No sooner had the Shepherd Phil'aret,
To this Description, his last period set;
But instantly, descending from a wood,
Which on a rising ground, adjoining stood,
A troop of Satyrs, to the view of all,
Came dancing, of a new devisèd brall.
The measures they did pace, by Him were taught them,
Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them,
That he had learned their rudeness an observing
Of such respect unto the well deserving;
As they became to no man else, a terror,
But such as did persist in wilful error:
And they, the Ladies, made no white affeared
Though since that time, they some Great Men have scared.
Their dance, the Whipping of Abuse they named;
And though the Shepherd, since that, hath been blamed:
Yet, now, 'tis daily seen in every town!
And there's no Country Dance that's better known!
Nor that hath gained a greater commendation
'Mongst those that love an honest recreation!
This Scene presented; from a grove was heard
A Set of Viols; and there, was prepared
A Country Banquet, which this Shepherd made
To entertain the Ladies, in the shade.
And 'tis supposed, his Song prolongèd was
Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass.
So well it was performed that each one deemed,
The banquet might the City have beseemed;
Yet, better was their Welcome, than their Fare,
Which they perceived, and the merrier were.
One Beauty though, there sat among the rest,
That looked as sad as if her heart oppressed
With love had been. Whom Phil'aret beholding
Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding:
"Lady!" quoth he, "am I, or this poor cheer,
The cause that you so melancholy are?
For if the object of your thoughts be higher,
It fits nor me to know them, nor inquire:
But if from me it cometh, that offends;
I seek the cause, that I may make amends!"
"Kind Swain!" said she, "it is nor so! nor so!
No fault in you! nor in your cheer I know!
Nor do I think there is a thought in me,
That can too worthy of your knowledge be!
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had
Than here I find, though I have seemèd sad.
My heart is sometimes heavy when I smile;
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.
Nor is it sadness that doth me possess,
But rather, musing, with much seriousness,
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears,
With those innumerable doubts and fears
Through which you passed, ere you could acquire
A settled Hope of gaining your Desire.
For you dared love a Nymph, so great and fair,
As might have brought a Prince unto despair;
And, sure, the excellency of your Passions
Did then produce as excellent impressions.
If, therefore, me the suit may well become!
And if to you, it be not wearisome!
In name of all the Ladies, I entreat
That one of those sad Strains you would repeat,
Which you composed, when greatest Discontent
Unsought-for help, to your Invention lent!"
"Fair Nymphs!" said Phil'aret, "I will so do!
For though your Shepherd doth no Courtship know,
He hath Humanity! and what's in me,
To do you service, may commanded be!"
So, taking down a lute, that near him hung;
He gave't his boy, who played: whilst this, he sung.
[SONNET I.]
"Ah, me!"
Am I the Swain
That late, from sorrow free,
Did all the cares on earth disdain?
And still untouched, as at some safer games,
Played with the burning coals of Love, and Beauty's flames?
Was't I, could dive, and sound each Passion's secret depth at will;
And from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason, still?
And am I, now, O heavens! (for trying this in vain)
So sunk, that I shall never rise again?
Then let Despair set Sorrow's string
For Strains, that doleful'st be!
And I will sing
"Ah, me."
But why,
O fatal Time!
Dost Thou constrain, that I
Should perish in my Youth's sweet prime?
I, but a while ago, You cruel Powers!
In spite of Fortune, cropped Contentment's sweetest flowers.
And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She,
That ever was beloved of Man, or eyes did ever see.
Yea, one, whose tender heart would rue for my distress;
Yet I, poor I! must perish nay-the-less:
And, which much more augments my care,
Unmoaned, I must die!
And no man e'er
Know why!
Thy leave,
My dying Song!
Yet take! ere Grief bereave
The breath which I enjoy too long.
Tell thou that Fair One this! "My Soul prefers
Her love above my life, and that I died hers!
And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,
Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here!"
And now, farewell, thou place of my unhappy birth!
Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth:
Since me, my wonted joys forsake,
And all my trust deceive;
Of all, I take
My leave!
Farewell,
Sweet Groves, to you!
You Hills, that highest dwell;
And all you humble Vales, adieu!
