Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne (of Tavistock)

by Nicholas Breton; William Browne; George Wither

George Wither

Prelude

(From The Shepherd's Hunting)

Seest thou not, in clearest days,

Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?

And that vapours which do breathe

From the Earth's gross womb beneath,

Seem unto us with black steams

To pollute the Sun's bright beams,

And yet vanish into air,

Leaving it unblemished fair?

So, my Willy, shall it be

With Detraction's breath on thee:

It shall never rise so high

As to stain thy poesy.

As that sun doth oft exhale

Vapours from each rotten vale,

Poesy so sometime drains

Gross conceits from muddy brains;

Mists of envy, fogs of spite,

Twixt men's judgments and her light;

But so much her power may do,

That she can dissolve them too.

If thy verse do bravely tower,

As she makes wing she gets power;

Yet the higher she doth soar,

She's affronted still the more,

Till she to the highest hath past;

Then she rests with Fame at last.

Let nought, therefore, thee affright;

But make forward in thy flight.

For if I could match thy rhyme,

To the very stars I'd climb;

There begin again, and fly

Till I reached eternity.

But, alas, my Muse is slow,

For thy place she flags too low;

Yea, the more's her hapless fate,

Her short wings were clipt of late;

And poor I, her fortune ruing,

Am put up myself a mewing.

But if I my cage can rid,

I'll fly where I never did;

And though for her sake I'm crost,

Though my best hopes I have lost,

And knew she would make my trouble

Ten times more than ten times double,

I should love and keep her too,

Spite of all the world could do.

For though, banished from my flocks

And confined within these rocks,

Here I waste away the light

And consume the sullen night,

She doth for my comfort stay,

And keeps many cares away.

Though I miss the flowery fields,

With those sweets the spring-tide yields;

Though I may not see those groves,

Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel

Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;

Though of all those pleasures past,

Nothing now remains at last

But Remembrance--poor relief!

That more makes than mends my grief:

She's my mind's companion still,

Maugre envy's evil will;

Whence she should be driven too,

Were't in mortal's power to do.

She doth tell me where to borrow

Comfort in the midst of sorrow,

Makes the desolatest place

To her presence be a grace,

And the blackest discontents

To be pleasing ornaments.

In my former days of bliss

Her divine skill taught me this,

That from everything I saw

I could some invention draw,

And raise pleasure to her height

Through the meanest object's sight;

By the murmur of a spring,

Or the least bough's rustling;

By a daisy, whose leaves spread,

Shut when Titan goes to bed;

Or a shady bush or tree;

She could more infuse in me,

Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man.

By her help I also now

Make this churlish place allow

Some things that may sweeten gladness

In the very gall of sadness:

The dull loneness, the black shade

That these hanging vaults have made;

The strange music of the waves

Beating on these hollow caves;

This black den which rocks emboss

Overgrown with eldest moss;

The rude portals that give light

More to terror than delight;

This my chamber of neglect,

Walled about with disrespect;

From all these, and this dull air,

A fit object for despair,

She hath taught me, by her might,

To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,

I will cherish thee for this.

Poesy, thou sweet'st content

That e'er Heaven to mortals lent!

Though they as a trifle leave thee

Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,

Though thou be to them a scorn

That to nought but earth are born

Let my life no longer be

Than I am in love with thee.

Though our wise ones call thee madness,

Let me never taste of gladness,

If I love not thy maddest fits

More than all their greatest wits.

And though some, too seeming holy,

Do account thy raptures folly,

Thou dost teach me to contemn

What makes knaves and fools of them.

A Poet's Home

Two pretty rills do meet, and meeting make

Within one valley a large silver lake:

About whose banks the fertile mountains stood

In ages passèd bravely crowned with wood,

Which lending cold-sweet shadows gave it grace

To be accounted Cynthia's bathing-place;

And from her father Neptune's brackish court,

Fair Thetis thither often would resort,

Attended by the fishes of the sea,

Which in those sweeter waters came to plea.

There would the daughter of the Sea God dive,

And thither came the Land Nymphs every eve

To wait upon her: bringing for her brows

Rich garlands of sweet flowers and beechy boughs.

