An English Garner: Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (4 of 8)

by Unknown

Fair VIRTUE,
OR
The Mistress of Phil'arete.

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 these sweeter waters came to play.
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;[10] and near it, then,
Was neither rotten marsh, nor boggy fen.
It was not overgrown with boisterous sedge,
Nor grew there rudely, then, along the edge
A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,
Nor broad-leafed 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, strewed 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, sate, unfrighted then,
The gagling 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:[11]
And out of which, along a chalky marl,
That river trills, whose waters wash the fort
In which brave Arthur kept his royal Court.[12]

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 hundred furlongs thence it lie.
The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,
Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme,
Which grow 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 bloomings, bees do fall;
Fair woodbines which, about the hedges twine;
Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine;
With many more, 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 hasle-nut and filbird grows;
There, bulloes; and little further, sloes.
On this hand, standeth a fair wielding-tree;
On that, large thickets of black cherries be.
The shrubby fields are raspice orchards, there;
The new felled woods, like strawberry gardens are.
And had the King of Rivers blest 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.
For what offence, this place was scanted so
Of springing waters, no record doth show;
Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;
But till this day, at fifty-fathom wells,
The Shepherds drink. And strange it was, to hear
Of any Swain that ever livèd there,
Who, either in a Pastoral Ode had skill,
Or knew to set his fingers to a quill:
For rude they were, who there inhabited,
And to a dull contentment being bred,
They no such Art esteemed; nor took much heed
Of anything the world without them, did.
Ev'n there, and in the least frequented place
Of all these mountains, is a little space
Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees,
And those so thick, that Phœbus scarcely sees
The earth they grow on, once in all the year;
Nor what is done among the shadows there:
Along those lovely paths, (where never came
Report of Pan's, or of Apollo's name;
Nor rumour of the Muses, till of late)
Some Nymphs were wandering, and, by chance or fate,
Upon a laund[13] arrived, where they met
The little flock of Pastor Philaret.
They were a troop of Beauties known well nigh
Through all the plains of happy Brittany.
A Shepherd's Lad was He, obscure and young,
Who, being first that ever there had sung,
In homely verse, expressèd country loves,
And only told them to the beechy groves;
As if to sound his name, he never meant,
Beyond the compass that his sheepwalk went.
They saw him not, nor them perceivèd he;
For in the branches of a maple tree,
He shrouded sate: and taught the hollow hill
To echo forth the music of his quill;
Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,
That where he was concealed, they quickly found.
And there, they heard him sing a Madrigal
That soon betrayed his cunning to them all.
Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a Song,
Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,
Was never heard, they say, by any ear,
Until his Muses had inspired him there.
Though mean and plain, his country habit seemed,
Yet by his Song, the Ladies rightly deemed
That either he had travellèd abroad,
Where Swains of better knowledge make abode;
Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that grove,
Had deignèd to enrich him with her love.
Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,
Them, him saluted; and he, them again,
In such good fashion, as well seemed to be
According to their state, and his degree.
Which greetings being passed, and much chat
Concerning him, the place, with this and that;
He, to an arbour doth those Beauties bring,
Where he, them prays to sit; they, him to sing,
And to express that untaught Country Art,
In setting forth the Mistress of his heart;
Which they o'erheard him practice, when unseen,
He thought no ear had witness of it been.
At first, as much unable, he refused,
And seemèd willing to have been excused
From such a task, "For trust me, Nymphs!" quoth he,
"I would not purposely uncivil be,
Nor churlish in denying what you crave!
But, as I hope great Pan my flock will save!
I rather wish that I might, heard of none,
Enjoy my music by myself alone;
Or that the murmurs of some little flood,
Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood,
Might be the impartial umpires of my wit;
Than vent it where the world might hear of it.
And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,
Had I but thought of any such so near.
Not that I either wish obscurified
Her matchless Beauty, or desire to hide
Her sweet Perfections. For, by Love I swear!
The utmost happiness I aim at here
Is but to compass Worth enough to raise
A high built Trophy equal to her praise.
Which, fairest Ladies! I shall hope in vain,
For I was meanly bred on yonder plain!
And though I can well prove my blood to be
Derived from no ignoble Stems, to me:
Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crosst
That with their fortunes, their esteem is lost;
And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win,
Now from myself alone, it must begin.
For I have no estate, nor friends, nor fame,
To purchase either credit to my name,
Or gain a good opinion; though I do
Ascend the height I shall aspire unto.
If any of those virtues yet I have
Which honour to my predecessors gave;
There's all, that's left me! And though some contemn
Such needy jewels: yet it was for them,
My Fair One did my humble suit affect;
And deignèd my adventurous love, respect:
And by their help, I passage hope to make,
Through such poor things as I dare undertake.
But, you may say, 'What goodly thing, alas,
Can my despisèd meanness bring to pass?
Or what great Monument of Honour raise
To Virtue, in these vice abounding days?
In which, a thousand times, more honour finds,
Ignoble gotten Means, than noble Minds.'
Indeed, the world affordeth small reward
For honest minds, and therefore her regard
I seek not after; neither do I care,
If I have bliss, how others think I fare!
For, so my thoughts have rest; it irks not me,
Though none, but I, do know how blest they be.
Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,
I pleasèd, sit alone, and many strains
I carol to myself, these hills among,
Where no man comes to interrupt my song.
Whereas, if my rude Lays, make known I should,
Beyond their home; perhaps, some carpers would
(Because they have not heard from whence we be)
Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me.
For if our great and learned Shepherds (who
Are graced with Wit, and Fame, and Favours too)
With much ado, escape uncensured may;
What hopes have I to pass unscorched, I pray!
Who yet unto the Muses am unknown,
And live unhonoured, here, among mine own?
A gadding humour seldom taketh me,
To range out further than yon mountains be;
Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name
Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame:
Nor can I think, fair Nymphs! that you resort
For other purpose, than to make a sport
At that simplicity, which shall appear
Among the rude untutored Shepherds here.
I know, that you, my noble Mistress ween,
At best, a homely milkmaid on the green,
Or some such country lass as taskèd stays
At servile labour until holidays.
For poor men's virtues so neglected grow,
And are now prizèd at a rate so low;
As, 'tis impossible, you should be brought
To let it with belief possess your thought,
That any Nymph, whose love might worthy be,
Would deign to cast respective eyes on me.
You see I live, possessing none of those
Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows.
To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither
Rings, bracelets, jewels; nor a scarf, nor feather.
I use no double-dyèd cloth to wear;
No scrip embroidered richly, do I bear:
No silken belt, nor sheephook laid with pearls,
To win me favour from the shepherds' girls.
No Place of Office or Command I keep,
But this my little flock of homely sheep.
And, in a word; the sum of all my pelf
Is this, I am the Master of myself!
No doubt, in Courts of Princes you have been!
And all the pleasures of the Palace seen!
There, you beheld brave Courtly passages
Between Heroes and their Mistresses.
You, there, perhaps, in presence of the King,
Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing!
And what contentment, then, can wood or field,
To please your curious understandings yield?
I know you walkèd hither, but to prove
What silly Shepherds do conceive of love?
Or to make trial how our simpleness,
Can Passions' force, or Beauty's power express?
And when you are departed, you will joy
To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's Boy!
But yet, I vow! if all the Art I had
Could any more esteem or glory add
To her unmatchèd worth; I would not weigh
What you intended," "Prithee, Lad!" quoth they,
"Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem!
Her nobleness can never want esteem,
Nor thy concealèd Measures be disgraced;
Though in a meaner person they were placed.
If thy too modestly reservèd quill
But reach that height, which we suppose it will;
Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong
The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song.
For, as it higher rears thy glory, that
A noble Mistress thou hast aimèd at;
So, more unto her honour it will prove
That (whilst deceiving shadows others move)
Her constant eyes could pass unmovèd by
The subtle Time's bewitching bravery;
And those obscurèd virtues love in thee,
That with despisèd meanness clouded be.
Now then, for Her sweet sake! whose beauteous eye
Hath filled thy Soul with heavenly Poesy;
Sing in her praise some new inspirèd Strain!
And if, within our power, there shall remain
A favour to be done to pleasure thee;
Ask and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be!"
"Fair Ladies!" quoth the Lad, "such words as those,
Compel me can": and therewithal he rose,
Returned them thanks, obeisance made; and then
Down sate again, and thus to sing began.

