Collection of Poems, Eclogue 1
The firſt Eglogue.
THE ARGVMENT.
Willy leaues his Flocke a while,
To lament his Friends exile;
Where, though priſon'd, he doth finde,
Hee's ſtill free that's free in Minde:
And that there is no defence
Halfe ſo firme as Innocence.
PHILARETE. WILLIE.
Philarete.
WIlly, thou now full iolly tun'ſt thy Reedes,
Making the Nymphs enamor'd on thy ſtraine,
And whilſt thy harmles flock vnſcarred feeds,
Haſt the contentment, of hils, groues, & plains:
Truſt me, I ioy thou and thy Muſe ſo ſpeedes
In ſuch an Age, where ſo much miſchiefe raignes:
And to my Care it ſome redreſſe will be,
Fortune hath ſo much grace to ſmile on thee.
Willy.
To ſmile on me? I nere yet knew her ſmile,
Vnleſſe 'twere when ſhe purpos'd to deceiue me;
Many a Traine, and many a painted Wile
She caſts, in hope of Freedome to bereaue me:
Yet now, becauſe ſhe ſees I ſcorne her guile
To fawne on ſooles, ſhe for my Muſe doth leaue me.
And here of late, her wonted Spite doth tend,
To worke me Care, by frowning on my friend.
Philarete.
Why then I ſee her Copper-coyne's no ſtarling,
'Twill not be currant ſtill, for all the guilding)
A Knaue, or Foole, muſt euer be her Darling,
For they hauehave minds to all occaſions yeelding:
If we get any thing by all our parling.
It ſeemes an Apple, but it proues a Weilding:
But let that paſſe: ſweet Shepheard tell me this,
For what beloued Friend thy ſorrow is.
Willy.
Art thou, Philarete, in durance heere,
And doſt thou aske me for what Friend I grieue?
Can I ſuppoſe thy louelove to me is deere,
Or this thy ioy for my content belieue?
When thou think'ſt thy cares touch not me as neere:
Or that I pinne thy Sorrowes at my ſleeue?
I hauehave in thee repoſed ſo much truſt,
I neuer thought, to find thee ſo vniuſt.
Philarete.
WIL, why Willy? Prethee doe not aske me why?
Doth it diminiſh any of thy care,
That I in freedome maken melody;
And think'ſt I cannot as well ſomewhat ſpare
From my delight, to mone thy miſery?
'Tis time our Loues ſhould theſe ſuſpects forbeare:
Thou art that friend, which thou vnnam'd ſhold'ſt know,
And not hauehave drawne my louelove in queſtion ſo.
Philarete.
Forgiue me, and I'le pardon thy miſtake,
And ſo let this thy gentle-anger ceaſe,
(I neuer of thy louelove will queſtion make)
Whilſt that the number of our dayes encreaſe,
Yet to my ſelfe I much might ſeeme to take,
And ſomething neere vntounto preſumption preaſe:
To thinke me worthy louelove from ſuch a ſpirit,
But that I know thy kindneſſe paſt my merit.
Beſides; me thought thou ſpak'ſt now of a friend,
That ſeem'd more grieuous diſcontents to beare,
Some things I find that doe in ſhew offend,
Which to my Patience little trouble are,
And they ere long I hope will hauehave an end;
Or though they hauehave not, much I doe not care:
So this it was, made me that queſtion moue,
And not ſuſpect of honeſt Willies louelove.
Willie.
Alas, thou art exiled from thy Flocke,
And quite beyond the Deſarts here confin'd,
Haſt nothing to conuerſe with but a Rocke:
Or at leaſt Out lawes in their Caues halfe pin'd:
And do'ſt thou at thy owne miſ-fortune mocke,
Making thy ſelfe to, to thy ſelfe vnkinde?
When heretofore we talk't we did imbrace:
But now I ſcarce can come to ſee thy face.
Philarete.
Yet all that Willy, is not worth thy ſorrow,
For I hauehave Mirth here thou would'ſt not beleeue,
From deepeſt cares the higheſt ioyes I borrow.
If ought chance out this day, may make me grieue
I'le lcarne to mend, or ſcorne it by to morrow.
This barren place yeelds ſomewhat to relieue:
For, I hauehave found ſufficient to content me,
And more true bliſſe then euer freedome lent me.
Willie.
Are Priſons then growne places of delight?
Philarete.
