Collection of Poems, Eclogue 4

Collection of Poems · Eclogue 4

The Shepheards Hunting.

The fourth Eglogue.

THE ARGVMENT.

Philaret on Willy calls,

To ſing out his Paſtorals:

Warrants Fame ſhall grace his Rimes,

Spight of Enuy and the Times;

And ſhewes how in care he vſes,

To take comfort from his Muſes.

PHILARETE. WILLIE.

Philarete.

PRethee, Willy tell me this,

What new accident there is,

That thou (once the blytheſt Lad)

Art become ſo wondrous ſad?

And ſo careleſſe of thy quill,

As if thou had'ſt loſt thy skill?

Thou wert wont to charme thy flocks,

And among the maſſy rocks

Haſt ſo chear'd me with thy Song,

That I hauehave forgot my wrong.

Something hath thee ſurely croſt,

That thy old wont thou haſt loſt.

Tell me: HaueHave I ought miſ-ſaid

That hath made thee ill-apaid?

Hath ſome Churle done thee a ſpight?

Doſt thou miſſe a Lambe to night?

Frowns thy faireſt Shepheards Laſſe?

Or how comes this ill to paſſe?

Is there any diſcontent

Worſe then this my baniſhment?

Willie.

Why, doth that ſo euill ſeeme

That thou nothing worſt doſt deeme?

Shepheards, there full many be,

That will change Contents with thee.

Thoſe that chooſe their Walkes at will,

On the Valley or the Hill.

Or thoſe pleaſures boaſt of can,

Groues or Fields may yeeld to man:

Neuer come to know the reſt,

Wherewithall thy minde is bleſt.

Many a one that oft reſorts

To make vp the troope at ſports.

And in company ſome while,

Happens to ſtraine forth a ſmile:

Feeles more want, and outward ſmart,

And more inward griefe of hart

Then this place can bring to thee,

While thy mind remaineth free.

Thou bewail'ſt my want of mirth,

But what find'ſt thou in this earth,

Wherein ought may be beleeu'd

Worth to make me Ioy'd; or grieu'd?

And yet feele I (naitheleſſe)

Part of both I muſt confeſſe.

Sometime, I of mirth doe borrow,

Otherwhile as much of ſorrow;

But, my preſent ſtate is ſuch,

As, nor Ioy, nor grieue I much.

Philarete.

Why, hath Willy then ſo long

Thus forborne his wonted Song?

Wherefore doth he now let fall,

His well tuned Paſtorall?

And my eares that muſike barre,

Which I more long after farre,

Then the liberty I want.

Willy.

That, were very much to grant,

But, doth this hold alway lad,

Thoſe that ſing not, muſt be ſad?

Did'ſt thou euer that Bird heare

Sing well; that ſings all the yeare?

Tom the Piper doth not play

Till he weares his Pipe away:

There's a time to ſlacke the ſtring,

And a time to leaue to ſing.

Philarete.

Yea; but no man now is ſtill,

That can ſing, or tune a quill.

Now to chant it, were but reaſon;

Song and Muſicke are in ſeaſon.

Now in this ſweet iolly tide,

Is the earth in all her pride:

The faire Lady of the May

Trim'd vp in her beſt array;

Hath inuited all the Swaines,

With the Laſſes of the Plaines,

To attend vponupon her ſport

At the places of reſort.

Coridon (with his bould Rout)

Hath alredy been about

For the elder Shepheards dole,

And fetch'd in the Summer-Pole:

Whil'ſt the reſt hauehave built a Bower,

To defend them from a ſhower;

Seil'd ſo cloſe, with boughes all greene,

Tytan cannot pry betweene.

Now the Dayrie-Wenches dreame

Of their Strawberries and Creame:

And each doth her ſelfe aduance

To be taken in, to dance:

EueryEvery one that knowes to ſing,

Fits him for his Carrolling:

So do thoſe that hope for meede,

Either by the Pipe or Reede:

And though I am kept away,

I doe heare (this very day)

Many learned Groomes doe wend,

For the Garlands to contend.

Which a Nimph that hight Deſart,

(Long a ſtranger in this part)

With her own faire hand hath wrought

A rare worke (they ſay) paſt thought,

As appeareth by the name,

For ſhe cals them Wreathes of Fame.

She hath ſet in their due place

Eu'ry flowre that may grace;

And among a thouſand moe,

(Whereof ſome but ſerue for ſhew)

She hath woue in Daphnes tree,

That they may not blaſted be.

