_A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,_
_With leisurely ascending, to such height_
_As from their tops, the warlike Isle of Wight_
_You, in the Ocean's bosom, may espy:_
_Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie._
_The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,_
_Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme,_
_Which grow unset. The hedgerows do not want_
_The cowslip, violet, primrose; nor a plant_
_That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;_
_Low sallows, on whose bloomings, bees do fall;_
_Fair woodbines which, about the hedges twine;_
_Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine;_
_With many more, whose leaves and blossoms fair,_
_The Earth adorn, and oft perfume the Air._
_When you, unto the highest do attain;_
_An intermixture both of wood and plain,_
_You shall behold! which, though aloft it lie,_
_Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry:_
_So much, at least, as little, needeth more;_
_If not enough to merchandise their store._
_In every row, hath Nature planted there;_
_Some banquet for the hungry passenger._
_For here, the hasle-nut and filbird grows;_
_There, bulloes; and little further, sloes._
_On this hand, standeth a fair wielding-tree;_
_On that, large thickets of black cherries be._
_The shrubby fields are raspice orchards, there;_
_The new felled woods, like strawberry gardens are._
_And had the King of Rivers blest those hills,_
_With some small number of such pretty rills_
_As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen_
_A sweeter plot of earth than this had been._
_For what offence, this place was scanted so_
_Of springing waters, no record doth show;_
_Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;_
_But till this day, at fifty-fathom wells,_
_The Shepherds drink. And strange it was, to hear_
_Of any Swain that ever livèd there,_
_Who, either in a Pastoral Ode had skill,_
_Or knew to set his fingers to a quill:_
_For rude they were, who there inhabited,_
_And to a dull contentment being bred,_
_They no such Art esteemed; nor took much heed_
_Of anything the world without them, did._
_Ev'n there, and in the least frequented place_
_Of all these mountains, is a little space_
_Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees,_
_And those so thick, that PHOEBUS scarcely sees_
_The earth they grow on, once in all the year;_
_Nor what is done among the shadows there:_
_Along those lovely paths, (where never came_
_Report of PAN's, or of APOLLO's name;_
_Nor rumour of the Muses, till of late)_
_Some Nymphs were wandering, and, by chance or fate,_
_Upon a laund[13] arrived, where they met_
_The little flock of Pastor PHILARET._
_They were a troop of Beauties known well nigh_
_Through all the plains of happy Brittany._
_A Shepherd's Lad was He, obscure and young,_
_Who, being first that ever there had sung,_
_In homely verse, expressèd country loves,_
_And only told them to the beechy groves;_
_As if to sound his name, he never meant,_
_Beyond the compass that his sheepwalk went._
_They saw him not, nor them perceivèd he;_
_For in the branches of a maple tree,_
_He shrouded sate: and taught the hollow hill_
_To echo forth the music of his quill;_
_Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,_
_That where he was concealed, they quickly found._
_And there, they heard him sing a Madrigal_
_That soon betrayed his cunning to them all._
_Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a Song,_
_Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,_
_Was never heard, they say, by any ear,_
_Until his Muses had inspired him there._
_Though mean and plain, his country habit seemed,_
_Yet by his Song, the Ladies rightly deemed_
_That either he had travellèd abroad,_
_Where Swains of better knowledge make abode;_
_Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that grove,_
_Had deignèd to enrich him with her love._
_Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,_
_Them, him saluted; and he, them again,_
_In such good fashion, as well seemed to be_
_According to their state, and his degree._
_Which greetings being passed, and much chat_
_Concerning him, the place, with this and that;_
_He, to an arbour doth those Beauties bring,_
_Where he, them prays to sit; they, him to sing,_
_And to express that untaught Country Art,_
_In setting forth the Mistress of his heart;_
