All the heavens to witness truth;
Never loved a truer youth.
Then with many a pretty oath,
"Yea" and "nay", and "faith" and "troth"; Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded;
And Phillida with garlands gay
Was made the Lady of the May.
XLVIII. A SWEET PASTORAL.
From Breton's Bower of Delights (1591), and England's Helicon (1600).
See how my little flock,
That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock
And in the valley die.
The bushes and the trees,
That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
And not a leaf is seen.
The blackbird and the thrush,
That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest are now at hush,
And not a note they sing.
Sweet Philomel, the bird
That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now, alas! not once afford
Recording of a note.
The flowers have had a frost,
Each herb hath lost her savour,
And Phillida the Fair hath lost
The comfort of her favour.
Now all these careful sights
So kill me in conceit,
That how to hope upon delights
It is but mere deceit.
And, therefore, my sweet Muse,
Thou knowest what help is best;
Do now thy heavenly cunning use
To set my heart at rest.
And in a dream bewray,
What Fate shall be my friend;
Whether my life shall still decay,
Or when my sorrow end.
XLIX. THE SECOND PASTOR'S SONG.
This and No. L are from The Passionate Shepherd (1604).
FLORA hath been all about,
And hath brought her wardrobe out,
With her fairest, sweetest flowers,
All to trim up all your bowers.
Bid the shepherds and their swains See the beauty of their plains;
And command them with their flocks
To do reverence on the rocks;
Where they may so happy be
As her shadow but to see.
Bid the birds in every bush,
Not a bird to be at hush;
But to sit, chirrup and sing
To the beauty of the spring.
Call the sylvan nymphs together,
Bid them bring their musics hither;
Trees their barky silence break,
Crack yet, though they cannot speak.
Bid the purest, whitest swan
Of her feathers make her fan.
Let the hound the hare go chase;
Lambs and rabbits run at base;
Flies be dancing in the sun,
While the silkworm's webs are spun.
Hang a fish on every hook
As she goes along the brook;
So with all your sweetest powers
Entertain her in your bowers;
Where her ear my joy to hear
How ye make your sweetest quire;
And in all your sweetest vein,
Still Aglaia strike the strain.
But when she her walk doth turn,
Then begin as fast to mourn;
All your flowers and garlands wither,
Put up all your pipes together;
Never strike a pleasing strain
Till she come abroad again.
L. THE THIRD PASTOR'S SONG.
HO can live in heart so glad
As the merry country lad?
Who upon a fair green baulk1
May at pleasure sit and walk?
And amid the azure skies
See the morning sun arise!
While he hears in every spring
How the birds do chirp and sing;
Or before the hounds in cry
See the hare go stealing by;
Or along the shallow brook
Angling with a baited hook,
See the fishes leap and play
In a blessed sunny day;
Or to hear the partridge call
Till she have her covey all;
Or to see the subtle fox,
How the villain plies the box,
After feeding on his prey
How he closely sneaks away,
Through the hedge and down the furrow,
Till he gets into his burrow;
Then the bee to gather honey;
And the little black-hair'd coney
On a bank for sunny place
With her forefeet wash her face:
Are not these worth thousands moe
Than the courts of kings do know?
The true pleasing spirits' sights
That may breed true love's delights.
But with all this happiness
To behold that shepherdess
1 baulk, bank.
To whose eyes all shepherds yield
All the fairest of the field;
Fair Aglaia, in whose face
Lives the shepherd's highest grace;
In whose worthy wonder's praise
See what her true shepherd says.
-She is neither proud nor fine,
But in spirit more divine;
She can neither lour nor leer,
But a sweeting, smiling cheer;
She had never painted face,
But a sweeter smiling grace;
She can never love dissemble,
That when wisdom guides her will
She is kind and constant still;
All in sum, she is that creature
Of that truest comfort's nature
That doth shew (but in exceedings)
How their praises had their breedings.
Let then poets feign their pleasure
In their fictions of love's treasure;
Proud high spirits seek their graces
In their idol painted faces;
My love's spirits' lowliness,
In affection's humbleness,
Under heaven no happiness
Seeks, but in this shepherdess.
For whose sake I say and swear
By the passions that I bear,
Had I got a kingly grace,
I would leave my kingly place,
And in heart be truly glad
To become a country lad;
Hard to lie and go full bare,
And to feed on hungry fare;
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