's sake be proud;For my sake next, though little, be not loud.
Little you are, for woman's sake be proud;For my sake next, though little, be not loud.
Little you are, for woman's sake be proud;For my sake next, though little, be not loud.
He who has suffered shipwreck fears to sailUpon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
He who has suffered shipwreck fears to sailUpon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
He who has suffered shipwreck fears to sailUpon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
A long life's-day I've taken painsFor very little, or no gains;The evening's come, here now I'll stop,And work no more, but shut up shop.
A long life's-day I've taken painsFor very little, or no gains;The evening's come, here now I'll stop,And work no more, but shut up shop.
A long life's-day I've taken painsFor very little, or no gains;The evening's come, here now I'll stop,And work no more, but shut up shop.
Be bold, my book, nor be abash'd, or fearThe cutting thumb-nail or the brow severe;But by the Muses swear all here is goodIf but well read, or, ill read, understood.
Be bold, my book, nor be abash'd, or fearThe cutting thumb-nail or the brow severe;But by the Muses swear all here is goodIf but well read, or, ill read, understood.
Be bold, my book, nor be abash'd, or fearThe cutting thumb-nail or the brow severe;But by the Muses swear all here is goodIf but well read, or, ill read, understood.
When I a verse shall make,Know I have pray'd thee,For old religion's sake,Saint Ben, to aid me.Make the way smooth for me,When I, thy Herrick,Honouring thee, on my kneeOffer my lyric.Candles I'll give to thee,And a new altar,And thou, Saint Ben, shall beWrit in my Psalter.
When I a verse shall make,Know I have pray'd thee,For old religion's sake,Saint Ben, to aid me.Make the way smooth for me,When I, thy Herrick,Honouring thee, on my kneeOffer my lyric.Candles I'll give to thee,And a new altar,And thou, Saint Ben, shall beWrit in my Psalter.
When I a verse shall make,Know I have pray'd thee,For old religion's sake,Saint Ben, to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,When I, thy Herrick,Honouring thee, on my kneeOffer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,And a new altar,And thou, Saint Ben, shall beWrit in my Psalter.
Give Want her welcome if she comes; we findRiches to be but burdens to the mind.
Give Want her welcome if she comes; we findRiches to be but burdens to the mind.
Give Want her welcome if she comes; we findRiches to be but burdens to the mind.
Who with a little cannot be content,Endures an everlasting punishment.
Who with a little cannot be content,Endures an everlasting punishment.
Who with a little cannot be content,Endures an everlasting punishment.
Let's live with that small pittance that we have;Who covets more, is evermore a slave.
Let's live with that small pittance that we have;Who covets more, is evermore a slave.
Let's live with that small pittance that we have;Who covets more, is evermore a slave.
When laws full power have to sway, we seeLittle or no part there of tyranny.
When laws full power have to sway, we seeLittle or no part there of tyranny.
When laws full power have to sway, we seeLittle or no part there of tyranny.
I'll get me hence,Because no fenceOr fort that I can make here,But love by charms,Or else by armsWill storm, or starving take here.
I'll get me hence,Because no fenceOr fort that I can make here,But love by charms,Or else by armsWill storm, or starving take here.
I'll get me hence,Because no fenceOr fort that I can make here,But love by charms,Or else by armsWill storm, or starving take here.
Go woo young Charles no more to lookThan but to read this in my book:How Herrick begs, if that he can-Not like the muse, to love the man,Who by the shepherds sung, long since,The star-led birth of Charles the Prince.
Go woo young Charles no more to lookThan but to read this in my book:How Herrick begs, if that he can-Not like the muse, to love the man,Who by the shepherds sung, long since,The star-led birth of Charles the Prince.
Go woo young Charles no more to lookThan but to read this in my book:How Herrick begs, if that he can-Not like the muse, to love the man,Who by the shepherds sung, long since,The star-led birth of Charles the Prince.
Long since,i.e., in the "Pastoral upon the Birth of Prince Charles" (213), where seeNote.
Dull to myself, and almost dead to theseMy many fresh and fragrant mistresses;Lost to all music now, since everythingPuts on the semblance here of sorrowing.Sick is the land to the heart, and doth endureMore dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.But if that golden age would come again,And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were,As when the sweet Maria lived here:I should delight to have my curls half drown'dIn Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd;And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,Knock at a star with my exalted head.
Dull to myself, and almost dead to theseMy many fresh and fragrant mistresses;Lost to all music now, since everythingPuts on the semblance here of sorrowing.Sick is the land to the heart, and doth endureMore dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.But if that golden age would come again,And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were,As when the sweet Maria lived here:I should delight to have my curls half drown'dIn Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd;And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,Knock at a star with my exalted head.
Dull to myself, and almost dead to theseMy many fresh and fragrant mistresses;Lost to all music now, since everythingPuts on the semblance here of sorrowing.Sick is the land to the heart, and doth endureMore dangerous faintings by her desp'rate cure.But if that golden age would come again,And Charles here rule, as he before did reign;If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were,As when the sweet Maria lived here:I should delight to have my curls half drown'dIn Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown'd;And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,Knock at a star with my exalted head.
Knock at a star(sublimi feriam sidera vertice). Horace Ode, i. 1.
Thy sooty godhead I desireStill to be ready with thy fire;That should my book despised be,Acceptance it might find of thee.
Thy sooty godhead I desireStill to be ready with thy fire;That should my book despised be,Acceptance it might find of thee.
Thy sooty godhead I desireStill to be ready with thy fire;That should my book despised be,Acceptance it might find of thee.
This is the height of justice: that to doThyself which thou put'st other men unto.As great men lead, the meaner follow on,Or to the good, or evil action.
This is the height of justice: that to doThyself which thou put'st other men unto.As great men lead, the meaner follow on,Or to the good, or evil action.