You wanton Brooks! and solitary Rocks!
My dear Companions all! and you, my tender Flocks!
Farewell, my Pipe! and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving Strains
Delighted once the fairest Nymphs that dance upon the plains!
You Discontentments (whose deep and over-deadly smart
Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)!
Sighs! Tears! and every sad Annoy
That erst did with me dwell!
And all others' Joy!
Farewell!
Adieu
Fair Shepherdesses!
Let garlands of sad yew
Adorn your dainty golden tresses!
I that loved you, and often, with my quill
Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill!
I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace;
Yea, with a thousand rarer favours, would vouchsafe to grace!
I, now, must leave you all alone! of Love to 'plain,
And never Pipe, nor never Sing again
I must, for evermore, be gone!
And, therefore, bid I you,
And every one,
Adieu!
I die!
For O, I feel
Death's horrors drawing nigh!
And all this frame of Nature reels!
My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,
Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief!
Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,
All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again.
My swimming head begins to dance Death's giddy round!
A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound!
Benumbed is my cold-sweating brow!
A dimness shuts my eye!
And now, O now,
I die!
So movingly these lines he did express,
And to a tune so full of heaviness;
As if, indeed, his purpose had been past
To live no longer than the Song did last.
Which in the Nymphs, such tender passion bred,
That some of them, did tears of pity shed.
This she perceiving, who first craved the Song,
"Shepherd!" she said, "although it be no wrong
Nor grief to you, those Passions to recall
Which, heretofore, you have been pained withal!
But comforts rather, since they, now, are over;
And you, it seemeth, an enjoying lover:
Yet some Nymphs among us, I do see;
Who, so much movèd with your Passions be,
That, if my aim I have taken aright,
Their thoughts will hardly let them sleep to-night.
I dare not, therefore, beg of you again
To sing another of the selfsame Strain;
For fear it breed within them, more unrest
Than women's weaknesses can well digest.
Yet, in your Measures, such content you have!
That one Song more, I will presume to crave.
And if your memory preserves of those
Which you, of your affections did compose
Before you saw this Mistress; let us hear
What kind of Passions, then, within you were!"
To which request, he instantly obeyed;
And this ensuing Song, both sung and played.
SONNET II.
You gentle Nymphs! that on these meadows play,
And oft relate the loves of Shepherds young;
Come, sit you down! For if you please to stay,
Now may you hear an uncouth Passion sung!
A Lad there is, and I am that poor Groom;
That's fall'n in love, and cannot tell with whom!
O do not smile at sorrow, as a jest!
With others' cares, good natures movèd be;
And I should weep, if you had my unrest!
Then, at my grief, how can you merry be?
Ah, where is tender pity now become?
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
I, that have oft, the rarest features viewed,
And Beauty in her best perfection seen;
I, that have laughed at them that love pursued,
And ever free from such affections been:
Lo, now at last, so cruel is my doom!
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
My heart is full nigh bursting with Desire;
Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:
My breast doth burn, but She that lights the fire,
I never saw, nor can I come to know.
So great a bliss, my fortune keeps me from;
That though I dearly love, I know not whom!
Ere I had twice four Springs renewed seen,
The force of Beauty I began to prove;
And ere I nine years old had fully been,
It taught me how to frame a Song of Love,
And little thought I, this day should have come,
Before that I, to love had found out whom!
For on my chin, the mossy down you see!
And in my veins, well heated blood doth glow!
Of Summers I have seen twice three times three;
And fast, my youthful time away doth go!
That much I fear, I agèd shall become,
And still complain, I love, I know not whom!
O, why had I a heart bestowed on me,
To cherish dear affections, so inclined?
Since I am so unhappy born to be
No Object, for so true a Love to find.
When I am dead, it will be missed of some;
Yet, now I live, I love, I know not whom!
I to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known!
A hundred Ladies' favours do I wear!
I, with as many, half in love am grown;
Yet none of them, I find, can be my Dear!
Methinks, I have a Mistress yet to come!
Which makes me sing, I love, I know not whom!
There lives no Swain doth stronger Passion prove
For her, whom most he covets to possess;
Than doth my heart, that being full of love
Knows not to whom it may the same profess!