For pleasant was that pool, and near it then

Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen,

It was nor overgrown with boisterous sedge,

Nor grew there rudely then along the edge

A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,

Nor broad-leaved flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush.

But here well-ordered was a grove with bowers,

There grassy plots set round about with flowers.

Here you might through the water see the land

Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand;

Yon deeper was it, and the wind by whiffs

Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs

On which, oft pluming, sat unfrighted than

The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,

With all those flocks of fowls which to this day,

Upon those quiet waters breed and play.

For though those excellences wanting be

Which once it had, it is the same that we

By transposition name the Ford of Arle,

And out of which, along a chalky marle,

That river trills whose waters wash the fort

In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.

North-east, not far from this great pool, there lies

A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,

With leisurely ascending, to such height

As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight

You in the ocean's bosom may espy,

Though near two furlongs thence it lie.

The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,

Is strewèd o'er with marjoram and thyme,

Which grows unset. The hedgerows do not want

The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant

That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;

Low sallows, on whose blooming bees do fall;

Fair woodbines, which about the hedges twine;

Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine,

With many moe whose leaves and blossoms fair

The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.

When you unto the highest do attain

An intermixture both of wood and plain

You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,

Hath downs for sheep and fields for husbandry,

So much, at least, as little needeth more,

If not enough to merchandise their store.

In every row hath nature planted there

Some banquet for the hungry passenger.

For here the hazel-nut and filbert grows,

There bullice, and, a little farther, sloes.

On this hand standeth a fair weilding-tree,

On that large thickets of blackberries be.

The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there,

The new felled woods like strawberry gardens are,

And had the King of Rivers blessed those hills

With some small number of such pretty rills

As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen

A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.

From Faire Virtue.

Her Beauty

Her true beauty leaves behind

Apprehensions in my mind

Of more sweetness than all art

Or inventions can impart;

Thoughts too deep to be expressed,

And too strong to be suppressed....

... What pearls, what rubies can

Seem so lovely fair to man,

As her lips whom he doth love

When in sweet discourse they move:

Or her lovelier teeth, the while

She doth bless him with a smile!

Stars indeed fair creatures be;

Yet amongst us where is he

Joys not more the whilst he lies

Sunning in his mistress' eyes.

Than in all the glimmering light

Of a starry winter's night?

Note the beauty of an eye,

And if aught you praise it by

Leave such passion in your mind,

Let my reason's eye be blind.

Mark if ever red or white

Anywhere gave such delight

As when they have taken place

In a worthy woman's face.

From Faire Virtue.

Rhomboidal Dirge.

Ah me!

Am I the swain

That late from sorrow free

Did all the cares on earth disdain?

And still untouched, as at some safer games,

Played with the burning coals of love, and beauty's flames?

Was't I could dive, and sound each passion's secret depth at will?

And from those huge o'erwhelmings rise, by help of reason still?

And am I now, O heavens! for trying this in vain,

So sunk that I shall never rise again?

Then let despair set sorrow's string,

For strains that doleful be;

And I will sing,

Ah me!

But why,

O fatal time,

Dost thou constrain that I

Should perish in my youth's sweet prime?

I, but awhile ago, (you cruel powers!)

In spite of fortune, cropped contentment's sweetest flowers,

And yet unscornèd, serve a gentle nymph, the fairest she,

That ever was beloved of man, or eyes did ever see!

Yea, one whose tender heart would rue for my distress;

Yet I, poor I! must perish ne'ertheless.

And (which much more augments my care)

Unmoanèd I must die,

And no man e'er

Know why.

Thy leave,

My dying song,

Yet take, ere grief bereave

The breath which I enjoy too long,

Tell thou that fair one this: my soul prefers

Her love above my life; and that I died her's:

And let him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,

Who loved the very thought of her whilst he remained here.

And now farewell! thou place of my unhappy birth,

Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth;

Since me my wonted joys forsake,

And all my trust deceive;

Of all I take

My leave.

Farewell!

Sweet groves, to you!

You hills, that highest dwell;

And all you humble vales, adieu!

