The Golden Pomp - Forgotten Books

TH E G O LDE N POMP

A PROCESS ION OF ENGLISH LYRICS

FROM SURREY TO SHIRLEY

ARRANG ED BY

A . T . QU ILLER COUCH

SECOND EDITION

O F T H E

METHUEN AND CO.

36 ESSEX STREET STRAND

LOND ON

Fz'

rst PublishedFeéruary 1895

RevisedandCited/er Edition 1905

Edinburgh : T . andA . CONSTABLE , Printers to HisMajesty

PR E FA C E

A word must be said upon the scape of th is book, and

another upon its arrangement.It is a book of Lyrics : and after comparing several

definitions, I take the I/yric to be a short poem— essentiallymelodious in rhythm and structure— treating summarily ofa single thought,feeling, or situation. Th is c ircumscription

includes the Sonnet, and excludes the Ballad and the Ode,

in wh ich the treatment is sustained and progressive rather

than summary. The line is notoriously hard to draw ; but

in practicewefind itmoderatelyeasy to discern a I/yric such

as Crabbed Age and Youth,’

or‘ Come Sleep, 0 Sleep !

’

from an Ode (even though it be not a true Pindaric) such

as Spenser’

s‘Epithalam ion,

’

or a Ballad such as Brayton’s

Agincourt.’

The epoch of Italian influence upon English song—ofthat influence which first made itselffelt in the verses ofSurrey and Wyatt, and was not fairly quenched by the

influence ofFrance until the Restoration—falls naturallyinto two parts ; two great creative days with no nightbetween, -for the twilight in wh ich Sh irley sang was alreadytrembling with the dawn of Milton. The lyrics in thisvolume areflowers of the first and incomparably brighter

of these two creative days ; and at the risk offailing to

viii PREFACE

follow it quite to its close I have stopped short with those

poets—with Herrick and Herbert and Sh irley- who wereborn before Eliz abeth died. Again the rule may seem a

rude one, andit was no sooner made than broken to includeCrashaw ; but again in practice it will be found (I hope)beyond expectat ion j ust.Now as for the arrangement, the reader may ormay not

make head and tail of it. And certainly had mypurposebeen scholastic I hadmissed my opportunity in notformingup the poets in their birthday order, for in th is case thebirthdayorder happens to befull of instructiveness. Day

does not move towards night more steadily or by moreregular stages than the English lyric passedfrom

The soote season that budandbloomforth brings’

throughRoses, their sharp spines being gone.N ot royal in their smells alone,

But in their h ue'

andon to

The glories ofour bloodandstate

A re shadows, not substantial th ings.

'

My aim,however, was not to instruct, but merely to

please, and to th is end I laid down two rules at the begin

ning . Thefirst—with a reservation presently to be noted-was to choose only the b est lyrics of the period; to gathermyflowers with a single eye to

Beauty mah ing beautiful oldrhyme

and to make no efi'

ort to distinguish th is anthologyfromothers by including verses for their rarity rather than theirworth. My secondrule was to arrange th is garland, as fitr

PREFACE ix

as I could,so that each flower should do its best by its

neighbours, either as a foil or by reflection of its colour inthought and style. With th is obj ect a piece has here and

there been included wh ich on its own merits hadfallen

below the general standard. An instance occurs on page256,where Herrick’s ‘

Born was I to be Old’

follows thetwofamous and more exalted anacreontics of Shakespeareand Fletcher. As a foil to these it exemplifies that earthlinces of Herrick wh ich is the defect of his fine quality ofconcreteness. But he is amply vindicated on other pages.

Ifind, on revising the proofs, that somefew flowers havedropped out of theirproper places. But on the whole I trustthat a fairly continuous chain of thought andfeeling hasbeen woven from the beginning, wh ich treats ofmorning,andyouth, andspring

Flower ofthe season, season oftheflowers,S on ofthe sun , sweet spring ,

’

to Raleigh’

s noble conclusion ofthe whole matter.

In saying that no single piece has been selectedfor itsrarity, Ishould be sorry to seemfor a moment to pretend toany unusual acquaintance with the byways of Eliz abethan

poetry; for indeed I have done little more than exercise aright of choice in gardens prepared by such distingu ishedEliz abethan scholars as Mr. A . H. Bullen and DoctorsHannah and Grasart. My debt to Mr. Bullen

’

s volumesof

‘ Lyrics from the Eliz abethan Song-Books,’ apparent to

the initiatedon every th ird orfourth page, is acknowledged

from time to time in the Notes : to acknowledge it everywhere was impossible. T0 Dr. Grosart I am particularlyobliged, who, on hearing that th is anthologywas contemplated,

PREFACE

the stores of his Eliz abethan learning atmy disposal. His ofer reached me when the great part ofthe book stood already in print ; and the advantage taken

of it has been therefore all too slight : but the goodwill that

promfled it—the goodwih of a ederan scholar towards a

trifling recruit—4'

s pleasant to record and remember.

A. T. QUILLERPCOUCH.

THE HAVEN,Oct. 18th , 1894.

THE GOLDEN POMP

HARK,hark th e lark at heaven

’

s gateAnd Phoebus ’gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springsOn chaliced flowers that lies ;

And winking Mary-buds beginTo ope their golden eyes

With everything that pretty bin,My lady sweet, arise :Arise, arise.

Shakespeare.

MATIN-SONG

PACK clouds,away

,andwelcome, day

With night w e banish sorrow.

Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, lark,aloft

To give my Love good-morrowA

2 THE GOLDEN POMP

Wings from th e wind to please h ermind,Notes from th e lark I

’

ll b orrowBird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,To give my Love good-morrow ;

To give my Love good-m orrowNotes from them both I ’

ll b orrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin red-breast,S ing birds in eve

And from each bill let music shrillG ive my fair Love good-m orrow !

Blackbird and thrush in every b ush,Stare,1 l innet, and cocksparrow,

You pretty elve s, amongst yourselvesS ing my fair Love good-m orrow

To give my Love good-morrow,

S ing, birds, in every furrow.

WHILST IT IS PRIME

FRESH Spring, th e herald of love’s mighty king

,

In whose cote-armour richly are display’

d

All sorts of flowers th e which on earth do springIn goodly colours gloriously array

’

d,

Go to my Love, where sh e is careless laidYet in h er Winter

’

s b ower not we ll awakeTell h er th e j oyous time will not b e stay

’

d

Unless sh e do . him by th e fore-lock take1 S tarling.

THE INVOCATION 3

Bidh er therefore herself soon ready makeTo wait on Love amongst his lovely crew

Where every one that m isseth then h er make}Shal l b e by him amerced with penance due .

Make haste therefore, sweet Love,whilst it i s prime,

For none can call again th e passed time

THE INVOCATION

PHCEBUS,arise

And paint th e sable skiesWith az ure, white, and red

Rouse Memnon’

s mother from h erTith on’

s b ed,

That sh e thy carriere may with roses spreadTh e nightingales thy coming each-where sing ;Make an eternal spring !Give life to this dark world which lieth deadSpread forth thy golden hair

In larger locks than thou wast wont before,And Emperor- like decoreWith diadem of pearl thy temples fairChase hence th e ugly nightWhich serves but to make dear thy glorious light.

This i s that happy mornThat day

,long wished day

Ofall my life so dark

( If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn1 Mate.

THE GOLDEN POMP

And fates not hope be tray),Which

,only white, deserves

A diamond for ever should it markThis is th e m om should bring into this groveMy Love, to hear and recompense my love.

Fair K ing,who all preserves,

But show thy blushing beams,And thou two sweeter eyesShalt see than those which by Penéus

’

streamsDid once thy heart surpriseNay

,suns

,which shine as clear

As thou when two thou did to Rome appear.Now

,Flora

,deck thyself in fairest guise

If that ye winds would hearA voice surpassing far Amphion

’

s lyre,Your stormy chiding stayLet z ephyr only breatheAnd with h er tresses play,K issing sometimes these purple ports of death .

Th e winds all silent are ;And Ph ceb us in his chairEnsafl

'

roning sea and airMakes vanish every starNight like a drunkard reel sBeyond th e hills to shun his flaming wheel sTh e fields with flowers are deck’

d in every h ue,Th e clouds with orient gold spangle the ir b lueHere is th e placeAnd nothing wanting is

, save Sh e, alasDrummond ofHawthornden.

PHYLLIDA .

CORYDON .

PHYL

PHYL.

PHYL.

PHYL

THE LOVE-CALL 5

THE LOVE CALL

Corydon,arise, my Corydon l

Titan shineth clear.Wh o is i t that calleth Corydon ?Wh o is it that I hear ?

Phyllida, thy true love, calleth thee,Arise then

,arise then,

Arise and keep thy flock with m e

Phyllida, my true love, i s it sh e i‘

I come then, I come then,I come and keepmy flock with thee .

Here are cherries ripe for my Corydon ;Eat them for my sake .

Here’

s my oaten pipe , my lovely one,

Sport for thee to make .

Here are threads, my true love, fine assilk,

To knit thee, to knit thee,A pair of stockings white as milk.

Here are reeds,my true love,fine and neat,To make thee, to make thee,A bonnet to withstand th e heat.

I will gather flowers, my Corydon,To set in thy cap.

I will gather pears, my lovely one,

To put in thy lap.

THE GOLDEN POMP

PHYL. I will buy my true love garters gayFor Sundays

,for Sundays,

To wear ab out h is legs so tall.I will buy my true love yellow say,1

For Sundays, for Sundays,To wear about h ermiddle small .

PHYL. When my Corydon sits on a hillMaking melody

When my lovely one goes to h erwheel,S inging cheerily

PHYL. Sure methinks my true love doth excelFor sweetness, for sweetne ss,Our Pan

,that old Arcadian knight.

And meth inks my true love bears th ebell

For clearness,for clearness,

Beyond th e nymphs that b e so bright.

PHYL . Hadmy Corydon,my Corydon

,

Been, alack ! h er swainHadmy lovely one, my lovely one,

Been in Ida plainPHYL . Cynthia Endymion had refused,

Preferring , preferringMy Corydon to play withal .

Th e Queen of Love had b een excusedBequeathing, bequeathingMy Phyllida th e golden ball .

1 Soie, silk.

8 THE GOLDEN POMP

Rise,and put on your foliage, and b e seen

To come forth,like th e spring-time, fresh and

green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no careFor jewels for your gown or hairFear not th e leaves will strewGem s in abundance upon you

Besides, th e childhood of th e day h as kept,Against you come

,some Orient pearl s unwept.

Come, and receive them while th e lightHangs on th e dew - locks of th e night

,

And Titan on th e eastern hillRetires him self, or else stands still

Till you come forth ! Wash,dress, b e brief in

praying

Few beads are best when once w e go a-Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come ; and coming, markHow each field turns a street, each st reet a park,

Made green and trimm’

dwith trees ! see howDevotion gives each house a boughOr b ranch ! each porch, each door, ere this,An ark

,a tabernacle is ,

Made up of white- thorn neatly interwove,As if here were those cooler shades of love.

Can such del ights b e in th e streetAnd open fields, and w e not see

’

t ?

Com e , w e’

11ab road and let’

s obeyTh e proclam ation m ade for May,

And sin no more, as w e have done, by staying,But

,my Corinna

,come

,let

’

s go a-Maying.

CORINNA’

S MAYING 9

There ’s not a budding b oy or girl this dayBut is got up and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth , ere this, i s come

Back,and with white-thorn laden home.

Som e have despatch’

d their cakes and cream,

Before that w e have left to dreamAnd some have wept and woo

’

d,and pl ighted troth ,

And chose their priest, ere w e can cast offslothMany a green-gown1 has been given,Many a kiss

,both odd and even

Many a glance,too

,has been sent

From out th e eye, love’ s firmam ent

Many a jest told of th e keys betrayingThis night , and locks pick

’

d yet w e’

re not 31Maying.

Come, let us go, while w e are in our prim e,

And take th e harmless folly of th e time !

We shall grow old apace, and dieBefore w e know our liberty.

Our life i s short,and our days run

As fast away as doe s th e sun .

And,as a vapour or a drop of rain,

Once lost, can ne’

er b e found again,

So when or you or I are m adeA fable , song, or fleeting shade,All love, all l iking,

all delightLies drown

’

d with us in endless night.Then , while tim e serves, and w e are but decaying

,

Come, my Corinna, come, let’

s go a-Maying.

R. Herrick.

1 Tumble on the grass.

10 THE GOLDEN POMP

THE MERRY MONTH or MAY

Is not th ilke th e merry month of May,When love-lads masken in fresh array ?

How falls it,then, w e no merrier been

,

Ylike as others, girt in gaudy green ?

Our blanket liveries b een all too sadFor th ilke same season, when all is ycladWith pleasaunce th e ground with grass

, th e woodsWith green leaves, th e b ushes with b lossoming buds .Young folk now flocken in every whereTo gather May buskets 1 and smelling brereAnd home they hasten th e postes to dight,And all th e kirk-

pillars ere day-light,With hawthorne buds and sweet eglantine

,

And garlands of roses and sops-in-wine.

0, THE month of May, th e merry month of May,So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green !

0,and then did I unto my true love say,Sweet Peg, thou shalt b e my Summer

’ s Queen .

Now th e nightingale,th e pretty nightingale,

Th e sweetest singer in all th e forest choir,Entreats thee, sweet Peggy, to hear thy true love

’ stale

Lo,yonder sh e sitteth, h er breast against a b rier.

1 Small bushes.

UPON JULIA’

S HAIR FILL’

D WITH DEW 11

But O,I spy th e cuckoo, th e cuckoo, th e cuckoo !

See where sh e sitteth come away,my joy

Come away, I prithee, I do not l ike th e cuckooShould sing where my Peggy and I kiss and toy.

O,th e month of May, th e merry month of May,So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green

O,and then did I unto my true love say,Sweet Peg, thou shalt b e my Summ er

’ s Queen .

T. Dekker.

MY FAIR A-FIELD

SEE where my Love a-m aying goesWith sweet dame Flora sporting !

Sh e most alone with nightingalesIn woods delights consorting.

Turn again, my dearestTh e pleasant

’

st air ’s in meadows ;Else by th e river let us breathe,And kiss amongst th e willows.

Anon.

UPON JULIA’

S HAIR FILL’

D WITH DEW

DEW sat on Julia’

s hair,And spangled too,

Like leaves th at laden are

With trembling dew

THE GOLDEN POMP

Or glitter’

d to my sightAs when th e beams

Have the ir reflected l ightDanced by th e streams .

SWEET-AND-TWENTY

O MrsrnEss mine,where are you w arning ?

0,stay and hear ; your true love

’ s coming,That can sing both high and low

Trip no further, pre tty sweeting

Journeys end in lovers meeting,Every W ise man

’s son doth know.

What is love ? ’ tis not hereafter ;Present mirth hath present laughter ;What ’

s to come is st ill unsure :In delay there lies no plentyThen come kiss m e

,swee t-and-tw enty,

Youth’

s a stuff will not endure .

Shakespeare.

LOVE’

S EMBLEMS

Now th e lusty spring is seen ;Golden ye llow,

gaudy blue,Daintily invite th e View

Everywhere on every green

THE IMPATIENT MAID 13

Roses blushing as they blow,

And enticing m en to pull,Lilies whiter than th e snow,

Woodbines of sweet honey fullAll love

’s emblems, and all cry,Ladies, if not plucked, we die.

’

Yet th e lusty spring hath stay’

d

Blushing red and purest whiteDaintily to love invite

Every woman, every maidCherries kissing as they grow,

And inviting m en to taste,Apples even ripe below,

Winding gently to th e waistAll love

’ s emblems, and all cry,Ladies, if not plucked, w e die.

’

J. Fletcher.

THE IMPATIENT MAID

WHEN as th e rye reach’

d to th e chin,And chop cherry, ch Op cherry ripe within,Strawberries swimming in th e cream,

And schoolboys playing in th e streamThen O, then 0, then 0 ,

my true love said,’Til that time come againSh e could not live a maid

Geo. Peels.

14 THE GOLDEN POMP

IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS

IT was a lover and his lass,With a h ey, and

' a ho,and a h ey monino,

That o’

er th e green corn-field did pass,In th e spring time

,th e only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing,h ey ding a ding, ding ;

Sweet lovers love th e spring.

Between th e acres of th e rye,

Wi th a h ey,and a ho

,and a h ey nomino,

These pretty country folks would lie,In th e spring time

,th e only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing ,h ey ding a ding, d ing ;

Sweet lovers love th e spring.

This carol they began that hour,With a h ey, and a ho, and a h ey nonin o,

How that life was but a flowerIn th e spring time, th e only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, h ey ding a ding, ding ;Sweet lovers love th e spring.

And,therefore, take th e presen t time

With a h ey, and a ho, and a h ey nonino,

For love i s crowned with th e prime

In th e spring tim e, th e only pretty ring time,

When birds do sing, h ey ding a ding, ding ;Sweet lovers love th e Spring.

16 THE GOLDEN POMP

Hoist up sail while gale doth last,Tide and wind stay no man

’

s pleasureSeek not tim e when time i s past,

Sober speed is wisdom’ s leisure .

After-wits are clearly bought,Let thy fore-wit guide thy thought.

Time wears all his locks beforeTake thy hold upon his foreheadWhen h e flies h e turns no more,

And behind his scalp is naked .

