Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry Part 2

But, when I heard her yield to love, Oh! how my heart did leap for joy!

That now I had some little hope To have an end to mine annoy!

But, as too soon, before the field The trumpets sound the overthrow, So all too soon I joy'd too much, For I awaked, and nothing saw.[2]

[Transcriber's note 1: The original had 'roast']

[Footnote 2: Ellis reads _so_.]

Love

Foolish love is only folly; Wanton love is too unholy; Greedy love is covetous; Idle love is frivolous; But the gracious love is it That doth prove the work of it.

Beauty but deceives the eye; Flattery leads the ear awry; Wealth doth but enchant the wit; Want, the overthrow of it; While in Wisdom's worthy grace, Virtue sees the sweetest face.

There hath Love found out his life, Peace without all thought of strife; Kindness in Discretion's care; Truth, that clearly doth declare Faith doth in true fancy prove, l.u.s.t the excrements of Love.

Then in faith may fancy see How my love may constru'd be; How it grows and what it seeks; How it lives and what it likes; So in highest grace regard it, Or in lowest scorn discard it.

_The Pa.s.sionate Shepherd._

Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart, That hand that holds the heart of every eye, That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art, The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry; That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense Doth show my only mistress' excellence.

O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!

O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!

O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!

O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!

The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee, Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.

To serve, to live to look upon those eyes, To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand, To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind, To know that sense, no sense can understand, To understand that all the world may know, Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no moe.

Sonnet

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold A kind of heaven in his authorities; The wealthy miser, in his ma.s.s of gold, Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise; The epicure that eats and drinks all day, Accounts no heaven, but in his h.e.l.lish routs; And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day, Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.

But, my sweet G.o.d, I seek no prince's power, No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss, Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour, And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss: No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be In my Love's service, but to live to thee.

A Sweet Lullaby

Come, little babe, come, silly soul, Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief, Born as I doubt to all our dole, And to thyself unhappy chief: Sing lullaby and lap it warm, Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little thinkst, and less dost know The cause of this thy mother's moan; Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe, And I myself am all alone; Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail, And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?

Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart, Mine only joy, what can I more?

If there be any wrong thy smart, That may the destinies implore, 'Twas I, I say, against my will-- I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!

Would G.o.d Himself He might thee see!

No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace, I know right well, for thee and me, But come to mother, babe, and play, For father false is fled away.

Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance Thy father home again to send, If Death do strike me with his lance Yet may'st thou me to him commend: If any ask thy mother's name, Tell how by love she purchased blame.

Then will his gentle heart soon yield: I know him of a n.o.ble mind: Although a lion in the field, A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find: Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!

His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.

Then may'st thou joy and be right glad, Although in woe I seem to moan; Thy father is no rascal lad: A n.o.ble youth of blood and bone, His glancing looks, if he once smile, Right honest women may beguile.

Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!

Sing lullaby, and be thou still!

I, that can do naught else but weep, Will sit by thee and wail my fill: G.o.d bless my babe, and lullaby, From this thy father's quality.

[Transcribers' note 1: 'lown' in the original]

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 w.i.l.l.y, 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 la.s.ses 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 t.i.tan 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 pa.s.sed 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.