Amie. And sunk and sticks yet in my marrow deep; And what doth hurt me, I now wish to keep. Mar. Alas, how innocent her story is!

Amie. I do remember, Marian, I have oft
With pleasure kiss'd my lambs and puppies soft;
And once a dainty fine roe-fawn I had,

Of whose out-skipping bounds I was as glad
As of my health; and him I oft would kiss;
Yet had his no such sting or pain as this:
They never prick'd or hurt my heart; and, for
They were so blunt and dull, I wish no more.
But this, that hurts and pricks, doth please; this sweet
Mingled with sour I wish again to meet:

And that delay, methinks, most tedious is,
That keeps or hinders me of Karol's kiss.

XCVIII. A NYMPH'S PASSION.

From the Underwoods, a collection of short poems found amongst Jonson's papers, and published in the folio of 1641.

I

LOVE, and he loves me again,

Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swain,

I fear they'd love him too;

Yet if it be not known,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

I'll tell that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorn,

And yet it cannot be forborne

Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too,
As summer's sky, or purgèd air,
And looks as lilies do

That are this morning blown;

Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,

And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

But he hath eyes so round and bright,

As make away my doubt,

Where love may all his torches light
Though hate had put them out:
But then, t' increase my fears,

What nymph soe'er his voice but hears,
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;

But so exempt from blame,

As it would be to each a fame,

If love or fear would let me tell his name.

THOMAS CAREW.

(1598?-1638?.)

XCIX. A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.

From the 1640 edition of his poems. These have been edited by Mr. W. C. Hazlitt in the Roxburghe Library, and more recently by the Rev. J. W. Ebsworth.

SHEPHERD, NYMPH, CHORUS.

Shepherd.

THIS mossy bank they press'd. Nym. That agèd oak

Did canopy the happy pair

All night from the damp air.

Cho. Here let us sit, and sing the words they spoke,
Till, the day breaking, their embraces broke.

Shepherd.

See, love, the blushes of the morn appear;
And now she hangs her pearly store,

Robb'd from the eastern shore,

I' th' cowslip's bell and rose's ear:

Sweet, I must stay no longer here.

Nymph.

Those streaks of doubtful light usher not day!
But show my sun must set; no morn

Shall shine till thou return:

The yellow planet and the gray

Dawn shall attend thee on thy way.

Shepherd.

If thine eyes gild my path, they may forbear

Their useless shine. Nym. My tears will quite
Extinguish their faint light.

Shep. Those drops will make their beams more clear,
Love's flames will shine in every tear.

Chorus.

They kiss'd, and wept; and from their lips and eyes,
In a mix'd dew of briny sweet,

Their joys and sorrows meet;

But she cries out. Nym. Shepherd, arise,
The sun betrays us else to spies.

Shepherd.

The winged hours fly fast whilst we embrace;
But when we want their help to meet,
They move with leaden feet.

Nym. Then let us pinion time, and chace

The day for ever from this place.

Shepherd.

Hark! Nym. Ah me, stay!

Shep. For ever. Nym. No, arise:
Shep. My nest of spice.

We must be gone.

Nym. My soul. Shep. My paradise.

Cho. Neither could say farewell, but through their eyes Grief interrupted speech with tears' supplies.

JOHN MILTON.

(1608-1674.)

C. TWO SONGS.

From Arcades (1631?). There is a good deal of the pastoral element in L'Allegro (1632-1638?), and a hint of it in the Hymn on the Morning of Christ's Nativity (1629). Milton also composed a pastoral lament, in Latin, on the death of his friend, Charles Diodati, the Epitaphium Damonis (1639).

I.

'ER the smooth enamell'd green

O'ER

Where no print of step hath been,
Follow me, as I sing

And touch the warbled string,

Under the shady roof

Of branching elm star-proof.

Follow me;

I will bring you where she sits;
Clad in splendour as befits
Her deity.

Such a rural Queen,

All Arcadia hath not seen.

II.

Nymphs and shepherds, dance no more

By sandy Ladon's lilied banks;

On old Lycaeus, or Cyllene hoar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks;
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,

A better soil shall give ye thanks.
From the stony Maenalus

Bring your flocks, and live with us;
Here ye shall have greater grace,

To serve the Lady of this place.

Though Syrinx your Pan's mistress were,

Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.

Such a rural Queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.

CI. THE SPIRIT-SHEPHERD.

This and the following extract are from Comus (1634).

A Spirit speaks.

WHAT voice is that? my young Lord? speak again.

Second Brother. O brother, 't is my father's shep

herd, sure.