LOOKE as a lover with a lingring kisse
About to part with the best halfe that's his,
Faine would he stay but that he feares to doe it,
And curseth time for so fast hastning to it;
Now takes his leave, and yet begins anew
To make lesse vows than are esteemed true,
Then sayes he must be gone, and then doth finde
Something he should have spoke that's out of
minde,

And whilst he stands to looke for't in her eyes,
Their sad-sweet glance so tye his faculties,
To thinke from what he parts, that he is now
As farre from leaving her, or knowing how,
As when he came; begins his former straine,
To kisse, to vow, and take his leave againe,
Then turnes, comes backe, sighes, parts, and yet
doth goe,

Apt to retyre and loath to leave her so;
Brave streame, so part I from thy flowry bancke,
Where first I breath'd, and (though unworthy)
dranke

Those sacred waters which the Muses bring
To woo Britannia to their ceaslesse spring.
Now would I on, but that the christallwels,
The fertil! meadowes, and their pleasing smels,
The woods delightfull and the scatt'red groves,
(Where many nymphes walke with their chaster
loves)

[sonne

Soone make me stay: and think that Ordgar's (Admonish'd by a heavenly vision)

Not without cause did that apt fabricke reare,
(Wherein we nothing now but cechoes heare,
That wont with heavenly anthemes daily ring,
And duest praises to the greatest king)

In this choise plot. Since he could light upon
No place so fit for contemplation.
Though I awhile must leave this happy soyle,
And follow Thetis in a pleasing toyle;

Vide de amanitate loci Malmesb. 2 lib. de gest. Pontif. fol. 146.

2 Ordulphus. He founded, at Tavystocke in Devon, St. Mary, and St. Burion, A. D. 961.

Yet when I shall returne, I'le strive to draw
The nymphs by Thamar, Tavy, Ex and Tau,
By Turridge, Otter, Ock, by Dert and Plym,
With all the Nayades that fish and swim
In their cleare streames, to these our rising
downes,
[crownes,
Where while they make us chaplets, wreaths, and
He tune my reede unto a higher key,
(And have already cond some of the lay.)
Wherein (as Mantua by her Virgil's birth,
And Thames by him that sung her nuptiall

mirth)

4

You may be knowne (though not in equall pride)
As farre as Tiber throwes his swelling tide.
And by a shepheard (feeling on your plaines)
In humble, lowly, plaine, and ruder straines,
Heare your worths challenge other floods among,
To have a period equall with their song.

Where Plym and Thamar with imbraces meet, Thetis weighes ancor now, and all her fleet; Leaving that spacious sound', within whose armes I have those vessels seene, whose hote alarmes Have made Iberia tremble, and her towres Prostrate themselves before our iron showres, While their proud builders' hearts have beene inclynde

To shake (as our brave ensignes) with the wynde.
For as an eyerie from their seeges wood,
Led o're the playnes and taught to get their food,
By seeing how their breeder takes his prey,
Now from an orchard doe they scare the jey,
Then ore the corne-fields as they swiftly Bye,
Where many thousand hurtfull sparrowes lye
Beating the ripe graine from the bearded eare,
At their approach, all (overgone with feare)
Seeke for their safety; some into the dyke,
Some in the hedges drop, and others like
The thicke-growne corne; as for their hiding best,
And under turfes or grasse most of the rest;
That of a flight which cover'd all the graine,
Not one appeares, but all or bid or slaine:
So by heroes were we led of yore,

And by our drummes that thundred on each shore,
Stroke with amazement, countries farre and neere;
Whilst their inhabitants, like heards of deere
By kingly lyons chas'd, fled from our armes.
If any did oppose, instructed swarmes
Of men immayl'd: Fate drew them on to be
A greater fame to our got victory.

But now our leaders want, those vessels lye
Rotting, like houses through ill husbandry,
And on their masts, where oft the ship-boy stood,
Or silver trumpets charm'd the brackish flood,
Some wearyed crow it set; and daily seene
Their sides, instead of pitch, calk'd ore with

Beare with me, shepheards, if I doe digresse, And speake of what ourselves doe not professe: Can I behold a man that in the field, Or at a breach hath taken on his shield More darts than ever Romane; that hath spent Many a cold December, in no tent

[beene

But such as earth and heaven make; that hath Except in iron plates not long time scene; Upon whose body may be plainely told

More wounds than his lauke purse doth almesdeeds hold;

O! can I see this man (adventring all)
Be onely grac'd with some poore hospitall,
Or may be worse, intreating at his doore
For some reliefe whom he secur'd before,

And yet not show my griefe? First may I learne
To see and yet forget how to discerne;
My hands negicetfull be at any need
Or to defend my body or to feed,

Ere I respect those times that rather give him
Hundreds to punish, than one to relieve him.