This is the height of justice: that to doThyself which thou put'st other men unto.As great men lead, the meaner follow on,Or to the good, or evil action.
No wrath of men or rage of seasCan shake a just man's purposes:No threats of tyrants or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.
No wrath of men or rage of seasCan shake a just man's purposes:No threats of tyrants or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.
No wrath of men or rage of seasCan shake a just man's purposes:No threats of tyrants or the grimVisage of them can alter him;But what he doth at first intend,That he holds firmly to the end.
Come, sit we under yonder tree,Where merry as the maids we'll be;And as on primroses we sit,We'll venture, if we can, at wit:If not, at draw-gloves we will play;So spend some minutes of the day:Or else spin out the thread of sands,Playing at Questions and Commands:Or tell what strange tricks love can do,By quickly making one of two.Thus we will sit and talk, but tellNo cruel truths of Philomel,Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd onTo kill herself for Demophon.But fables we'll relate: how JovePut on all shapes to get a love;As now a satyr, then a swan;A bull but then, and now a man.Next we will act how young men woo,And sigh, and kiss as lovers do;And talk of brides, and who shall makeThat wedding-smock, this bridal cake,That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine,That smooth and silken columbine.This done, we'll draw lots who shall buyAnd gild the bays and rosemary;What posies for our wedding rings;What gloves we'll give and ribandings:And smiling at ourselves, decree,Who then the joining priest shall be.What short, sweet prayers shall be said;And how the posset shall be madeWith cream of lilies, not of kine,And maiden's-blush, for spiced wine.Thus, having talked, we'll next commendA kiss to each, and so we'll end.
Come, sit we under yonder tree,Where merry as the maids we'll be;And as on primroses we sit,We'll venture, if we can, at wit:If not, at draw-gloves we will play;So spend some minutes of the day:Or else spin out the thread of sands,Playing at Questions and Commands:Or tell what strange tricks love can do,By quickly making one of two.Thus we will sit and talk, but tellNo cruel truths of Philomel,Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd onTo kill herself for Demophon.But fables we'll relate: how JovePut on all shapes to get a love;As now a satyr, then a swan;A bull but then, and now a man.Next we will act how young men woo,And sigh, and kiss as lovers do;And talk of brides, and who shall makeThat wedding-smock, this bridal cake,That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine,That smooth and silken columbine.This done, we'll draw lots who shall buyAnd gild the bays and rosemary;What posies for our wedding rings;What gloves we'll give and ribandings:And smiling at ourselves, decree,Who then the joining priest shall be.What short, sweet prayers shall be said;And how the posset shall be madeWith cream of lilies, not of kine,And maiden's-blush, for spiced wine.Thus, having talked, we'll next commendA kiss to each, and so we'll end.
Come, sit we under yonder tree,Where merry as the maids we'll be;And as on primroses we sit,We'll venture, if we can, at wit:If not, at draw-gloves we will play;So spend some minutes of the day:Or else spin out the thread of sands,Playing at Questions and Commands:Or tell what strange tricks love can do,By quickly making one of two.Thus we will sit and talk, but tellNo cruel truths of Philomel,Or Phyllis, whom hard fate forc'd onTo kill herself for Demophon.But fables we'll relate: how JovePut on all shapes to get a love;As now a satyr, then a swan;A bull but then, and now a man.Next we will act how young men woo,And sigh, and kiss as lovers do;And talk of brides, and who shall makeThat wedding-smock, this bridal cake,That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine,That smooth and silken columbine.This done, we'll draw lots who shall buyAnd gild the bays and rosemary;What posies for our wedding rings;What gloves we'll give and ribandings:And smiling at ourselves, decree,Who then the joining priest shall be.What short, sweet prayers shall be said;And how the posset shall be madeWith cream of lilies, not of kine,And maiden's-blush, for spiced wine.Thus, having talked, we'll next commendA kiss to each, and so we'll end.
Draw-gloves, talking on the fingers.Philomela, daughter of Pandion, changed into a nightingale.Phyllis, the S. Phyllis of a former lyric (To Groves).Gild the bays, seeNoteto479.
As wearied pilgrims, once possestOf long'd-for lodging, go to rest,So I, now having rid my way,Fix here my button'd staff and stay.Youth, I confess, hath me misled;But age hath brought me right to bed.
As wearied pilgrims, once possestOf long'd-for lodging, go to rest,So I, now having rid my way,Fix here my button'd staff and stay.Youth, I confess, hath me misled;But age hath brought me right to bed.
As wearied pilgrims, once possestOf long'd-for lodging, go to rest,So I, now having rid my way,Fix here my button'd staff and stay.Youth, I confess, hath me misled;But age hath brought me right to bed.
Button'd, knobbed.
Spring with the lark, most comely bride, and meetYour eager bridegroom with auspicious feet.The morn's far spent, and the immortal sunCorals his cheek to see those rites not done.Fie, lovely maid! indeed you are too slow,When to the temple Love should run, not go.Dispatch your dressing then, and quickly wed;Then feast, and coy't a little, then to bed.This day is Love's day, and this busy nightIs yours, in which you challenged are to fightWith such an arm'd, but such an easy foe,As will, if you yield, lie down conquer'd too.The field is pitch'd, but such must be your wars,As that your kisses must outvie the stars.Fall down together vanquished both, and lieDrown'd in the blood of rubies there, not die.
Spring with the lark, most comely bride, and meetYour eager bridegroom with auspicious feet.The morn's far spent, and the immortal sunCorals his cheek to see those rites not done.Fie, lovely maid! indeed you are too slow,When to the temple Love should run, not go.Dispatch your dressing then, and quickly wed;Then feast, and coy't a little, then to bed.This day is Love's day, and this busy nightIs yours, in which you challenged are to fightWith such an arm'd, but such an easy foe,As will, if you yield, lie down conquer'd too.The field is pitch'd, but such must be your wars,As that your kisses must outvie the stars.Fall down together vanquished both, and lieDrown'd in the blood of rubies there, not die.