Which with Time ſhe edg'd about,

Leaſt the worke ſhould rauell out.

And that it might wither neuer,

I intermixt it with Liue-euer.

Theſe are to be ſhar'd among,

Thoſe that doe excell for ſong:

Or their paſſions can rehearſe

In the ſmooth'ſt and ſweeteſt verſe.

Then, for thoſe among the reſt,

That can play and pipe the beſt.

There's a Kidling with the Damme,

A fat Weather, and a Lambe.

And for thoſe that leapen far,

Wraſtle, Runne, and throw the Barre,

There's appointed guerdons to.

He, that beſt, the firſt can doe,

Shall, for his reward, be paid,

With a Sheep-hooke, faire in-laid

With fine Bone, of a ſtrange Beaſt

That men bring out of the Weſt.

For the next, a Scrip of red,

Taſſel'd with fine coloured Thred,

There's prepared for their meed,

That in running make moſt ſpeede,

(Or the cunning Meaſures foote)

Cups of turned Maple-roote:

Whereupon the skilfull man

Hath ingrau'd the Loues of Pan:

And the laſt hath for his due,

A fine Napkin wrought with blew.

Then, my Willy, why art thou

Careleſſe of thy merit now?

What doſt thou heere, with a wight

That is ſhut vp from delight,

In a ſolitary den,

As not fit to liue with men?

Goe, my Willy, get thee gone,

Leaue mee in exile alone.

Hye thee to that merry throng,

And amaze them with thy Song.

Thou art young, yet ſuch a Lay

Neuer grac'd the month of May,

As (if they prouoke thy skill)

Thou canſt fit vntounto thy Quill,

I with wonder heard thee ſing,

At our laſt yeeres Reuelling.

Then I with the reſt was free,

When vnknowne I noted thee:

And perceiu'd the ruder Swaines,

Enuy thy farre ſweeter ſtraines.

Yea, I ſaw the Laſſes cling

Round about thee in a Ring:

As if each one iealous were,

Any but her ſelfe ſhould heare.

And I know they yet do long

For the res'due of thy ſong.

Haſt thee then to ſing it forth;

Take the benefit of worth.

And Deſert will ſure bequeath

Fames faire Garland for thy wreath,

Hye thee, Willy, hye away.

Willy.

Phila, rather let mee ſtay,

And be deſolate with thee,

Then at thoſe their Reuels bee,

Nought ſuch is my skill I wis,

As indeed thou deem'ſt it is.

But what ere it be, I muſt

Be content, and ſhall I truſt.

For a Song I doe not paſſe,

Mong'ſt my friends, but what (alas)

Should I hauehave to doe with them

That my Muſicke doe contemne?

Some there are, as well I wot,

That the ſame yet fauour not:

Yet I cannot well auow,

They my Carrols diſalow:

But ſuch malice I hauehave ſpid,

'Tis as much as if they did.

Philarete.

Willy, What may thoſe men be,

Are ſo ill, to malice thee?

Willy.

Some are worthy-well eſteem'd,

Some without worth are ſo deem'd.

Others of ſo baſe a ſpirit,

They hauehave nor eſteeme, nor merit.

Philarete.

What's the wrong?—

Willy.

—A ſlight offence,

Wherewithall I can diſpence;

But hereafter for their ſake.

To my ſelfe I'le muſicke make.

Philarete.

What, becauſe ſome Clowne offends,

Wilt thou puniſh all thy friends?

Willy.

Do not, Phill, miſ-vnderſtand mee,

Thoſe that louelove mee may command mee,

But, thou know'ſt, I am but yong,

And the Paſtorall I ſung,

Is by ſome ſuppos'd to be,

(By a ſtraine) too high for me:

So they kindly let me gaine,

Not my labour for my paine.

Truſt me, I doe wonder why

They ſhould me my owne deny.

Though I'me young, I ſcorne to flit

On the wings of borrowed wit.

I'le make my owne feathers reare me,

Whither others cannot beare me.

Yet I'le keepe my skill in ſtore,

Till I'ue ſeene ſome Winters more

Pillarete.

But, in earneſt, mean'ſt thou ſo?

Then thou art not wiſe, I trow:

Better ſhall aduiſe thee Pan,

For thou doſt not rightly than:

That's the ready way to blot

All the credit thou haſt got.