_Which they o'erheard him practice, when unseen,_
_He thought no ear had witness of it been._
_At first, as much unable, he refused,_
_And seemèd willing to have been excused_
_From such a task, "For trust me, Nymphs!" quoth he,_
_"I would not purposely uncivil be,_
_Nor churlish in denying what you crave!_
_But, as I hope great PAN my flock will save!_
_I rather wish that I might, heard of none,_
_Enjoy my music by myself alone;_
_Or that the murmurs of some little flood,_
_Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood,_
_Might be the impartial umpires of my wit;_
_Than vent it where the world might hear of it._
_And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,_
_Had I but thought of any such so near._
_Not that I either wish obscurified_
_Her matchless Beauty, or desire to hide_
_Her sweet Perfections. For, by LOVE I swear!_
_The utmost happiness I aim at here_
_Is but to compass Worth enough to raise_
_A high built Trophy equal to her praise._
_Which, fairest Ladies! I shall hope in vain,_
_For I was meanly bred on yonder plain!_
_And though I can well prove my blood to be_
_Derived from no ignoble Stems, to me:_
_Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crosst_
_That with their fortunes, their esteem is lost;_
_And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win,_
_Now from myself alone, it must begin._
_For I have no estate, nor friends, nor fame,_
_To purchase either credit to my name,_
_Or gain a good opinion; though I do_
_Ascend the height I shall aspire unto._
_If any of those virtues yet I have_
_Which honour to my predecessors gave;_
_There's all, that's left me! And though some contemn_
_Such needy jewels: yet it was for them,_
_My Fair One did my humble suit affect;_
_And deignèd my adventurous love, respect:_
_And by their help, I passage hope to make,_
_Through such poor things as I dare undertake._
_But, you may say, 'What goodly thing, alas,_
_Can my despisèd meanness bring to pass?_
_Or what great Monument of Honour raise_
_To VIRTUE, in these vice abounding days?_
_In which, a thousand times, more honour finds,_
_Ignoble gotten Means, than noble Minds.'_
_Indeed, the world affordeth small reward_
_For honest minds, and therefore her regard_
_I seek not after; neither do I care,_
_If I have bliss, how others think I fare!_
_For, so my thoughts have rest; it irks not me,_
_Though none, but I, do know how blest they be._
_Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,_
_I pleasèd, sit alone, and many strains_
_I carol to myself, these hills among,_
_Where no man comes to interrupt my song._
_Whereas, if my rude Lays, make known I should,_
_Beyond their home; perhaps, some carpers would_
_(Because they have not heard from whence we be)_
_Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me._
_For if our great and learned Shepherds (who_
_Are graced with Wit, and Fame, and Favours too)_
_With much ado, escape uncensured may;_
_What hopes have I to pass unscorched, I pray!_
_Who yet unto the Muses am unknown,_
_And live unhonoured, here, among mine own?_
_A gadding humour seldom taketh me,_
_To range out further than yon mountains be;_
_Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name_
_Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame:_
_Nor can I think, fair Nymphs! that you resort_
_For other purpose, than to make a sport_
_At that simplicity, which shall appear_
_Among the rude untutored Shepherds here._
_I know, that you, my noble Mistress ween,_
_At best, a homely milkmaid on the green,_
_Or some such country lass as taskèd stays_
_At servile labour until holidays._
_For poor men's virtues so neglected grow,_
_And are now prizèd at a rate so low;_
_As, 'tis impossible, you should be brought_
_To let it with belief possess your thought,_
_That any Nymph, whose love might worthy be,_
_Would deign to cast respective eyes on me._
_You see I live, possessing none of those_
_Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows._
_To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither_
_Rings, bracelets, jewels; nor a scarf, nor feather._
_I use no double-dyèd cloth to wear;_
_No scrip embroidered richly, do I bear:_
_No silken belt, nor sheephook laid with pearls,_
_To win me favour from the shepherds' girls._
_No Place of Office or Command I keep,_
_But this my little flock of homely sheep._
_And, in a word; the sum of all my pelf_
_Is this_, I am the Master of myself!