Spring with the lark, most comely bride, and meetYour eager bridegroom with auspicious feet.The morn's far spent, and the immortal sunCorals his cheek to see those rites not done.Fie, lovely maid! indeed you are too slow,When to the temple Love should run, not go.Dispatch your dressing then, and quickly wed;Then feast, and coy't a little, then to bed.This day is Love's day, and this busy nightIs yours, in which you challenged are to fightWith such an arm'd, but such an easy foe,As will, if you yield, lie down conquer'd too.The field is pitch'd, but such must be your wars,As that your kisses must outvie the stars.Fall down together vanquished both, and lieDrown'd in the blood of rubies there, not die.
Corals, reddens.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee.No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;But on, on thy wayNot making a stay,Since ghost there's none to affright thee.Let not the dark thee cumber:What though the moon does slumber?The stars of the nightWill lend thee their lightLike tapers clear without number.Then, Julia, let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And when I shall meetThy silv'ry feetMy soul I'll pour into thee.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee.No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;But on, on thy wayNot making a stay,Since ghost there's none to affright thee.Let not the dark thee cumber:What though the moon does slumber?The stars of the nightWill lend thee their lightLike tapers clear without number.Then, Julia, let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And when I shall meetThy silv'ry feetMy soul I'll pour into thee.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,The shooting stars attend thee;And the elves also,Whose little eyes glowLike the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee,Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;But on, on thy wayNot making a stay,Since ghost there's none to affright thee.
Let not the dark thee cumber:What though the moon does slumber?The stars of the nightWill lend thee their lightLike tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,Thus, thus to come unto me;And when I shall meetThy silv'ry feetMy soul I'll pour into thee.
Give me wine, and give me meat,To create in me a heat,That my pulses high may beat.Cold and hunger never yetCould a noble verse beget;But your bowls with sack replete.Give me these, my knight, and tryIn a minute's space how ICan run mad and prophesy.Then, if any piece prove newAnd rare, I'll say, my dearest Crew,It was full inspired by you.
Give me wine, and give me meat,To create in me a heat,That my pulses high may beat.Cold and hunger never yetCould a noble verse beget;But your bowls with sack replete.Give me these, my knight, and tryIn a minute's space how ICan run mad and prophesy.Then, if any piece prove newAnd rare, I'll say, my dearest Crew,It was full inspired by you.
Give me wine, and give me meat,To create in me a heat,That my pulses high may beat.
Cold and hunger never yetCould a noble verse beget;But your bowls with sack replete.
Give me these, my knight, and tryIn a minute's space how ICan run mad and prophesy.
Then, if any piece prove newAnd rare, I'll say, my dearest Crew,It was full inspired by you.
If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast:The happy fortune will not always last.
If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast:The happy fortune will not always last.
If well the dice run, let's applaud the cast:The happy fortune will not always last.
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve:The sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
I make no haste to have my numbers read:Seldom comes glory till a man be dead.
I make no haste to have my numbers read:Seldom comes glory till a man be dead.
I make no haste to have my numbers read:Seldom comes glory till a man be dead.
Wantons we are, and though our words be such,Our lives do differ from our lines by much.
Wantons we are, and though our words be such,Our lives do differ from our lines by much.
Wantons we are, and though our words be such,Our lives do differ from our lines by much.
Reproach we may the living, not the dead:'Tis cowardice to bite the buried.
Reproach we may the living, not the dead:'Tis cowardice to bite the buried.
Reproach we may the living, not the dead:'Tis cowardice to bite the buried.
What will ye, my poor orphans, doWhen I must leave the world and you?Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye when I am dead?Who'll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of witAlready coin'd to pay for it?I cannot tell, unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland,Or gallant Newark, which brave twoMay fost'ring fathers be to you.If not, expect to be no lessIll us'd, than babes left fatherless.
What will ye, my poor orphans, doWhen I must leave the world and you?Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye when I am dead?Who'll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of witAlready coin'd to pay for it?I cannot tell, unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland,Or gallant Newark, which brave twoMay fost'ring fathers be to you.If not, expect to be no lessIll us'd, than babes left fatherless.
What will ye, my poor orphans, doWhen I must leave the world and you?Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed,Or credit ye when I am dead?Who'll let ye by their fire sit,Although ye have a stock of witAlready coin'd to pay for it?I cannot tell, unless there beSome race of old humanityLeft, of the large heart and long hand,Alive, as noble Westmorland,Or gallant Newark, which brave twoMay fost'ring fathers be to you.If not, expect to be no lessIll us'd, than babes left fatherless.
Westmorland,Newark, seeNotes.
Dearest of thousands, now the time draws nearThat with my lines my life must full-stop here.Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shedOver my turf when I am buried.Then for effusions, let none wanting be,Or other rites that do belong to me;As love shall help thee, when thou dost go henceUnto thy everlasting residence.
Dearest of thousands, now the time draws nearThat with my lines my life must full-stop here.Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shedOver my turf when I am buried.Then for effusions, let none wanting be,Or other rites that do belong to me;As love shall help thee, when thou dost go henceUnto thy everlasting residence.
Dearest of thousands, now the time draws nearThat with my lines my life must full-stop here.Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shedOver my turf when I am buried.Then for effusions, let none wanting be,Or other rites that do belong to me;As love shall help thee, when thou dost go henceUnto thy everlasting residence.
Effusions, the "due drink-offerings" of the lyric "To his lovely mistresses" (634).
In a dream, Love bade me goTo the galleys there to row;In the vision I ask'd why?Love as briefly did reply,'Twas better there to toil, than proveThe turmoils they endure that love.I awoke, and then I knewWhat Love said was too-too true;Henceforth therefore I will be,As from love, from trouble free.None pities him that's in the snare,And, warned before, would not beware.
