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.

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.

Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain

May sue to thee for grace,

See not thy loving shepherd slain

With looking on thy face;

But think what power thou hast got

Upon my flock and me;

Thou seest they now regard me not,

But all do follow thee.

And if I have so far presumed,

With prying in thine eyes,

Yet let not comfort be consumed

That in thy pity lies;

But as thou art that Phyllis fair,

That fortune favour gives,

So let not love die in despair

That in thy favour lives.

The deer do browse upon the briar,

The birds do pick the cherries;

And will not Beauty grant Desire

One handful of her berries?

If it be so that thou hast sworn

That none shall look on thee,

Yet let me know thou dost not scorn

To cast a look on me.

But if thy beauty make thee proud,

Think then what is ordain'd;

The heavens have never yet allow'd

That love should be disdain'd.

Then lest the fates that favour love

Should curse thee for unkind,

Let me report for thy behoof,

The honour of thy mind;

Let Corydon with full consent

Set down what he hath seen,

That Phyllida with Love's content

Is sworn the shepherds' queen.

A silly shepherd lately sat

Among a flock of sheep;

Where musing long on this and that,

At last he fell asleep.

And in the slumber as he lay,

He gave a piteous groan;

He thought his sheep were run away,

And he was left alone.

He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,

But not a sheep came near him;

Which made the shepherd sore appall'd

To see that none would hear him.

But as the swain amazèd stood,

In this most solemn vein,

Came Phyllida forth of the wood,

And stood before the swain.

Whom when the shepherd did behold

He straight began to weep,

And at the heart he grew a-cold,

To think upon his sheep.

For well he knew, where came the queen,

The shepherd durst not stay:

And where that he durst not be seen,

The sheep must needs away.

To ask her if she saw his flock,

Might happen patience move,

And have an answer with a mock,

That such demanders prove.

Yet for because he saw her come

Alone out of the wood,

He thought he would not stand as dumb,

When speech might do him good;

And therefore falling on his knees,

To ask but for his sheep,

He did awake, and so did leese

The honour of his sleep.

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold

A kind of heaven in his authorities;

The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,

Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;

The epicure that eats and drinks all day,

Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;

And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,

Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.

But, my sweet God, 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.

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 Willy, 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 lasses 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 Titan 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.