Works adjourn’

d have many stays,Long demurs breed new delays .

R. Southwell.

CARPE DIEM

LOVE in thy youth, fair Maid, b e wiseOld Time will make thee colder,

And though each morning new ariseYet w e each day grow older.

Thou as heaven art fair and young,Thine eyes l ike twin stars shining ;

But ere another day b e sprungAll these will b e declining.

Then winter comes with all his fears,And all thy sweets shall borrow

Too late then wilt thou shower thy tears,And I too late shall sorrow.

Anon.

TO BE MERRY 17

XVI I I

CRABBED AGE AND YOUTH

CRABBED Age and YouthCannot live togetherYouth is full of pleasance,Age is full of care ;Youth like summer morn

,

Age l ike winter weather ;Youth like summer brave,Age like winter bare.

Youth is full of sport,Age ’s breath is shortYouth is nimb le, Age i s lame ;Youth is hot and bold

,

Age i s weak and coldYouth is wild

,and Age i s tame.

Age, I do abhor thee ;Youth

,I do adore thee

O, my Love, my Love is young !Age, I do defy thee0 , sweet shepherd, h ie theeFor methinks thou stay

’

st too long.

Shakespeare.

TO BE MERRY

LET’

s now take our timeWhile w e ’

re in our prime,And old

,old age, i s afar oil

"

B

THE GOLDEN POMP

For th e evil, evil daysWill com e on apace,

Before w e can b e aware of.Herrick.

V IVAMUS

COME, my Celia, let us prove,While w e

'

can, th e sports of Love ;

Time will not b e ours for ever,He at length our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vainSuns that set may rise againBut if once w e lose this light,’Tis with us perpetual night .

Why should w e defer our j oys ?Fame and rumour are but toys.Cannot we delude th e eyesOf a few poor household spies ?

Or his easier eyes beguile,So removed by our wile ?’Tis no sin Love

’ s fruit to steal,

But th e sweet theft to revealTo b e taken, to b e seen,These h ave crimes accounted been .

TIME AND LOVE 19

TIME AND LOVE

1

WHEN I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced

Th e rich proud cost of outworn buried age

When sometim e-lofty towers I see down-raz ed,And brass e ternal slave to mortal rage

When I have seen th e hungry ocean gainAdvantage on th e kingdom of th e shore,And th e firm soil win of th e watery main,Increasing store with loss and loss with store

When I have seen such interchange of state,Or state i tself confounded to decay,Ruin hath taught m e thus to ruminateThat Time will come and take my Love away.

Th is thought is as a death, which cannot chooseBut weep to have that which it fears to lose.

XXII

S INCE brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,But sad mortality o

’

ersways their power,How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,Whose action is no stronger than a flower ?

20 THE GOLDEN POMP

0 ,how shall summ er

’s honey b reath hold out

Against th e wreckful siege of battering days,When rocks impregnable are not so stout,Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays

O fearful meditation Where, alackShall Time

’ s b est j ewel from Time’

s chest lie hidOr what strong hand can hold his swift foot back 3

O r who his spoil of beauty can forb id

0 none , unle ss this miracle have m ight,Th at in black ink my love may still shine bright.

Shakespeare.

XXIII

SECOND THOUGHTS

l

BEAUTY, sweet Love, is like th e morning dew ,

Whose short refre sh upon th e tender greenCheers for a time, b ut til l th e sun doth show,

And straight ’tis gone as it had never been.

Soon doth it fade that makes th e fairest flourish,Short is th e glory of th e blushing roseTh e h ue which thou so carefully dost nourish

,

Yet which at length thou must b e forced to lose.

When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to th e earth ;And that, in Beautv

’

s Lease expired ,appears

Th e Date of Age, th e Calends of our Death

But ah, no more — this must not b e foretold,For women grieve to think they must b e old.

WHEN DAFFODILS BEGIN TO PEER

XX IV

I MUST not grieve my Love, whose eyes would readL ines of delight, whereon h er youth might smileFlowers h ave tim e before they come to seed,And sh e i s young, and now must sport th e while.

And sport, Sweet Maid, in season of these years,And learn to gather flowers before they wither ;And where th e sweetest blossom first appears,Let Love and Youth conduct thy pleasures thither.

Lighten forth sm iles to clear th e clouded air,And calm th e tempest which my sighs do raisePity and smiles do best become th e fairPity and smiles must only yield th e praise.

Make m e to say when al l my griefs are gone,Happy th e heart that sighed for such a one .

S. Daniel.

WHEN DAFFODILS BEG IN TO PEER

WHEN daffodils begin to peer,With he igh th e doxy over th e dale,Why, then comes in th e sweet 0

’

th e year ;For th e red blood reigns in th e winter

’

s pale.

22 THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e white sheet b leaching on th e hedge,With heigh ! th e sweet birds, O,

how they sing !Doth set my pugging

l tooth on edge ;For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

Th e Iark that tirra- lit ra chants,

With heigh with h eigh th e thrush and th e j ayAre summer songs for m e and my aunts

,

While w e lie tumbling in th e hay.

Shakespeare.

XXV I

CUCKOO

WHEN dais ies pied and violets blue ,And lady-smocks all silver-white,

And cuckoo-buds of yellow h ueDo paint th e meadows with del ight,

Th e cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married m en for thus sings h e,

CuckooCuckoo

,cuckoo : 0 word of fear,

Unpleasing to th e married ear

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,And merry larks are ploughm en

’

s clocks,When turtle s tread, and rooks , and daws,And maidens bleach their summer smocks,

Th e cuckoo then, on every tree,Mocks married m en for thus sings h e,

Cuckoo ;Cuckoo, cuckoo : 0 word of fear,Unpleasing to th e married ear.

THE GOLDEN POMP

xxxx

PIPING PEACE

YOU virgin s that did late despairTo keep your weal th from cruel m en,

Tie up in silk your careless hairSoft peace i s come again .

Now lovers’ eyes may gently shoo tA flame that will not kill

Th e drum was angry, b ut th e.

luteShall whisper what you will .

S ing Io, Io for his sakeThat hath restored your drooping heads

With choice of sweete st flowers m akeA garden where h e treads ;

Whils t w e whole groves of laurel bring,A petty triumph for his b row,

Wh o is th e Master of our springAnd all th e bloom w e ow e.

1

James Sh irley.

A ROUND

SHAKE offyour heavy tranceAnd leap into a dance

Such as no mortals use to treadFit only for Apollo

To play to, for th e moon to lead,And all th e stars to follow

1 Own.

A ROUND 25

XXXI

A N O T H E R

HEY, nonny noMen are fools that wish to ( lie

Is ’

t not fine to dance and singWhen th e bells of death do ring ?Is ’

t not fine to swim in wine,And turn upon th e toe,And sing h ey, nonny noWhen th e winds blow and th e seas flow ?

Hey, nonny noAnon.

xxxn

A N O T H E R

ON a fair morn ing, as I came by th e way,

Met I with a merry maid in th e merry month ofMay ;When a sweet love sings his lovely layAnd every bird upon th e bush b ech irps i t so gayWith a heave and ho ! with a heave and hoThy wife shall b e thy master, I trow .

S ing care away, care away, let th e world go !Hey, lustily all in a row,

all in a row,

Sing care away, care away, let th e world goAnon.

xxxm

A N O T H E R

Now that th e Spring hath fill’

d our veinsWith kind and active fire,

A ndmade green liv’

ries for th eAnd every grove a quire

THE GOLDEN POMP

Sing w e a song of merry glee,

And Bacchus fill th e bowl .I. Then here

’ s to thee ; 2 . And thou to m e,

And every thirsty soul .

Nor Care nor Sorrow e’

er paid debt,Nor never shall do mine

I have no cradle going yet,Not I

,by this good wine .

No wife at home to send for m e,

No hogs are in my ground,

No suit in law to pay a fee,—Then round, old Jocky, round !

All.

Shear sheep that have them, cryBut see that no man

’

scapeTo drink of th e sherryThat makes us so merry

And plump as th e lusty grape.

Wm . Browne.

XXXIV

TO LIVE MERRILY AND TO TRUST TO

GOOD VERSES

Now is th e time for mirth,Nor cheek or tongue b e dumb ;

For,with th e flowery earth ,

Th e golden pomp i s come .

LIVE MERRILY AND TRUST GOOD VERSES 27

Th e golden pomp is come ;For now each tree does wear,

Made of h er pap and gum ,

Rich beads of amber here

Now reign s th e rose,and now

Th’ Arabian dew besmearsMy uncontrolled browAnd my retorted hairs .

Homer,this health to thee !

—In sack of such a kindThat it would make thee see

Though thou wert ne’

er so blind.

Next, Virgil I’ll call forth

To pledge this second healthIn wine, whose each cup

’

s worthAn Indian commonwealth .

A goblet next I ’ll drinkTo Ovid, and suppose,

Made h e th e pledge, h e’

d thinkTh e world had all one nose.

Then this immensive cupO f aromatic wine,

Catullus,I

’

ll quafl'

up

To that terse muse of thine.

THE GOLDEN POMP

Wild am I now with heatO Bacchus

,cool thy rays !

Or frantic I shall eatThy thyrse and bite th e bays

Round, round th e roof does run

And be ing ravish’

d thus,Com e, I will drink a tunTo my Propertius.

Now to Tibullus,next,

This flood I ’ ll drink to theeBut stay

,I see a text

That this presents to m e

Behold, Tibullus liesHere burnt

,whose small return

Of ashes scarce sufi ce

Tofi ll a little urn.

Trust to good verses thenThey only will a3pire

When pyramids, as m en,

Are lost i ’ th’ funeral fire.

And when all bodie s m eet

In Le the to b e drown’

d,Then only numbers sweet

With endless life are crown’

d

MAN’

S MEDLEY 29

xxxv

MAN’

S MEDLEY

HARK how th e birds do sing,And woods do ring

All creatures have their j oy, and man hath h is.

Yet if w e rightly measure,Man’s j oy and pleasure

Rather hereafter than in present i s.

To this life things of senseMake the ir pretence ;

In th’ other angels have a right by birthMan ties them both alone,

And makes them one

Wi th th ’

one hand touching heaven, with t’

otherearth.

In soul h e mounts and fl ies,In flesh h e dies ;

He wears a stufl'

whose thread is coarse and round,But trimm

’

dwith curious lace,And should take place

After 1 th e trimming, not th e stuff and ground.

Not that h e may not hereTaste of th e cheer

But as birds drink and straight lift

So must h e sip and thinkOfbetter drink

He may attain to after h e is dead.

1 According to.

THE GOLDEN POMP

But as his j oys are double,

So is his troubleHe hath two winters, other things but one

Both frosts and thoughts do nipAnd bite his lip ;

And h e of all things fears two deaths alone.

Yet ev’

n th e greatest griefsMay b e re liefs,

Could b e but take them right and in their ways .Happy is h e whose heart

Hath found th e art

To turn his double pains to double praise.

XXXVI

V I R T U E

SWEET day, so cool, so calm,so bright !

Th e bridal of th e earth and sky,

Th e dew shall weep thy fall to-nightFor thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose h ue, angry and brave,Bids th e rash gaz er wipe h is eye,

Thy root i s ever in its grave,And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses ,A b ox where sweets compacted lie,My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

THE GOLDEN POMP

And sh e that b ath th e sweetest voice ,

Tell h er I will not change my choiceYet stil l methinks I see h er frown !

Ye pretty wantons warble.

O fly ! make hast e see, see, sh e fal lsInto a pretty slumber !

S ing round about h er rosy b edThat waking sh e may wonder

Say to h er,’tis h er lover true

That sendeth love to you,to you

And when you hear h er kind reply,Re turn with pleasant warblings .

XXXVIII

TO THE WESTERN WIND

SWEET western wind,whose luck it is,

Made rival with th e air,

To give Perenna’

s lip a kiss,And fan h er wanton hair

Bring m e but one, I’

ll promise thee ,Instead of common showers,

Thy wings shall b e embalm’

d by m e,

Andall be set with flowers.

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON 33'

xxxrx

PHYLLIDA AND CORYDON

IN th e merry month of May,In a morn by break of day,Forth I walk’d by th e wood-sideWhenas May was in his prideThere I spyed all alonePhyllida and Corydon .

Much ado there was, God wotHe would love and sh e would not.

Sh e said, never man was true ;He said, none was false to you.

He said,h e had loved h er long ;

Sh e said, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss h er thenSh e said, maids must kiss no m en

Till they did for good and all ;Then sh e made th e shepherd callAll th e heavens to witness truthNever loved a truer youth.

Thus with many a pretty oath,Yea and nay, and faith and troth,Such as silly shepherds useWhen they will not Love abuse,Love, which long had b een deluded,Was with kisses sweet concluded ;And Phyllida

,with garlands gay

,

Was made th e Lady of th e May.

N. Breton.

THE GOLDEN POMP

THE BLOSSOM

ON a day— alack th e day !Love, whose month was ever May,Spied a blossom passing fairPlaying in th e wanton air :Through th e velvet leave s th e wind,All unseen,

’gan passage find ;That th e lover

,sick to death,

Wish ’

d himself th e heaven’

s b reath .

Air,

’ quoth b e, ‘ thy cheeks may blowAir

,would I might triumph so !

But,alas

,my hand hath sworn

Ne’

er to pluck thee from thy thornVow

,alack

,for youth unm eet ;

Youth so apt to pluck a sweet.Do not call it s in in m e ,

That I am forsw om for theeThou for whom Jove would swearJuno but an Ethiope were ;And deny him self for Jove,Turning mortal for thy love .

THE FAIRY LIFE

1

OVER hill,over dale,

Thorough bush,thorough

Over park, over pale,Thorough flood

,thorough

THE FAIRY LIFE

I do wander everywhere,Swifter than th e moon

’

s sph ere ;And I serve th e fairy queen,To dew h er orbs upon th e green

Th e cowslips tall h er pensioners b eIn their gold coats spots you see ;

Those b e rubies, fairy favours,In those freckles live their savours

I m ust go seek som e dew-drops here,And hang a pearl in every cowslip

’

s ear.

Shakespeare.

XLI I

You Spotted snakes, with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs

, b e not seenNewts a nd blind-worm s

,do no wrong ;

Come not near our fairy queen .

Philomel, with melodyS ing in our sweet lullaby ;

Lulla, lulla, lullaby ; lulla, lulla, lullabyNever harm

,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nighSo

, good night, with lullaby.

Weaving spiders, come not hereHence, you long-legg

’

d spinners, hence !Beetles black, approach not near ;Worm , nor snail, do no offence.

THE GOLDEN POMP

Philomel , with melodyS ing in our sweet lullaby

Lulla,lulla

,lullaby ; lulla, lulla,

Never harm,

Nor spell nor charm,

Come our lovely lady nighSo, good night, with lullaby.

XLI II

PUCK sings

Now th e hungry lion roars,An d th e wolf behowls th e moonWhilst th e heavy ploughman snores,All with weary task fordone .

Now th e wasted brands do glow,

Whilst th e scritch-owl,scritching loud

,

Puts th e wretch that lies in w oe

In rem embrance of a shroud.

Now it is th e tim e of night,That th e graves, all gaping w ide,

Every one lets forth his sprite,In th e churchway paths to gl ide

And w e fai ries, that do runBy th e triple Hecate

’ s team,

From th e presence of th e sun,Following darkness like a dream,

THE FAIRY LIF5 37

Now are frol ic not a mouseShall disturb this hallow’d houseI am sent with broom beforeTo sweep th e dust behind th e door.

Shakespeare.

xmv

4.

COME unto these yellow sands,And then take hands

Courtsiedwhen you have, and kiss’

d,

Th e wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and thereAnd, sweet Sprites, th e burthen bear.

Hark, hark !Bow

,wow

,

Th e watch-dogs barkBow

,wow.

Hark,hark ! I hear

Th e strain of strutting ChanticleerCry, Cock-a-diddle-dow

Shakespeare.

XLV

5

WHERE th e b ee sucks, th ere suck IIn a cowslip

’s bell I lieThere I couch when owls do cry .

On th e bat’ s back I do fly

After summer merrilyMerrily, merrily, shal l I live now,

Under th e blossom that hangs on

THE GOLDEN POMP

XLV I

THE FAIRY QUEEN PROSERPINA

HARE , all you ladies that do sleep !

Th e fairy—queen ProserpinaBids you awake and pity them that weep.

You may do in th e darkWhat th e day doth forbid ;

Fear not th e dogs that bark,Night will have all hid.

But if you let your lovers moan,Th e fairy-queen Proserpina

Wi ll send abroad h er fairies every one,

Th at shall pinch black and blueYour white hands and fair arms

That did not kindly rue

Your paramours’

harm s .

In myrtle arbours on th e downsTh e fairy-queen Proserpina,

This night by moonshine leading merry rounds,

Holds a watch with sweet Love,Down th e dale

,up th e hill ;

No plaints or groans may moveTheir holy vigil.

All you that will hold watch with Love,Th e fairy-queen Proserpina

Wi ll make you fairer than Dione's dove

THE GOLDEN POMP

XLV I II

THE PASS IONATE SHEPHERD TO

HIS LOVE

COME live with m e and b e my Love,And w e will all ‘

th e pleasures proveThat hill s and valleys, dales and fields,Or woods or steepy mountain yields.