In a dream, Love bade me goTo the galleys there to row;In the vision I ask'd why?Love as briefly did reply,'Twas better there to toil, than proveThe turmoils they endure that love.I awoke, and then I knewWhat Love said was too-too true;Henceforth therefore I will be,As from love, from trouble free.None pities him that's in the snare,And, warned before, would not beware.
In a dream, Love bade me goTo the galleys there to row;In the vision I ask'd why?Love as briefly did reply,'Twas better there to toil, than proveThe turmoils they endure that love.I awoke, and then I knewWhat Love said was too-too true;Henceforth therefore I will be,As from love, from trouble free.None pities him that's in the snare,And, warned before, would not beware.
Come sit we by the fire's side,And roundly drink we here;Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'dAnd noses tann'd with beer.
Come sit we by the fire's side,And roundly drink we here;Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'dAnd noses tann'd with beer.
Come sit we by the fire's side,And roundly drink we here;Till that we see our cheeks ale-dy'dAnd noses tann'd with beer.
Chorus Sacerdotum.From the temple to your homeMay a thousand blessings come!And a sweet concurring streamOf all joys to join with them.Chorus Juvenum.Happy Day,Make no long stayHereIn thy sphere;But give thy place to Night,That she,As thee,May bePartaker of this sight.And since it was thy careTo see the younglings wed,'Tis fit that Night the pairShould see safe brought to bed.Chorus Senum.Go to your banquet then, but use delight,So as to rise still with an appetite.Love is a thing most nice, and must be fedTo such a height, but never surfeited.What is beyond the mean is ever ill:'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill;Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,And this remember,virtue keeps the measure.Chorus Virginum.Lucky signs we have descri'dTo encourage on the bride,And to these we have espi'd,Not a kissing Cupid fliesHere about, but has his eyesTo imply your love is wise.Chorus Pastorum.Here we present a fleeceTo make a pieceOf cloth;Nor, fair, must you be bothYour finger to applyTo housewifery.Then, then beginTo spin:And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will comeInto your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.Chorus Matronarum.Set you to your wheel, and waxRich by the ductile wool and flax.Yarn is an income, and the housewives' threadThe larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.Chorus Senum.Let wealth come in by comely thriftAnd not by any sordid shift;'Tis hasteMakes waste:Extremes have still their fault:The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sandHolds none at all, or little in his hand.Chorus Virginum.Goddess of pleasure, youth and peace,Give them the blessing of increase:And thou, Lucina, that dost hearThe vows of those that children bear:Whenas her April hour draws near,Be thou then propitious there.Chorus Juvenum.Far hence be all speech that may anger move:Sweet words must nourish soft and gentle love.Chorus Omnium.Live in the love of doves, and having toldThe raven's years, go hence more ripe than old.
Chorus Sacerdotum.From the temple to your homeMay a thousand blessings come!And a sweet concurring streamOf all joys to join with them.Chorus Juvenum.Happy Day,Make no long stayHereIn thy sphere;But give thy place to Night,That she,As thee,May bePartaker of this sight.And since it was thy careTo see the younglings wed,'Tis fit that Night the pairShould see safe brought to bed.Chorus Senum.Go to your banquet then, but use delight,So as to rise still with an appetite.Love is a thing most nice, and must be fedTo such a height, but never surfeited.What is beyond the mean is ever ill:'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill;Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,And this remember,virtue keeps the measure.Chorus Virginum.Lucky signs we have descri'dTo encourage on the bride,And to these we have espi'd,Not a kissing Cupid fliesHere about, but has his eyesTo imply your love is wise.Chorus Pastorum.Here we present a fleeceTo make a pieceOf cloth;Nor, fair, must you be bothYour finger to applyTo housewifery.Then, then beginTo spin:And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will comeInto your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.Chorus Matronarum.Set you to your wheel, and waxRich by the ductile wool and flax.Yarn is an income, and the housewives' threadThe larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.Chorus Senum.Let wealth come in by comely thriftAnd not by any sordid shift;'Tis hasteMakes waste:Extremes have still their fault:The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sandHolds none at all, or little in his hand.Chorus Virginum.Goddess of pleasure, youth and peace,Give them the blessing of increase:And thou, Lucina, that dost hearThe vows of those that children bear:Whenas her April hour draws near,Be thou then propitious there.Chorus Juvenum.Far hence be all speech that may anger move:Sweet words must nourish soft and gentle love.Chorus Omnium.Live in the love of doves, and having toldThe raven's years, go hence more ripe than old.
Chorus Sacerdotum.From the temple to your homeMay a thousand blessings come!And a sweet concurring streamOf all joys to join with them.
Chorus Juvenum.Happy Day,Make no long stayHereIn thy sphere;But give thy place to Night,That she,As thee,May bePartaker of this sight.And since it was thy careTo see the younglings wed,'Tis fit that Night the pairShould see safe brought to bed.
Chorus Senum.Go to your banquet then, but use delight,So as to rise still with an appetite.Love is a thing most nice, and must be fedTo such a height, but never surfeited.What is beyond the mean is ever ill:'Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill;Go then discreetly to the bed of pleasure,And this remember,virtue keeps the measure.
Chorus Virginum.Lucky signs we have descri'dTo encourage on the bride,And to these we have espi'd,Not a kissing Cupid fliesHere about, but has his eyesTo imply your love is wise.
Chorus Pastorum.Here we present a fleeceTo make a pieceOf cloth;Nor, fair, must you be bothYour finger to applyTo housewifery.Then, then beginTo spin:And, sweetling, mark you, what a web will comeInto your chests, drawn by your painful thumb.
Chorus Matronarum.Set you to your wheel, and waxRich by the ductile wool and flax.Yarn is an income, and the housewives' threadThe larder fills with meat, the bin with bread.
