Part 3
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.
William Browne
To England
Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot Whose equal all the world affordeth not! Show me who can so many crystal rills, Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills; Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines; Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly shines; And if the earth can show the like again, Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
The Seasons
The year hath first his jocund spring, Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling, Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray; Next cometh autumn, when the threshèd sheaf Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf; Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm, Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn, And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot, Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
May Day Customs
I have seen the Lady of the May Set in an arbour, on a holiday, Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains, When envious night commands them to be gone Call for the merry youngsters one by one, And for their well performance soon disposes: To this a garland interwove with roses, To that a carvèd hook or well-wrought scrip, Gracing another with her cherry lip; To one her garter, to another then A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again; And none returneth empty that hath spent His pains to fill their rural merriment.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Birds in May
As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne To take the kind air of a wistful morn Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe More strains than from my pipe can ever flow), Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin To chide the river for his clam'rous din; There seem'd another in his song to tell, That what the fair stream did he liked well; And going further heard another too, All varying still in what the others do; A little thence, a fourth with little pain Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again; So numberless the songsters are that sing In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring, That I no sooner could the hearing lose Of one of them, but straight another rose, And perching deftly on a quaking spray, Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay. . . . . . Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Music on the Thames
As I have seen when on the breast of Thames A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames, In some calm ev'ning of delightful May, With music give a farewell to the day, Or as they would, with an admired tone, Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne, Rapt with their melody a thousand more Run to be wafted from the bounding shore.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
A Concert of Birds
The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing, Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing. The lofty treble sung the little wren; Robin the mean, that best of all loves men; The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush. And that the music might be full in parts, Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts; But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains, Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains) There should some droning part be, therefore will'd Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field, In embassy unto the King of Bees, To aid his partners on the flowers and trees Who, condescending, gladly flew along To bear the bass to his well-tuned song. The crow was willing they should be beholding For his deep voice, but being hoarse with scolding, He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb, And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Flowers
The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down, A golden tuft within a silver crown; (Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!) The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place; The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity; Carnations sweet with colour like the fire, The fit impresas for inflam'd desire; The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue Claims to be worn of none but those are true; The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands, And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands, The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd To be the badges of a jealous mind; The orange-tawny marigold: the night Hides not her colour from a searching sight.... The columbine in tawny often taken, Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken; Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye Is hope even in the depth of misery.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Morning
The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat, The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd, Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud Low levell'd on the grass; no fly's quick sting Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring To tear the passive earth, nor lash his tail About his buttocks broad; the slimy snail Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes, Winding meanders and self-knitting traces, Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time, The careful smith had in his sooty forge Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly, And day as then might plead his in fancy.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
Night
Now great Hyperion left his golden throne That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declining on the western shore The oriental hills black mantles wore, And thence apace the gentle twilight fled, That had from hideous caverns ushered All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet, By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky, The helps of darkness waited orderly. First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains; Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring; From standing pools and fens were following Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill Sent up their vapours to attend her will These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven And as Night's chariot through the air was driven, Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance, And all the upper world lay in a trance. Only the curled streams soft chidings kept; And little gales that from the green leaf swept Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred. As loath to waken any singing bird.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
A Pleasant Grove
Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where here the curious cutting of a hedge: There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge: Here the fine setting of well-shading trees: The walks there mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price, (As if it were another Paradise) So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again. There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley, That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all, In singing well their own set madrigal. This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there. Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant clusters decking each good tree, Invite your hand to crop some from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them: Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense. Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth; So loath to part and so content to stay, That when the gard'ner knocks for you away, It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it, That you could wish that you had never seen it.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
An Angler
Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook: Here pulls his line, there throws it in again, Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain, He long stands viewing of the curled stream; At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream Snatch at the worm, and hasting fast away, He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway, Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill, Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill; Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud, There underneath the banks, then in the mud, And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal, That each one takes his hide, or starting hole: By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath A willow lies.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
A Rill
So when the pretty rill a place espies, Where with the pebbles she would wantonize, And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her To drive her thence, and let her play no longer; If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away, As being much incens'd to leave her play, A western, mild and pretty whispering gale Came dallying with the leaves along the dale, And seem'd as with the water it did chide, Because it ran so long unpacified: Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil, Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil: Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep, And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.
From _Britannia's Pastorals_.
"Glide soft, ye Silver Floods"
Glide soft, ye silver floods, And every spring: Within the shady woods Let no bird sing! Nor from the grove a turtle-dove Be seen to couple with her love; But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, Whilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell.
But (of great Thetis' train) Ye mermaids fair, That on the shores do plain Your sea-green hair, As ye in trammels knit your locks, Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks In heavy murmurs through the broad shores tell How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell.
Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds, To move a wave; But if with troubled minds You seek his grave; Know 'tis as various as yourselves, Now in the deep, then on the shelves, His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell, Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell.
Had he Arion-like Been judged to drown, He on his lute could strike So rare a sowne, A thousand dolphins would have come And jointly strive to bring him home. But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell, Since when his Willy bade all joy farewell.
Great Neptune, hear a swain! His coffin take, And with a golden chain For pity make It fast unto a rock near land! Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand, And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell, Sad Willy's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.
"Venus by Adonis' Side"
Venus by Adonis' side Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried, Wrung her hands and tore her hair For Adonis dying there.
Stay (quoth she) O stay and live! Nature surely doth not give To the earth her sweetest flowers To be seen but some few hours.
On his face, still as he bled For each drop a tear she shed, Which she kiss'd or wip'd away, Else had drown'd him where he lay.
Fair Proserpina (quoth she) Shall not have thee yet from me; Nor my soul to fly begin While my lips can keep it in.
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 lass 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 pass 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 lusty 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 wingèd pines, All beaten mariners, Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, A prey to passengers; Perfumes far sweeter than the best Which makes the Phoenix' urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips, But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.
For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange; and be awhile our guests: For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass 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 shore, Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.