For he that is despised, hath sorrow some;
But he hath more, that loves, and knows not whom!
Knew I my Love, as many others do,
To some one object might my thoughts be bent!
So they divided, should not wandering go
Until the Soul's united force be spent.
As his, that seeks and never finds a home,
Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom!
Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,
May live to meet, and descant on their woe;
And he hath gained a Lady for his bride,
That durst not woo her Maid, a while ago.
But O, what end unto my hopes can come?
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
Poor Collin grieves that he was late disdained;
And Cloris doth, for Willy's absence pine;
Sad Thirsis weeps, for his sick Phœbe pained:
But all their sorrows cannot equal mine!
A greater care, alas, on me is come.
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!
Narcissus like, did I affect my shade;
Some shadow yet I had to dote upon!
Or did I love some Image of the dead,
Whose Substance had not breathed long agone?
I might despair! and so an end would come;
But O, I love! and cannot tell you whom!
Once, in a dream, methought, my Love I viewed,
But never, waking, could her face behold;
And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed
That more my tirèd heart, torment it should.
For, since that time, more grieved I am become;
And more in love, I cannot tell with whom!
When on my bed, at night, to rest I lie,
My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek;
And then, "O would it once were day!" I cry,
Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek.
For who can tell, though all the earth he roam;
Or when, or where to find, he knows not whom?
O, if she may be among the beauteous trains
Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver rills!
Or if you know her, Ladies of the plains!
Or you, that have your bowers on the hills!
Tell, if you can, who will my Love become?
Or I shall die, and never know for whom!
The Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard,
Because the Passion strange to them appeared,
And stranger was it, since by his expression,
As well as by his own unfeigned confession,
It seemèd true! But having sung it out;
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought,
To urge him further: thus to them, he spake.
"Fair Ladies! forasmuch as doubt you make
To re-command me; of mine own accord,
Another Strain I freely will afford.
It shall not be of Love, nor any Song
Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong;
But that, hereafter, when you hence are gone,
Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon!
To shew you also, what Content the Field
And lonely Grove to honest minds may yield!
That you, my humble fate may not despise,
When you are returned unto your braveries;
And not suppose that, in these homely bowers,
I hug my fortune, 'cause I know not yours.
Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed by me,
When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be,
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate,
As in contempt of my more happy state.
And these they be—"
SONNET [III.]
Lordly Gallants! tell me this!
(Though my safe Content you weigh not!)
In your greatness, what one bliss
Have you gained, that I enjoy not?
You have Honours, you have Wealth!
I have Peace, and I have Health!
All the day I merry make;
And, at night, no care I take!
Bound to none, my fortunes be;
This, or that man's fall, I fear not!
Him I love, that loveth me;
For the rest, a pin I care not!
You are sad, when others chafe;
And grow merry as they laugh!
I, that hate it, and am free,
Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me!
You may boast of favours shown,
Where your service is applied!
But my pleasures are mine own,
And to no man's humours tied.
You oft flatter, sooth, and feign!
I, such baseness do disdain!
And to none, be slave I would,
Though my fetters might be gold!
By greatest titles, some believe,
Highest honours are attained;
And yet Kings have power to give
To their Fools, what these have gained.
Where they favour, there they may
All their Names of Honour lay!
But I look not, raised to be,
Till mine own wing carry me!
Seek to raise your titles higher!
They are toys not worth my sorrow.
Those that we, to-day, admire,
Prove the Age's scorn to-morrow!
Take your Honours! Let me find
Virtue in a free born mind!
This, the greatest Kings that be,
Cannot give, nor take from me!
Though I vainly do not vaunt
Large demesnes to feed my pleasure:
I have favours, where you want,
That would buy Respect with treasure!
You have lands lie here, and there;
But my wealth is everywhere!
And this addeth to my store,
Fortune cannot make me poor!
Say, you purchase, with your pelf,
Some respect, where you importune!
Those may love me, for myself;
That regard you for your fortune!
Rich, or born of high degree,
Fools, as well as you, may be!
But that Peace in which I live,
No Descent, nor Wealth can give!