Chorus Senum.Let wealth come in by comely thriftAnd not by any sordid shift;'Tis hasteMakes waste:Extremes have still their fault:The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:Who grips too hard the dry and slippery sandHolds none at all, or little in his hand.
Chorus Virginum.Goddess of pleasure, youth and peace,Give them the blessing of increase:And thou, Lucina, that dost hearThe vows of those that children bear:Whenas her April hour draws near,Be thou then propitious there.
Chorus Juvenum.Far hence be all speech that may anger move:Sweet words must nourish soft and gentle love.
Chorus Omnium.Live in the love of doves, and having toldThe raven's years, go hence more ripe than old.
Nice, dainty.Painful, painstaking; for the passage cp. Catull.Nupt. Pel. et Thet.311-314.
One night i' th' year, my dearest beauties, comeAnd bring those due drink-offerings to my tomb.When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,And there to lick th' effused sacrifice:Though paleness be the livery that I wear,Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once showThe least grim look, or cast a frown on you:Nor shall the tapers when I'm there burn blue.This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,Cast on my girls a glance and loving eye,Or fold mine arms and sigh, because I've lostThe world so soon, and in it you the most.Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,Though then I smile and speak no words at all.
One night i' th' year, my dearest beauties, comeAnd bring those due drink-offerings to my tomb.When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,And there to lick th' effused sacrifice:Though paleness be the livery that I wear,Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once showThe least grim look, or cast a frown on you:Nor shall the tapers when I'm there burn blue.This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,Cast on my girls a glance and loving eye,Or fold mine arms and sigh, because I've lostThe world so soon, and in it you the most.Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,Though then I smile and speak no words at all.
One night i' th' year, my dearest beauties, comeAnd bring those due drink-offerings to my tomb.When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,And there to lick th' effused sacrifice:Though paleness be the livery that I wear,Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once showThe least grim look, or cast a frown on you:Nor shall the tapers when I'm there burn blue.This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,Cast on my girls a glance and loving eye,Or fold mine arms and sigh, because I've lostThe world so soon, and in it you the most.Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,Though then I smile and speak no words at all.
Fold mine arms, cp. "crossing his arms in this sad knot" (Tempest).
A crystal vial Cupid brought,Which had a juice in it;Of which who drank, he said no thoughtOf love he should admit.I, greedy of the prize, did drink,And emptied soon the glass;Which burnt me so, that I do thinkThe fire of hell it was.Give me my earthen cups again,The crystal I contemn;Which, though enchas'd with pearls, containA deadly draught in them.And thou, O Cupid! come not toMy threshold, since I see,For all I have, or else can do,Thou still wilt cozen me.
A crystal vial Cupid brought,Which had a juice in it;Of which who drank, he said no thoughtOf love he should admit.I, greedy of the prize, did drink,And emptied soon the glass;Which burnt me so, that I do thinkThe fire of hell it was.Give me my earthen cups again,The crystal I contemn;Which, though enchas'd with pearls, containA deadly draught in them.And thou, O Cupid! come not toMy threshold, since I see,For all I have, or else can do,Thou still wilt cozen me.
A crystal vial Cupid brought,Which had a juice in it;Of which who drank, he said no thoughtOf love he should admit.
I, greedy of the prize, did drink,And emptied soon the glass;Which burnt me so, that I do thinkThe fire of hell it was.
Give me my earthen cups again,The crystal I contemn;Which, though enchas'd with pearls, containA deadly draught in them.
And thou, O Cupid! come not toMy threshold, since I see,For all I have, or else can do,Thou still wilt cozen me.
Please your Grace, from out your store,Give an alms to one that's poor,That your mickle may have more.Black I'm grown for want of meatGive me then an ant to eat,Or the cleft ear of a mouseOver-sour'd in drink of souce;Or, sweet lady, reach to meThe abdomen of a bee;Or commend a cricket's hip,Or his huckson, to my scrip.Give for bread a little bitOf a pea that 'gins to chit,And my full thanks take for it.Flour of fuzz-balls, that's too goodFor a man in needihood;But the meal of milldust canWell content a craving man.Any orts the elves refuseWell will serve the beggar's use.But if this may seem too muchFor an alms, then give me suchLittle bits that nestle thereIn the prisoner's panier.So a blessing light uponYou and mighty Oberon:That your plenty last till whenI return your alms again.
Please your Grace, from out your store,Give an alms to one that's poor,That your mickle may have more.Black I'm grown for want of meatGive me then an ant to eat,Or the cleft ear of a mouseOver-sour'd in drink of souce;Or, sweet lady, reach to meThe abdomen of a bee;Or commend a cricket's hip,Or his huckson, to my scrip.Give for bread a little bitOf a pea that 'gins to chit,And my full thanks take for it.Flour of fuzz-balls, that's too goodFor a man in needihood;But the meal of milldust canWell content a craving man.Any orts the elves refuseWell will serve the beggar's use.But if this may seem too muchFor an alms, then give me suchLittle bits that nestle thereIn the prisoner's panier.So a blessing light uponYou and mighty Oberon:That your plenty last till whenI return your alms again.
Please your Grace, from out your store,Give an alms to one that's poor,That your mickle may have more.Black I'm grown for want of meatGive me then an ant to eat,Or the cleft ear of a mouseOver-sour'd in drink of souce;Or, sweet lady, reach to meThe abdomen of a bee;Or commend a cricket's hip,Or his huckson, to my scrip.Give for bread a little bitOf a pea that 'gins to chit,And my full thanks take for it.Flour of fuzz-balls, that's too goodFor a man in needihood;But the meal of milldust canWell content a craving man.Any orts the elves refuseWell will serve the beggar's use.But if this may seem too muchFor an alms, then give me suchLittle bits that nestle thereIn the prisoner's panier.So a blessing light uponYou and mighty Oberon:That your plenty last till whenI return your alms again.