_No doubt, in Courts of Princes you have been!_
_And all the pleasures of the Palace seen!_
_There, you beheld brave Courtly passages_
_Between Heroes and their Mistresses._
_You, there, perhaps, in presence of the King,_
_Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing!_
_And what contentment, then, can wood or field,_
_To please your curious understandings yield?_
_I know you walkèd hither, but to prove_
_What silly Shepherds do conceive of love?_
_Or to make trial how our simpleness,_
_Can Passions' force, or Beauty's power express?_
_And when you are departed, you will joy_
_To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's Boy!_
_But yet, I vow! if all the Art I had_
_Could any more esteem or glory add_
_To her unmatchèd worth; I would not weigh_
_What you intended," "Prithee, Lad!" quoth they,_
_"Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem!_
_Her nobleness can never want esteem,_
_Nor thy concealèd Measures be disgraced;_
_Though in a meaner person they were placed._
_If thy too modestly reservèd quill_
_But reach that height, which we suppose it will;_
_Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong_
_The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song._
_For, as it higher rears thy glory, that_
_A noble Mistress thou hast aimèd at;_
_So, more unto her honour it will prove_
_That (whilst deceiving shadows others move)_
_Her constant eyes could pass unmovèd by_
_The subtle Time's bewitching bravery;_
_And those obscurèd virtues love in thee,_
_That with despisèd meanness clouded be._
_Now then, for Her sweet sake! whose beauteous eye_
_Hath filled thy Soul with heavenly Poesy;_
_Sing in her praise some new inspirèd Strain!_
_And if, within our power, there shall remain_
_A favour to be done to pleasure thee;_
_Ask and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be!"_
_"Fair Ladies!" quoth the Lad, "such words as those,_
_Compel me can": and therewithal he rose,_
_Returned them thanks, obeisance made; and then_
_Down sate again, and thus to sing began._
[_The Prologue._]
You that, at a blush, can tell
Where the best perfections dwell!
And the substance can conjecture,
By a shadow or a picture!
Come and try, if you, by this,
Know my Mistress, who she is?
For, though I am far unable
Here to match APELLES' table;
Or draw ZEUXES' cunning lines
(Who so painted BACCHUS' vines
That the hungry birds did muster
Round the counterfeited cluster);
Though I vaunt not to inherit
PETRARCH's yet unequalled spirit;
Nor to quaff the sacred well
Half so deep as _ASTROPHEL_;
Though the much-commended _CELIA_,
Lovely _LAURA_, _STELLA_, _DELIA_,
(Who, in former times, excelled)
Live in lines unparalleled,
Making us believe, 'twere much
Earth should yield another such:
Yet, assisted but by Nature,
I assay to paint a Creature,
Whose rare worth, in future years,
Shall be praised as much as theirs.
Nor let any think amiss
That I have presumèd this;
For a gentle Nymph is She,
And hath often honoured me.
She's a noble spark of light
In each part so exquisite;
Had she, in times passèd been,
They had made her, Beauty's Queen.
Then, shall coward Despair
Let the most unblemished Fair,
(For default of some poor Art,
Which her favour may impart)
And the sweetest Beauty fade
That was ever born or made?
Shall, of all the fair ones, She,
Only so unhappy be,
As to live in such a Time,
In so rude, so dull a clime;
Where no spirit can ascend
High enough, to apprehend
Her unprizèd excellence,
Which lies hid from common sense?
Never shall a stain so vile
Blemish this, our Poets' Isle!
I myself will rather run
And seek out for Helicon!
I will wash, and make me clean
In the waves of Hippocrene!
And, in spite of Fortune's bars,
Climb the Hill that braves the stars!
Where, if I can get no Muse,
That will any skill infuse,
Or my just attempt prefer;
I will make a Muse of Her!
Whose kind heat shall soon distil
Art into my ruder quill.
By her favour, I will gain
Help to reach so rare a Strain;
That the Learned Hills shall wonder
How the Untaught Valleys under,
Met with raptures so divine;
Without the knowledge of the Nine.
I, that am a Shepherd's Swain
Piping on the lowly plain,
And no other music can
Than what learned I have of PAN;
I, who never sang the Lays,
That deserve APOLLO's bays;
Hope, not only here to frame
Measures which shall keep Her name
From the spite of wasting Times:
But (enshrined in sacred rhymes)
Place her, where her form divine
Shall, to after ages, shine;
And, without respect of odds,
Vie renown with Demi-Gods.