If you boast that you may gain
The respect of high-born Beauties;
Know I never wooed in vain,
Nor preferrèd scornèd duties!
She I love, hath all delight,
Rosy red with lily white;
And, whoe'er your Mistress be,
Flesh and blood as good as She!
Note of me, was never took
For my womanlike perfections;
But so like a Man I look,
It hath gained me best affections!
For my love, as many showers
Have been wept, as have for yours!
And yet none doth me condemn
For abuse, or scorning them!
Though of dainties, you have store
To delight a choicer palate!
Yet your taste is pleased no more
Than is mine, in one poor sallat!
You to please your senses feed!
But I eat, good blood to breed!
And am most delighted then
When I spend it like a man!
Though you Lord it over me;
You, in vain, thereof have bravèd!
For those Lusts, my servants be;
Whereunto your minds are slavèd!
To yourselves you wise appear,
But, alas, deceived you are!
You do, foolish me esteem;
And are that, which I do seem!
When your faults I open lay;
You are moved, and mad with vexing!
But you ne'er could do, or say
Ought to drive me to perplexing!
Therefore, my despisèd power
Greater is, by far, than your!
And whate'er you think of me,
In your minds, you poorer be!
You are pleasèd, more or less,
As men, well or ill report you!
And shew discontentedness
When the Times forbear to court you!
That in which my pleasures be,
No man can divide from me!
And my care it adds not to,
Whatso others say or do.
Be not proud, because you view
You, by thousands are attended!
For, alas, it is not You,
But Your Fortune! that's befriended.
Where I shew of love have got,
Such a danger, fear I not!
Since they nought can seek of me;
But for love, beloved to be.
When your hearts have everything;
You are pleasantly disposed!
But I can both laugh and sing,
Though my foes have me enclosed.
Yea, when dangers me do hem,
I delight in scorning them!
More than you, in your renown;
Or a King can, in his crown.
You do bravely domineer
Whilst the sun upon you shineth!
Yet if any storm appear,
Basely, then, your mind declineth!
But, or shine, or rain, or blow,
I, my resolutions know!
Living, dying, thrall, or free;
At one height, my Mind shall be!
When in thraldom, I have lain;
Me, not worth your thought you prizèd!
But your malice was in vain,
For your favours I despisèd.
And howe'er you value me,
I, with praise, shall thought on be!
When the world esteems you not,
And your Names shall be forgot.
In these thoughts my riches are,
Now, though poor and mean you deem me!
I am pleased, and do not care
How the Times, or you esteem me!
For those toys that make you gay.
Are but Play Games for a Day!
And when Nature craves her due,
I, as brave shall be, as you!
Here Phil'aret did give his Song an ending.
To which the Nymphs so seriously attending
About him sate, as if they had supposed
He still had somewhat more to be disclosed.
And, well they know not, whether did belong
Most praise unto the Shepherd, or his Song.
For though, they must confess, they often hear
Those Lays, which much more deeply learned are;
Yet, when they well considered of the place,
With how unlikely (in their thought) it was
To give them hope of hearing of such a Strain;
Or that so young, and so obscure a Swain
Should such a matchless Beauty's favour get;
And know her worth so well, to sing of it:
They wondered at it. And some thus surmised
That He a greater man was, so disguised;
Or else that She, whom he so much had praised,
Some goddess was, that those his Measures raised,
Of purpose, to that rare attainèd height
In Envy's, and presuming Art's despite.
But whilst they, musing with themselves, bethought
Which way, out of this Shepherd to have wrought
What Nymph this Fair One was? and where she lived?
Lo, at that very instant, there arrived
Three men that, by their habits, Courtiers seemed:
For, though obscure, by some, he is esteemed,
Among the Greatest: who do not contemn,
In his retirèd walks, to visit him;
And there, they taste those pleasures of the mind,
Which they can, nor in Court, nor City find.
Some news or message, these new guests had brought him;
And to make haste away, it seems, besought him:
For instantly he rose! And that his nurture
Might not be taxed by a rude departure,
Himself excusing; he, those Nymphs did pray
His noble friends might bring him on their way.
"Who, as it seems," said he, "were therefore come,
That they might wait upon him to their home."
