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The Pembroke Booklets

(First Series)

III

Nicholas Breton

Pastoral Poems

George Wither

Selected Poetry

William Browne

(of Tavistock)

Pastoral Poetry

J. R. Tutin

Hull

1906

Large Paper Edition, limited to 250 copies

Turnbull & Spears, Printers, Edinburgh.

Nicholas Breton

(1558-1626)

Thou that wouldst find the habit of true passion,
And see a mind attired in perfect strains ...
Look here on Breton's work.--BEN JONSON.

George Wither

(1588-1667)

The praises of poetry have been often sung in ancient and in modern times; strange powers have been ascribed to it of influence over animate and inanimate auditors; its force over fascinated crowds has been acknowledged; but before Wither, no one ever celebrated its power at home, the wealth and the strength which this divine gift confers upon its possessor. Fame, and that too after death, was all which hitherto the poets had promised themselves from this art. It seems to have been left to Wither to discover that poetry was a present possession, as well as a rich reversion, and that the Muse has a promise of both lives,--of this, and of that which was to come.--CHARLES LAMB.

William Browne

(1591-? 1645)

I feel an envious touch,
And tell thee Swain: that at thy fame I grutch,
Wishing the Art that makes this Poem shine,
And this thy Work (wert not thou wrongèd) mine.
GEORGE WITHER: To the Author[of Britannia's Pastorals].

Contents

Prefatory Note

There are few issues attended with greater uncertainty than the fate of a poet, and of the three represented herein it may be said that they survive but tardily in public interest. Such a state of things, in spite of all pleading, is quite beyond reason; hence the purport of this small Anthology is at once obvious.

A group of poets graced with rarest charm and linked together by several and varied circumstances, each one figures here in unique evidence and bold relief of individuality. They are called of the order Spenserian; servants at the altar to the Pastoral Muse; and, in the reckoning of time, belong to that glorious age of great Elizabeth. Nicholas Breton (or Britton, as it is pronounced) and William Browne were both contributors to England's Helicon, of 1614, and Browne and Wither each submitted verses for The Shepherd's Pipe, a publication of the same year. The former two were, in turn, under the patronage of that most cultured family, the Herberts, Breton being a protégé of "Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother," whom Browne (and not Ben Jonson, as is commonly said) eulogised thus in elegy. George Wither, being Browne's intimate friend, was presumably not unappreciated by the kinsfolk of George Herbert. Thus do they appear as in a bond of spiritual union.

Breton, a step-son to the poet Gascoigne, and the elder of our fascinating trio, is conspicuous for an unswerving, whole-hearted attachment to nature and rural scenes. It is in the pastoral lyric where, with tenderest devotion, he pursues, untrammelled, a light and free-born fancy. His fertile, varied muse, laden with the passionate exaggerations of love-lorn swain, is yet charged with richest imagery and thought, full to overflowing with joyous abandonment, and sweet with the perfume of many flowers, culled in distant fields.

Wither, though best remembered by exploits in the political arena, is none the less a poet of deep and purest feeling. To be sure, his best and earlier work has all of that delightful extravagance and amorous colouring peculiar to the age. But there is reflected a homely dignity and mobile, felicitous vein in which the poet seems endowed with every attribute of a melodist. Exquisite, graceful and diverse he, at times, would soar to flights of highest inspiration and bedeck the page with gems of rarest worth. In the heptasyllabic couplet he is decidedly successful.

And lastly William Browne, than whom we have not a more modest and retiring singer, here makes his bow with a slender portfolio of excerpts. Whatever else may transpire it is certain that labour such as his bears the assurance of unsullied happiness and overflowing joy. It is quaint, simple, unassuming; without affectation, full of pathos, and gently sensitive. He was a man who knew no guile, and his sweet and artless nature is faithfully portrayed in the outpourings of an impressionable, poetic soul. To dance with rustic maidens on the lea; to sing by moonlight to the piper's strain; to be happy, always happy, such is the theme, delicate and refined, of these our half-forgotten poets.

W. B. KEMPLING.

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Pastoral

Good Muse, rock me asleep

With some sweet harmony:

The weary eye is not to keep

Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile,

Thou knowest my heaviness:

Beauty is born but to beguile

My heart of happiness.

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 Phyllida 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 know'st 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.

Aglaia: a Pastoral

Sylvan Muses, can ye sing

Of the beauty of the Spring?

Have ye seen on earth that sun

That a heavenly course hath run?

Have ye lived to see those eyes

Where the pride of beauty lies?

Have ye heard that heavenly voice

That may make Love's heart rejoice?