Then, whilst of her praise I sing;
Harken Valley! Grove! and Spring!
Listen to me, sacred Fountains!
Solitary Rocks! and Mountains!
Satyrs! and you wanton Elves
That do nightly sport yourselves!
Shepherds! you that, on the reed,
Whistle, while your lambs do feed!
Agèd Woods and Floods! that know
What hath been, long times, ago!
Your more serious notes among,
Hear, how I can, in my Song,
Set a Nymph's perfection forth!
And, when you have heard her worth,
Say, if such another Lass
Ever known to mortal was!
Listen Lordlings! you that most
Of your outward honours boast!
And you Gallants! (that think scorn,
We, to lowly fortunes born,
Should attain to any graces,
Where you look for sweet embraces)
See! if all those vanities
Whereon your affection lies;
Or the titles, or the powers,
(By your fathers' virtues, yours)
Can your Mistresses enshrine
In such State, as I will mine!
Who am forced to importune
Favours, in despite of Fortune.
Beauties, listen! chiefly you
That yet know not Virtue's due!
You, that think there are no sports,
Nor no honours, but in Courts!
(Though of thousands, there live not
Two, but die and are forgot).
See, if any Palace yields
Ought more glorious than the Fields!
And consider well, if we
May not, as high-flying be
In our thoughts, as you that sing
In the chambers of a King!
See! if our contented minds,
Whom Ambition never blinds,
(We, that, clad in homespun gray,
On our own sweet meadows play)
Cannot honour, if we please,
Where we list, as well as these!
Or, as well, of worth approve!
Or, with equal Passions, love!
See, if beauties may not touch
Our soon-loving hearts as much!
Or our services effect
Favours, with as true respect,
In your good conceits to rise,
As our painted butterflies!
And you, Fairest! give her room,
When your Sex's Pride doth come!
For that subject of my Song,
I invoke these groves among
To be witness of the Lays
Which I carol in her praise.
And because she soon will see
If my Measures faulty be,
Whilst I chant them, let each rhyme
Keep a well-proportioned time;
And with Strains, that are divine,
Meet her thoughts in every line!
Let each accent there, present
To her soul, a new content!
And, with ravishings, so seize her,
She may feel the height of pleasure!
You enchanting Spells, that lie
Lurking in sweet Poesy!
(And to none else will appear,
But to those, that worthy are)
Make Her know! there is a power
Ruling in these charms of yours;
That transcends, a thousand heights,
Ordinary men's delights;
And can leave within her breast
Pleasures not to be exprest!
Let her linger on each Strain
As if She would hear't again!
And were loath to part from thence
Till She had the quintessence
Out of each conceit, she meets!
And had stored her, with those sweets!
Make Her, by your Art to see!
I, that am her Swain, was he
Unto whom all beauties here,
Were alike and equal dear:
That I could of freedom boast,
And of favours with the most;
Yet, now, nothing more affecting,
Sing of Her! the rest neglecting.
Make her heart, with full compassion,
Judge the merit of True Passion!
And, as much my love prefer,
As I strive to honour Her!
Lastly, you that will, I know,
Hear me, whe'er you should or no!
You, that seek to turn all flowers,
By your breath's infectious powers,
Into such rank loathsome weeds,
As your dunghill nature breeds!
Let your hearts be chaste! or here
Come not, till you purge them clear!
Mark! and mark then, what is worst!
For whate'er it seem at first,
If you bring a modest mind,
You shall nought immodest find!
But if any, too severe,
Hap to lend a partial ear,
Or, out of his blindness, yawn
Such a word as, _O profane_!
Let him know thus much from me,
If here's ought profane, 'tis he
Who applies these excellences
Only to the touch of Senses;
And, dim sighted, cannot see
Where the Soul of this may be!
Yet, that no offence may grow;
'Tis their choice, to stay or go!
Or if any for despite
Rather comes, than for delight;
For his presence, I'll not pray,
Nor his absence. Come he may!