You wanton brooks, and solitary rocks,

My dear companions all! and you, my tender flocks!

Farewell my pipe, and all those pleasing songs, whose moving strains

Delighted once the fairest nymphs that dance upon the plains!

You discontents, whose deep and over-deadly smart

Have, without pity, broke the truest heart.

Sighs, tears, and every sad annoy,

That erst did with me dwell,

And all other joys,

Farewell!

Adieu!

Fair shepherdesses!

Let garlands of sad yew

Adorn your dainty golden tresses.

I, that loved you, and often with my quill,

Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill;

I, whom you loved so, and with a sweet and chaste embrace.

Yea, with a thousand rather favours, would vouchsafe to grace,

I now must leave you all alone, of love to plain;

And never pipe, nor never sing again!

I must, for evermore, be gone;

And therefore bid I you,

And every one,

Adieu!

I die!

For, oh! I feel

Death's horrors drawing nigh,

And all this frame of nature reel.

My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,

Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief;

Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,

All comfort comes too late to have it ever cured again.

My swimming head begins to dance death's giddy round;

A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound;

Benumbed is my cold sweating brow

A dimness shuts my eye.

And now, oh! now,

I die!

From Faire Virtue.

Song

Lordly gallants! tell me this

(Though my safe content you weigh not),

In your greatness, what one bliss

Have you gained, that I enjoy not?

You have honours, you have wealth;

I have peace, and I have health:

All the day I merry make,

And at night no care I take.

Bound to none my fortunes be,

This or that man's fall I fear not;

Him I love that loveth me,

For the rest a pin I care not.

You are sad when others chaff,

And grow merry as they laugh;

I that hate it, and am free,

Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.

You may boast of favours shown,

Where your service is applied:

But my pleasures are mine own,

And to no man's humour tied.

You oft flatter, sooth, and feign;

I such baseness do disdain;

And to none be slave I would,

Though my fetters might be gold.

By great titles, some believe,

Highest honours are attained;

And yet kings have power to give

To their fools, what these have gained.

Where they favour there they may

All their names of honour lay;

But I look not raised to be,

'Till mine own wing carry me.

Seek to raise your titles higher;

They are toys not worth my sorrow;

Those that we to-day admire,

Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.

Take your honours; let me find

Virtue in a free born mind--

This, the greatest kings that be

Cannot give, nor take from me.

Though I vainly do not vaunt

Large demesnes, to feed my pleasure;

I have favours where you want,

That would buy respect with treasure.

You have lands lie here and there,

But my wealth is everywhere;

And this addeth to my store--

Fortune cannot make me poor.

Say you purchase with your pelf

Some respect, where you importune;

Those may love me for myself,

That regard you for your fortune.

Rich or born of high degree,

Fools as well as you may be;

But that peace in which I live

No descent nor wealth can give.

If you boast that you may gain

The respect of high-born beauties;

Know I never wooed in vain,

Nor preferrèd scornèd duties.

She I love hath all delight,

Rosy-red with lily-white,

And whoe'er your mistress be,

Flesh and blood as good as she.

Note of me was never took,

For my woman-like perfections;

But so like a man I look,

It hath gained me best affections.

For my love as many showers

Have been wept as have for yours:

And yet none doth me condemn

For abuse, or scorning them.

Though of dainties you have store,

To delight a choicer palate,

Yet your taste is pleased no more

Than is mine in one poor sallet.

You to please your senses feed

But I eat good blood to breed;

And am most delighted then

When I spend it like a man.

Though you lord it over me,

You in vain thereof have braved;

For those lusts my servants be

Whereunto your minds are slaved.

To yourselves you wise appear,

But, alas! deceived you are;

You do foolish me esteem,

And are that which I do seem.

When your faults I open lay,

You are moved, and mad with vexing;

But you ne'er could do or say

Aught to drive me to perplexing.

Therefore, my despisèd power

Greater is, by far, than your.

And, whate'er you think of me,

In your minds you poorer be.

You are pleasèd, more or less,

As men well or ill report you;

And show discontentedness,

When the times forbear to court you.

That in which my pleasures be,

No man can divide from me;

And my care it adds not to,

Whatso others say or do.