Mickle, much.Souce, salt-pickle.Huckson, huckle-bone.Chit, sprout.Orts, scraps of food.Prisoner's panier, the basket which poor prisoners used to hang out of the gaol windows for alms in money or kind.
Let's be jocund while we may,All things have an ending day;And when once the work is done,Fates revolve no flax they've spun.
Let's be jocund while we may,All things have an ending day;And when once the work is done,Fates revolve no flax they've spun.
Let's be jocund while we may,All things have an ending day;And when once the work is done,Fates revolve no flax they've spun.
Revolve,i.e., bring back.
Here a pretty baby liesSung asleep with lullabies;Pray be silent, and not stirTh' easy earth that covers her.
Here a pretty baby liesSung asleep with lullabies;Pray be silent, and not stirTh' easy earth that covers her.
Here a pretty baby liesSung asleep with lullabies;Pray be silent, and not stirTh' easy earth that covers her.
If Nature do denyColours, let Art supply.
If Nature do denyColours, let Art supply.
If Nature do denyColours, let Art supply.
Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appearRe-cloth'd in fresh and verdant diaper.Thaw'd are the snows, and now the lusty springGives to each mead a neat enamelling.The palms put forth their gems, and every treeNow swaggers in her leafy gallantry.The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings,With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.What gentle winds perspire! As if hereNever had been the northern plundererTo strip the trees and fields, to their distress,Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.And look how when a frantic storm doth tearA stubborn oak, or holm, long growing there,But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breezeThat scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees:So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoilOur salt, our corn, our honey, wine and oil,Falls to a temper, and doth mildly castHis inconsiderate frenzy off, at last,The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.
Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appearRe-cloth'd in fresh and verdant diaper.Thaw'd are the snows, and now the lusty springGives to each mead a neat enamelling.The palms put forth their gems, and every treeNow swaggers in her leafy gallantry.The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings,With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.What gentle winds perspire! As if hereNever had been the northern plundererTo strip the trees and fields, to their distress,Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.And look how when a frantic storm doth tearA stubborn oak, or holm, long growing there,But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breezeThat scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees:So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoilOur salt, our corn, our honey, wine and oil,Falls to a temper, and doth mildly castHis inconsiderate frenzy off, at last,The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.
Fled are the frosts, and now the fields appearRe-cloth'd in fresh and verdant diaper.Thaw'd are the snows, and now the lusty springGives to each mead a neat enamelling.The palms put forth their gems, and every treeNow swaggers in her leafy gallantry.The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings,With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.What gentle winds perspire! As if hereNever had been the northern plundererTo strip the trees and fields, to their distress,Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.And look how when a frantic storm doth tearA stubborn oak, or holm, long growing there,But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breezeThat scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees:So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoilOur salt, our corn, our honey, wine and oil,Falls to a temper, and doth mildly castHis inconsiderate frenzy off, at last,The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease,Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.
Gems, buds.Daulian minstrel, the nightingale Philomela.Terean sufferings,i.e., at the hands of Tereus.
The hag is astrideThis night for to ride,The devil and she together;Through thick and through thin,Now out and then in,Though ne'er so foul be the weather.A thorn or a burrShe takes for a spur,With a lash of a bramble she rides now;Through brakes and through briars,O'er ditches and mires,She follows the spirit that guides now.No beast for his foodDare now range the wood,But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;While mischiefs, by these,On land and on seas,At noon of night are a-working.The storm will ariseAnd trouble the skies;This night, and more for the wonder,The ghost from the tombAffrighted shall come,Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.
The hag is astrideThis night for to ride,The devil and she together;Through thick and through thin,Now out and then in,Though ne'er so foul be the weather.A thorn or a burrShe takes for a spur,With a lash of a bramble she rides now;Through brakes and through briars,O'er ditches and mires,She follows the spirit that guides now.No beast for his foodDare now range the wood,But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;While mischiefs, by these,On land and on seas,At noon of night are a-working.The storm will ariseAnd trouble the skies;This night, and more for the wonder,The ghost from the tombAffrighted shall come,Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.
The hag is astrideThis night for to ride,The devil and she together;Through thick and through thin,Now out and then in,Though ne'er so foul be the weather.
A thorn or a burrShe takes for a spur,With a lash of a bramble she rides now;Through brakes and through briars,O'er ditches and mires,She follows the spirit that guides now.
No beast for his foodDare now range the wood,But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;While mischiefs, by these,On land and on seas,At noon of night are a-working.
The storm will ariseAnd trouble the skies;This night, and more for the wonder,The ghost from the tombAffrighted shall come,Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.
Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye canUpon the grave of this old man.Twice forty, bating but one yearAnd thrice three weeks, he lived here.Whom gentle fate translated henceTo a more happy residence.Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,Which from his ghost a promise is,If here ye will some few tears shed,He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.
Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye canUpon the grave of this old man.Twice forty, bating but one yearAnd thrice three weeks, he lived here.Whom gentle fate translated henceTo a more happy residence.Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,Which from his ghost a promise is,If here ye will some few tears shed,He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.
Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye canUpon the grave of this old man.Twice forty, bating but one yearAnd thrice three weeks, he lived here.Whom gentle fate translated henceTo a more happy residence.Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,Which from his ghost a promise is,If here ye will some few tears shed,He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.
Residentiary, old inhabitant.
Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,Above they are the angels' spiced wine.
Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,Above they are the angels' spiced wine.
Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine,Above they are the angels' spiced wine.
Physicians fight not against men; but theseCombat for men by conquering the disease.
Physicians fight not against men; but theseCombat for men by conquering the disease.
Physicians fight not against men; but theseCombat for men by conquering the disease.
Our household-gods our parents be;And manners good require that weThe first fruits give to them, who gaveUs hands to get what here we have.
Our household-gods our parents be;And manners good require that weThe first fruits give to them, who gaveUs hands to get what here we have.