Rather in thy Ages prime,

Get another ſtart of Time:

And make thoſe that ſo fond be,

(Spight of their owne dulneſſe) ſee,

That the ſacred Muſes can

Make a childe in yeeres, a man.

It is knowne what thou canſt doe,

For it is not long agoe,

When that Cuddy, Thou, and I,

Each the others skill to try,

At Saint Dunſtanes charmed well,

(As ſome preſent there can tell)

Sang vponupon a ſudden Theame,

Sitting by the Crimſon ſtreame.

Where, if thou didſt well or no,

Yet remaines the Song to ſhow,

Much experience more I'ue had,

Of thy skill (thou happy Lad)

And would make the world to know it;

But that time will further ſhow it.

Enuy makes their tongues now runne

More then doubt of what is done.

For that needs muſt be thy owne,

Or to be ſome others knowne:

But how then wil't ſuit vntounto

What thou ſhalt hereafter do?

Or I wonder where is hee,

Would with that ſong part to thee.

Nay, were there ſo mad a Swaine,

Could ſuch glory ſell for gaine;

Phoebus would not hauehave combin'd,

That gift with ſo baſe a minde.

Neuer did the Nine impart

The ſweet ſecrets of their Art,

VntoUnto any that did ſcorne,

We ſhould ſee their fauours worne.

Therefore vntounto thoſe that ſay,

Where they pleas'd to ſing a Lay.

They could doo't, and will not tho;

This I ſpeake, for this I know:

None ere drunke the Theſpian ſpring,

And knew how, but he did ſing.

For, that once infus'd in man.

Makes him ſhew't doe what he can.

Nay, thoſe that doe onelyonly ſip,

Or, but eu'n their fingers dip

In that ſacred Fount (poore Elues)

Of that brood will ſhew themſelues.

Yea, in hope to get them fame,

They will ſpeake, though to their ſhame.

Let thoſe then at thee repine,

That by their wits meaſure thine;

Needs thoſe Songs muſt be thine owne,

And that one day will be knowne.

That poore imputation to,

I my ſelfe do vndergoe:

But it will appeare ere long,

That 'twas Enuy ſought our wrong.

Who at twice-ten hauehave ſung more,

Then ſome will doe, at foureſcore,

Cheere thee (honeſt Willy) then,

And begin thy Song agen.

Willy.

Faine I would, but I doe feare

When againe my Lines they heare,

If they yeeld they are my Rimes,

They will faine ſome other Crimes;

And 'tis no ſafe ventring-by

Where we ſee Detraction ly.

For doe what I can, I doubt,

She will picke ſome quarrell out;

And I oft hauehave heard defended,

Little ſaid, is ſoone amended.

Philarete.

See'ſt thou not in cleareſt dayes,

Oft thicke fogs cloud Heau'ns rayes.

And that vapours which doe breath

From the earths groſſe wombe beneath,

Seeme not to vsus with black ſteames,

To pollute the Sunnes bright beames,

And yet vaniſh into ayre,

Leauing it (vnblemiſht) faire?

So (my Willy) ſhall it bee

With Detractions breath on thee.

It ſhall neuer riſe ſo hie,

As to ſtaine thy Poeſie.

As that Sunne doth oft exhale

Vapours from each rotten Vale;

Poeſie ſo ſometime draines,

Groſſe conceits from muddy braines;

Miſts of Enuy, fogs of ſpight,

Twixt mens judgements and her light:

But ſo much her power may do,

That ſhee can diſſolue them to.

If thy Verſe doe brauely tower,

As ſhee makes wing, ſhe gets power:

Yet the higher ſhe doth ſore,

Shee's affronted ſtill the more:

Till ſhee to the high'ſt 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 Rime,

To the very Starres I'de clime.

There begin again, and flye,

Till I reach'd Aeternity.

But (alaſſe) my Muſe is ſlow:

For thy place ſhee flags too low:

Yea, the more's her hapleſſe fate,

Her ſhort wings were clipt of late.

And poore I, her fortune ruing,

Am my ſelfe put vp a muing.

But if I my Cage can rid,

I'le flye where I neuer did.

And though for her ſake I'me croſt,

Though my beſt hopes I hauehave loſt,

And knew ſhe would make my trouble

Ten times more then ten times double:

I ſhould louelove and keepe her to,

Spight of all the world could doe.

For though baniſh't from my flockes,

And confin'd within theſe rockes,

Here I waſte away the light,

And conſume the ſullen Night,

She doth for my comfort ſtay,

And keepes many cares away.