And w e will sit upon th e rocks,And see th e shepherds feed the ir flocksBy shallow rivers to whose fall sMelodious b irds sing madrigals .

And I will make thee beds of rosesAnd a thousand fragrant posies ;A cap of flowers, and a kirtleEmb roider

’

d all with leaves of myrtle .

A gown made of th e finest woolWhich from our pretty lam b s w e pull ;Fair-lined slippers for th e cold,With buckle s of th e purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy-budsWith coral clasps and amber studsAnd if these pleasures may thee moveCome l ive with m e and b e my Love.

Th e shepherd swains shal l dance and singFor thy delight each May morningIfthese delights thy m ind may move,Then live with m e and b e my Love .

HER REPLY 41

XLIX

HER REPLY

IF all th e world and love were young,And truth in every shepherd

’

s tongue,These pretty pleasures might m e moveTo live with thee and b e thy Love.

But Time drive s flocks from field to fold ;Where rivers rage and rocks grow coldAnd Philomel becometh dumb

,

Th e rest complains of cares to come .

Th e flowers do fade, th e wanton fieldsTo wayward winter reckoning yields :A honey tongue

,a heart of gall,

I s fancy’s spring but sorrow’ s fall.

Thy gowns,thy shoes

,thy beds of roses,

Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,Soon break, soon wither— soon forgotten,In folly ripe, in reason rotten .

Thy bel t of straw and ivy-buds,

Thy coral clasps and amber studs,All these in m e no means can moveTo come to thee and b e thy Love .

But could youth last,and love still breed ,

Had j oys no date, nor age no need,Then those delights my mind might moveTo l ive with thee and b e thy Love .

42 THE GOLDEN POMP

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

AMIENS sings :

UNDER th e greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with m e,

And turn his merry noteUnto th e sweet b ird

’s throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hitherHere shal l h e see

No enemyBut winter and rough weather.

Wh o doth amb ition shun,

And loves to l ive 1 th e sun,Seeking th e food h e eats

,

And pleased w ith what h e gets,Come hither

,come hither, come hither ;

Here sh all h e see

No enemyBut Winter and rough weather.

JAQUES

If it do come to passThat any man turn ass

,

Leaving his wealth and easeA stubb orn will to please,

Ducdame,ducdame

,ducdame

Here sh all h e see

Gross fools as h e,

An ifh e will come to m e.

AMIENS’ SONG 43

AM IENS’

SONG

BLOW,blow

,thou winter wind,

Thou art not so unkindAs man

’

s ingratitude ;Thy tooth is not so keen ,

Because thou art not seen,Although thy breath b e rude .

Heigh h o sing,heigh ho ! unto th e green holly

Most friendship is feigning,most loving mere follyThen heigh ho, th e hollyThis life is most j olly.

Freez e, freez e, thou bitter sky,That dost not bite so nighAs benefits forgot

Though thou th e waters warp,Thy sting is not so sharpAs friend rem em b er

’

d not.Heigh ho ! sing, he igh ho unto th e green hollyMost friendship is fe igning,most loving mere folly

Then heigh ho, th e holly !Th is life i s most j olly.

THE GOLDEN POMP

SPRING’

S WELCOME

WHAT bird so sings, yet so does wail

O’

tis th e ravish’

d' nightingale .

Jag,j ug, j ug, j ug, tereu ! sh e cries,And still h er woes at m idnight rise .

Brave prick-song Wh o is ’

t now w e hear 9

None but th e lark so shrill and clearNOW at heaven

’ s gate sh e claps h er W ings,Th e morn not waking till sh e sings .Hark, hark, with What a pretty throatPoor robin redb reast tunes his noteHark how th e j olly cuckoos sing

Cuckoo to welcom e in th e Spring !

Cuckoo to welcome in th e springJ. Lyly.

ON A BANK AS I SAT A FISHING

THIS day Dame Nature seem’

d in loveTh e lusty sap b egan to moveFresh j uice did stir th ’

emb racing vines,And birds had drawn the ir valentines ;Th e j ealous trout that low did lieRose at th e well-dissembled fly ;There stood my friend, W ith patient skillAttending of his trembling quill .

THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN

Already were th e eaves possess’

d

With th e swift pilgrim’s daubed nest

Th e groves already did rej oiceIn Philomel

’s triumphing voice ;Th e showers were short, th e weather mild,Th e morning fresh, th e evening smiledJoan takes h er neat-rub b

’

dpail, and nowSh e trips to milk th e sand-red cow ;Where for some sturdy football swainJoan strokes a syllabub or twainTh e fields and gardens were besetWith tulip,

crocus,violet ;

And now, though late th e modest roseDidmore than half a blush disclose,Thus all look’

d gay and full of cheer

To welcome th e new-liveried year.

45

SirH. Wotton.

THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN

WHO can live in heart so gladAs th e merry country lad ?

Wh o upon a fair green balkMay at pleasure sit and walk,And am id th e az ure skiesSee th e morning sun arise,While h e hears in every springHow th e birds do chirp and sing

Or b efore th e hounds in cry

See th e hare go stealing by

THE GOLDEN POMP

Or along th e shallow b rook,Angling with a baited hook,See th e fishes leap and playIn a blessed sunny dayOr to hear th e partridge call,Till sh e have h er covey allOr to see th e subtle fox,How th e villain plies th e box ;After feeding on his prey,How h e closely sneaks away,Th rough th e hedge and down th e furrowTill h e gets into his burrowThen th e b ee to gather honey,And th e l ittle black-haired coney

,

On a bank for sunny place,With h er forefeet wash h er faceAre not these, with thousands m oe

Than th e courts of kings do know,

Th e true pleasing Spirit'

s sightsThat m ay b reed true love

’

s delights ?But with all this happiness,To behold that Shepherdess,To Whose eyes all shepherds yieldAll th e fairest of th e field,—Fair Aglaia

,in Whose face

Lives th e shepherds’

highest graceFor whose sake I say and swear

,

By th e passions that I bear,Had I got a kingly grac e

,

I would leave my kingly place

48 THE GOLDEN POMP

2

ART thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?

0 sweet content !Art thou rich

, yet i s thy mind perplex’

d?

O punishment !

Dost thou laugh to see how fool s are vex’

d

To add to golden numbers golden numbers ?0 sweet content ! 0 sweet, 0 sweet content !

Work apace, apace, apace, apace ;Honest labour bears a lovely faceThen h ey nonny Donny— h ey nonny nonny

Can’ st drink th e waters ofth e crisped spring?

0 sweet content !Swim

’

st thou in wealth,yet sink

’

st in thine own tears ?O punishm ent !

Then h e that patiently want’ s burden b ears,

No burden b ears, but is a king, a king ‘

0 sweet content ! 0 sweet, 0 sweet content !Work apace, apace, apace, apace ;Honest labour bears a lovely faceThen h ey nonny nonny— h ey nonny nanny

THE COUNTRY’

S RECREATIONS

QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,Anxious sighs

,untimely tears,

Fly,

fly to courtsFly to fond worldl ings

’

sports

THE COUNTRY’

S RECREATIONS 49

Where strain’

d sardonic smiles are gloz ing still,And grief is forced to laugh against h er willWhere mirth ’ s but mummery

,

And sorrows only real b e

Fly from our country pastimes, fly,Sad troop of human misery !

Come, serene looks,Clear as th e crystal brooks,

Or th e pure az ured heaven, that smilesTh e rich attendance of our poverty !

Peace, and a secure mind,Which all men seek, w e only find .

Abused mortals ! did you know

Where j oy ,heart

’ s ease, and comforts grow,

You ’d scorn proud towers,And seek them in these bowers

Where winds sometim es our woods perhaps mayshake,

But blustering care could never tempest make,Nor murmurs e

’

er come nigh us,Saving of fountains that glide by us.

Here ’

s no fantastic mask,nor dance

But of our kids that frisk and pranceNor wars are seenUnless upon th e green

Two harmless lambs are butting one anotherWhich done, both bleating run, each to his mother

And wounds are never found,Save what th e ploughshare gives th e ground.

D

50 THE GOLDEN POMP

Here are no false entrapping baitsTo hasten too-too hasty Fates ;

Unless it b eTh e fond credulity

O f silly fish, which worldling- like still lookUpon th e bait, but never on th e hook

Nor envy, unless amongTh e birds, for priz e of their sweet song.

Go,let th e diving negro seek

For gems hid in som e forlorn creekWe all pearls scornSave what th e dewy morn

Congeals upon each little spire of grass,Which careless shepherds beat down as

And gold ne’

er here appearsSave what th e yellow Ceres bears .

Blest silent groves 0 may ye b eFor ever mirth

’

s b est nursery !May pure contentsFor ever pitch the ir tents

Upon these downs, these m eads, these rocks, thesemountains

,

Andpeace still slum b er by these purling fountains ;Which w e may every yearFind when w e come a-fishing here !

Anon.

THE SHEPHERD’

S WIFE’

S SONG 51

LVIII

THE SHEPHERD’

S WIFE’

S SONG

AH,what is Love ? It i s a pretty thing,

As sweet unto a shepherd as a king ;And sweeter too ;

For kings have cares that wait upon a crown,And cares can make th e sweetest love to frown

Ah then,ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain

?

His flocks are folded,h e comes home at night ,

As merry as a king in his delight ;And merrier too

For kings bethink then what th e state require ,

Where shepherds careless carol by th e fireAh then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

He kisseth first,then sits as blithe to eat

His cream and curds as doth th e king his meat ;And blither too

For kings have often fears when they do sup,

Where shepherds dread no poison in the ir cupAh then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

52 THE GOLDEN POMP

To b edh e goes, as wanton then ,I ween

,

As is a king in dall iance with a queen ;More wanton too

For kings have many griefs afl'

ects to move,Where shepherds have no greater grief than love

Ah then,ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

Upon h is couch of straw h e sleeps as soundAs doth a king upon his beds of down ;

More sounder tooFor cares cause kings full oft the ir sleep to spill,Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill

Ah then, ah then,If country loves such sweet desires do gain,What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

Thus with his Wi fe h e spends th e year, as blitheAs doth th e king at every tide or sithe ; 1

And bl ither tooFor kings have wars and broils to take in hand,Where shepherds laugh and love upon th e land

Ah then, ah then,If country loves such sweet desires do gain

,

What lady would not love a shepherd swain ?

R. Greene.

l Time.

COUNTRY NIGHTS 53

COUNTRY NIGHTS

THE damask meadows and th e crawling streams

Sweeten and make soft thy dreamsTh e purling springs, groves, birds, and well-weaved

bowers,With fields enam elled with flowers,

Present thee sh apes, while phantasy disclosesMillions of lil ies mixt with roses .

Then dream thou hearest th e lamb with many ableat

Woo’

d to come suck th e milky teat ;Whilst Faunus in th e vision vows to keepFrom ravenous wolf th e woolly sheep ;

With thousand such enchanting dreams,which meet

To make sleep not so sound as sweet.NOr can these figures so thy rest endearAS not to up when chanticleer

Speaks th e last watch, but with th e dawn dost riseTo work

,but first to sacrifice

Making thy peace with Heaven for some late fault,With holy meat and crackling salt.

Herrick.

HEIGHO ! chill go to plough no more !Sit down and take thy rest ;

Ofgolden groats I have full storeTo flaunt it with th e best.

THE GOLDEN POMP

But I love and I love, and who thinks you ?Th e finest lass that ever you knewWhich makes m e sing when I should cryHeigho ! for love I die.

Anon.

THE SHEPHERD’

S LASS

Mv Love is neither young nor old,Nor fiery-hot nor froz en-cold,But fresh and fair as springing-briarBlooming th e fru i t of love

’s desireNot snowy-white nor rosy-red

,

But fair enough for shepherd’

s b edAnd such a love was never seenOn hill or dale or country green.

Anon.

A WELCOME

Far more welcome than the springHe thatpartethfi om you neverShall enj oy a springfor ever.

He that to th e voice is nearBreaking from your iv’ry pale,

Need not walk abroad to hearTh e delightful nightingale .

56 THE GOLDEN POMP

Diaph enia l ike th e spreading roses,That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,Fair sweet, how I do love thee

I do love thee as each flowerLoves th e sun

’

s life-giving power,For death, thy breath to life might move me.

Diaph enia, like to all things blessedWhen all thy praises are expre ssed,Dear j oy

,how I do love thee !

As th e birds do love th e spring,Or th e bees the ir careful kingThen in requite, sweet virgin, love m e

H. Constable.

LXIV

SAMELA

LIKE to Diana in h er summer weed,G irt with a crim son robe of brightest dye,

Goe s fair Sam ela.Whiter than b e th e flocks that straggling feedWhen wash

’

d by Arethusa fount they lie,I s fair Sam ela.

As fair Aurora in h er morning grey,Deck

’

d with th e ruddy glister of h er loveI s fair Samela

L ike lovely Thetis on a calmed dayWhenas h er brightness Neptune

’

s fancies move,Shines fair Samela.

A DITTY 57

Hertresses gold, h er eyes l ike glassy streams,Her teeth are pearl, th e breasts are ivory

Offair Sam ela.

Her cheeks like rose and lily yield forth gleams ;Her brows bright arches framed of ebony

Thus fair SamelaPasseth fair Venus in h er bravest h ue,And Juno in th e Show of majesty

For she’

s Samela.

Pallas in wit,— all three

,if you will view

,

For beauty, wit, and matchless dignity,Yield to Sam ela.

R. Greene.

A DITTY

IN PRAISE OF ELIZ A, QUEEN OF THE SHEPHERDS

SEE where sh e sits upon th e grassy green,O seem ly sight

Yclad in scarlet, l ike a maiden Queen,

And ermines whiteUpon h er head a crimson coronetWi th Dam ask rose s and Daffadill ies set

Bay leave s b etween,And Primroses green,

Embellish th e sweet Violet.

Tell m e, have ye beheld h er angelic faceL ike Phoebe fair ?

Her heavenly haviour, h er princely grace,Can ye well compare ?

THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e Red rose medled 1with th e White yfere,z

In either cheek depein ten lively cheerHermodest eye,Hermajesty,

Where have you seen th e l ike but there ?

I saw Calliope speed h er to th e placeWhere my goddess shines ;

And after h er th e other Muses traceWith their violines.

Bin they not bay-branches which theyAll for Eliz a in h er hand to wear ?

So sweetly they play,And sing all th e way,

That it a heaven is to hear.

Lo, how finely th e Graces can it footTo th e instrument

They dancen deftly, and singen soot 3

In the ir merriment.Wants not a fourth Grace to make th e dance even ?Let that room to my Lady b e given.

Sh e shall b e a Grace,To fill th e fourth place,

And reign Wi th th e rest in heaven.

Bring hither th e Pink andpurple Columbine,With Gillyflow ers ;

Bring Co ronations,

4 and Sops-in-wineWorn of Paramours

1Mixed.3 Together. 3 Sweet . 4Carnations.

SIRENA 59

Strow m e th e ground with Dafl’

adowndillies,

AndCowslips and K ingcups and loved LiliesTh e pretty Paunce

1

And th e Ch evisaunce ’

Shall match with th e fair Flower-delice.

3

Spenser.

v r

SIRENA

NEAR to th e Silver TrentSIRENA dwel leth

Sh e to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth ;

By which th e Muses lateAnd th e neat Graces

Have for the ir greater stateTaken the ir places

Twisting an anademWherewith to crown h er,

As it belonged to themMost to renown h er.

On thy bank,

In a rank,

Andwith their music

Along let them bring her.

Tagus and PadolusAre to thee debtor

,

Nor for the ir gold to us

Are they th e better1Pansy.

2 Wall-flower. 3 Iris.

THE GOLDEN POMP

Henceforth of all th e restBe thou th e RiverWhich

,as th e daintiest,

Puts them down ever.For as my precious oneO

’

er thee doth travel,Sh e to pearl paragonTurneth thy gravel .

On thg bank .

Our mournful Philomel,That rarest tuner,

Henceforth in AprilShall wake th e sooner

,

And to h er shall complainFrom th e thick cover

,

Redoubling every strain

Over and over :

For when my Love too longHer chamber keepeth,

As though it sufl'

er’

d wrong,Th e Morning weepeth .

On thy bank

Oft have I seen th e Sun ,

To do h er honour,

Fix himself at his noonTo look upon h er ;

And hath gilt every grove,Every hill near h er,

With his flam es from above

Striving to cheer h er

SIRENA 6]

And when sh e from his sightHath herself turned,

He,as it had b een night,

In clouds hath mourned .

On thy bank

Th e verdant meads are seen,When sh e doth view them,

In fresh and gallant greenStraight to renew them ;

And every little grassBroad itself spreadeth,

Proud that this b onny lassUpon it treadeth

Nor flower i s so sweetIn this large cincture,

But it upon h er feetLeaveth some tincture .

On thy bank

Th e fishes in th e flood,When sh e doth angle,

For th e hook strive a-goodThem to entangle

And leaping on th e land,From th e clear water,

The ir scales upon th e sandLavishly scatter

-Therewith to pave th e mouldWhereon sh e passes,

So herself to beholdAs in h er glasses .

On thy bank .