Critics shall admitted be,
Though I know they'll carp at me:
For I neither fear nor care
What in this, their censures are.
If the Verse here used, be
Their dislike. It liketh me!
If my Method they deride,
Let them know _Love is not tied,_
_In his free discourse, to choose_
_Such strict Rules as Arts-men use_.
These may prate of LOVE, but they
Know him not! For he will play
From the matter, now and then!
Off and on! and off again!
If this Prologue, tedious seem,
Or the rest too long they deem;
Let them know my love they win,
Though they go, ere they begin:
Just as if they should attend me
Till the last; and, there, commend me.
For I will, for no man's pleasure,
Change a Syllable or Measure;
Neither for their praises add
Ought to mend what they think bad.
Since it never was my fashion
To make Work of Recreation.
Pedants shall not tie my strains
To our antique Poets' veins;
As if we, in latter days,
Knew to love, but not to praise.
Being born as free as these,
I will Sing, as I shall please!
Who, as well new paths may run,
As the best before have done.
I disdain to make my Song,
For their pleasures, short or long;
If I please, I'll end it here!
If I list, I'll sing this year!
And, though none regard of it,
By myself, I pleased can sit;
And, with that contentment, cheer me,
As if half the world did hear me.
But because I am assured
All are either so conjured,
As they will my Song attend,
With the patience of a friend;
Or, at least, take note that I
Care not much. Now willingly,
I, these goodly colours lay,
Wind, nor rain shall wear away;
But retain their purest glass,
When the statues made of brass,
For some Prince's more renown,
Shall be wholly overthrown;
Or consumed with cankered rust,
Lie neglected in the dust.
And my Reason gives direction
When I sing of such Perfection,
First, _those beauties_ to declare,
_Which_ (though hers) _without her are_.
To advance her fame, I find,
Those are of a triple kind.
_Privileges_ she hath store
_At her birth_, _since_, and _before_.
From before her birth, the fame,
She of high descents may claim,
Whose well-gotten honours may
Her deserving more display,
For, from heavenly race she springs,
And from high and mighty Kings.
At her birth, She was, by Fate,
In those Parents fortunate,
Whose estate and virtues stood
Answerable to their blood.
Then the Nation, Time, and Place
To the rest, may add some grace.
For the People, with the Clime,
And the fashions of the Time;
(In all which, she hath been blest,
By enjoying them at best)
Do not only mend the features,
But, oft times, make better natures:
Whereas, those who hap not so,
Both deformed, and ruder grow.
In these climes, and latter days,
To deserve sweet Beauty's praise,
(Where so many females dwell,
That each seemeth to excel)
In more glory twenty-fold
Than it was in days of old:
When our ordinary fair ones
Might have been esteemèd rare ones;
And have made a subject fit,
For their bravest Poet's wit.
Little rushlights, or a spark
Sheweth fairly in the dark;
And to him occasion gives,
That from sight of greater, lives,
To adore it. Yet the ray
Of one torch will take away
All the light of twenty more
That shined very well before.
So, those petty Beauties which
Made the Times before us, rich;
Though but sparkles, seemed a flame
Which hath been increased by Fame,
And their true affections, who,
Better, never lived to know:
Whereas, Her, if they had seen
She had, sure, adorèd been!
And taught Ages past, to sing
Sweeter in the Sonneting.
Such a Ray, so clear! so bright!
Hath outshinèd all the light
Of a thousand, such as theirs
Who were then esteemèd Stars;
And would have enlightened near
Half the world's wide hemisphere.
She is fairest, that may pass
For a fair one, where the Lass
Trips it on the country green;
That may equal Sparta's Queen.
Where, in every street, you see
Throngs of Nymphs and Ladies be,
That are fair enough to move
Angels, and enamour JOVE.
She must matchless features bring
That now moves a Muse to sing:
When as one small Province may
Shew more beauties in one day,
Than the half of Europe could
Breed them, in an age of old.
Such is She! and such a lot
Hath her rare perfection got!
_Since her birth_ (to make the colour
Of so true a Beauty fuller;
And to give a better grace
To that sweetness in the face)
She hath all the furtherance had,
Noble educations add.