Though I miſle the flowry Fields,

With thoſe ſweets the Spring-tyde yeelds,

Though I may not ſee thoſe Groues,

Where the Shepheards chant their Loues,

(And the Laſſes more excell,

Then the ſweet voyc'd Philomel)

Though of all thoſe pleaſures paſt,

Nothing now remaines at laſt,

But Remembrance (poore reliefe)

That more makes, then mends my griefe:

Shee's my mindes companion ſtill,

Maugre Enuies euill will.

(Whence ſhe ſhould be driuen to,

Wer't in mortals 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 dayes of bliſſe,

Her diuine skill taught me this,

That from eueryevery thing I ſaw,

I could ſome inuention draw:

And raiſe pleaſure to her height,

Through the meaneſt obiects ſight.

By the murmure of a ſpring,

Or the leaſt boughes ruſteling.

By a Dazie whoſe leaues ſpred,

Shut when Tytan goes to bed;

Or a ſhady buſh or tree,

She could more infuſe in mee,

Then all Natures beauties can,

In ſome other wiſer man.

By her helpe I alſo now,

Make this churliſh place allow

Some things that may ſweeten gladnes,

In the very gall of ſadnes.

The dull loanneſſe, the blacke ſhade,

That theſe hanging vaults hauehave made,

The ſtrange Muſicke of the waues,

Beating on theſe hollow Caues,

This blacke Den which Rocks emboſſe

Ouer-growne with eldeſt Moſſe.

The rude Portals that giuegive light,

More to Terror then Delight.

This my Chamber of Neglect,

Wall'd about with Diſreſpect,

From all theſe and this dull ayre,

A fit obiect for Deſpaire,

She hath taught me by her might

To draw comfort and delight.

Therefore thou beſt earthly bliſſe,

I will cheriſh thee for this.

Poeſie; thou ſweeteſt content

That e're Heau'n to mortals lent:

Though they as a trifle leaue thee

Whoſe dull thoughts cannot conceiue thee,

Though thou be to them a ſcorne,

That to nought but earth are borne:

Let my life no longer be

Then I am in louelove with thee.

Though our wiſe ones call thee madneſſe

Let me neuer taſte of gladneſſe.

If I louelove not thy mad'ſt fits,

More then all their greateſt wits.

And though ſome too ſeeming holy,

Doe account thy raptures folly:

Thou doſt teach me to contemne,

What make Knaues and Fooles of them.

Oh high power! that oft doth carry

Men aboue—

Willie.

—Good Philarete tarry,

I doe feare thou wilt be gon,

Quite aboue my reach anon.

The kinde flames of Poeſie

HaueHave now borne thy thoughts ſo high,

That they vp in Heauen be,

And hauehave quite forgotten me.

Call thy ſelfe to minde againe,

Are theſe Raptures for a Swaine,

That attends on lowly Sheepe,

And with ſimple Heards doth keepe?

Philarete.

Thankes my Willie; I had runne

Till that Time had lodg'd the Sunne,

If thou had'ſt not made me ſtay;

But thy pardon here I pray.

Lou'd Apolo's ſacred ſire

Had rais'd vp my ſpirits higher

Through the louelove of Poeſie,

Then indeed they vſe to flye.

But as I ſaid, I ſay ſtill,

If that I had Willi's skill,

Enuie nor Detractions tongue,

Should ere make me leaue my ſong:

But I'de ſing it eueryevery day

Till they pin'd themſelues away.

Be thou then aduis'd in this,

Which both iuſt and ſitting is:

Finiſh what thou haſt begun,

Or at leaſt ſtill forward run.

Haile and Thunder ill hee 'l beare

That a blaſt of winde doth feare:

And if words will thus afray thee,

Prethee how will deeds diſmay thee?

Doe not thinke ſo rathe a Song

Can paſſe through the vulgar throng,

And eſcape without a touch,

Or that they can hurt it much:

Froſts we ſee doe nip that thing

Which is forward'ſt in the Spring:

Yet at laſt for all ſuch lets

Somewhat of the reſt it gets.

And l'me ſure that ſo maiſt thou,

Therefore my kind Willie now.

Since thy folding time drawes on

And I ſee thou muſt be gon,

Thee I earneſtly beſeech

To remember this my ſpeech

And ſome little counſell take,

For Philarete his ſake:

And I more of this will ſay,

If thou come next Holy-day.

FINIS.