What, not a shepherd stirring? Sure, the grooms Have found their beds too easy, or the rooms Fill'd with such new delight and heat, that they Have both forgot their hungry sheep and day. Knock, that they may remember what a shame Sloth and neglect lays on a shepherd's name.

LXXIV. A HYMN TO PAN.

From Act v. Scene 5.

ALL ye woods, and trees, and bowers,
All ye virtues and ye powers

That inhabit in the lakes,

In the pleasant springs or brakes,

Move your feet

To our sound,
Whilst we greet

All this ground

With his honour and his name

That defends our flocks from blame.

LXXV. THE SATYR'S SERVICE.

From Act v. Scene 5.

THOU divinest, fairest, brightest,

Thou most powerful maid and whitest,
Thou most virtuous and most blessed,
Eyes of stars, and golden-tressed

Like Apollo; tell me, sweetest,
What new service now is meetest
For the Satyr? Shall I stray

In the middle air, and stay

The sailing rack, or nimbly take

Hold by the moon, and gently make
Suit to the pale queen of night
For a beam to give thee light?
Shall I dive into the sea,
And bring thee coral, making way
Through the rising waves that fall
In snowy fleeces? Dearest, shall
I catch thee wanton fawns, or flies
Whose woven wings the summer dyes
Of many colours? Get thee fruit,
Or steal from Heaven an Orpheus' lute?
All those I'll venture for, and more,
To do her service all these woods adore.

GEORGE WITHER.

(1588-1667.)

LXXVI. A SHEPHERD'S SWAIN.

Wither's two pastoral poems are amongst the earliest and freshest of his voluminous writings. They may be read in the three volumes of Juvenilia in the Spenser Society's reprint, or in Prof. Henry Morley's Companion Poets selection. The first two fragments here given are from Fair-Virtue, the Mistress of Philarete, published in 1622, but probably written about 1610 at Bentworth in Hampshire.

YOU, that at a blush can tell

γου,

Where the best perfections dwell,

And the substance can conjecture
By a shadow or a picture,
Come and try if you by this
Know my mistress, who she is.

For though I am far unable
Here to match Apelles' table;
Or draw Zeuxis' cunning lines,
Who so painted Bacchus' vines
That the hungry birds did muster
Round the counterfeited cluster;
Though I vaunt not to inherit
Petrarch's yet unequalled spirit,
Nor to quaff this sacred well
Half so deep as Astrophel,

Though the much commended Celia,

Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia,

Who in former times excell'd,

Live in lines unparallel'd,

Making us believe 't were much

Earth should yield another such:

Yet, assisted but by Nature,

Whose rare worth in future years Shall be praised as much as theirs.

Nor let any think amiss That I have presumed this: Fof a gentle nymph is she, And hath often honour'd me. She's a noble spark of light, In each part so exquisite, Had she in times passed been, They had made her beauty's queen.

Then shall cowardly despair
Let the most unblemish'd fair,
For default of some poor art,
Which her favour may impart,
And the sweetest beauty fade
That was ever born or made?
Shall of all the fair ones she
Only so unhappy be
As to live in such a time,
In so rude, so dull a clime,
Where no spirit can ascend
High enough to apprehend
Her unprizèd excellence,

Which lies hid from common sense?
Neither shall a stain so vile
Blemish this our poet's isle,

I myself will rather run
And seek out for Helicon.

I will wash and make me clean
In the waves of Hippocrene,
And in spite of Fortune's bars
Climb the hill that braves the stars

Where, if I can get no Muse
That will any skill infuse,
Or my just attempt prefer,
I will make a Muse of her:

Whose kind heart shall soon distil
Art into my ruder quill.

By her favour I will gain

Help to reach so rare a strain

That the learned hills shall wonder How the untaught valleys under Met with rapture so divine Without knowledge of the Nine.

I that am a shepherd's swain, Piping on the lowly plain,

And no other music can

Than what learn'd I have of Pan;

I who never sung the lays
That deserve Apollo's bays,
Hope not only here to frame
Measures which shall keep her name
From the spite of wasting times,
But enshrined in sacred rimes,
Place her where her form divine
Shall to after ages shine;
And without respect of odds
Vie renown with demigods.

Then whilst of her praise I sing,
Hearken valley, grove, and spring;
Listen to me, sacred fountains,
Solitary rocks and mountains;
Satyrs, and you wanton elves
That do nightly sport yourselves;
Shepherds, you that on the reed