'Tis as the conſcience of the Priſoner is,
Thevery Grates are able to affright
The guilty Man, that knowes his deedes amiſſe;
All outward Pleaſures are exiled quite,
And it is nothing (of it ſelfe) but this:
Abhorred loaneneſſe, darkeneſſe, ſadneſſe, paines,
Num'n-cold, ſharpe-hunger, ſchorcning thirſt and chaines.
Willie.
And theſe are nothing?—
Philarete.
—Nothing yet to mee.
OnelyOnly my friends reſtraint is all my paine.
And ſince I truely find my conſcience free
From that my loaneneſſe to, I reape ſome gaine.
Willie.
But grant in this no diſcontentment be▪
It doth thy wiſhed liberty reſtraine:
And to thy ſoule I thinke there's nothing nearer,
For I could neuer heare thee prize ought dearer.
Philarete.
True, I did euer ſet it at a Rate
Too deare for any Mortals worth to buy,
'Tis not our greateſt Shepheards whole eſtate,
Shall purchaſe from me, my leaſt liberty:
But I am ſubiect to the powers of Fate,
And to obey them is no ſlauery:
They may doe much, but when they hauehave done all,
OnelyOnly my body they may bring in thrall.
And 'tis not that (my Willy) 'tis my mind,
My mind's more precious, freedome I ſo weigh
A thouſand wayes they may my body bind,
In thouſand thrals, but ne're my mind betray:
And thence it is that I contentment find,
And beare with Patience this my loade away:
I'me ſtill my ſelfe, and that I'de rather bee,
Then to be Lord of all theſe Downes in fee.
Willie.
Nobly reſolu'd, and I doe ioy to hear't,
For 'tis the minde of Man indeed that's all.
There's nought ſo hard but a braue heart will bear't,
The guiltleſſe men count great afflictions ſmall,
They'le looke on Death and Torment, yet not fear't,
Becauſe they know 'tis riſing ſo to fall:
Tyrants may boaſt they to much power are borne,
Yet he hath more that Tyranies can ſcorne.
Philarete.
…is right, but I no Tyranies endure,
…or hauehave I ſuffered ought worth name of care
Willie.
What e're thou'lt call't, thou may'ſt, but I am ſure,
Many more pine that much leſſe pained are:
Thy looke me thinkes doth ſay thy meaning's pure
And by this paſt I find what thou do'ſt dare:
But I could neuer yet the reaſon know,
Why thou art lodged in this houſe of wo.
Philarete.
Nor I by Pan, nor neuer hope to doe,
But thus it pleaſes ſome; and I doe gueſſe
Partly a cauſe that moues them thereunto,
Which neither will auaile me to expreſſe,
Nor thee to heare, and therefore let it goe,
We muſt not ſay, they doe ſo that oppreſſe:
Yet I ſhall ne're to ſooth them or the times,
Iniure my ſelfe, by bearing others crimes.
Willie.
Then now thou maiſt ſpeake freely, there's none heares,
But he, whom I doe hope thou do'ſt not doubt.
Philarete.
True: but if doores and walles hauehave gotten eares,
And Cloſet-whiſperings may be ſpread about:
Doe not blame him that in ſuch cauſes feares
What in his Paſſion he may blunder out:
In ſuch a place, and ſuch ſtrict times as theſe,
Where what we ſpeake is tooke as others pleaſe.
But yet to morrow, if thou come this way,
I'le tell thee all my ſtory to the end,
'Tis long, and now I feare thou canſt not ſtay,
Becauſe thy Flocke muſt watred be and pend,
And Night begins to muffle vp the day,
Which to informe thee how alone I ſpend,
I'le onelyonly ſing a ſorry Priſoners Lay,
I fram'd this Morne, which though it ſuits no fields,
Is ſuch as fits me, and ſad Thraldome yeelds.
Willie.
Well, I will ſet my Kit another ſtring,
And play vntounto it whil'ſt that thou do'ſt ſing.
Sonnet.
Philarete.
NOw that my body dead aliue,
Bereau'd of comfort, lies in thrall.
Doe thou my ſoule begin to thriue,
And vntounto Hony, turne this Gall:
So ſhall we both through outward we,
The way to inward comfort know.
As to the Fleſh we food do giuegive;
To keepe in vsus this Mortall breath:
So Seules on Meditations liue,
And ſhunne thereby immortall death:
Nor art thou euer neerer reſt,
Then when thou find'ſt me moſt oppreſt.
