Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry - LightNovelsOnl.com
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Here she clos'd again. And some Say Apollo would have come To have cur'd his wounded limb, But that she had smothered him.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
A Song
Gentle nymphs, be not refusing, Love's neglect is time's abusing, They and beauty are but lent you; Take the one and keep the other; Love keeps fresh what age doth smother; Beauty gone you will repent you.
'Twill be said when ye have proved, Never swains more truly loved: Oh then fly all nice behaviour!
Pity fain would (as her duty) Be attending still on Beauty, Let her not be out of favour.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Spring Morning--I
_Thomalin._
Where is every piping lad That the fields are not yclad With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: is it holiday, Or if in the month of May Use they long to sleep?
_Piers._
Thomalin, 'tis not too late, For the turtle and her mate Sitten yet in nest: And the thrustle hath not been Gath'ring worms yet on the green, But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young, Nor her morning's lesson sung In the shady grove: But the nightingale in dark Singing woke the mounting lark: She records her love.
Not the sun hath with his beams Gilded yet our crystal streams; Rising from the sea, Mists do crown the mountains' tops, And each pretty myrtle drops: 'Tis but newly day.
_The Shepherd's Pipe._
Spring Morning--II
_Willie._
Roget, droop not, see the spring Is the earth enamelling, And the birds on every tree Greet this morn with melody: Hark, how yonder thrustle chants it, And her mate as proudly vants it See how every stream is dress'd By her margin with the best Of Flora's gifts; she seems glad For such brooks such flow'rs she had.
All the trees are quaintly tired With green buds, of all desired; And the hawthorn every day Spreads some little show of May: See the primrose sweetly set By the much-lov'd violet, All the banks do sweetly cover, As they would invite a lover With his la.s.s to see their dressing And to grace them by their pressing: Yet in all this merry tide When all cares are laid aside, Roget sits as if his blood Had not felt the quick'ning good Of the sun, nor cares to play, Or with songs to pa.s.s the day As he wont: fie, Roget, fie, Raise thy head, and merrily Tune us somewhat to thy reed: See our flocks do freely feed, Here we may together sit, And for music very fit Is this place; from yonder wood Comes an echo shrill and good, Twice full perfectly it will Answer to thine oaten quill.
Roget, droop not then, but sing Some kind welcome to the spring.
_The Shepherd's Pipe._
A Round
_All._
Now that the Spring hath fill'd our veins With kind and active fire, And made green liv'ries for the plains, And every grove a quire:
Sing me a song of merry glee, And Bacchus fill the bowl.
1. Then here's to thee: 2. And thou to me And every thirsty soul.
Nor Care nor Sorrow e'er paid debt, Nor never shall do mine; I have no cradle going yet, Not I, by this good wine.
No wife at home to send for me, No hogs are in my ground, No suit in law to pay a fee, Then round, old Jocky, round.
_All._
Shear sheep that have them, cry we still, But see that no man 'scape To drink of the sherry, That makes us so merry, And plump as the l.u.s.ty grape.
_Welcome, welcome, do I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever._
Love, that to the voice is near Breaking from your iv'ry pale, Need not walk abroad to hear The delightful nightingale.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, Far more welcome than the spring; He that parteth from you never Shall enjoy a spring for ever.
Love, that looks still on your eyes, Though the winter have begun To benumb our arteries, Shall not want the summer's sun.
Welcome, welcome, then I sing, &c.
Love that still may see your cheeks, Where all rareness still reposes, Is a fool, if e'er he seeks Other lilies, other roses.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, to whom your soft lip yields, And perceives your breath in kissing, All the odours of the fields Never, never shall be missing.
Welcome, welcome, &c.
Love, that question would anew What fair Eden was of old, Let him rightly study you, And a brief of that behold.
Welcome, welcome, then I, &c.
Autumn
Autumn it was when droop'd the sweetest flow'rs, And rivers, swoll'n with pride, o'erlook'd the banks; Poor grew the day of summer's golden hours, And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-ranks.
The pleasant meadows sadly lay In chill and cooling sweats By rising fountains, or as they Fear'd winter's wastfull threats.
_The Shepherd's Pipe._
The Siren's Song
Steer hither, steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners, Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to pa.s.sengers; Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which makes the Phoenix' urn and nest.
Fear not your s.h.i.+ps, Nor any to oppose you save our lips, But come on sh.o.r.e, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Where never storms arise, Exchange; and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes.
The compa.s.s love shall hourly sing, And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.
CHORUS.
Then come on sh.o.r.e, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