THE GOLDEN POMP

When sh e looks out by night,Th e stars stand gaz ing,

Like comets to our sightFeartully blaz ing

As w ond’

ring at h er eyesWith the irmuch b rightness,

Which so am az e th e skies,Dimming the ir lightness .

The raging tempests are calmWhen sh e speaketh,

Such most delightsome balmFrom h er lips breaketh .

O n thy bank

In all our BrittanyThere

’

s not a fairer,Nor can you fit any

Should you compare h er.

Angels h er eye-lids keep,

All hearts surprising ;Which look whilst sh e doth sleepLike th e sun

’ s rising

Sh e alone of h er kindKnoweth true measure,

And h er unmatched m indIs heaven ’s treasure .

On thy bank

Fair Dove andDerwent clear,Boast ye your beauties,

To Trent your mistress here

Yet pay your duties

THE GOLDEN POMP

LXVII

PERIGOT AND WILLY ’

S ROUNDELAY

It fell upon a holy eve,

(Hey ho, holidayWhen holy fathers wont to shrive,(Now

’

ginneth this roundelay),Sitting upon a hil l so high,

(Hey ho, th e high hillTh e while my flock did feed thereby,Th e while th e shepherd

’

s self did spill

I saw th e bouncing Bel libone,

(Hey ho, Bonnib ellTripping over th e dale alone

(Sh e can trip i t very wellWel l decked in a frock of gray,

(Hey ho, gray is greet ll)

And in a kirtle of green say

(Th e green is for maidens meet )

PER. A chaplet on h er head sh e wore,WILL.

PER

WILL.

PER

WILL.

(Heyho, th e chapletOf sweet viole ts therein was store,— Sh e sweeter than th e violet.

My sheep did leave their wonted food,

(Hey ho, silly sheepPER. And gaz ed on h er as they were wood,3

WILL. -Wood as h e that did them keep.

1Weeping .3 Sate, silk. Wild, distraught.

PERIGOT AND WILLY’

S ROUNDELAY

As th e bonny lass pass’

d by,

(Hey ho, bonny lassSh e roved at m e with glancing eye,

As clear as th e crystal glass :All as th e sunny beam so bright,

(Hey ho, th e sunbeam !)Glan ceth from Phoebus

’ face forth-right,So love into my heart did stream.

Th e glance into my heart did glide,

(Heyho, th e gliderTherewith my soul was Sharply grideSuch wounds soon waxen wider.

Hasting to wraunch th e arrow out,

(Hey ho, PerigotI left th e head in my heart-root.It was a desperate shot.

There i t rankleth aye more and more,

(Heyho, th e arrowNor can I find salve for my sore

(Love is a cure less sorrow.)And if for graceless grief I die

(Hey ho, graceless grief !)Witness, sh e slew m e with h er eye.

Let thy folly b e th e prief.2

And you that saw it,simple sheep

(Hey ho, th e fair flockFor prief thereof my death shall weepAnd moan with many a mock.

1 Pierced. 2 Proof.

65

THE GOLDEN POMP

PER. So learn'

d I love on a holy eve

WILL. (Hey-ho

,holy day

PER. That ever since my heart did grieveWILL. Now endeth our roundelay.

Spenser.

A ROUNDELAY

BETWEEN Two SHEPHERDS

TELL me, thou skilful shepherd swain,Wh o ’

s yonder in th e valley set ?

0,it is she

,whose sweets do stain

Why doth th e sun against h is kindS tay his b right chariot in th e skies ?

He pauseth, almost stricken blindWith gaz ing on her heavenly eyes.

Why do thy flocks forbear their food,Which sometime was their chief del ight ?

Because they needno other good

That live in presence ofher sight.

How come these flowers to flouri sh still,

Not w ith’

ring with sharpWinter’ s breath ?

She hath robb’

dNature of her skill,And comforts all things with her breath .

FAIR AND FAIR

Why slide these brooks so slow away,As swift as th e wild roe that were ?

0,muse not, shepherd, that they stay,

When they her heavenly voice do hear.

From whence come all these goodly swains ,And lovely girls attired in green ?

From gathering garlands on the plains,

To crown ourfair the Shepherds’

Queen.

The sun that lights this world below,

Flocks,flowers, andbrooks will witness bear ,

These nymphs and shepherds all do know

That it is she is onlyfair.M. Drayton.

LXIX

FAIR AND FAIR

( ENONE . FAIR and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may b e

Th e fairest shepherd on our green,A love for any lady.

PARIS. Fair and fair, and twice so fair,As fair as any may b e

Thy love is fair for thee alone,And for no other lady.

( ENONE. My love i s fair, my love i s gay,As fresh as bin th e flowers in May,And of my love my roundelayMy merry, merry, merry roundelay,

68 THE GOLDEN POMP

Concludes with Cupid’

s curse,

‘They that do change old love for new ,

Pray gods they change for worseAMBO SIMUL. They that do change old love for new

Pray gods they change for worse !

Fair and fair,etc.

Fair and fair, etc .

Thy love is fair, etc .

(ENONE. My love can pipe, my love can sing,My love can many a pretty thing,And of his lovely praises ringMy merry, merry, merry roundelays

,

Amen to Cupid’s curse,

They that do change, etc .

They that do change, etc.

Fair and fair, etc.

Geo. Peels.

A MADRIGAL

LIKE th e Idalian queen,Her hair about h er eyn e,With neck andbreast

’

s ripe apples to b e seen,At first glance of th e m om

In Cyprus’ gardens gathering those fair flow ’

rs

Which of h er blood were born,I saw,

but fainting saw, my paramours.

BEAUTY BATHING 69

Th e Graces naked danced about th e place,Th e winds and trees amaz edWith silence on h er gaz edTh e flower did smile, like th ose upon h er faceAnd as their aspen stalks those fingers band,That sh e might read my case,A hyacinth I wished m e in h er hand .

DrummondofHawthornden.

LXXI

BEAUTY BATHING

BEAUTY sat bathing by a spring,Where fairest shades did hide h er;

Th e W inds blew calm ,th e birds did sing

,

Th e cool streams ran beside h er.

My wanton thoughts enticed mine eye

To see what was forbiddenBut better memory said Fie ;So vain desire was chidden

Hey nonny nonny O !Hey nonny nonny !

Into a slumber then I fell,And fond imagination

Seemed to see, but could not tell,Her feature or h er fashion

But ev ’n as babes in dreams do smile,And sometimes fall a-weeping,

So I awaked as wise that whileAs when I fell a-sleeping.

AnthonyMunday.

70 THE GOLDEN POMP

LXXII

DISCREET‘ OPEN th e door ! Wh o ’

s there withinTh e fairest of thy mother

’ s kin,

O come, come,come abroad

And hear th e shrill birds sing,Th e air with tunes that load

It i s too soon to go to rest,

Th e sun not midway yet to west,Th e day doth miss thee

And will not part until it kiss thee .

’

Were I as fair as you pretend,Yet to an unknown seld-seen 1 friend,I dare not ope th e doorTo hear th e sweet birds singOft proves a dangerous thing.

Th e sun may run his wonted raceAnd yet not gaz e on my poor faceTh e day may miss m e

Therefore depart you shall not kiss m e.

’

Anon.

LXXIII

THE WAKENING

ON a time th e am orous SilvySaid to h er shepherd, Sweet, how do ye ?K iss m e this once and then God b e with ye,

My sweetest dear !

K iss m e this once and then God b e with ye,For now th e morn ing draweth near.

’

72 THE GOLDEN POMP

Ever by thy honour spokeFrom that place th e morn is brokeTo that place day doth unyoke

HYMN TO DIANA

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,Now th e sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keepHesperus entreats thy light,G oddess excellently bright.

Earth,let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interposeCynthia

’

s shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close

Bless us then with wished sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy b ow of pearl apart,And thy crystal- shining quiver ;

Give unto th e flying hartSpace to b reathe, how short soever

Thou that m ak’

st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright.B. Jonson.

ANTIQUE COURTSHIP 73

LXXVI

THE CHASE

ART thou gone in haste ?I ’ ll not forsake thee

Runn’

st thou ne’

er so fast,I ’

ll overtake theeO

’

er th e dales, o’

er th e downs,Through th e green meadows,

From th e fields through th e towns,To th e dim shadows.

All along th e plain,To th e low fountains,

Up and down againFrom th e high mountains ;

Echo then shall againTell h er I follow,

And th e floods to th e woodsCarry my holla

Holla !Ce ! la ! ho ! h o ! hu !

Wm. Rowley.

LXXVII

ANTIQUE COURTSHI P

IN time of yore when shepherds dweltUpon th e mountain rocks

And simple people never felt

Th e pain of lovers’

mocks ;

74 THE GOLDEN POMP

But little birds would carry tales’

Twixt Susan and h er sweeting,And all th e dainty nightingalesDid sing at lovers

’ meetingThen might you see what looks did passWhere shepherds did assemble,

And where th e l ifeof true love wasWhen hearts could not dissemble.

Then yea and nay was thought an oathThat was not to b e doub ted

And when it came tofaith and trothWe were not to be flouted .

Then did they talk of curds and cream,

Of butter, cheese, and milk ;There was no speech of sunny beamNor of th e golden silk.

Then for a gift a row of pins,A purse, a pair of knives,

Was all th e way that love beginsAnd so th e shepherd wives .

But now w e have so much ado,And are so sore aggrieved,

That when w e go about to w oo

We cannot b e believed .

Such choice of jewels, rings, and chains,That may but favour move,

And such intolerable painsEre one can hit on love ;

ROSALIND’

S MADRIGAL 75

Th at if I still Shall h ide this life’Twixt love and deadly hate,

I will go learn th e country life,Or leave th e lover

’

s state .

LXXVIII

ROSALIND’

S MADRIGAL

LOVE in my bosom,l ike a b ee,

Doth suck his sweetNow with his wings h e plays with me ,

Now with his feet.Within mine eyes h e makes his nest,His b ed amidst my tender breast ;My kisses are his daily feast,And yet h e robs m e of my rest

Ah wanton,will ye

And if I sleep, then perch eth h eWith pretty flight

,

Andmakes his pillow of my kneeTh e l ivelong night .

Strike I my lute, h e tunes th e string ;His music plays if so I sing ;He lends me every lovely thing,Yet cruel h e my heart doth sting

Whist, wanton, still ye !

76 THE GOLDEN POMP

Else I with roses eve ry dayWi ll whip you hence,

And bind you,when you long to play,

For your offence .

I ’

ll shut min e eyes to keep you in ;I ’

ll make you fast it for your sinI ’

11count your power not worth a pin .

—Alas what hereby shall I winIf h e gainsay m e ?

What if I beat th e wanton boyWith many a rod ?

He will repay m e with annoy,Because a god.

Then sit thou safely on my kneeThen let thy bower my bosom b e ;

Lurk in mine eyes, I like of thee ;O Cupid, so thou pity m e,

Spare not, but play theeT. Lody

THE SHEPHERD’

S DESCRIPTION OF

MELIBGZUS. SHEPHERD,What’

s Love,I pray thee tell ?

FAUSTUs. I t i s that fountain and that wellWhere pleasures and repentance dwell ;I t is perhaps that sauncing b ell

l

That tolls all into heaven or hellAnd this i s Love, as I heard tell.

I Saint’s bell , quad ad sanc ta voca t. Another form is sacringbell,

’

th e bell sounded at th e elevation ofth e Host.

THE SHEPHERD’S DESCRIPTION OF LOVE 77

Yet what is Love, I prithee say ?It i s a work on holiday ;I t is December matched with May,When lusty bloods in fresh arrayHear ten months after of th e playAnd this is Love, as I hear say.

Yet what is Love, good Sh epherd, sain ?1

It is a sunshine mix’

dwith rain ;It is a toothache, or like pain ;I t is a game where none doth gain ;Th e lass saith no, and would full fain ;And this is Love, as I hear sain .

MEL. Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray ?FAUST . I t is a yea, i t is a nay ;

A pretty kind of sporting fray ;It i s a thing will soon awayThen, nymphs, take vantage while ye

mayAnd this is Love, as I hear say.

MEL. Yet what is Love, good Shepherd, showFAUST . A thing that creeps it cannot go ;

A priz e that passeth to and froA thing for one, a thing for moe ;

And h e that proves shall find it soAnd, Sh epherd, this is Love, I trow.

so W. Raleigh .

78 THE GOLDEN POMP

ILXXX

YOUNGLING LOVE

TELL m e where is fancy bred,Or in th e heart or in th e head ?How begot, how nourished ?

Reply, reply.

It i s engendered in th e eyes,With gaz ing fed; and fancy diesIn th e cradle where it lies.

Let us all ring fancy’s knellI

’

ll begin it,—Ding, dong, bel l.Ding dong, bell.

Shakespeare.

LOVE S ICKNESS

LOVE is a sickness full of woes,All remedies refusing ;

A plant that with most cutting grows,Most barren with best using.

Why soMore w e enjoy it, more it diesIf not enjoy

’

d, it sighing criesHeigh ho

Love is a torment of th e mind,A tempe st everlasting

AndJove hath made it of a kind

Not well, nor full, nor fasting.

Why so

THE GOLDEN POMP

Hey, down a down !’ did Dian sing,

Amongst h er Virgins sitting‘ Than love there i s no vainer thing ,

For maidens most unfitting.

’

And so think I,with a down

,down

,derry

Anon.

LXXXIII

A COUNSEL FOR MAIDS

NEVER love un less you canBear with all th e faul ts of man !Men sometimes W il l jealous b e,Though but little cause they see,

And h ang th e head as discontent,And speak what straight they will repent.

Men that b ut one Saint adore,Make a Show of love to moreBeauty must b e sc orn

’

d in none,Though but truly served in one

For what is courtship but disguise ?

True hearts may have dissembling eyes.

Men,when their affairs require,

Must awhile themselves retireSometimes hunt and sometimes hawk,And not ever sit and talk :

If th ese and such-like you can bear,Then like and love, and never fear !

T. Compton.

FANCY AND DESIRE 8]

LXXXIV

THUS saith my Chloris bright,

When w e of love si t down and talk together‘ Beware of Love

,dear ; Love is a walking Sprite,

And Love is this and that,And, 0 ,

I know not what,And comes and goes again I wot not whither.

’

No, no, —these are but bugs 1 to breed amaz ing,For in h er eyes I saw his torchlight blaz ing .

Anon.

LXXXV

FANCY AND DESIRE

COME hither, Shepherd’

s swain‘ Sir, what do you require ?

’

I pray thee, shew to m e thy nameMy name i s Fond Desire .

’

When wert thou born, DesireIn pomp and prime of May.

’

By whom,sweet boy, wert thou begot ?

‘ By fond Conceit, m en say.

’

Tell m e w h o was thy nurse ?Fresh Youth, in sugar

’

d j oy .

’

What was thy meat and daily food‘ Sad sighs, with great annoy.

’

1 Bugbears.

F

82 THE GOLDEN POMP

What hadst thou then to drink ?Unfeigned lovers’ tears .

’

What cradle wert thou rocked in ?In hope devoid of fears.

’

What lull’d thee then asleep ?Sweet Speech, which likes m e best .

’

Tell m e where i s thy dwe ll ing-

placeIn gentle hearts I rest.

’

What thing doth please thee most ?To gaz e on beauty stil l .

’

Whom dost thou think to b e thy foeDisdain of my good-will .’

Doth company displease ?

Yes,surely, many one.

’

Where doth Desire de light to live PHe loves to live alone .

’

Doth e ither time or ageBring him into decay ?No

,no Desire both lives and dies

A thousand times a day.

’

Then, Fond Desire, farewell !Thou art no mate for m e

I should b e loth, methinks, to dwell

With such a one as thee .

Ed. Vere, Earl ofOxford.

FIRST LOVE

LXXXVI

CASSANDRA

THE sea hath many thousand sands,Th e sun hath motes as m any ;Th e sky is full ofstars, and LoveAs full of woes as anyBelieve m e, that do know th e elf;And make no trial by thyself.

It i s in truth a pretty toyFor babes to play withal ;But O

, th e h onies of our youthAre oft our age

’

s gall !Self-proof in time will make thee knowHe was a prophet told thee so

A prophet that, Cassandra-like,Tells truth without bel ief ;For headstrong youth will run his race,Although his goal b e grief .

Love ’s martyr, when his heat is past,Prove s Care

’

s confessor at th e last.Anon.

LXXXVH

FIRST LOVE

1

IF thou long’

st so m uch to learn,sweet boy,

’

tis to love,Do b ut fix thy thoughts on me, and thou

quickly prove

84 THE GOLDEN POMP

Little suit at first shall winWay to thy ab ash t desire,

But then will I hedge thee in,Salamander-l ike with fire .

With thee dance I will,and sing, and thy fond

dalliance bearWe th e grovy hills will climb and play th e wantons

thereOther whiles w e

’

11gather flowers,Lying dallying on th e grass

And thus our delightfu l hoursFull ofwaking dreams Shall pass.

When thy joys were thus at height, my lov e shouldturn from thee,

O ld acquaintance then should grow as strange asstrange might b e

Twenty rivals thou Shouldst findBreaking all their hearts for m e,

While to al l I’

ll prove more kindAndmore forward than to thee.

Thus thy silly youth , en raged, would soon my lovedefy ;

But alas, poor soul, too late ! clipt wings can never

fly.