Firſt thinke my Soule; If I hauehave Foes
That take a pleaſure in my care,
And to procure theſe outward woes,
HaueHave thus entrapt me vnaware:
Thou ſhould'ſt by much more carefull bee,
Since greater foes lay waite for thee.
Then when Mew'd vp in grates of ſteele,
Minding thoſe ioyes mine eyes doe miſſe,
Thou find'ſt no torment thou do'ſt feele,
So grieuous as Priuation is:
Muſe how the Damn'd in flames that glow,
Pine in the loſſe of bliſſe they know.
Thou ſeeſt there's giuen ſo great might
To ſome that are but clay as I,
Their very anger can affright,
Which, if in any thou eſpie.
Thus thinke; If Mortals frownes ſtrike feare,
How dreadfull will Gods wrath appeare?
By my late hopes that now are croſt,
Conſider thoſe that firmer be:
And make the freedome I hauehave loſt,
A meanes that may remember thee:
Had Chriſt, not thy Redeemer bin,
What horrid thrall thou had'ſt been in.
Theſe yron chaines, theſe bolts of ſteele,
Which other poore offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they doe feele,
May bring ſome greater thing to mind:
For by their griefe thou ſhalt doe well,
To thinke vponupon the paines of Hell.
Or, when through me thou ſeeſt a Man
Condemn'd vntounto a mortall death,
How ſad he lookes, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with feare his panting breath:
Thinke, if in that ſuch griefe thou ſee,
How ſad will, Goe yee curſed be.
Againe, when he that fear'd to Dye
(Paſt hope) doth ſee his Pardon brought,
Reade but the ioy that's in his eye,
And then conuey it to thy thought:
There thinke, betwixt thy heart and thee,
How ſweet will, Come yee bleſſed, bee.
Thus if thou doe, though cloſed here,
My bondage I ſhall deeme the leſſe,
I neither ſhall hauehave cauſe to feare,
Nor yet bewaile my ſad diſtreſſe:
For whether liue, or pine, or dye,
We ſhall hauehave bliſſe eternally.
Willy.
Truſt me I ſee the Cage doth ſome Birds good,
And if they doe not ſuffer too much wrong,
Will teach them ſweeter deſcants then the wood:
Beleeue't, I like the ſubiect of thy Song,
It ſhewes thou art in no diſtempred mood:
But cauſe to heare the reſidue I long,
My Sheepe to morrow I will neerer bring,
And ſpend the day to heare thee talk and ſing.
Yet e're we part, Philarete, areed,
Of whom thou learnd'ſt to make ſuch ſongs as theſe,
I neuer yet heard any Shepheards reede
Tune in miſhap, a ſtraine that more could pleaſe;
Surely, Thou do'ſt inuoke at this thy neede
Some power, that we neglect in other layes:
For heer's a Name, and words, that but few ſwaines
HaueHave mention'd at their meeting on the Plaines.
Philarete.
Indeed 'tis true; and they are ſore to blame,
They doe ſo much neglect it in their Songs,
For, thence proceedeth ſuch a worthy fame,
As is not ſubiect vntounto Enuies wrongs:
That, is the moſt to be reſpected name
Of our true Pan, whoſe worth ſits on all tongues:
And what the ancient Shepheards vſe to prayſe
In ſacred Anthemes, vponupon Holy-dayes.
Hee that firſt taught his Muſicke ſuch a ſtraine
Was that ſweet Shepheard, who (vntill a King)
Kept Sheepe vponupon the hony-milky Plaine,
That is inrich't by Iordans watering;
He in his troubles eas'd the bodies paines,
By meaſures rais'd to the Soules rauiſhing:
And his ſweet numbers onelyonly moſt diuine,
Gaue firſt the being to this Song of mine.
Willy.
Let his good ſpirit euer with thee dwell,
That I might heare ſuch Muſicke eueryevery day.
Philarete.
Thankes, Swaine: but harke, thy Weather rings his Bell.
And Swaines to fold, or homeward driue away.
Willy.
And you goes Cuddy, therefore fare thou well:
I'le make his Sheepe for mee a little ſtay;
And, if thou thinke it fit, I'le bring him to,
Next morning hither.—
Philarete.
—Prethee, Willy, do.
FINIS.