Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.
All thy sands, silver Trent,
Down to the Humber,
The sighs that I have spent

Never can number.

Cho. On thy bank,

In a rank,

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

LXX. THE DESCRIPTION OF ELIZIUM.

The Introduction to The Muses' Elizium (1630). These fascinating and little-known poems are half made up of pastoral, half of fairy lore.

A PARADISE on earth is found,

Though far from vulgar sight,

Which with those pleasures doth abound

That it Elizium hight.

Where, in delights that never fade,

The Muses lulled be,

And sit at pleasure in the shade

Of many a stately tree;

Which no rough tempest makes to reel,

Nor their straight bodies bows;

Their lofty tops do never feel

The weight of winter's snows.

In groves that evermore are green
No falling leaf is there,

But Philomel (of birds the queen)
In music spends the year.

The merle upon her myrtle perch
There to the mavis sings,

Who from the top of some curl'd birch

Those notes redoubled rings.

There daisies damask every place,

Nor once their beauties lose,

That when proud Phoebus hides his face,
Themselves they scorn to close.

The pansy and the violet here,
As seeming to descend

Both from one root, a very pair,
For sweetness yet contend.

And pointing to a pink to tell
Which bears it, it is loth

To judge it; but replies, for smell
That it excels them both.

Wherewith displeased they hang their heads,

So angry soon they grow,

And from their odoriferous beds

Their sweets at it they throw.

The winter here a summer is,

No waste is made by time,

Nor doth the autumn ever miss

The blossoms of the prime.

The flower that July forth doth bring

In April here is seen,

The primrose, that puts on the spring,

In July decks each green.

The sweets for sovereignty contend,
And so abundant be,

That to the very earth they lend,
And bark of every tree.

Rills rising out of every bank
In wild meanders strain,

And playing many a wanton prank
Upon the speckled plain,

In gambols and lascivious gyres

Their time they still bestow,

Nor to their fountains none retires,

Nor on their course will go,

Those brooks with lilies bravely deck'd

So proud and wanton made,

That they their courses quite neglect, And seem as though they stay'd

Fair Flora in her state to view,
Which through those lilies looks,
Or as those lilies lean'd to show
Their beauties to the brooks;

That Phoebus in his lofty race
Oft lays aside his beams,

And comes to cool his glowing face

In their delicious streams.

Oft spreading vines climb up the cliffs, Whose ripen'd clusters there

Their liquid purple drop, which drives A vintage through the year:

Those cliffs whose craggy sides are clad With trees of sundry suits,

Which make continual summer glad,
Even bending with their fruits,

Some ripening, ready some to fall,
Some blossom'd, some to bloonı,
Like gorgeous hangings on the wall
Of some rich princely room.

Pomegranates, lemons, citrons, so
Their laded branches bow,
Their leaves in number that outgo
No room will them allow.

There in perpetual summer's shade
Apollo's prophets sit,

Among the flowers that never fade,
But flourish like their wit.

To whom the nymphs upon their lyres Tune many a curious lay,

And with their most melodious quires Make short the longest day.

The thrice three Virgins heavenly clear,

Their trembling timbrels sound,

Whilst the three comely Graces there

Dance many a dainty round.

Decay nor age there nothing knows,
There is continual youth,

As time on plant or creatures grows,
So still their strength reneweth.

The poets' Paradise this is,
To which but few can come,

The Muses' only bower of bliss,
Their dear Elizium.

Here happy souls (their blessed bowers
Free from the rude resort

Of beastly people) spend the hours

In harmless mirth and sport.

Then on to the Elizian plains

Apollo doth invite you,

Where he provides with pastoral strains,

In Nymphals to delight you.

LXXI. A CONTEST.

The Sixth Nymphal from The Muses' Elizium (1630).

A WOODMAN, fisher, and a swain

This Nymphal through with mirth maintain; Whose pleadings so the nymphs do please,

That presently they give them bays.

Clear had the day been from the dawn,

All chequer'd was the sky,

*Thin clouds like scarfs of cobweb lawn Veil'd heaven's most glorious eye.

The wind had no more strength than this,

That leisurely it blew,

To make one leaf the next to kiss,

That closely by it grew.

The rills that on the pebbles play'd

Might now be heard at will;

This world they only music made,

Else everything was still.

The flowers, like brave embroider'd girls,

Look'd as they much desired,