Those sweet hours which w e had pass’

d,

Call’

d to mind,thy heart would b urn ;

And couldst thou fly ne’

er so fast,They would make thee straight return .

T. Compton.

FIRST LOVE 85

LXXXVIII

2

SILLY boy,

’

tis full moon yet, thy night as day sh inesclearly

Had thy youth but w it to fear, thou couldst not loveso dearly.

Short ly will thou mourn when all thy pleasures arebereaved

Little knows h e how to love that never was deceived .

This is thy first maiden flame, that triumphs yetunstained

All i s art less now you speak, not one word yet isfeigned

All is h eaven that you behold, and all your thoughtsare blessed

But no spring can want h is fall, each Troilus hathh is Cressid .

Thy well-order’

d locks ere long shall rudely hangneglected ;

And thy l ively pleasant cheer read grief on earthdejected .

Much then wilt thou blame thy Saint, that madethy heart so holy,

And with sighs confess, in love that too much faith

i s folly.

Yet b e just and constant still ! Love may beget a

wonder,

Not unlike a summer’

s frost, or winter’

s fatal

thunder.

86 THE GOLDEN POMP

He that holds h is sweetheart true unto his day ofdying

,

Lives, of all that ever b reath’

d, most worthy th e

envying.

T. Campion.

LXXXIX

LOVE guards th e roses of thy lipsAnd fl ies about them like a b ee

If I approach h e forward skips,And if I kiss h e stingeth m e.

Love in thine eyes doth build his b ower,And sleeps within his pretty shrine

1

And if I look th e boy will lower,And from their orbs shoot shafts divine.

Love works thy heart within his fire,And in my tears doth firm th e same

And if I tempt it will retire,And of my plaints doth make a game.

Love, let m e cull h er choice st flowersAnd pity me, and calm h er eye ;

Make soft h er heart, dissolve h er lowersThen will I praise thy deity.

But if thou do not,Love

,I ’ ll truly serve h er

In spite of thee, and by firm faith deserve h er.

1 their pretty shine.’

THE GOLDEN POMP

O CUPID ! monarch over kings,

Wherefore has t thou feet and wings ?I t is to show how swift thou artWhen thou w ound

’

St a tender heart !Thy wings being clipt, and feet held still,Thy bow so many could not kill.

I t is all one in Venus’ wanton school,

Wh o h ighest S its, th e W ise man or th e fool .Fools in love

’ s collegeHave far more knowledgeTo read a woman overThan a neat prating loverNay

,

’tis confestThat fools please women be st.

John Lyly.

XCIII

THE K ISS

0,that j oy so soon Should waste !

Or so sweet a blissAs a kiss

Might not for ever lastSo sagar

’d, so melting, so soft, so del icious,

Th e dew that lies on roses,When th e morn herself discloses,

Is not so precious.

THE KISS

0,rather than it would I smother,

Were I to taste such another,It should b e my wishingThat I might die kissing.

B. Jonson.

XCIV

COME you pretty false-eyed wanton,Leave your crafty smiling !

Think you to escape m e nowWith slipp

’

ry words beguiling ?No you mock

’

dm e t’

other dayWhen you got loose, you fled away ;But

,since I have caught you now,

I ’ll clip your wings for flying

Smoth’

ring kisses fast I’ll heap,

And keep you so from crying.

Sooner may you count th e starsAnd number hail down-pouring,

Tell th e osiers ofth e Thames,Or Goodwin sands devouring,

Than th e thick-sh ow er’

d kisses hereWhich now thy tired lips must bear.Such a harvest never wasSo rich and full of pleasure,

But’ tis spent as soon as reap

’

d,

So trustless i s Love’

s treasure.

THE GOLDEN POMP

I DARE not ask a kiss,I dare not beg a smile,

Le st having that,or this

,

I might grow proud th e while .

No, no, th e utmost sh areOf my desire shall be

Only to kiss th e air

Herrick.

XCVI

BAS IA

TURN back,you wanton flyer,

And answer my des ireWith mutual greeting.

Yet bend a little nearer,True beauty still shines clearer

In closer meeting.

Hearts with hearts delightedShould strive to b e united

Each other’ s arm s with arm s enchaining

Hearts with a thought,Ro sy lips with a kiss still entertaining.

92 THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e compass Love shall hourly sing,And as h e goes about th e ring,

We will not missTo tell each point h e nameth with a kiss .

Then come on shore,Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more.

Wm. Browne.

xcvnI

ULYSSES AND THE S IREN

SIREN

COME,worthy Greek Ulysses

,come,

Possess these shore s with m e

Th e winds and seas are troublesome

And here w e may b e free .

Here may w e sit and view the ir toilThat travail in th e deep,

And j oy th e day in mirth th e while,And spend th e night in sleep.

ULYSSES

Fair Nymph, iffame or honour were

To b e attain’

d with ease,Then would I come and rest with thee,And leave such toils as these .

But here i t dwells, and here must IWith danger seek it forth

To spend th e time luxuriouslyBecomes not m en of worth .

ULYSSES AND THE SIREN

SIREN

Ulysses, 0 b e not dece ivedWith that unreal name

This honour is a thing conceivedAnd rests on others

’

fameBegotten only to molestOur peace, and to beguile

Th e best thing of our life— our rest,And give us up to toil.

ULYSSES

Del icious Nymph, suppose there wereNO honour nor report,

Yet manliness would scorn to wearTh e time in idle sport :

For toil doth give a better touchTo make us feel our joy,

And ease finds tediousness as muchAs labour yields annoy.

SIREN

Then pleasure likewise seems th eWhereto tends all your toil,

Which you forgo to make it more,And perish oft th e while .

Wh o may disport them diverselyF ind never tedious day,

And ease may have varietyAs well as action may.

THE GOLDEN POMP

ULYSSES

But natures of th e nob lest frameThese toils and dangers please ;

And they take comfort in th e same

As m uch as you in ease ;And with th e thought of actions pastAre recreated stillWhen Pleasure leaves a touch at lastTo Show that it w as ill.

SIREN

That doth Opinion only causeThat ’

s out of Custom bred,Which makes us many other lawsThan ever Nature did.

No widows wail for our del ights,Our sports are without blood

Th e world w e see by warlike wightsReceives more hurt than good .

ULYSSES

But yet th e state of things requireThese motions of unrest

And these great spirits of high desire

Seem born to turn them bestTo purge th e mischiefs that increaseAnd all good order m ar,

For oft w e see a wicked peaceTo b e well changed for war.

THE GOLDEN POMP

Meet you h er, my Wishes,Bespe ak h er

'to my blisses,

And b e ye call’

dmy absent kisses .

I wish h er Beauty,That owes not all its dutyTo gaudy tire, or glist

’

ring shoe-tie

Something more thanTaffata or ti ssue can,Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

A Face, that’s best

By its own beauty drest,And can alone commend th e rest

A Face made up

Out of no other sh OpThan what Nature

’

s white hand sets ope.

A Cheek, where youthAnd b lood

,with pen of truth,

Write what th e reader sweetly rueth .

A Cheek where growsMore than a morning rose,Which to no b ox his being owes.

Lips, where all dayA lover’s kiss may play,Yet carry nothing thence away.

Eyes, that displaceTh e neighbour diamond, and outface

That sunsh ine by th eir own sweet grace.

WISHES To HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

Tresses, that wearJewels but to declareHow much themselves more precious are

Whose native rayCan tame th e wanton dayOf gems that in their bright shades

Each ruby there,Or pearl that dare appear,Be its own blush

, b e its own tear.

A well tamed Heart,

For whose more noble smartLove may b e long choosing a dart.

Sydneian showersOf sweet discourse ,

whose powersCan crown old Winter’ s head with flowers.

Soft silk en hours,Open suns, shady bowers,’Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

Whate’er delightCan make Day

’s forehead bright,Or give down to th e wings ofnight.

Days that need borrowN0 part of their good Inorrow ,

From a fore-spent night of sorrow

Days that,in spite

Of darkness, by th e lightOf a clear mind are day all night .

G

THE GOLDEN POMP

Life that dares sendA challenge to h is end,And when it comes, say Welcome, friend !

I wish h er storeOf worth may leave h er poorOf wishes and I wish— no more.

Now,if Time knows

That Her, whose radiant browsWeave them a garland of my vows

Her that dare s b eWhat these lines wish to see ;

I seek no further, it is Sh e.

’Tis Sh e, and here,Lo I unclothe and clearMyWi sh

’ s cloudy character.

May sh e enj oy it,

Wh ose merit dare apply it,But modesty dares still deny

Such work as this is

Shall fix my flying wishes,And determine them to kisses .

Let h er full glory,My fancies, fly before ye ;Be ye my fictions—but h er story .

Rich. Grashaw.

100 THE GOLDEN POMP

Yet before h e stOOp’

d so lowHe his wanton eye did throwOn a stem that grew m ore high,And th e Rose did there espy.

Wh o,beside h er precious scent,

To procure h is eyes contentDid display h er goodly breast,Where h e found at full express

’

d

All th e good that Nature showersOn a thousand other flowersWherewith h e affected takes it,His beloved flower h e makes i t,And W ithout desire of moreWalks through all h e saw before.

So I wandering but erewh ereThrough th e garden of this isle,Saw rich beauties I confess,And in number numberless.Yea

,so differing lovely too,

That I had a world to doEre I could set up my rest,Where to choose and choose th e

Thus I fondly fear’

d,till Fate

(Which I must confess in thatDida greater favour to m e

Than th e world can malice do m e)Show

’

d to m e that matchless flower,Subject for this song ofour ;

FLOS FLORUM 101

Whose perfection having eyed,Reason instantly espiedThat Desire, which ranged abroad,There would find a periodAnd no marvel if it might,For it there hath all delight,And in h er hath nature placedWhat each several fair one graced .

Let who list for m e advanceTh e admired flowers ofFrance,Let who will praise and beholdTh e reserved Marigold ;Let th e sweet-b reath

’

d Violet nowUnto whom Sh e pleaseth bowAnd th e fairest Lily spreadWhere sh e will h er golden headI have such a flower to wearThat for those I do not care.

Let th e young and happy swainsPlaying on th e Britain plainsCourt unblamed their shepherdesses,And with the ir gold curled tre ssesToy uncensored, until IGrudge at their prosperity.

Let all times, both present, past,And th e age that shall b e last,Vaunt th e beauties they bring forth .

I have found in one each worth,

102 THE GOLDEN POMP

That content I ne ither careWhat th e best before -m e were ;Nor des ire to live and see

Wh o shall fair hereafter beFor I know th e hand of NatureWill not make a fairer creature .

G.

SPRING SONG

Now each creature j oys th e other,

Passing happy days and hoursOn e bird reports unto anotherIn th e fall of silver Showers

Whilst th e Earth, our common mother,Hath h er bosom deck

’

dwith flowers.

Whilst th e greatest torch of heavenWith bright rays warms Flora’ s lap,

Making nights and days both even,Cheering plants with fresher sap ;

My field of flowers quite bereaven,Wants refresh of better h ap.

Echo,daughter of th e air,

Babbl ing guest of rocks and hills,Knows th e name of my fierce fair,And sounds th e accents of my ills.

Each thing pities my despair,Whilst that sh e h er lover kills.

104 THE GOLDEN POMP

PHILOMELA

1

THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringethUnto h er rested sense a perfect waking,

While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing,Springeth,

S ings out h erwoes, a thorn h er song-book making ;And mournfully bewailing,Her throat in tunes expressethWhat grief h er b reast oppresseth,

For Tereus’

force on h er chaste will prevail ing.

O Philomelafair, O take some gladnessThat here is j uster cause ofplaintful sadness

Thine earth now springs, minefadethThy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth .

Alas ! sh e hath no other cause of anguishBut Tereus

’

love,on h er by strong hand wroken ;

Wherein sh e suffering,all h er Spirits languish,

Full womanlike complains h er will was broken.

But I,who

,daily craving

,

Cannot h ave to content m e,

Have more cause to lament m e,

S ince wanting is more w oe than too much having.

0 Philomelafair, 0 tulfe some gladnessThat here is j uster cause ofplaintful sadness !

Thine earth now springs, minefadethThy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth .

SirP. Sidney.

HILOMELA 105,

As it fell upon a dayIn th e m erry month of May

,

S itting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove ofmyrtle s made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring ;Everything did banish moanSave th e Nightingale aloneSh e

, poor bird as all forlornLean

’

d h er breast up-till a thorn,And there sung th e dolefull

’

st ditty,

That to hear it was great pi ty.

Fie,fi e

,fie now would sh e cry ;Terea

,Tereu by and by ;

That to hear h er so complainScarce I could from tears refrainFor h er griefs so lively shownMade m e think upon mine own .

Ah thought I, thou mourn’

st in vain,None takes pity on thy painSenseless trees

’

they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer theeK ing Pandion h e i s dead

,

All thy friends are lapp’

d in lead ;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowingEven so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity m e.

R. Barnefield.

106 THE GOLDEN POMP

THE FAITHLESS SHEPHERDESS

WHILE that th e sun with h is beams h otScorched th e fruits in vale and mountain,

Ph ilon th e shepherd, late forgot,Sitting beside a crystal fountain

In shadow of a green oak tree,Upon his pipe this song play

’

dh e

Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love !Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love !Your mind is light

,soon lost for new love.

So long as I was in your sightI was your heart

,your soul

,your treasure ;

And evermore you sobb’

d and sigh’

d

Burning in flames beyond all measure—Three days endured your love to me,

And it was lost in other th reeAdieu

,Love

,adieu

,Love

,untrue Love !

Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love !Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

Another shepherd you did see

To whom your heart was soon enchainedFull soon your love was leapt from m e ,

Full soon my place h e had obtained .

Soon came a th ird your love to win,And w e were out and h e was in .

Adieu, Love, adieu, Love , untrue Love !

Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love !

Your mind is light,soon lost for new love.

108 THE GOLDEN POMP

A MADRIGAL

THE earth, late choked with showers,Is now array

’

d in greenHer b osom springs with flowers

,

Th e airdissolves h er teen,

Th e heavens laugh at h er gloryYet bide I sad and sorry.

Th e woods are deckt with leaves,And trees are clothed gay,

And Flora, crown

’

dwith sheaves,Wi th oaken boughs doth play

Where I am clad in black,Th e token of my wrack.

Th e birds upon th e treesDo sing with pleasan t voices,

And chant in the ir degreesTheir loves and lucky choices

When I, whilst they are singing,With sighs mine arms am wringing.

Th e thrushes seek th e shade,And I my fatal grave ;

The ir fl ight to heaven is made,My walk on earth I have :

They free, I thrall they jolly,I sad and pensive wholly.

T. Lodge.

THE BLOSSOM 109

CVIII

TO DAFFODILS

FAIR daffodils, w e weep to seeYou haste away so soon

As yet th e early-rising sunHas not attain

’

d his noon .

Stay, stayUntil th e hasting day

Has runBut to th e evensong ;

And,having prayed together, w e

Will go with you along.

We have short tim e to stay,as you

,

We have as short a springAs quick a growth to meet decay,As you

,or anything.

We die

As your hours do,and dry

Away,L ike to th e summer

’s rain ;Or as th e pearls of morn ing

’ s dew ,

Ne’

er to b e found again.

Herrick.

THE BLOSSOM

LITTLE th ink’

st thou, poor flower,Whom I have watched six or seven days,And seen thy birth, and seen what every hourGave to thy growth, thee to this height to raise,

110 THE GOLDEN POMP

And now dost laugh and triumph on this bough,Li ttle th ink’

st thouThat it will freez e anon

,and that I shal l

To-morrow find thee fall’

n,or not at all .

Li ttle th ink’

st thou, poor heart,

That lab ourest yet to nestle thee,And th ink

’

st by hovering here to get a partIn a forbidden or forbidding tree

,

And hop’

st h er stiffness by long siege to b ow ,

—Little th ink’

st thouThat thou, to-morrow, ere th e sun doth wake,Must with th e sun and m e a j ourney take .

J. Donne.

TO BLOSSOMS

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree,Why do ye fall so fast P

Your date i s not so pastBut you may stay yet here awhileTo blush and gently smile,

And go at last.

What ! were ye born to beAn hour or half’ 5 del ight ,And so to b id good night ?

’Twas pity Nature brought youMerely to show your worth

And lose you quite.

112 THE GOLDEN POMP

CXII

THE ROSE

A ROSE,as fair as ever saw th e North,

Grew in a little garden all aloneA sweeter flower did Nature ne

’

er put forth,Nor fairer garden yet was never known

Th e maidens danced about it morn and noon,

And learned bards of it the ir ditties madeTh e nimble fairies by th e pale-faced moonWater

’

d th e root and kiss’

d h er pretty shade.

But well-a-day — th e gardener careless grewTh e maids and fairies both were kept away,And in a drought th e caterpillars threwThemselves upon th e bud and every spray

God shield th e stock If heaven send no suppliesTh e fairest blossom of th e garden dies.

Wm. Browne.

CXIII

THE FUNERAL RITES OF THE ROSE

THE Rose was sick and sm iling died ;And

,being to b e sanctified,

About th e b ed there sighing stood

Th e sweet and flowery sisterhood :

Some hung th e head, while some did bring,To wash h er, water from th e spring

Some laid h er forth, while others wept,But all a solemn fast there kept

A SUMMER’

S EVENING 113

Th e holy sisters, som e among,

Th e sacred dirge and trental 1 sung.