As in an evening when the gentle ayre
Breathes to the sullen night a soft repayre,
I oft have set on Thames' sweet bancke to heare
My friend with his sweet touch to charme mine
care,

When he hath plaid (as well he can) some straine
That likes me, streight I aske the same againe,
And he as gladly granting, strikes it o're
With some sweet relish was forgot before:
I would have beene content if he would play,
In that one straine to passe the night away;
But fearing much to do his patience wrong,
Unwillingly have ask'd some other song:
So in this diffring key though I could well
A many houres but as few minutes tell,
Yet least mine owne delight might injure you
(Though loath so soone) I take my song anew.

Yet as when I with other swaines have beene
Invited by the maidens of our greene
To wend to yonder wood, in time of yeare
When cherry-trees inticing burdens beare,
He that with wreathed legs doth upwards goe,
Pluckes not alone for those which stand below;
But now and then is seene to picke a few
To please himselfe as well as all his crew:
Or if from where he is he doe espie

Some apricock upon a bough thereby,

Which overhangs the tree on which he stands,
Climbes up and strives to take it with his hands:
So if to please myself I somewhat sing,
Let it not be to you less pleasuring;

No thirst of glory tempts me: for my straines
Befit poore shepheards on the lowly plaines;
The hope of riches cannot draw from me
One line that tends to servile flatterie,
Nor shall the most in titles on the earth
Blemish my Muse with an adulterate birth
Nor make me lay pure colours on a ground
Where nought substantiall can be ever found.
No; such as sooth a base and dunghill spirit,
With attributes fit for the most of merit
Cloud their free Muse; as when the Sun doth shine
On straw and dirt mixt by the sweating hyne,
It nothing gets from heaps so much impure,

But noysome steames that doe his light obscure.

My free-borne Muse will not, like Danae, be

Wonne with base drosse to clip with slavery;

⚫ M. Sceva,

And smooth'd by Nature, as she did impart
Some willing time to trim herselfe by Art)
Sought to present her and her happy crew:
She of the Gulfe and Syllies tooke a view:
And doubling then the point, made on away
Tow'rds goodly Severne and the Irish Sea, -
There meets a shepheard that began sing o're
The lay which aged Robert' sung of yore,
In praise of England, and the deeds of swaines
That whilome fed and rul'd upon our plaines.
The British bards were not then long time mute,
But to their sweet harps sung their famous Brute:
Striving in spight of all the mists of eld
To have his story more autenticque held.

[fame?

[darke

Why should we envy them those wreaths of Being as proper to the Troyan name As are the dainty flowres which Fiora spreads Unto the Spring in the discoloured meads. Rather afford them all the worth we may, For what we give to them adds to our ray. And, Brittons, thinke not that your glories fall, Derived from a meane originall; Since lights that may have powre to checke the Can have their lustre from the smallest sparke. "Not from nobilitie doth vertue spring, But vertue makes fit nobles for a king. From highest nests are croaking ravens borne, When sweetest nightingales sit in the thorne." From what low fount soe're your beings are, (In softer peace and mighty brunts of warre) Your owne worths challenge as triumphant bayes As ever Trojan hand had powre to raise. And when I leave my musicke's plainer ground The world shall know it from Bellona's sound, Nor shall I erre from truth; for what I write She doth peruse, and helpes me to indite. The small converse which I have had with some Branches, which from those gallant trees have

come,

Doth, what I sing, in all their acts approve,
And with more days increase a further love.
As I have seene the lady of the May
Set in an arbour (on a holy-day)

Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swaines
Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's straines,
When envious night commands them to be gone,
Call for the merry yongsters one by one,
And for their well performance soone disposes,
To this a garland interwove with roses;

To that a carved hooke, or well-wrought scrip,
Gracing another with her cherry lip;
To one her garter, to another then

A handkerchiefe cast o're and o're agen;

And none returneth empty that hath spent
His paynes to fill their rurall merriment;

