And will not suit thereto:
'Cause I have more
Brave thoughts in store
Than words can reach thereto.
From the fourth Eclogue of The Shepherd's Hunting, a volume published in 1615. It was written when the author was imprisoned in the Marshalsea, owing to the offence given by his satire Abuses Stript and Whipt (1613).
YEA; but no man now is still
That can sing or tune a quill.
Now to chant it were but reason:
Song and music are in season.
Now, in this sweet, jolly tide,
Is the earth in all her pride:
The fair Lady of the May,
Trimm'd up in her best array,
Hath invited all the swains,
With the lasses of the plains,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.
Corydon, with his bold rout,
Hath already been about
For the elder shepherds' dole,
And fetch'd in the summer pole;
Whilst the rest have built a bower
To defend them from a shower,
Ceil'd so close, with boughs all green,
Titan cannot pry between.
Now the dairy wenches 'dream
Of their strawberries and cream,
And each doth herself advance
To be taken in to dance;
Every one that knows to sing,
Fits him for his carolling;
So do those that hope for meed,
Either by the pipe or reed;
And though I am kept away,
I do hear, this very day,
Many learned grooms do wend
For the garlands to contend
Which a nymph, that hight Desert,
Long a stranger in this part,
With her own fair hand hath wrought;
A rare work they say, past thought,
As appeareth by the name,
For she calls them wreaths of Fame.
She hath set in their due place
Every flower that may grace;
And among a thousand moe,
Whereof some but serve for show,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,
That they may not blasted be;
Which with thyme she edged about,
Lest the work should ravel out.
And that it might wither never,
Intermix'd it with live-ever.
These are to be shared among
Those who do excel in song,
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then, for those among the rest
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a kidling with the dam,
A fat wether and a lamb.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar,
There's appointed guerdons too:
He that best the first can do
Shall for his reward be paid
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid
With fine bone of a strange beast
That men bring out of the west.
For the next, a scrip of red,
Tassell'd with fine-colour'd thread.
There's prepared for their meed
That in running make most speed,
Or the cunning measures foot,
Cups of turned maple-root,
Whereupon the skilful man
Hath engraved the loves of Pan;
And the last hath for his due
A fine napkin wrought with blue.
Then, my Willy 1, why art thou
Careless of thy merit now?
What dost thou here, with a wight
That is shut up from delight
In a solitary den,
As not fit to live with men?
Go, my Willy, get thee gone,
Leave me in exile alone.
Hie thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy song.
Thou art young, yet such a lay
Never graced the month of May,
As, if they provoke thy skill,
Thou canst fit into thy quill.
I with wonder heard thee sing
At our last year's revelling.
1 Willy is meant for William Browne of Tavistock, with whom Wither had written The Shepherd's Pipe in 1614. (See No. LXXXVI.)
Then I with the rest was free,
When, unknown, I noted thee,
And perceived the ruder swains,
Envy thy far sweeter strains.
Yea, I saw the lasses cling
Round about thee in a ring,
As if each one jealous were
Any but herself should hear;
And I know they yet do long
For the residue of thy song.
Haste thee, then, to sing it forth,
Take the benefit of worth;
And desert will sure bequeath
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath.
Hie thee, Willy, hie away!
LXXIX. THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESS.
Browne was 'of Tavistock', in Devonshire. His poems have been edited by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in the Roxburghe Library, and more recently by Mr. Gordon Goodwin in the Muses Library. The first is from England's Helicon, or the Muses' Harmony (1614).
a hill that graced the plain
Thirsis sat, a comely swain,
Comelier swain ne'er graced a hill:
Whilst his flock, that wander'd nigh,
Cropp'd the green grass busily;
Thus he tuned his oaten quill:
"Ver hath made the pleasant field
Many several odours yield,
Odours aromatical:
From fair Astra's cherry lip
Sweeter smells for ever skip,
They in pleasing passen all.
"Leafy groves now mainly ring
With each sweet bird's sonnetting,
Notes that make the echoes long:
But when Astra tunes her voice,
All the mirthful birds rejoice,
And are listening to her song.
"Fairly spreads the damask rose,
Whose rare mixture doth disclose
Beauties, pencils cannot feign:
Yet, if Astra pass the bush,
Roses have been seen to blush;
She doth all their beauties stain.
"Phoebus shining bright in sky
Gilds the floods, heats mountains high
With his beams' all quickening fire:
Astra's eyes (most sparkling ones)
Strikes a heat in hearts of stones,
And enflames them with desire.
"Fields are blest with flowery wreath, Air is blest when she doth breathe;
Birds make happy every grove, She each bird when she doth sing; Phoebus heat to earth doth bring,
She makes marble fall in love.
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