But ah what sweets sm elt everywhere,As Heaven had Spent all perfumes there.

At last, when prayers for th e deadAnd rites were all accompl ished,They, weeping, spread a lawny loom,

And closed h er up as in a tomb.

CXIV

A SUMMER’

S EVENING

CLEAR had th e day been from th e dawn,All ch equer

’

dwas th e sky,Th e clouds, like scarfs of cobweb lawn,Veil

’

d heaven’s most glorious eye .

Th e wind had no more strength than this,—That lei surely it blew

TO make one leaf th e next to kissThat closely by it grew.

Th e rills,that on th e pebbles play

’

d,

Might now b e heard at willThis world th e only music made,Else everything was still.

Th e flowers, like brave em b roider’

d girl s,

Look’

d as they most desiredTo see whose head with orient pearlsMost curiously was tyred .

1 Tren tal, a service for th e dead, of thirty masses, usuallybratedupon as many different days.

5!

114 THE GOLDEN POMP

And to itself th e sub tle airSuch sovere ignty assumes,

That it rec eiv ’

d too large a shareFrom Nature

’

s rich pe rfumes .M. Drayton.

ROSALINE

LIKE to th e clear in highest sphereWhere all imperial glory shines,

Of selfsame colour is h er hairWhether unfolded or in twines

Heigh ho, fair Rosaline !

Her eyes are sapphires set in snow,

Resembling heaven by every wink

Th e gods do fear Whenas they glow,

And I do tremble when I thinkHeigh ho, would sh e were m ine

Her cheeks are like th e blushing cloudThat b eautifies Aurora

’

s face,

Or like th e silver crim son shroudThat Phoeb us

’

smil ing looks doth graceHe igh ho, fair Rosaline

Her lips are l ike two b udded rosesWhom ranks of lilie s neighbour nigh

,

Within whose bounds sh e balm encloses

Apt to entice a de ity :He igh ho, would sh e were m ine

116 THE GOLDEN POMP

CXVI

BEAUTY AND RHYME

l

WHEN in th e chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of t h e fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rhymeIn praise Ofladies dead and lovely knights ;

Then,in th e blaz on Ofsweet beauty

’

s be st,Of hand

,Offoot

,of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have exprest

Even such a beauty as you master now.

SO all the ir prai ses are but propheciesOf this our time ,

all you prefiguringAnd for they look

’

d but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing

For we, who now b ehold these present days,Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise .

( XVII

2

LET others sing OfKnights and PaladinesIn aged accents and untimely words

,

Paint shadows in imaginary lines,

Which w ell th e reach of their high wit records

But I must sing of thee, and those fair eyesAuthentic shall my verse in time to come

,

When yet th’

un b or n shall say, LO, where sh e l ies !

Whose beauty made him speak, that e lse was dumb !

BEAUTY AND RHYME 117

These are th e arcs, th e trophies I erect,That fortify thy nam e against old age ;

And these thy sacred virtues must protectAgainst th e Dark, and Time

’

s consum ing rage.

Though th'

error of my youth in them appear,Suflice, they show I lived, and loved thee dear.

S. Daniel.

CXVIII

ONE dayI wrote h er name upon th e strand,But came th e wave s and washed it awayAgain I wrote i t with a second hand,But came th e tide and made my pains his prey.

Vain man ( said sh e) that dost in vain assayA m ortal thing so to immortaliseFor I myself shall l ike to this decay,And eke my name b e wiped out likewise.

Not so (quod I) ; let baser things deviseTo die in dust, but you shall live by fame ;My verse your virtues rare shall eternise,And in th e heavens write your glorious name

Where, whenas Death shall all th e world subdue,Our love shall live, and later life renew.

THE GOLDEN POMP

CXIX

IF thou survive my well-contented dayWhen that churl Death my bones with dust shall

cover,And shall by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines Ofthy deceased lover,

Compare them with th e bettering of th e time ,

And though they b e outstripp’

d by every pen,Re serve them for my love, not for the ir rhyme

,

Exceeded by th e height of happier m en .

0 then vouchsafe m e but this loving thought

Had my friend’

s Muse grown with this growingage,

A dearer birth than this h is love had broughtTo march in ranks Ofbetter equipage

But since h e died, and poets better prove,The irs for their style I

’l l read, his for h is love .

’

NOT mine own fears,nor th e prophetic soul

Ofth e wide world dreaming on things to come,Can yet th e lease of my true love control,Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom .

120 THE GOLDEN POMP

Sweet, afl’

ordme then your sight !That

,surveying all your looks,

Endless volumes I may writeAnd fill th e world with envied books

W'

hich when after-ages view,

All shall wonder and despair,Woman to find a man so true ,Or man a woman h alf so fair.

CXXII

A PRAISE OF HIS LADY

GIVE place, you ladies, and begone !Boast not yourselves at all

For here at hand approacheth one

Whose face will stain you all.

Th e virtue of h er l ively looksExcels th e precious stone

I wish to have none other b ooksTo read or look upon .

In each of h er two crystal eyesSmileth a naked boy

It would you all in heart suffice

A PRAISE OFHIS LADY 121

I th ink Nature hath lost th e mouldWhere sh e h er shape did take ;

Or else I doubt if Nature couldSo fair a creature m ake.

Sh e m ay b e well comparedUnto th e Phoenix kind,Whose l ike was never seen nor heardThat any man can find.

In l ife sh e is Diana chaste,In truth Penelope

In word and eke in deed steadfast.—What will you more w e say 7‘

If all th e world were sought so far,Wh o could find such a Wight ?

Her beauty twinkleth l ike a starWithin th e frosty night.

Her roseal colour comes and goesWith such a comely grace,

More ruddier,too

,than doth th e rose,

Within h er lively face.

At Bacchus’ feast none shall h er meet,Ne at no wanton play,

Nor gaz ing in an open street,Nor gadding as a stray.

122 THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e modest mirth that sh e doth use

Is m ix’

d‘with sham efastnessAl l vice sh e wholly doth refu se,And hateth idleness .

O Lord ! i t is a world to see

How Virtue can repair,And deck h er in such honesty,Whom Nature m ade so fair.

Truly sh e doth so far exceedOur women nowadays,

As doth th e gillyflow er a weedAnd more a thousand ways .

How might I do to get a graffOf this unspotted tree ?For all th e rest are plain but chaff,Which seem good corn to b e.

This gift alone I shall h er give ;When death doth what h e can,

Her honest fame shall ever liveWithin th e mouth ofman .

John Heywood.

CXXIII

ELIZ ABETH OF BOHEM IA

YOU meaner be auties of th e night,

That poorly satisfy our eyesMore by your number than your light,You comm on people Ofth e skies ;Wh at are you when th e moon s h all rise ?

124 THE GOLDEN POMP

Cupid is winged and doth range,Her country so my love doth changeBut change sh e earth, or change sh e

Yet will I love h er til l I die.

Anon.

CXXV

HIS SUPPOSED MISTRESS

IF I freely may discoverWhat would please m e in my lover,I would have h er fair and witty,Savouring more of court than city ;A little proud, but full of pi tyLight and hum orous in h er toying ;Oft building hope s and soon destroying ;Long

,but sweet in th e enjoying ;

Ne ither too easy,nor too hard

All extremes I would have barr’

d .

Sh e should b e allowed h er passions,So they were but used as fashions ;Sometimes froward and then frowning,Sometimes sickish and then swowning,

Every fit with change still crowning.

Purely j ealous I would have h er,Then only constant when I crave h er’Tis a Virtue should not save h er.

Th us nor h er delicates would cloy m e,

Neither h erpeevishness annoy m e.

BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR 125

CXXVI

S ILVIA

WHO is Silvia ? What is sh e,That all our swains commend h er?

Holy, fair and wise is sh e ;Th e heaven such grace did lend h er.

That sh e might admired b e.

Is sh e kind as sh e is fair ?For beauty l ives with kindness

Love doth to h er eyes repair,To help him of his blindness

And, be ing h elp’

d,inhabits there.

Then to S ilvia let us sing,That Silvia is excelling ;

Sh e excels each mortal thingUpon th e dull earth dwell ing

To h er let us garlands bring.

Shakespeare.

CXXVII

BEAUTY CLEAR AND FAIR

BEAUTY clear and fair,

Where th e airRather l ike a perfume dwells ;Where th e violet and th e roseThe ir blue ve ins and blush disclose,

And come to honour nothing else

THE GOLDEN POMP

Where to live nearAnd planted there

Is to live, and still live new ;

Where to gain a favour isMore than light, perpetual bl iss,

Make m e live by serving you.

A stranger to him se lf and all !Both th e wonder and th e st oryShall b e yours

,and eke th e glory

I am your servant, and your thrall .J. Fletcher.

A COMPARISON

1

MARK when sh e sm iles with am iable cheer,And tell m e whereto can ye liken itWhen on each eyel id sweetly do appearAn hundred Graces as in shade to sit ?

Likest it seemeth to my simple wit

Unto th e fair sunshine in summer’

s day,That

,when a dreadful storm away is fl it

,

Through th e broad world doth spread his goodly

THE GOLDEN POMP

CXXX

S O N G

Asx m e no more‘

where Jove bestows,When June is past, th e fading rose ;For in your beauty

’

s orient deepThese flowers, as in their caus es, sleep.

Ask m e no more whither do strayTh e go lden atoms of th e dayFor in pure love heaven did prepareThose powders to enrich your hair.

Ask m e no more whither doth hasteTh e nightingale when May i s past ;For in your sweet dividing throat

Sh e winters and keeps warm h er note.

Ask m e no more where those stars lightThat downwards fall in dead of night ;For in your eyes they sit, and thereFixed become as in their Sphere.

Ask m e no more if east or west

Th e Phoen ix builds h er spicy nestFor unto you at last sh e fl ies,And in your fragrant bosom dies.

T. Carew,

CHERRY-RIPE 129

CXXXI

CHERRY-RIPE

CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cry,Full and fair ones come and buy.

If so b e you ask m e whereThey do grow,

I answer : ThereWhere my Julia

’

s lips do smileThere

’ s th e land, or cherry- isle,Whose plantations fully ShowAll th e year where cherries grow.

CXXXII

2

THERE is a garden in h er faceWhere roses and white lilies blow ;

A heavenly paradise is that placeWherein all pleasant fruits do flowThere cherries grow that none may buyTill Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do encloseOforient pearl a double row,

Which when h er lovely laughter shows,

They look like rose-buds fill’

dwith snow ;Yet them nor peer nor prince may buyTill Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.

I

130 THE GOLDEN POMP

Her eyes like angel s watch them stillHer brows like b ended bows do stand

,

Threat’

ning with piercing frowns to kil lAll that attempt with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry .

T. Campion.

CXXXIII

DRESS AND UNDRESS

Mv Love in h er attire doth Show h er wit,

I t doth so well become h er ;

For every season sh e hath dressings fit,

For Winter,Spring, and Summer.

NO beauty sh e doth missWhen all h er robes are on

But Beauty’

s self sh e i sWhen all h er robes are gone .

Anon .

CXXXIV

S IMPLEX MUNDITIIS

STILL to b e neat, still to b e drest,As you were going to a feast ;Still to b e powder

’

d,stil l perfumed

Lady,i t is to b e presumed,

Though art’s hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound .

132 THE GOLDEN POMP

DELIGHT IN DISORDER

A SWEET disorder in th e dressK indles in clothes a wantonne ssA lawn about th e shoulders thrownInto a fin e distraction :

An erring lace, which here and thereEnthrals th e crimson stomacherA cuffneglectful, and therebyRibbons to flow confusedly :A winning wave, deserving note,In th e tempestuous petticoatA careless shoe-string, in whose tieI see a wild civilityDO m ore bewitch m e than when artIs too precise in every part.

CXXXVII

UPON JULIA’

S CLOTHES

WHENAS in silks my Julia goes,Then

,then , methinks, how sweetly flows

Th e liquefact ion Ofh er cloth es !

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see

That brave vibration each way free,—0 how that glittering taketh m e !

THE COMPLETE LOVER 133

CXXXVIII

THE COMPLETE LOVER

1. He

FOR h er gait, if sh e b e walking ;Be sh e S itting

,I desire h er

For h er state’s sake ; and admire h er

For h er wit if sh e b e talking ;G ait and state and wit approve h er ;For which all and each I love h er.

Be Sh e sullen, I commend h erFor a modest. Be sh e merry,For a kind one h er prefer I .Briefly, everything doth lend h er

So much grace, and so approve h er,That for everything I love h er.

Wm. Browne.

cxxx1x

2 . She

LOVE not m e for comely grace,For my pleasing eye or face,Nor for any outward part,N0

,nor for a constant heartFor these may fail or turn to ill,So thou and I shall sever

Keep, therefore, a true woman’

s eye,And love m e still but know not why

So hast thou th e same reason stillTo doat Upon m e ever !

Anon.

134 THE GOLDEN POMP

MY LADY’

S HAND

O GOODLY handWhere in doth stand

My heart distraught in painDear hand, alasIn little space

My life thou dost restrain .

O fingers slightDeparted right,

SO long,so small

,so round ;

Goodly begone,And yet a bone,

Most cruel in my wound .

And roses brightDoth strain thy colour

Nature did lendEach finger

’

s end

A pearl for to repair.

Consent at last,S ince that thou hast

My heart in thy demesne,

136 THE GOLDEN POMP

CXLII

A DOUBLE DOUBTING

LADY,when I behold th e roses sprouting,

Which clad in damask mantles deck th e arbours,And then behold your lips where sweet love

My eyes present m e with a double doubtingFor viewing both alike ,

hardly my mind supposesWhether th e roses b e your lips, or your lips th e roses .

Anon.

CXLIII

ROSE-CHEEE’

D Laura, come ;S ing thou smoothly with thy beauty

’

s

Silent music, e ither other

Sweetly gracing.

Lovely forms do flowFrom concent divinely framedHeaven is music, and thy beauty

’ sBirth is heavenly.

These dull notes w e SingDi scords need for helps to grace them ;

Only beauty purely lovingKnows no discord

But still moves de light,Like clear springs ren ew

’

d by flowingEver perfect, ever in them

selves eternal.

To DIANEME 137

CXLFV

CHLORIS IN THE SNOW

I SAW fair Ch loris walk alone,When feath er

’

d rain came softly down,

AS Jove descending from his TowerTo court h er in a Silver Shower

Th e wanton snow flew to h er breast,Like pretty birds into the ir nest,But, overcome with whiteness there,For grief it th aw

’

d into a tearThence falling on h er garment

’s h em,

To deck h er, froz e into a gem .

Anon.

CXLV

PRETTY twinkling starry eyes,How did Nature first deviseSuch a sparkling in your sightAs to give Love such delightAs to make him,

l ike a fly,

Play with looks until h e die ?

N . Breton.

CXLVI

TO DIANEME

SWEET , b e not proud of those two eyesWhich starlike sparkle in the ir skiesNor b e you proud that you can see

All hearts your captives, yours yet free ;

188 THE GOLDEN POMP

Be you not proud of that rich hairWhich wantons with th e love- sick air ;Whenas that ruby which you wear,Sunk from th e tip of your soft ear,Will last to b e a precious stoneWhen all your world of beauty ’ s gone .

CXLVII

TO CEL IA

DRINK to m e only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine ;

Or leave a kis s but in th e cup

And I’

11not look for wine .

Th e thirst that from th e soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine

But might I of Jove’

s nectar sup,I would not change for thine .

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope that thereIt cou ld not w ith er

’

d b e

But th en thereon didst only breatheAnd sent

’

st i t back to m e

Since when it grows, and smells,I swear

,

Not of itself but thee !B. Jonson.

140 THE GOLDEN POMP

If in h er hair so slenderLike golden nets entwinedWhich fire and art have ’

fined,

Her thrall my heart I renderFor ever to ab ideWith locks so dainty tied.

If in h er eyes Sh e bind it,Wherein that fire was framedBy which it is inflamed,

I dare not look to find itI only wish it sightTo see that pleasant light.

But if h er breast have deignedWith kindness to rece ive it,I am content to leave it,

Th ough death thereby were gained.

Then, Lady, take your ownThat lives for you alone .

So sweet is thy discourse to me,

And so delightful is thy Sight,As I tast e nothing right but thee.

O why invented Nature lightWas it alone for Beauty

’

s sake,That h er graced words might better take ?

DEVOTION 141

NO more can I old j oys recallThey now to m e become unknown ,

Not seeming to have been at all.Alas ! how soon is this Love grownTo such a spreading height in meAs with it all must sh adow

’

d b e

T. Campion.

DEVOTION

FAIN would I change that noteTo which fond Love hath ch arm

’

d

Long long to sing by rote,

Fancying that that h arm’

dm e

Yet when this thought doth come,Love is th e perfect sum

Of all del ight,’

I have no other choiceEither for pen or voice

TO sing or write.

0 Love, they wrong thee muchThat say thy sweet is bitter,When thy rich fruit i s suchAs nothing can b e sweeter.Fair house of j oy and bliss,Where truest pleasure is,

I do adore theeI know thee what thou art,I serve thee with my heart,

And fall before thee .

Anon.