Be not proud, because you view

You by thousands are attended;

For, alas! it is not you,

But your fortune that's befriended.

Where I show of love have got,

Such a danger fear I not:

Since they nought can seek of me,

But for love, beloved to be.

When your hearts have everything,

You are pleasantly disposed:

But I can both laugh and sing,

Though my foes have me enclosed.

Yea, when dangers me do hem,

I delight in scorning them,

More than you in your renown,

Or a king can in his crown.

You do bravely domineer,

Whilst the sun upon you shineth:

Yet, if any storm appear,

Basely, then, your mind declineth.

But, or shine, or rain, or blow,

I my resolutions know--

Living, dying, thrall, or free,

At one height my mind shall be.

When in thraldom I have lain,

Me not worth your thought you prized;

But your malice was in vain,

For your favours I despised.

And, howe'er you value me,

I with praise shall thought on be

When the world esteems you not

And your names shall be forgot.

In these thoughts my riches are;

Now, though poor or mean you deem me,

I am pleased, and do not care

How the times or you esteem me.

For those toys that make you gay

Are but play-games for a day:

And when nature craves her due,

I as brave shall be as you.

Song

Shall I, wasting in despair,

Die, because a woman's fair?

Or make pale my cheeks with care

'Cause another's rosy are?

Be she fairer than the day,

Or the flow'ry meads in May;

If she be not so to me,

What care I how fair she be.

Should my heart be grieved or pined

'Cause I see a woman kind?

Or a well-disposèd nature

Joinèd with a lovely creature?

Be she meeker, kinder than

Turtle-dove or pelican:

If she be not so to me,

What care I how kind she be.

Shall a woman's virtues move

Me to perish for her love?

Or, her well-deserving known,

Make me quite forget mine own?

Be she with that goodness blest

Which may gain her name of best

If she be not such to me,

What care I how good she be.

'Cause her fortune seems too high,

Shall I play the fool and die?

Those that bear a noble mind,

Where they want or riches find,

Think what with them they would do

That without them dare to woo.

And unless that mind I see,

What care I though great she be.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,

I will ne'er the more despair;

If she love me, this believe,

I will die ere she shall grieve.

If she slight me, when I woo,

I can scorn, and let her go.

For, if she be not for me,

What care I for whom she be.

"Amarillis I Did Woo"

Amarillis I did woo,

And I courted Phillis too;

Daphne, for her love, I chose;

Cloris, for that damask rose

In her cheek, I held as dear;

Yea, a thousand liked well near.

And, in love with all together,

Fearèd the enjoying either;

'Cause to be of one possest,

Barred the hope of all the rest.

Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss

Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,

Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe,

And free access unto that sweet lip lies

From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.

Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal,

From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss.

None sees the theft that would the thief reveal,

Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss.

Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,

There would be little sign I had done so.

Why then should I this robbery delay?

Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow.

Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one,

And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

A Christmas Carol

So now is come our joyful feast,

Let every man be jolly;

Each room with ivy leaves is drest,

And every post with holly.

Though some churls at our mirth repine,

Round your foreheads garlands twine,

Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,

And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke,

And Christmas blocks are burning;

Their ovens they with baked meats choke,

And all their spits are turning.

Without the door let sorrow lie,

And if for cold it hap to die,

We'll bury it in a Christmas pie;

And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,

And no man minds his labour;

Our lasses have provided them

A bagpipe and a tabour.

Young men and maids, and girls and boys

Give life to one another's joys;

And you anon shall by their noise

Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,

Their hall of music soundeth;

And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,

So all things there aboundeth.

The country-folk themselves advance,

For Crowdy-Mutton's come out of France;

And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,

And all the town be merry.

Ned Swatch hath fetched his bands from pawn,

And all his best apparel;

Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn

With droppings of the barrel.

And those that hardly all the year

Had bread to eat or rags to wear,

Will have both clothes and dainty fare,

And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices

With capons make their errands;

And if they hap to fail of these,

They plague them with their warrants.