And not only knoweth all,
Which our Ladies, Courtship call;
With those knowledges that do
Grace her sex, and suit thereto:
But She hath attained to find
(What is rare with Womankind)
Excellences, whereby She
May in Soul delighted be;
And reap more contentment than
One of twenty thousand can.
By this means, hath bettered been
All without her, and within;
For it hath, by adding Arts,
To adorn her native parts,
Raised to a noble flame,
(Which shall lighten forth her fame)
Those dear sparks of sacred fire,
Which the Muses did inspire
At her birth: that She, complete,
Might, with them befit a seat.
But, perhaps, I do amiss,
To insist so long on this.
These are superficial things;
And but slender shadowings
To the work I have in hand.
Neither can you understand
What Her excellence may be,
Till Herself described you see!
Nor can mine or any pen
Paint her half so lovely, than
As She is indeed. For, here,
Might those deities appear,
Which young PARIS viewed at will,
Naked, upon Ida hill!
That I, from those Three might take
All their beauties, One to make;
(Those, no question! well compact,
Would have made up one exact)
Something, yet, we miss, of might
To express her Sweetness right.
JUNO's majesty would fit;
VENUS' beauty, PALLAS' wit
Might have brought to pattern hers
In some shewed particulars;
But they never can express
Her whole frame or worthiness
With those excellences, which
Make both Soul and Body rich.
PALLAS, sometimes, was untoward,
VENUS wanton, JUNO froward:
Yea all three, infected were
With such faults as women are;
And, though falsely deified,
Frailties had, which She'll deride.
By Her Self, must therefore She;
Or by nothing patterned be!
And I hope to paint her so,
By Her Self, that you shall know
I have served no common Dame,
Of mean worth, or vulgar fame!
But a Nymph, that's fairer than
Pen or pencil, portrait can!
And to-morrow, if you stray
Back again this uncouth way,
I, my simple Art will show:
But the time prevents me now.
For, except at yonder glade,
All the laund is under shade;
That, before these ewes be told;
Those my wethers, in the fold;
Ten young weanlings driven down
To the well beneath the town;
And my lambkins changèd from
Brome leaze, to the mead at home;
'Twill be far in night: and so,
I shall make my father woe
For my stay; and be in fear
Somewhat is mischancèd here.
On your way, I'll, therefore, bring you!
And a Song or two I'll sing you!
Such as I, half in despair,
Made when first I wooed my Fair:
Whereunto, my boy shall play;
That my voice assist, it may!
I.
_Come, my Muse! If thou disdain!_
_All my comforts are bereft me!_
_No delight doth now remain;_
_I, nor friend, nor flock have left me._
_They are scattered on the plain._
_Men, alas, are too severe,_
_And make scoffs at lovers' fortunes._
_Women, hearted like the bear;_
_That regards not who importunes,_
_But doth all in pieces tear._
_If I should my sorrows shew_
_Unto rivers, springs, or fountains;_
_They are senseless to my woe:_
_So are groves, and rocks, and mountains._
_Then, O, whither shall I go?_
_Means of harbour, me to shield_
_From despair; ah, know you any?_
_For no city, grange, nor field,_
_Though they lend content to many,_
_Unto me, can comfort yield._
_I have kept, and sighèd too,_
_For Compassion to make trial;_
_Yea, done all that words can do,_
_Yet have nothing but denial._
_What way is there, then, to woo?_
_Shall I swear, protest, and vow?_
_So have I done, most extremely!_
_Should I die? I know not how!_
_For from all attempts unseemly,_
_Love and Virtue keep me now._
_I have heard that Time prevails;_
_But I fear me, 'tis a fable._
_Time, and all Endeavour fails!_
_To bear more, my heart's unable;_
_Yet none careth what it ails!_
_Lines to some, have op'ed the door_
_And got entrance for Affection._
_Words well spoken, much implore,_
_By the Gestures' good direction:_
_But a Look doth ten times more!_
_'Tis the Eye that only reads_
_To the heart, Love's deepest Lectures!_
_By a moving Look, it pleads_
_More than common Sense conjectures,_
_And a way to Pity leads._
_This I knowing, did observe;_
_Both by Words and Looks complaining:_
_Yet, for Pity I may starve!_
_There's no hope of my obtaining,_
_Till I better can deserve._
_Yea, and he that thinks to win_
_By Desert, may be deceivèd!_
_For they who have worthiest bin,_
_Of their right, have been bereavèd;_
_And a groom admitted in._
_Wherefore, Muse! to thee I call!_
_Thou, since nothing else avails me,_
_Must redeem me from my thrall!_
_If thy sweet enchantment fails me;_
_Then, adieu Love, Life, and all!_
II.