142 THE GOLDEN POMP

A RECANTATION

0 LOVE,sweet Love, 0 high and heavenly Love !

Th e court of pleasures, paradise Ofrest,Without whose circuit all things bitter prove,Wi thin whose ceinture every wretch is blest

O grant m e pardon, sacred de ity,I do recant my former heresy

And thou, th e dearest idol of my thought,Whom love I did

,and do

,and always will

O pardon What my coy disdain hath wrought,My coy disdain

,th e author of this il l :

And for th e pride that I have show’d before

,

By Love I swear I’

l l love thee ten tim es more .

Anon.

CLIII

VIA AMORIS

HIGHWAY, since you my chief Parnassus b e,And that my Muse, to some ears not unsweet,Tempers h er words to trampling horses

’

feetMore oft than to a chamber-melody,

Now blessed you bear onward blessed m e

To h er, where I my heart , safe-left, shall meet ;

My Muse and I must you of duty greet

With thanks and wishes, wish ing thankfully ;

144 THE GOLDEN POMP

2

WHEN to th e sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance Ofthings past,I sigh th e lack of many a thing I sought

,

And with Oldwoes new wail my dear time’s waste

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death’ s dateless night,

Andweep afresh love’

s long-since cancell’

d w oe,

And moan th ’

expense Ofmany a vanish’

d S ight

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from w oe to woe tell o

’

er

Th e sad account Offore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as ifnot paid before .

But if th e while I think on thee, dear Friend,All losses are restored and sorrows end.

CLVI

3

THY bosom is endeared with all heartsWhich I

,by lacking

,have supposed dead

And there re igns Love,and all Love’

s loving parts,And all those friends which I thought buried.

How many a holy and obsequious tear

Hath dear re ligious love stol’

n from m ine eye,

As interest for th e dead — which now appear

But things removed that hidden in thee lie.

THE UNFADING BEAUTY 145

Thou art th e grave where buried love doth live,Hung with th e trophies of my lovers gone,Wh o all the ir parts of m e to thee did give-That due of many now is thine alone

The ir im ages I loved I View in thee,And thou

,all they

,hast all th e all Ofm e.

CLVII

THE INTERPRETER

THOUGH others may h er brow adoreYet more must I, that there in see far moreThan any other

’

s eyes have power to seeSh e is to m e

More than to any others sh e can b e !

I can discern more secret notesThat in th e margin of h er cheek Love quotes,Than any else beside have art to read

NO looks proceedFrom those fair eyes b ut to me wonder breed .

Anon.

CLVIII

THE UNFADING BEAUTY

HE that loves a rosy cheek,Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seekFuel to maintain his fires

x

‘

146 THE GOLDEN POMP

As old Time makes these decay,SO his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,G entle thoughts and calm desires,

Hearts with equal love com bined,K indle never-dying fires

Where these are not, I despiseLovely cheeks or lips or eyes .

CLIX

YEA OR NAY

1

MADAM,withouten many words

Once I am sure you will or no ;And ifyou will

,then leave your boards}

And use your wit and show it so .

For with a h eck you shall m e call ;And if of on e that b urns alway

You have pi tie or ruth at all,Answer him fair with yea or nay.

If it b e yea, I shall b e fain ;If it b e nay, friends as b efore ;

You shall another man Obtain,

And I mine own, and yours no more .

1 Tackings to andfro. A vessel tacking is still said to makeboards.

’

148 THE GOLDEN POMP

CLXI

THE PRIMROSE

ASK m e why I send you hereTh is firstling of th e infant year ?

Ask m e why I send to youThis Primrose, all b epearl

’

dwith dewI straight whisper to your earsTh e sweets of love are wash

’

dwith tears .

Ask m e why this flower does ShowSO yellow-green and sickly too ?

Ask me why th e stalk is weakAnd bending, yet it doth not break ?

I wil l answer : These discoverWh at doubts and fears are in a lover.

T Carew or R. Herrick.

CLXII

LOVE’

S CASUISTRY

Ir love make m e forsworn,how shall I swear to love ?

Ah,never faith could hold

,if not to beauty vow

’

d !

Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’

ll faithful prove ;Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee l ike

osiers how’

d.

LOVE’

S CASUISTRY 149

Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes,Where all those pleasures live that art would

comprehend ;If knowledge b e th e mark, to know thee Shall suffice ;Well learned is that tongue th at well can thee

commend ;

All ignorant that soul that sees thee withoutwonder ;

Wh ich is to m e some praise that I thy parts admire.

Thy eye Jove’ s lightning bears, thy voice his dread

ful thunder,Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.

Celestial as thou art, 0 pardon love this wrong

That sings heaven’

s praise with such an earthlytongue.

CLXl l l

DID not th e heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,’

Gainst whom th e world cannot hold argument,Persuade my heart to this false perjury ?

Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.

A woman I forswore but I will prove,Thou being a goddess, I forswore not theeMy vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love ;Thy grace being gain

’

d cures all disgrace in me.

150 THE GOLDEN POMP

Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour isThen thou, fair sun

,which on my earth dost

shine,Exh al

’

st this vapour-vow in thee i t i sIf broken then, i t is no faul t of mine ;

I f by m e broke, what fool is not so wiseTo lose an oath to win a paradise ?

Shakespeare.

CLXIV

A NYMPH’

S PASSION

I love, and h e loves m e again,Yet dare I not tell who ;

For if th e nymphs should know my swain,I fear they

’

d love him too ;

Yet if it b e not known,Th e pleasure is as good as none ;

For that’

s a narrow j oy is but our own .

I’

ll tell, that if they b e not glad,They yet may envy m e

But then if I grow j ealous m ad,

And of them pi tied b e,

152 TIDE GOLDEN POMP

CLXV

TO HIS BOOK

HAPPY ye leaves whenas those lily hands,Which hold my life in their dead-doing might

,

Shall handle you ,and held in love

’s soft bands,

Like captives trembling at th e Victor’s sight

And happy lines, on which with starry lightThose lamping eye s will deign sometime to lookAnd read th e sorrows of my dying sprite,Written with tears in heart’ s close bleeding book

And happy rhymes, bathed in th e sacred brookOfHelicon, whence sh e derived is,When ye behold that angel

’ s blessed look,My soul

’

s long lacked feed, my heaven’

s bli ss

Leaves, l ines, and rhymes, seek h er to please alone,Whom ifye please, I care for other none.

Spenser.

CLXVI

UPON JULIA’

S RECOVERY

DROOP, droop no more, or hang th e head,Ye roses almost witheredNow strength and newer purple get,Each here declining violet ;O primroses let this day b eA resurrection unto ye,

TO DAISIES,NOT TO SHUT SO SOON 153

And to all flowers allied in b lood,Or sworn to that sweet sisterhoodFor health on Julia

’

s cheek hath ShedClaret and cream commingledAnd those h er lips do now appearAs beams of coral, b ut more clear.

CLXVII

THE BRACELET : TO JULIA

WHY I tie about thy wrist,Julia, this silken twist ;For what other reason is ’

t

But to show thee how, in part,Thou my pretty captive artBut thy bond- slave i s my heart’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,Knap th e thread and thou art freeBut ’tis otherwi se with m e

— I am bound and fast bound,so

That from thee I cannot go ;If I could, I would not so.

CLXVIII

DAISIES, NOT TO SHUT SO SOON

SHUT not so soon th e dull eyed nightHas not as yet begun

To make a se izu re on th e light,Or to seal up th e sun.

154 THE GOLDEN POMP

NO marigolds yet closed are,

No shadows great appearNor doth th e early shepherd

’s starShine like a spangle here.

Stay but till my Jul ia closeHer life-begetting eye,

And let th e whole world then disposeItself to l ive or die.

Herrick.

THE NIGHT-PIECE : TO JULIA

HER eyes th e glow-worm lend thee,Th e shooting stars attend thee ;

And th e elves also,

Whose little eyes glowLike th e Sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o ’

-th e-wisp mislight thee,Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ;

But on,on thy way

Not making a stay,

Since ghost there’

s none to afl’

righ t thee.

Let not th e dark thee cumberWhat though th e moon does slumber ?

Th e stars of th e nightWi l l lend thee the ir light

Like tapers clear without number.

156 THE GOLDEN POMP

Let sailors gaz e on Stars and Moon SO freshly shining

Let them that miss th e way b e guided by th e

l ight ;I know my Lady

’

s bower,there needs no more

divining ;Affection sees in dark, and Love hath eyes bynight.

Dame Cynthia , couch awhile hold in thy h orns forshin ing,

And glad not low’

ring Night with thy too gloriousrays ;

But b e sh e dim and dark, tempestuous and repining,That in h er Spite my sport may work thy endless

praise.

And when my will is wrought, then , Cynthia, shine,good lady

,

All other nights and days in honour Ofthat night,

That happy, heavenly night, that night so dark andShady,Wherein my Love h ad eyes that lighted mydelight.

Anon.

CLXXI

SLEEPING

SLEEP, angry beauty, Sleep and fear not m e

For who a sleeping lion dares provokeIt shal l suffice m e here to sit and see

Th ose lips shut up that never kindly spoke

SLEEP 157

What Sigh t can more content a lover’ s mindThan b eauty seeming harmless, if not kind ?

My words have ch arm’

d h er, for secure Sh e sleeps,Though guilty m uch of wrong done to my love ;

And in h er slumber, see sh e close-eyed weepsDreams Often more than waking passions move .

Plead, Sleep, my cause, and make h er soft like thee,That sh e in peace may wake and pity m e !

T. Campion.

CLXXII

SLEEP

COME, Sleep ; 0 Sleep th e certain knot Ofpeace,

Th e baiting-place of wit, th e balm of w oe,

Th e poor man’

s wealth, th e prisoner’s release ,

Th’

indifferent j udge between th e high and low

With shield of proof shield me from out th e prease1

Ofthose fierce darts De spair at m e doth throw :

0 make in m e those civil wars to ceaseI will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of m e smooth pillows, sweetest b ed,A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,A rosy garland and a weary headAnd if these things

,as being thine by right

,

Move not thy heavy grace,thou shalt in m e

Livel ier than elsewhere Stella’ s image see.

SirP. Sidney.

1Press.

158 THE GOLDEN POMP

CLXXIII

INVOCATION TO SLEEP

CARE-CHARMING Sleep, thou easer of all woes,Brother to Death, sweetly thyself disposeOn this afflicted prin ce fall like a cloudIn gentle showers give nothing that is loudOr painful to h is Slumbers easy

,l ight

,

And as a purling stream,thou son of Night

Pass by his troubled senses sing his painL ike hollow murmuring wind or silver rainIn to this prince gently, O gently, slide,And kiss him into Slumbers like a bride .

J. Fletcher.

CLXXIV

ANOTHER

CARE-CHARMER Sleep, son of th e sable Night,Brother to Death, in silent darkness b orn,Relieve my languish and restore th e light ;With dark forgetting Ofmy care, return

And let th e day b e time enough to mourn

Th e shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth

Let wak ing eyes su ce to wail the ir scorn,Without th e torment Ofth e night

’

s untruth .

160 THE GOLDEN POMP

CLXXVI

THE DREAM

THE ivory,coral

,gold,

Of breast, Oflips, Ofhair,So lively S leep doth show to inward S ight,That wake I think I holdNo Shadow,

but my FairMyself so to deceive,With long-Shut eyes I shun th e irksome light.Such pleasure thus I have,Delighting in false gleams

,

If Death Sleep’

s brother b e,And souls relieved of sense have SO sweet dreams,That I would wish m e thus to dream and die .

DrummondofHawthornden.

CLXXVII

A SWEET PASTORAL

GOOD Muse,rock m e asleep

With some sweet harmony ;Th e weary eye is not to keepThy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhileThou kn ow ’

st my heavinessBeauty is born but to beguileMy heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,That loved to feed on high,

Do headlong tumble down th e rockAnd in th e valley die.

A SIVEET PASTORAL 161

Th e bushes and th e treesThat were SO fresh and green,

DO all the ir dainty colour leese,1

And not a leaf is seen .

Th e b lackbird and th e thrushThat made th e woods to ring,With all th e rest are now at hushAnd not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, th e birdThat b ath th e heavenly throat,

Doth now,alas not once afford

Recording of a note.

Th e flowers have had a frost,Each herb hath lost h er savour,

And Phyllida th e fair hath lostTh e com fort of h er favour.

Now all these careful sightsSO kill me in conceit,

That how to hope upon delights,It i s but mere deceit.

And therefore, my sweet Muse,Thou know

’

st what help i s bestDo now thy heavenly cunning use

To set my heart at rest

And in a dream bewrayWhat fate shall b e my friend,Whether my life shall still decay,Or wh en my sorrow end.

N. Breton.

1 Lose.

162 THE GOLDEN POMP

CLXXVIII

ORPHEUS

ORPHEUS with his lute made treesAnd th e mountain tops that -freez eBow themselves when h e did sing

To his music plants and flowersEver sprung ; as sun and showersThere had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard h im play,Even th e billows of th e sea,

Hung their heads and then lay by.

In sweet music i s such art,K illing care and grief of heartFall asleep, or hearing, die.

CLXXIX

To MUSIC, TO BECALM HIS FEVER

CHARM m e asleep and melt m e soWith thy delicious numb ers

That,being ravish t, hence I go

Away in easy Slumbers.Ease my sick head,And make my b ed,

Thou power that canst sever

From m e this ill,And quickly still

,

Though thou not killMy fever.

164 THE GOLDEN POMP

Now I in you without a body move,Rising and fall ing with your wings

We bo th together sweetly l ive and love,Yet say sometimes, God help poor kings

Comfort, I’

11die ; for if you post from me

Sure I shall do so and much moreBut if I travel in your company,You know th e way to Heaven

’

s door.Geo. Herbert.

CLXXXI

TEARS

WEEP you no more, sad fountains ;What need you flow so fast ?

Look how th e snowy mountainsHeaven

’ s sun doth gently wasteBut my Sun

’

s heavenly eyesV iew not your weeping,That now l ies Sleeping

Softly, now softly liesSleeping.

S leep i s a reconciling,A rest that peace begets

Doth not th e sun rise smil ingWhen fair at even h e sets

Rest you then, rest, sad eyesMelt not in weepingWhile she l ies sleeping

Softly, now softly liesSleeping. Anon.

IN TEARS HER TRIUMPH 165

CLXXXII

SLOW,Slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears ;

Yet slower, yet ; 0 faintly

,gentle springs !

List to th e heavy part th e music bears,Woe weeps out h er division when sh e sings .

Droop herbs and flowersFall grief in showers ;Our beauties are not ours

O,I could still

,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since Nature’

s pride is now a with ered daffodil .B. Jonson.

CLXXXIII

IN TEARS HER TRIUMPH

So sweet a kiss th e golden sun gives notTo those fresh morning drops upon th e rose,

As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote

Th e night of dew that on my cheek down flowsNor shines th e silver moon one half so brightTh rough th e transparent bosom of th e deep,

As doth thy face through tears of mine give lightThou sh in

’

st in every tear that I do weep ;NO drop b ut as a coach doth carry thee,SO ridest thou triumphing in my w oe

Do but behold th e tears that swell in m e,

And they thy glory through my grief will Show

166 THE GOLDEN POMP

But do not love thyself ; then thou wilt keepMy tears for glasses, and stil l make m e weep.

0 queen of queens how far dost thou excel,NO thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell !

Shakespeare.

IN TEARS YET EXCELLENT

I SAW my Lady weep,And Sorrow proud to b e advanced soIn those fair eyes where all perfections keep.

Her face was full of woe ;But such

‘

a w oe (believe m e) as win s more heartsThan M irth can do with h er enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair,And Passion wise Tears a delightful thingSilence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare

Sh e made h er sighs to S ing,

And all thing s with so sweet a sadness moveAs made my heart at once both grieve and love.

0 fairer than aught else

The world can show,leave Offin time to grieve

Enough, enough : your j oyful look excels

Tears kill th e heart, believe.

O strive not to b e excellent in w oe,

Which only breeds your beau ty’

s overthrow.

Anon.

168 THE GOLDEN POMP

Sure Ifthat long-with-love-acquainted eyesCan j udge of love, th en feel

’

st a lover’s case

I read it in thy looks ; thy languish’

d graceTo m e, that feel th e like, thy state descries .

Then, e

’

en of fellowship,0 Moon, tel l m e,

IS constant love deem’

d there but want of w it ?Are beauties there as proud as here they b e ?

DO they above love to be loved, and yet

Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ?DO they call virtue,

’

there, ungratefulnessSir P. Sidney.

CLXXXVII

D E L I A

FAIR is my Love and cruel as she’ s fair ;

Her brow Shades frowns, although h er eyes are

sunny,

Her smiles are lightning, though h er pride despair,And h er disdains are gal]

,h er favours honey

A modest maid,deck

’

dwith a blush of honour,

Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and loveTh e wonder Ofall eyes that look upon h er,Sacred on earth

,design

’

d a Saint above.

Chastity and b eauty, which were deadly foes,Live reconciled friends within h er brow

THE UNIVILLING ONE 169

And had Sh e pity to conjoin with those,Then who had heard th e plaints I utter now ?

For had sh e not been fair, and thus unkind,My Muse had slept, and none had known my mind .