So, with their favour, he departed thence;
And, as they thought, to meet her Excellence,
Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this
But an Idea of a Mistress is:
Because to none, he yet had deigned the telling
Her proper name; nor shown her place of dwelling!
When he was gone, a Lady, from among
Those Nymphs, took up his lute, and sang this Song.
THE NYMPH'S SONG.
Gentle Swain! Good speed befall thee!
And in love still prosper thou!
Future Times shall happy, call thee!
Though thou lie neglected now.
Virtue's lovers shall command thee!
And perpetual fame attend thee!
Happy are these woody mountains,
In whose shadows, thou dost hide!
And as happy, are those fountains
By whose murmurs, thou dost 'bide!
For Contents are here excelling,
More than in a Prince's dwelling.
These, thy flocks do clothing bring thee!
And thy food, out of the fields:
Pretty songs, the birds do sing thee!
Sweet perfumes the meadow yields:
And what more is worth the seeing?
Heaven and Earth, thy prospect being!
None comes hither, who denies thee
Thy contentments, for despite;
Neither any that envies thee,
That wherein thou dost delight.
But all happy things are meant thee!
And whatever may content thee!
Thy Affection, Reason measures,
And distempers none it feeds:
Still so harmless are thy pleasures,
That no other's grief it breeds.
And if night beget thee sorrow;
Seldom stays it till the morrow.
Why do foolish men so vainly
Seek contentment in their store?
Since they may perceive so plainly
Thou art rich, in being poor!
And that they are vexed about it;
Whilst thou merry are without it!
Why are idle brains devising
How high titles may be gained!
Since, by those poor toys despising,
Thou hast higher things obtained!
For the man who scorns to crave them,
Greater is than they that have them.
If all men could taste that sweetness
Thou dost, in thy meanness, know!
Kings would be to seek, where greatness
And their honours to bestow.
For it such content would breed them,
As they would not think they need them.
And if those, who so aspiring
To the Court preferments be,
Knew how worthy the desiring
Those things are, enjoyed by thee!
Wealth and titles would, hereafter,
Subjects be for scorn and laughter.
He that Courtly styles affected,
Should a May-Lord's honour have;
He that heaps of Wealth collected,
Should be counted as a slave:
And the man, with few'st things cumbered,
With the noblest should be numbered.
Thou, their folly hast discerned;
That neglect thy mind and thee!
And to slight them, thou hast learned,
Of what title e'er they be!
That, no more with thee obtaineth;
Than with them, thy meanness gaineth.
All their riches, honours, pleasures,
Poor unworthy trifles seem;
If comparèd with thy treasures!
And do merit no esteem:
For they, true contents provide thee,
And from them, can none divide thee.
Whether thrallèd, or exilèd;
Whether poor, or rich thou be!
Whether praisèd, or revilèd;
Not a rush it is to thee!
This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee;
But the Mind, which is within thee!
Then, O, why so madly dote we
On those things that us o'erload?
Why no more their vainness note we,
But still make of them a god?
For, alas, they still deceive us;
And, in greatest need, they leave us!
Therefore have the Fates provided
Well, thou happy Swain! for thee!
That may'st here, so far divided
From the world's distractions be!
Thee, distemper let them never;
But in peace continue ever!
In these lonely groves, enjoy thou
That contentment here begun!
And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou
Till the latest glass be run!
From a fortune so assured,
By no temptings, be allured!
Much good do 't them, with their glories,
Who, in Courts of Princes dwell!
We have read in antique stories
How some rose, and how they fell.
And 'tis worthy well the heeding,
"There's like end, where's like proceeding."
Be thou still, in thy affection,
To thy noble Mistress, true!
Let her never-matched perfection
Be the same unto thy view!
And let never other Beauty
Make thee fail in love or duty!
For if thou shalt not estrangèd,
From thy course professed, be;
But remain, for aye, unchangèd,
Nothing shall have power on thee!
Those that slight thee now, shall love thee;
And, in spite of spite, approve thee!
So those virtues now neglected;
To be more esteemed, will come:
Yea, those toys so much affected,
Many shall be wooèd from.
And the Golden Age, deplored,
Shall, by some, be thought restored.