So Nereus' daughter, when the swaines had done,
With an unsparing liberall hand begun
To give to every one that sung before,
Rich orient pearles brought from her hidden store,
Red branching corrall, and as precious jems
As ever beautifide the diadems:

[betide,

That they might live, what chance their sheepe On her reward, yet leave their heyres beside. Since when I thinke the world doth nothing give

them,

As weening Thetis ever should relieve them,
And poets freely spend a golden showre,
As they expected her againe each houre,

2 Robert of Gloucester.

Then with her thankes and praises for their skill
In tuning numbers of the sacred hill,
She them dismist in their contented coates:
And every swaine a severall passage floates
Upon his dolphin. Since whose safe repayre,
Those fishes like a well composed ayre,
And (as in love to men) are ever seene,
Before a tempest's rough regardlesse teene,
To swim high on the waves: as none should dare,
Excepting fishes, to adventure there.

When these had left her, she drave on, in pride,
Her prouder courses through the swelling tyde,
To view the Cambrian cliffes, and had not gone
An houre's full speede, but necre a rocke (whereon
Congcaled frost and snow in summer lay,
Seldome dissolved by Hyperion's ray)
She saw a troope of people take their seate,
Whereof some wrung their hands, and some did

beate

Their troubled brests, in signe of mickle woe,
For those are actions griefe inforceth to.
Willing to know the cause, somewhat neere hand
She spyes an aged man sit by the strand,
Upon a green hill side, (not meanely crown'd
With golden flowres, as chiefe of all the ground)
Ey bin a little lad, his cunning's beyre,
Tracing greene rushes for a winter chayre.
The old man, while his sonne full neatly knits
them,

Unto his worke begun, as trimly fits them.
Both so intending what they first propounded,
As all their thoughts by what they wrought were
bounded,

To them she came, and kindly thus bespake:
"Ye happy creatures, that your pleasures take
In what your needes inforce, and never ayme
A limitlesse desire to what may maime
The setled quiet of a peacefull state,
Patience attend your labours. And when fate
Brings on the restfull night to your long dayes,
Wend to the fields of blisse! Thus Thetis prayes.”
"Fayre queene, to whom all dutious prayse

In vaine for sucke, whose dams have nought to
For these thy prayers we are doubly bound,
And that these cleves should know; but, O, to
My often mended pipe presumption were, [sound
Since Pan would play if thou would please to heare.
The louder blasts which I was wont to blow
Are now but faint, nor doe my fingers know
To touch halfe parte those merry tunes I had.
Yet if thou please to grace my little lad
With thy attention, he may somewhat strike
Which thou from one so young maist chance to
like."

With that the little shepheard left his taske,
And with a blush (the roses only maske)
Denyde to sing. "Ah father," (quoth the boy)
"How can I tune a seeming note of joy?
The worke which you command me, I intend
Scarce with a halfe-bent minde, and therefore
In doing little, now, an houre or two,
Which I in lesser time could neater doe,
As oft as I with my more nimble joynts

[spend

Trace the sharpe rushes' ends, I minde the points

Which Philocel did give; and when I brush
The pritty tuft that growes beside the rush,
I never can forget (in yonder layre)
How Philocel was wont to stroake my hayre.
No more shall I be tane unto the wake,
Nor wend a fishing to the winding lake;
No more shall I be taught, on silver strings,
To learne the measures of our banquettings.
The twisted collers, and the ringing bels,
The morrice scarfes and cleanest drinking shels
Will never be renew'd by any one;
Nor shall I care for more when he is gone.
See, yonder hill where he was wont to sit,
A cloud doth keepe the golden Sun from it,
And for his seate (as teaching us) hath made
A mourning covering with a scowling shade.
The dew on every flowre, this morne, hath laine
Longer than it was wont, this side the plaine,
Belike they meane, since my best friend must dye,
To shed their silver drops as he goes by.
Not all this day here, nor in coming hither,
Heard I the sweet birds tune their songs together,
Except one nightingale in yonder dell,
Sigh'd a sad elegie for Philocel.

