The admired flowers of France!
Let, who will! praise and behold
The reservèd Marigold!
Let the sweet-breathed Violet, now,
Unto whom she pleaseth, bow!
And the fairest Lily spread,
Where she will, her golden head!
I have such a flower to wear;
That for those, I do not care!
Never shall my Fancy range!
Nor once think again of change!
Never will I, never more!
Grieve or sigh, as heretofore!
Nor within the lodgings lie
Of Despair, or Jealousy!
Let the young and happy Swains,
Playing on the Britain plains,
Court, unblamed, their shepherdesses!
And with their gold-curlèd tresses
Toy uncensured! until I
Grudge at their prosperity!
Let all Times, both Present, Past;
And the Age that shall be last;
Vaunt the beauties they bring forth!
I have found in One, such worth!
That, content, I neither care
What the best before me were;
Nor desire to live and see
Who shall fair hereafter be.
For I know the hand of Nature
Will not make a fairer creature!
Which, because succeeding days
Shall confess, and add their praise
In approving what my tongue
(Ere they had their being) sung:
Once again, come, lend an ear!
And a Rapture you shall hear
(Though I taste no Thespian spring)
Will amaze you; whilst I sing!
I do feel new Strains inspiring,
And to such brave heights aspiring;
That my Muse will touch a key,
Higher than you've heard to-day!
I have Beauties to unfold
That deserve a Pen of Gold!
Sweets that never dreamed of were!
Things unknown; and such as Ear
Never heard a Measure sound
Since the sun first ran his round!
When APELLES limbed to life,
Loathèd VULCAN's lovely wife;
With such beauties he did turn
Each sweet feature, and each limb,
And so curiously did place
Every well becoming grace;
That 'twas said, ere he could draw
Such a Piece, he naked saw
Many women in their prime
And the fairest of that Time;
From all which, he, parts did take,
Which, aright disposed, make
Perfect Beauty. So when you
Know what I have yet to show,
It will seem to pass so far
Those things which expressèd are;
That you will suppose I've been
Privileged, where I have seen
All the Good that's spread in parts
Through a thousand women's hearts!
With their fair'st conditions lie
Bare, without hypocrisy!
And that I have took from thence,
Each dispersèd excellence
To express Her, who hath gained
More than ever One obtained.
And yet, soft! I fear, in vain
I have boasted such a Strain!
Apprehensions ever are
Greater than Expression, far!
And my striving to disclose
What I know, hath made me lose
My Invention's better part:
And my Hopes exceed my Art!
Speak, I can; yet Think I more!
Words, compared with Thoughts, are poor!
And I find, had I begun
Such a Strain, it would be done
When we number all the sands
Washed o'er perjured GODWIN's lands.
For of things I should indite,
Which, I know are infinite.
I do yield! My Thoughts did climb
Far above the power of Rhyme!
And no wonder it is so,
Since there is no Art can show
Red in roses, white in snow;
Nor express how they do grow.
Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree,
That inferior creatures be,
Beauties have, which we confess
Lines unable to express;
They more hardly can enrol
Those that do adorn a Soul.
But suppose my Measures could
Reach the height, I thought they would:
Now, relate, I would not though,
What did swell within me so.
For if I should all descry,
You would know as much as I!
And those clowns the Muses hate,
Would of things above them, prate!
Or, with their profaning eyes,
Come to view those mysteries
Whereof, since they disesteemed them,
Heaven hath unworthy deemed them!
And besides, it seems to me,
That your ears nigh tirèd be!
I perceive the fire that charmeth
And inspireth me, scarce warmeth
Your chill hearts! Nay, sure, were I
Melted into Poesy,
I should not a Measure hit,
(Though APOLLO prompted it)
Which should able be to leave
That in you, which I conceive!
You are cold! and here I may
Waste my vital heat away
Ere you will be moved so much
As to feel one perfect touch
Of those Sweets; which, yet concealed,
Swell my breast, to be revealed.
Now, my Words, I therefore cease!
That my mounting Thoughts, in peace,
May, alone, those pleasures share,
Whereof Lines unworthy are!
And so you, an end do see,
Of my Song; though long it be!
[Illustration]
* * * * *
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 PHOEBE 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!
[Illustration]
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._