Our household-gods our parents be;And manners good require that weThe first fruits give to them, who gaveUs hands to get what here we have.
Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small,With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.
Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small,With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.
Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small,With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.
I am holy while I standCircum-crost by thy pure hand;But when that is gone, againI, as others, am profane.
I am holy while I standCircum-crost by thy pure hand;But when that is gone, againI, as others, am profane.
I am holy while I standCircum-crost by thy pure hand;But when that is gone, againI, as others, am profane.
Circum-crost, marked round with a cross.
When I go hence, ye Closet-Gods, I fearNever again to have ingression hereWhere I have had whatever thing could bePleasant and precious to my muse and me.Besides rare sweets, I had a book which noneCould read the intext but myself alone.About the cover of this book there wentA curious-comely clean compartlement,And, in the midst, to grace it more, was setA blushing, pretty, peeping rubelet.But now 'tis closed; and being shut and seal'd,Be it, O be it, never more reveal'd!Keep here still, Closet-Gods, 'fore whom I've setOblations oft of sweetest marmelet.
When I go hence, ye Closet-Gods, I fearNever again to have ingression hereWhere I have had whatever thing could bePleasant and precious to my muse and me.Besides rare sweets, I had a book which noneCould read the intext but myself alone.About the cover of this book there wentA curious-comely clean compartlement,And, in the midst, to grace it more, was setA blushing, pretty, peeping rubelet.But now 'tis closed; and being shut and seal'd,Be it, O be it, never more reveal'd!Keep here still, Closet-Gods, 'fore whom I've setOblations oft of sweetest marmelet.
When I go hence, ye Closet-Gods, I fearNever again to have ingression hereWhere I have had whatever thing could bePleasant and precious to my muse and me.Besides rare sweets, I had a book which noneCould read the intext but myself alone.About the cover of this book there wentA curious-comely clean compartlement,And, in the midst, to grace it more, was setA blushing, pretty, peeping rubelet.But now 'tis closed; and being shut and seal'd,Be it, O be it, never more reveal'd!Keep here still, Closet-Gods, 'fore whom I've setOblations oft of sweetest marmelet.
Ingression, entrance.Intext, contents.
Fill me a mighty bowlUp to the brim,That I may drinkUnto my Jonson's soul.Crown it again, again;And thrice repeatThat happy heat,To drink to thee, my Ben.Well I can quaff, I see,To th' number fiveOr nine; but thriveIn frenzy ne'er like thee.
Fill me a mighty bowlUp to the brim,That I may drinkUnto my Jonson's soul.Crown it again, again;And thrice repeatThat happy heat,To drink to thee, my Ben.Well I can quaff, I see,To th' number fiveOr nine; but thriveIn frenzy ne'er like thee.
Fill me a mighty bowlUp to the brim,That I may drinkUnto my Jonson's soul.
Crown it again, again;And thrice repeatThat happy heat,To drink to thee, my Ben.
Well I can quaff, I see,To th' number fiveOr nine; but thriveIn frenzy ne'er like thee.
To the number five or nine, seeNote.
Though long it be, years may repay the debt;None loseth that which he in time may get.
Though long it be, years may repay the debt;None loseth that which he in time may get.
Though long it be, years may repay the debt;None loseth that which he in time may get.
Drink wine, and live here blitheful, while ye may:The morrow's life too late is; live to-day.
Drink wine, and live here blitheful, while ye may:The morrow's life too late is; live to-day.
Drink wine, and live here blitheful, while ye may:The morrow's life too late is; live to-day.
No man comes late unto that place from whenceNever man yet had a regredience.
No man comes late unto that place from whenceNever man yet had a regredience.
No man comes late unto that place from whenceNever man yet had a regredience.
Regredience, return.
O you the virgins nine!That do our souls inclineTo noble discipline!Nod to this vow of mine.Come, then, and now inspireMy viol and my lyreWith your eternal fire,And make me one entireComposer in your choir.Then I'll your altars strewWith roses sweet and new;And ever live a trueAcknowledger of you.
O you the virgins nine!That do our souls inclineTo noble discipline!Nod to this vow of mine.Come, then, and now inspireMy viol and my lyreWith your eternal fire,And make me one entireComposer in your choir.Then I'll your altars strewWith roses sweet and new;And ever live a trueAcknowledger of you.
O you the virgins nine!That do our souls inclineTo noble discipline!Nod to this vow of mine.Come, then, and now inspireMy viol and my lyreWith your eternal fire,And make me one entireComposer in your choir.Then I'll your altars strewWith roses sweet and new;And ever live a trueAcknowledger of you.
I'll sing no more, nor will I longer writeOf that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers;No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.I'll write no more, nor will I tell or singOf Cupid and his witty cozening:I'll sing no more of death, or shall the graveNo more my dirges and my trentalls have.
I'll sing no more, nor will I longer writeOf that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers;No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.I'll write no more, nor will I tell or singOf Cupid and his witty cozening:I'll sing no more of death, or shall the graveNo more my dirges and my trentalls have.
I'll sing no more, nor will I longer writeOf that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers;No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.I'll write no more, nor will I tell or singOf Cupid and his witty cozening:I'll sing no more of death, or shall the graveNo more my dirges and my trentalls have.
Trentalls, service for the dead.
Who read'st this book that I have writ,And can'st not mend but carp at it;By all the Muses! thou shalt beAnathema to it and me.
Who read'st this book that I have writ,And can'st not mend but carp at it;By all the Muses! thou shalt beAnathema to it and me.
Who read'st this book that I have writ,And can'st not mend but carp at it;By all the Muses! thou shalt beAnathema to it and me.
In ways to greatness, think on this,That slippery all ambition is.
In ways to greatness, think on this,That slippery all ambition is.
In ways to greatness, think on this,That slippery all ambition is.