Have ye seen Aglaia, she

Whom the world may joy to see?

If ye have not seen all these,

Then ye do but labour leese;

While ye tune your pipes to play

But an idle roundelay;

And in sad Discomfort's den

Everyone go bite her pen;

That she cannot reach the skill

How to climb that blessed hill

Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,

Where exceedings do excell,

And in simple truth confess

She is that fair shepherdess

To whom fairest flocks a-field

Do their service duly yield:

On whom never Muse hath gazèd

But in musing is amazèd;

Where the honour is too much

For their highest thoughts to touch;

Thus confess, and get ye gone

To your places every one;

And in silence only speak

When ye find your speech too weak.

Blessèd be Aglaia yet,

Though the Muses die for it;

Come abroad, ye blessèd Muses,

Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,

When she would command a creature

In the honour of Love's nature,

For the sweet Aglaia fair

All to sweeten all the air,

Is abroad this blessèd day;

Haste ye, therefore, come away:

And to kill Love's maladies

Meet her with your melodies.

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, and chirp, and sing

To the beauty of the Spring:

Call the sylvan nymphs together,

Bid them bring their musicks 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 silk-worm'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 may joy to hear

How ye make your sweetest quire;

And in all your sweetest vein

Still Aglaia strike her 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.

Phyllida and Corydon

In the merry month of May,

In a morn by break of day,

With a troop of damsels playing

Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,

When anon by a woodside,

Where as May was in his pride,

I espied, all alone,

Phyllida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot!

He would love, and she would not:

She said, never man was true;

He says, none was false to you.

He said, he had loved her long:

She says, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then,

She says, maids must kiss no men,

Till they do for good and all.

Then she made the shepherd call

All the heavens to witness, truth

Never loved a truer youth.

Thus 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 Phyllida, with garlands gay,

Was made the lady of the May.

Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon

Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),

Was never morn so fair,

There shone a sun, though not the sun

That shineth in the air.

For the earth, and from the earth,

(Was never such a creature !)

Did come this face (was never face

That carried such a feature).

Upon a hill (O blessèd hill!

Was never hill so blessèd),

There stood a man (was never man

For woman so distressed):

This man beheld a heavenly view,

Which did such virtue give

As clears the blind, and helps the lame,

And makes the dead man live.

This man had hap (O happy man!

More happy none than he);

For he had hap to see the hap

That none had hap to see.

This silly swain (and silly swains

Are men of meanest grace):

Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)

To hap on such a face.

He pity cried, and pity came

And pitied so his pain,

As dying would not let him die

But gave him life again.

For joy whereof he made such mirth

As all the woods did ring;

And Pan with all his swains came forth

To hear the shepherd sing;

But such a song sung never was,

Nor shall be sung again,

Of Phyllida the shepherds' queen,

And Corydon the swain.

Fair Phyllis is the shepherds' queen,

(Was never such a queen as she,)

And Corydon her only swain

(Was never such a swain as he):

Fair Phyllis hath the fairest face

That ever eye did yet behold,

And Corydon the constant'st faith

That ever yet kept flock in fold;

Sweet Phyllis is the sweetest sweet

That ever yet the earth did yield,

And Corydon the kindest swain

That ever yet kept lambs in field.

Sweet Philomel is Phyllis' bird,

Though Corydon be he that caught her,

And Corydon doth hear her sing,

Though Phyllida be she that taught her:

Poor Corydon doth keep the fields

Though Phyllida be she that owes them,

And Phyllida doth walk the meads,

Though Corydon be he that mows them:

The little lambs are Phyllis' love,

Though Corydon is he that feeds them,

The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,

Though Corydon is he that weeds them.

Since then that Phyllis only is

The only shepherd's only queen;

And Corydon the only swain

That only hath her shepherd been,--

Though Phyllis keep her bower of state,

Shall Corydon consume away?

No, shepherd, no, work out the week,

And Sunday shall be holiday.

A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon

On a hill there grows a flower,

Fair befall the dainty sweet!

By that flower there is a bower,

Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,

Fringèd all about with gold,

Where doth sit the fairest fair

That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis, fair and bright,

She that is the shepherds' joy,

She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,

That the world desires to see:

This is ipsa quæ, the which

There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?

Who would not this saint adore?

Who would not this sight desire,

Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes, yet let me see,

One good look, and I am gone:

Look on me, for I am he,

Thy poor silly Corydon.

Thou that art the shepherds' queen,

Look upon thy silly swain;

By thy comfort have been seen

Dead men brought to life again.

Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis

Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain

May sue to thee for grace,

See not thy loving shepherd slain

With looking on thy face;