cause

[well

Neere whom a wood-dove kept no small adoe,
To bid me in her language,Doe so too;'
The weather's bell, that leads our flocke around,
Yeelds, as me thinkes, this day a deader sound.
The little sparrowes, which in hedges creepe,
Ere I was up, did seeme to bid me weepe.
If these doe so, can I have feeling lesse,
That am more apt to take and to expresse?
No: let my own tunes be the mandrake's grone,
If now they tend to mirth when all have none."
"My pretty lad," (quoth Thetis) "thou dost
To feare the losse of thy deere Philocel,
But tell me, sire, what may that shepheard be,
Or if it lye in us to set him free,
Or if with you yond people touch'd with woe,
Under the selfe-same loade of sorrow goe,"
"Faire queene," (replyde the swaine) "one is the
[drawes
That moves our griefe, and those kind shepheards
To yonder rocke. Thy more than mortall spirit
May give a good beyond our powre to merit.
And therefore please to heare, while I shall tell,
The haplesse fate of hopelesse Philocel.
"Whilome great Pan, the father of our flockes,
Lov'd a faire lasse so famous for her lockes,
That in her time all women first begun
To lay their looser tresses to the Sun,
And theirs whose hew to hers was not agreeing,
Were still roll'd up as hardly worth the seeing.
Fondly have some beene led to thinke, that man
Musicke's invention first of all began
From the dull hammer's stroke; since well we
From sure tradition that hath taught us so,
Pan sitting once to sport him with his fayre,
Mark'd the intention of the gentle ayre,
In the sweet sound her chaste words brought
Fram'd by the repercussion of her tongue:
And from that harmony begun the art,
Which others (though unjustly) doe impart
To bright Apollo, from a meaner ground,

[know,

[along,

A sledge or parched nerves; meane things to found

So rare an art on; when there might be given All Earth for matter with the gyre of Heaven. To keepe her slender fingers from the Sunne, Pan through the pastures oftentimes hath runne

To plucke the speckled fox-gloves from their stem,
And on those fingers neatly placed them,
The boney-suckles would he often strip,
And lay their sweetnesse on her sweeter lip:
And then, as in reward of such his paine,
Sip from those cherryes some of it againe.
Some say that Nature, while this lovely maide
Liv'd on our plaines, the teeming earth araide
With damaske roses in each pleasant place,
That men might liken somewhat to her face.
Others report: Venus, afraid her sonne
Might love a mortall, as he once had done,
Prefer'd an earnest sute to highest Jove,
That he which bore the winged shafts of love
Might be debar'd his sight, which sure was sign'd,
And ever since the god of love is blynde.
Hence is't he shootes his shafts so cleane awry,
Men learne to love when they should learne ta
And women, which before to love began [dye.
Man without wealth, love wealth without a man.
"Great Pan of his kinde nymph had the im-

bracing

Long, yet too short a time. For as in tracing
These pithfull rushes, such as are aloft,
By those that rais'd them presently are brought
Beneath unseene: so in the love of Pan
(For gods in love doe undergoe as man)
She, whose affection made him rayse his song,
And (for her sport) the satyres rude among
Tread wilder measures, then the frolike guests,
That lift their light heeles at Lycus' feasts;
She, by the light of whose quicke-turning eye
He never read but of felicitie.

She whose assurance made him more than Pan,
Now makes him farre more wretched than a man,
For mortals in their losse have death a friend,
When gods have losses, but their losse no end.

"It chanc'd one morne (clad in a robe of gray, And blushing oft as rising to betray) Intic'd this lovely maiden from her bed (So when the roses have discovered Their taintlesse beauties, flyes the early bee About the winding allyes merrily) Into the wood: and 'twas her usuall sport, Sitting where most harmonious birds resort, To imitate their warbling in a quill Wrought by the hand of Pan, which she did fill Halfe full with water: and with it hath made The nightingale (beneath a sullen shade) To chant her utmost lay, nay, to invent New notes to passe the other's instrument, And (harmlesse soule) ere she would leave that Sung her last song and ended with her life. [strife, So gladly choosing (as doe other some) Rather to dye than live and be o'ercome.

"But as in autumne (when birds cease their
noates,

And stately forrests d'on their yealow coates,
When Ceres golden lockes are nearely shorne,
And mellow fruit from trees are roughly torne)
A little lad set on a bancke to shale

The ripened nuts pluck'd in a woody vale,
Is frighted thence (of his deare life afeard)
By some wilde bull lowde bellowing for the heard:
So while the nymph did earnestly contest
Whether the birds or she recorded best,
A ravenous wolfe, bent eager to his prey,
Rush'd from a theevish brake, and making way,
The twyned thornes did crackle one by one,
As if they gave her warning to be gone.