[The Prologue.]

You that, at a blush, can tell
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 Zeuxes' 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 the sacred well
Half so deep as Astrophel;
Though the much-commended Celia,
Lovely Laura, Stella, Delia,
(Who, in former times, excelled)
Live in lines unparalleled,
Making us believe, 'twere much
Earth should yield another such:
Yet, assisted but by Nature,
I assay to paint a Creature,
Whose rare worth, in future years,
Shall be praised as much as theirs.

Nor let any think amiss
That I have presumèd this;
For a gentle Nymph is She,
And hath often honoured me.
She's a noble spark of light
In each part so exquisite;
Had she, in times passèd been,
They had made her, Beauty's Queen.
Then, shall coward Despair
Let the most unblemished 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?
Never shall a stain so vile
Blemish this, our Poets' 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 heat 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 raptures so divine;
Without the knowledge of the Nine.
I, that am a Shepherd's Swain
Piping on the lowly plain,
And no other music can
Than what learned I have of Pan;
I, who never sang 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 rhymes)
Place her, where her form divine
Shall, to after ages, shine;
And, without respect of odds,
Vie renown with Demi-Gods.

Then, whilst of her praise I sing;
Harken 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,
Whistle, while your lambs do feed!
Agèd Woods and Floods! that know
What hath been, long times, ago!
Your more serious notes among,
Hear, how I can, in my Song,
Set a Nymph's perfection forth!
And, when you have heard her worth,
Say, if such another Lass
Ever known to mortal was!
Listen Lordlings! you that most
Of your outward honours boast!
And you Gallants! (that think scorn,
We, to lowly fortunes born,
Should attain to any graces,
Where you look for sweet embraces)
See! if all those vanities
Whereon your affection lies;
Or the titles, or the powers,
(By your fathers' virtues, yours)
Can your Mistresses enshrine
In such State, as I will mine!
Who am forced to importune
Favours, in despite of Fortune.
Beauties, listen! chiefly you
That yet know not Virtue's due!
You, that think there are no sports,
Nor no honours, but in Courts!
(Though of thousands, there live not
Two, but die and are forgot).
See, if any Palace yields
Ought more glorious than the Fields!
And consider well, if we
May not, as high-flying be
In our thoughts, as you that sing
In the chambers of a King!
See! if our contented minds,
Whom Ambition never blinds,
(We, that, clad in homespun gray,
On our own sweet meadows play)
Cannot honour, if we please,
Where we list, as well as these!
Or, as well, of worth approve!
Or, with equal Passions, love!
See, if beauties may not touch
Our soon-loving hearts as much!
Or our services effect
Favours, with as true respect,
In your good conceits to rise,
As our painted butterflies!
And you, Fairest! give her room,
When your Sex's Pride doth come!