_Tell me, my heart! What thoughts, these pantings move?_
_My thoughts of Love!_
_What flames are these, that set thee so on fire?_
_Flames of Desire!_
_What means hast thou, contentment's flower to crop?_
_No means but Hope!_
_Yet let us feed on Hope, and hope the best!_
_For they, amid their griefs, are something blest,_
_Whose thoughts, and flames, and means have such free scope,_
_They may, at once, both Love, Desire, and Hope._
_But say! What fruit will love at last obtain?_
_Fruitless Disdain!_
_What will those hopes prove, which yet seem so fair?_
_Hopeless Despair!_
_What end shall run those Passions, out of breath?_
_An endless Death!_
_O can there be such cruelty in love?_
_And doth my fortune so ungentle prove,_
_She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath,_
_But cruelest Disdain, Despair, and Death?_
_Then what new study shall I now apply?_
_Study to Die!_
_How might I end my care, and die content?_
_Care to Repent!_
_And what good thoughts may make my end more holy?_
_Think on thy Folly!_
_Yes, so I will! and since my fate can give_
_No hope, but ever without hope to live,_
_My studies, cares, and thoughts, I'll all apply_
_To weigh my Folly well! Repent! and Die!_
III.
_Sad Eyes! What do you ail,_
_To be thus ill disposed?_
_Why doth your sleeping fail,_
_Now all men's else are closed?_
_Was't I, that ne'er did bow_
_In any servile duty!_
_And will you make me, now,_
_A slave to Love and Beauty?_
_What though my Mistress smile,_
_And in her love affects thee!_
_Let not her eye beguile;_
_I fear she disrespects thee!_
_Do not, poor Heart! depend_
_On those vain thoughts that fill thee!_
_They'll fail thee, in the end!_
_So must thy Passions kill thee!_
_What hopes have I, that She_
_Will hold her favours ever;_
_When so few women be_
_That constant can persèver?_
_Whate'er She do protest!_
_When fortunes do deceive me,_
_Then She, with all the rest,_
_I fear, alas, will leave me!_
_Whil'st Youth, and Strength remains,_
_With Art that may commend her;_
_Perhaps, She nought disdains_
_Her Servant should attend her._
_But it is one to ten,_
_If crosses overtake me,_
_She will not know me, then;_
_But scorn, and so forsake me!_
_Shall then, in earnest truth,_
_My careful eyes observe her?_
_Shall I consume my youth;_
_And short' my time to serve her?_
_Shall I, beyond my strength,_
_Let Passions' torments prove me?_
_To hear her say, at length_,
Away! I cannot love thee!
_O, rather let me die_
_Whil'st I, thus gentle find her!_
_'Twere worse than death, if I_
_Should find She proves unkinder!_
_One frown, though but in jest,_
_Or one unkindness feignèd,_
_Would rob me of more rest_
_Than e'er could be regainèd._
_But in her eyes, I find_
_Such signs of pity moving;_
_She cannot be unkind,_
_Nor err, nor fail in loving:_
_And on her forehead, this_
_Seems written to relieve me_,
My heart, no joy shall miss
That Love, or She can give me!
_Which if I find, I vow_
_My service shall persèver!_
_The same that I am now;_
_I will continue ever!_
_No others' high degree,_
_No beauteous look shall change me!_
_My love shall constant be,_
_And no estate estrange me!_