Sweet country life, to such unknownWhose lives are others', not their own!But serving courts and cities, beLess happy, less enjoying thee.Thou never plough'st the ocean's foamTo seek and bring rough pepper home;Nor to the Eastern Ind dost roveTo bring from thence the scorched clove;Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,Bring'st home the ingot from the West.No, thy ambition's masterpieceFlies no thought higher than a fleece;Or how to pay thy hinds, and clearAll scores, and so to end the year:But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,Not envying others larger grounds:For well thou know'st'tis not th' extentOf land makes life, but sweet content.When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost knowThat the best compost for the landsIs the wise master's feet and hands.There at the plough thou find'st thy teamWith a hind whistling there to them;And cheer'st them up by singing howThe kingdom's portion is the plough.This done, then to th' enamelled meadsThou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,Thou see'st a present God-like powerImprinted in each herb and flower;And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neatUnto the dew-laps up in meat;And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,The heifer, cow, and ox draw nearTo make a pleasing pastime there.These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocksOf sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,And find'st their bellies there as fullOf short sweet grass as backs with wool,And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,A shepherd piping on a hill.For sports, for pageantry and playsThou hast thy eves and holidays;On which the young men and maids meetTo exercise their dancing feet;Tripping the comely country round,With daffodils and daisies crown'd.Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast,Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd;Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feast which never fail;Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole;Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kingsAnd queens, thy Christmas revellings,Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,And no man pays too dear for it.To these, thou hast thy times to goAnd trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;Thy witty wiles to draw, and getThe lark into the trammel net;Thou hast thy cockrood and thy gladeTo take the precious pheasant made;Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls thenTo catch the pilfering birds, not men.O happy life! if that their goodThe husbandmen but understood!Who all the day themselves do please,And younglings, with such sports as these,And lying down have nought t' affrightSweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
Sweet country life, to such unknownWhose lives are others', not their own!But serving courts and cities, beLess happy, less enjoying thee.Thou never plough'st the ocean's foamTo seek and bring rough pepper home;Nor to the Eastern Ind dost roveTo bring from thence the scorched clove;Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,Bring'st home the ingot from the West.No, thy ambition's masterpieceFlies no thought higher than a fleece;Or how to pay thy hinds, and clearAll scores, and so to end the year:But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,Not envying others larger grounds:For well thou know'st'tis not th' extentOf land makes life, but sweet content.When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost knowThat the best compost for the landsIs the wise master's feet and hands.There at the plough thou find'st thy teamWith a hind whistling there to them;And cheer'st them up by singing howThe kingdom's portion is the plough.This done, then to th' enamelled meadsThou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,Thou see'st a present God-like powerImprinted in each herb and flower;And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neatUnto the dew-laps up in meat;And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,The heifer, cow, and ox draw nearTo make a pleasing pastime there.These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocksOf sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,And find'st their bellies there as fullOf short sweet grass as backs with wool,And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,A shepherd piping on a hill.For sports, for pageantry and playsThou hast thy eves and holidays;On which the young men and maids meetTo exercise their dancing feet;Tripping the comely country round,With daffodils and daisies crown'd.Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast,Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd;Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feast which never fail;Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole;Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kingsAnd queens, thy Christmas revellings,Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,And no man pays too dear for it.To these, thou hast thy times to goAnd trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;Thy witty wiles to draw, and getThe lark into the trammel net;Thou hast thy cockrood and thy gladeTo take the precious pheasant made;Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls thenTo catch the pilfering birds, not men.O happy life! if that their goodThe husbandmen but understood!Who all the day themselves do please,And younglings, with such sports as these,And lying down have nought t' affrightSweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
Sweet country life, to such unknownWhose lives are others', not their own!But serving courts and cities, beLess happy, less enjoying thee.Thou never plough'st the ocean's foamTo seek and bring rough pepper home;Nor to the Eastern Ind dost roveTo bring from thence the scorched clove;Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest,Bring'st home the ingot from the West.No, thy ambition's masterpieceFlies no thought higher than a fleece;Or how to pay thy hinds, and clearAll scores, and so to end the year:But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,Not envying others larger grounds:For well thou know'st'tis not th' extentOf land makes life, but sweet content.When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)Calls forth the lily-wristed morn,Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost knowThat the best compost for the landsIs the wise master's feet and hands.There at the plough thou find'st thy teamWith a hind whistling there to them;And cheer'st them up by singing howThe kingdom's portion is the plough.This done, then to th' enamelled meadsThou go'st, and as thy foot there treads,Thou see'st a present God-like powerImprinted in each herb and flower;And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine,Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neatUnto the dew-laps up in meat;And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,The heifer, cow, and ox draw nearTo make a pleasing pastime there.These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocksOf sheep, safe from the wolf and fox,And find'st their bellies there as fullOf short sweet grass as backs with wool,And leav'st them, as they feed and fill,A shepherd piping on a hill.For sports, for pageantry and playsThou hast thy eves and holidays;On which the young men and maids meetTo exercise their dancing feet;Tripping the comely country round,With daffodils and daisies crown'd.Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast,Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd;Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale,Thy shearing feast which never fail;Thy harvest-home, thy wassail bowl,That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole;Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kingsAnd queens, thy Christmas revellings,Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit,And no man pays too dear for it.To these, thou hast thy times to goAnd trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow;Thy witty wiles to draw, and getThe lark into the trammel net;Thou hast thy cockrood and thy gladeTo take the precious pheasant made;Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls thenTo catch the pilfering birds, not men.O happy life! if that their goodThe husbandmen but understood!Who all the day themselves do please,And younglings, with such sports as these,And lying down have nought t' affrightSweet sleep, that makes more short the night.
Cætera desunt——
Soil'd, manured.Compost, preparation.Fox i' th' hole, a hopping game in which boys beat each other with gloves.Cockrood, a run for snaring woodcocks.Glade, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catch game. (Willoughby,Ornithologie, i. 3.)