But now they feed them with good cheer,

And what they want they take in beer,

For Christmas comes but once a year,

And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse

The poor, that else were undone;

Some landlords spend their money worse,

On lust and pride at London.

There the roysters they do play,

Drab and dice their land away,

Which may be ours another day;

And therefore let's be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,

The prisoner's heart is easèd;

The debtor drinks away his cares,

And for the time is pleasèd.

Though others' purses be more fat,

Why should we pine or grieve at that;

Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,

And therefore let's be merry.

Hark how the wags abroad do call

Each other forth to rambling;

Anon you'll see them in the hall,

For nuts and apples scrambling,

Hark how the roofs with laughters sound,

Anon they'll think the house goes round:

For they the cellar's depths have found,

And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassel-bowls

About the streets are singing;

The boys are come to catch the owls,

The wild mare in is bringing.

Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,

And to the dealing of the ox

Our honest neighbours come by flocks,

And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have,

And mate with everybody;

The honest now may play the knave,

And wise men play at noddy.

Some youths will now a mumming go,

Some others play at rowland-hoe,

And twenty other gameboys moe;

Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days

Should we, I pray, be duller?

No, let us sing some roundelays

To make our mirth the fuller.

And whilst we thus inspirèd sing,

Let all the streets with echoes ring;

Woods, and hills, and everything

Bear witness we are merry.

A Rocking Hymn

Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear,

What ails my darling thus to cry?

Be still, my child, and lend thine ear

To hear me sing thy lullaby.

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep;

Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?

What thing to thee can mischief do?

Thy God is now thy father dear,

His holy Spouse, thy mother too.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin,

A sacred bathing thou hast had;

And, though thy birth unclean hath been,

A blameless babe thou now art made.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,

While thus thy lullaby I sing,

For thee great blessings ripening be;

Thine eldest brother is a King,

And hath a kingdom bought for thee.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear,

For whosoever thee offends,

By thy protector threat'ned are,

And God and angels are thy friends.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When God with us was dwelling here,

In little babes he took delight;

Such innocents as thou, my dear,

Are ever precious in His sight.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was He,

And, strength in weakness, then was laid

Upon His virgin-mother's knee,

That power to thee might be conveyed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this, thy frailty and thy need,

He friends and helpers doth prepare,

Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed;

For of thy weal they tender are.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when he was born,

Had not so much for outward ease;

By Him such dressings were not worn,

Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord

Where oxen lay and asses fed;

Warm rooms we do to thee afford,

An easy cradle or a bed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain

Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee;

And by His torments and His pain

Thy rest and ease securèd be.

My baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this,

A promise and an earnest got

Of gaining everlasting bliss,

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not;

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep;

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The Marigold

When with a serious musing I behold

The grateful and obsequious marigold,

How duly every morning she displays

Her open breast, when Titan spreads his rays;

How she observes him in his daily walk,

Still bending towards him her small slender stalk;

How when he down declines, she droops and mourns,

Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns;

And how she veils her flowers when he is gone,

As if she scornèd to be lookèd on

By an inferior eye; or did contemn

To wait upon a meaner light than him.

When this I meditate, methinks the flowers

Have spirits far more generous than ours,

And give us fair examples to despise

The servile fawnings and idolatries,

Wherewith we court these earthly things below,

Which merit not the service we bestow....

Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry

Methought his royal person did foretell

A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear;

His look majestic seemèd to compel

All men to love him, rather than to fear.

And yet though he were every good man's joy,

And the alonely comfort of his own,

His very name with terror did annoy

His foreign foes so far as he was known.

Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale;

Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea,

(Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale,

Keeps all his bloody and imperious plea)

Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide

Of her o'er-daring and insulting pride.

From a Satire written to King James I

Did I not know a great man's power and might

In spite of innocence can smother right,

Colour his villainies to get esteem,

And make the honest man the villain seem?

I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,

Yet I protest if such a man I knew,

That might my country prejudice or thee

Were he the greatest or the proudest he,

That breathes this day; if so it might be found

That any good to either might redound,

I unappalled, dare in such a case

Rip up his foulest crimes before his face,

Though for my labour I were sure to drop

Into the mouth of ruin without hope.