S. Daniel.

CLXXXVIII

THOU art not fair,for all thy red and White

,

For all those rosy ornaments in thee ;Thou art not sweet, tho

’

made of mere delight,Nor fair, nor sweet— unless thou pity m e.

I will not soothe thy fancies thou shalt proveThat beauty is no beauty without love.

Yet love not m e, nor seek not to allureMy thoughts with beauty, were it more divine

Thy smiles and kisses I cannot endure,I ’

ll not b e wrapp’

d up in those arms of thineNow Show it

,if thou by a woman right

,

Embrace and kiss and love me in despite .

T. Campion.

CLXXXIX

THE UNWILL ING ONE

AH were sh e pitiful as Sh e is fair,Or but as mild as sh e i s seeming so,Then w ere my hopes greater than my despair,Then all th e world were heaven, nothing woe .

170 THE GOLDEN POMP

Ah were h er heart relenting as h er hand,That seems to melt even with th e mildest touch

,

Then knew I where to seat m e in a landUnder wide heavens, but yet there is none such .

SO as sh e shows sh e seems th e budding rose,Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower ;Sov

’

ran of beauty,like th e spray sh e grows

Compass’

d sh e is w i th thorns and canker’

d b ower.

Yet were sh e willing to b e pluck’

d and worn,

Sh e would b e gathered, though sh e grew on th em .

R. Greene.

FIRE that must flame is with apt fuel fedFlowers that will thrive in sunny soil are bredHow can a heart feel heat that no hope finds ?

Or can h e love on whom no comfort shines

Fair ! I confess there’

s pleasure in your sightSweet you have power, I grant, of all delightBut what is all to me, if I have noneChurl that you are

,t’

enjoy such wealth alone

Prayers move th e heavens b utfindno grace with youYet in your looks a heavenly form I View ;Then wil l I pray again, hoping to find

,

As well as in your looks, Heaven in your mind.

172 THE GOLDEN POMP

Then should not I such cause have foundTo wish this monstrous S ight to see,

Nor thou,alas that madest th e wound,

Should not deny m e remedyThen should one will in both remain,To ground one heart which now is twain .

W. Hunnis

CXCII

O CRUDELIS AMOR

O GENTLE Love, ungentle for thy deed ,

Thou mak’

st my heartA bloody mark

With piercing shot to bleed .

Shoot soft, sweet Love, for fear thou Shoo t amiss ;For fear too keenThy arrows been,

And hit th e heart where my Beloved is .TOO fair that fortune were, nor never I

Sh all b e so blest,Among th e rest,

That Love shall seiz e on h er by sympathy.

Then sin ce with Love my prayers b ear no boot,Th i s doth rem ainTo cease my pain,

I take th e wound and die at Venus’

foot.Geo. Peele.

A LOVER’

S DIRGE 173

CXCIII

VOBISCUM EST OPE , VOBISCUM CANDIDA TYRO

WHEN thou must home to shades of underground,And there arrived, a new admired guest,Th e beauteous spirits do engirt thee round,White Iope, blithe Helen, and th e rest,To hear th e stories of thy finish

’

d loveFrom that smooth tongue whose music hell can

move

Then wilt thou speak Ofbanqueting delights,Ofmasques and revels which sweet youth did make,Of tourneys and great challenges Ofknights,And all these triumphs for thy beauty

’s sakeVv

’

h en thou hast told these honours done to thee,Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murder m e !

T. Campion.

CXCIV

A LOVER’

S DIRGE

COME away,come away

,death,

And in sad cypres1 let m e b e laid

Fly away,

fly away, breathI am slain by a fair cruel maid .

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O prepare itMy part of death , no one so true

Did share it.

1 Cypres, crape. Cf. Autolycus’ songLawn as wh ite as driven snow,

Cypres b lack as e‘

erwas crow .

’

andMil ton s

Sab le stole ofcypxep lawn.

’—It Penu rm

174 THE GOLDEN POMP

Not a flower, not a flower sweet,On my black coffin let there b e strewn

Not a friend, not a friend greetMy poor corse, where my bones shall b e thrownA thousand thousand sighs to save

Lay m e, O,where

Sad true lover never find my graveTo weep there

Shakespeare.

CXCV

THE NOBLE FALL

1

MY spotless love hovers with purest wings,About th e temple Ofth e proudest frame

,

Where blaz e those l ights , fairest of earthly things,Which clear our clouded world with brightest flame.

My ambitious thoughts, confined in h er face,Affect no honour but what Sh e can giveMy hopes do rest in l imits of h er grace ;I weigh no comfort un less sh e relieve.

For Sh e, that can my heart imparadise,Holds in h er fairest hand what dearest i sMy Fortune

’

s wheel’ s th e circle Ofh er eyes,

Whose rolling grace deign once a turn of bliss.

All my life’s sweet consists in h er alone ;

So much I love th e most Unloving one.

S. Daniel.

176 THE GOLDEN POMP

But my vain Hopes, proud of their new -taughtfl ight

,

Enam our’

d sought to win th e sun’s fair light

,

Whose rich brightnessMoved the ir lightnessTo aspire so high

That al l scorch’

d and consumed with fire nowdrown ’d in w oe they lie.

And none but Love their woeful h ap did rue,

For Love did know that their desires were trueThough fate frowned,And now drownedThey in sorrow dwell

It was th e purest light of h eav n for whose fair lovethey fe ll .

Anon.

CXCVIII

ARISE,my Thoughts

,and mount you with th e sun !

Call all th e winds to make you speedy wings,And to my fairest Maia see you runAnd weep your last while wantonly sh e singsThen ifyou cannot move h er heart to pity,Let 0h, alas, ay me b e all your ditty.

Arise, my Thoughts, beyond th e highest star !And gently rest you in fair Maia’ s eye,For that is fairer than th e brightest areBut

,if Sh e frown to see you climb so high,

Couch in h er lap, and with a moving dittyOf smiles and love and ki sses b eg for pity.

Anon.

TRUE DEVOTION 177

CXCIX

My Thoughts are w ing’

d with Hopes, my Hopeswith Love

Mount,Love , unto th e Moon in clearest night,

And say,AS Sh e doth in th e heavens move,

In earth SO wanes and waxes my delightAnd whisper this, but softly, in h er ears,Hope oft doth hang th e head and Trust shed tears .

’

Anon.

TRUE DEVOTION

FOLLOW your saint, follow with accents sweetHaste you, sad notes, fall at h er flying feetThere, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move,And tell th e ravisher Ofmy soul I perish for h er loveBut if sh e scorn my never-ceasing pain,Then burst with sighing in h er sight

,and ne

’

erreturn again .

All that I sang stil l to h er praise did tend

Still sh e was first,stil l sh e my songs did end;

Yet sh e my love and music both doth fly,Th e music that h er echo is and beauty

’

s sympathyThen let my notes pursue h er scornful flight !

It sh all suffice that they were breath’

d and died for

h er delight.T. Campion.

THE GOLDEN POMP

THE SHADOW

FOLLOW thy fair sun,unh appy shadow

Though th en b e b lack as night,

And sh e m ade al l of light,

Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow

Follow h er, whose light thy light deprivethThough here th en liv

’

st disgraced,

And Sh e in heaven is placed,Yet follow h er whose light th e world revivetli

Follow those pure beam s, whose beauty burnethThat so have scorched theeAs thou still black must b e,

Till h er kind beams thy black to brightness turneth .

Follow h er, while yet h er glory shineth !There com es a luckless nightThat will dim all h er light

And this th e black unhappy shade divineth .

Follow still,since so thy fates ordained !

Th e sun must have his shade,Till both at once do fade,

Th e sun still proved, th e shadow still disdained .

T. Campion.

180 THE GOLDEN POMP

Lost is our freedomWhen w e submit to woman so

Why do w e need’

em

When, in their best, they work our woe ?

There is no wisdomCan alter ends by fate prefixt.O why is th e good of man with evil mixt ?Never were days yet called twoBut one night went betwixt.

T. Campion.

CCIV

THE SCORNER SCORNED

SHALL I, wasting in despair,Die because a woman

’ s fair ?Or make pale my cheeks with care’

Cause another’s rosy are ?

Be sh e fairer than th e day,Or th e flowery meads in MayIfsh e think not well of m e

,

What care I how fair sh e b e ?

Shall my silly heart be pined’

Cause I see a woman kind ?

Or a well disposed nature

Joined with a love ly feature ?

THE SCORNER SCORNED 181

Be sh e meeker, kinder, thanTurtle-dove or pelican,I f sh e b e not so to m e,

What care I how kind sh e b e ?

Shall a woman’ s virtues move

Me to perish for h er love ?Or h er well-deservings knownMake m e quite forget my Own ?

Be sh e with that goodness blestWhich may merit name of Best ;If sh e b e not such to me,

What care I how good sh e b e ?

’

Cause h er fortune seems too high,Shall I play th e fool and die

?

Sh e that bears a noble mind,If not outward helps Sh e find,Thinks what with them h e would doWh o without them dares h er woo ;And unless that mind I see,What care I how great sh e b e ?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,I will ne

’

er th e more despair ;If Sh e love m e, this believe,I will die ere sh e Shall grieve ;I f sh e slight m e when I woo,I can scorn and let h er goFor if sh e b e not for m e,

What care I for whom sh e b e ?

Geo. Wither.

182 THE GOLDEN POMP

TO HIS FORSAKEN M ISTRESS

I Do confess th ou ’

rt smooth and fair,And I might have gone near to love thee,

Had I not found th e slightest prayerThat lips could move, had power to move thee ;

But I can let thee now aloneAs worthy to b e loved by none .

I do confess thou’

rt sweet ; yet findThee such an unthrift of thy sweets,

ours are but l ike th e wind

That kisseth everything it meetsAnd since thou canst with more than one,

Th ou’

rt worthy to b e kiss’

d by none .

Th e morning rose that untouch’

d standsArm’d with h er briars, how sweet sh e smells !

But pluck’

d and strain’

d through ruder hands,

Her sweets no longer with h er dwells :But scent and beauty both are gone,And leaves fall from h er

,one by one.

Such fate ere long will thee betide

When thou hast handled been awhile,With sere flowers to b e thrown asideAnd I shall sigh

,while some will smile,

TO see thy love to every one

Hat h brought thee to be loved by none .

SirR. Ayton.

184 THE GOLDEN POMP

eev n

TO ( ENONE

WHAT conscience, say, i s it in th eeWhen I a heart had one,

TO take away that heart from m e .

And to retain thy own ?

For shame or pity now inclineTo play a loving part

Either to send m e kindly th ine,Or give m e back my heart.

Covet not both but if thou dostResolve to part with neither,

Why, yet to Show that thou art j ust,

Take me and mine together.

CCVIII

THE BARGAIN

MY true love hath my heart, and I have h is,By j ust exchange one for another given :

I hold his dear, and mine h e cannot m iss,There never was a better bargain driven

My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

THE MESSAGE 185

His heart in m e keeps him and me in one,

My h e rt in him his thoughts and senses guidesHe loves my h eart , for once it was his own,

I cherish his because in m e it bidesMy true love hath my heart, and I have his .

Sir P. Sidney.

CCIX

THE MESSAGE

SEND home my long-stray’

d eyes to m e,

Which,Oh too long have dwelt on thee ;

But if they there have learn t such ill,Such forced fashionsAnd false passions,

That they b eMade by thee

Fit for no good sight, keep them still .

Send home my harmless heart again,Which no unworthy thought could stain ;But if it b e taught by thine

To make jestingsOf protestings,

And b reak bothWord and oath

,

Keep i t still,’tis none of mine.

Yet send m e back my heart and eyes,That I may know and see thy lies,

186 THE GOLDEN POMP

And may laugh and j oy whenArt in anguish

,

And dost languishFor some one

That wil l none,Or prove as false as thou dost now.

J. Donne.

THE EXCUSE

CALLING to mind, my eyes went long aboutTo cause my heart for to forsake my breast ;

All in a rage I sought to pull them outAs who had been such traitors to my restWhat could they say to win again my graceForsooth

,that they had seen my M istress

’ face .

Another time, my heart I call’

d to mind,

Thinking that h e this w oe on m e had brought,For h e my breast th e fort of love, resign

’

d,

1

When of such wars my fancy never thoughtWhat could h e say when I would have him Slain ?

That h e was hers, and had forgone my chain.

At last,when I perceived both eyes and heart

Excuse themselves as guiltless of my ill,I found myselfth e cause of al l my smart,And told myself that I mysel f would kill

Yet when I saw myself to you was true,I loved myself, because myself loved you .

Sir W. Raleigh .

1 Because that he to love his force resign'

d.

’

188 THE GOLDEN POMP

What ’

s th e cause that sh e leaves you aloneAnd a new way doth take,

That sometime did love you as h er own,And h er j oy did you make ?

I have loved h er al l my youth,

But now am Old,as you see

Love likes not th e falling fruit,Nor th e w ith er

’

d tree.

Know that Love i s a careless child,And forgets promise past

He is blind, h e is deaf when h e list,And in faith never fast.

His desire is a dureless content,And a trustless j oy ;

He is won with a world of despair,And is lost with a toy.

Of womenkind such indeed is th e love,Or th e word love abused,

Under which many childish desiresAnd conceits are excused.

But true love is a durable fire,In the mind ever burning,

Never sick, never old , never dead,From itself never turning.

Sir TV. Raleigh

THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS 189

CCXII

THE LOVER BESEECHETH HIS MISTRESS

NOT TO FORGET HIS STEADFAST FAITH

AND TRUE INTENT

FORGET not yet th e tried intentOf such a truth as I have meant ;My great travail so gladly spent,Forget not yet

Forget not yet when first beganTh e weary life ye know,

since whanTh e suit, th e service, none tell canForget not yet

Forget not yet th e great assays,Th e cruel wrong

,th e seornful ways,

Th e painful patience in delays,Forget not yet !

Forget not ! O,forget not this

How long ago hath been,and is

Th e mind that never meant amissForget not yet !

Forget not then thine own approved,Th e which SO long hath thee so loved

,

Whose steadfast faith yet never movedForget not this !

Sir Thomas Wyat.

190 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXIII

CONSTANCY

O NEVER say that l was false of heart !Though absence seem

’

dmy flame to qualify.

As easy might I from myself depart,As from my soul

,which in thy breast doth lie

That is th e h om e of love if I have ranged,

Like him that trave ls,I return again,

Just to th e time,not with th e time exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain .

Never be lieve, though in my nature reig n’

d

All frail ties that besiege all kinds Ofblood,

That it could SO prepost’

rously b e stain’

d,

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good

For nothing this wide universe I call,Save thou, my rose in it thou art my all .

CCXIV

HOW CAN THE HEART FORGET HER ?

AT h er fair hands how have I grace entreated,With prayers oft repeatedYet still my love is thwartedHeart, let h er go, for sh e

’

11not b e convertedSay, shall sh e go0 no, no, no, no, no !

Sh e is most fair, though sh e be marble-hearted .

102 THE GOLDEN POMP

Wh at ? I that loved and you that liked,shall w e

begin to wrangleNO

, no, no, my heart is fas t and cannot disentangle.

If I admire or praise you too much, that fault youmay forgive m e

Or if my h ands had stray’

d but a touch,then j ustly

might you leave m e .

I asked you leave, you bade me love ; is’

t now atime to chide m e ?

NO,no, no, I

’

ll love you still wh at fortune e’

er

betide me .

Th e sun,whose beams most glorious are

,rejecteth

no beholder,And your sweet beauty past compare made my poor

eye s th e bolderWhere beauty moves and wit del ights and signs of

kindness bind me,

There, 0 there ! where’

er I go I’

ll leave my heart

behind me !

CCXV!

FALSE LOVE

WHENLove on time andmeasure makes his ground,Time that must end, though Love can never die,

’

Tis Love betw ixt a shadow and a sound,A love not in th e heart but in th e eye ;

A love that ebbs and flows, now up, now down,A morning

’ s favour and an evening’

s frown.

LOVE UNALTERABLE 193

Sweet looks Show love, yet they are but as beamsFair words seem true, yet they are but as wind

Eyes shed the ir tears,’

yet are but outward streams ;Sighs paint a shadow in th e falsest mind.

Looks, words, tears, sighs, show love when love theyleave,

False hearts can weep, sigh, swear, and yet deceive .

Anon.

CCXVII

LOVE UNALTERABLE

LET m e not to th e marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love i s not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds

,

Or bends with th e remover to remove

O,no it is an ever-fixedmark,

That looks on tempests and is never shaken ;It is th e star to every w and

’

ring bark,Whose worth ’

s unknown, although his height b etaken.

Love’ s not Time

’

s fool,though rosy lips and ch ecks

Within his bending sickle ’ s compass come ;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But h ears it out even to th e edge of doom

If this b e error and upon m e proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved .

Shakespeare.

194 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXVIII

FAST FAITH

DEAR,if you change , I

’

ll never choo se againSweet, if you shrink, I

’

ll never think Oflove ;Fair

,if you fail

,I ’ ll j udge all beauty vain

Wise,if too weak, more wits I

’

ll never prove .

Dear, sweet, fair, wise ! change, shrink , nor b eweak ;

And,on my faith

,my faith shall never break .

Earth with h er flowers Shall sooner heaven adornHeaven h er bright stars through earth

’

s dim globeshall move

Fire heat shall lose, and frost of flames b e born ;Air

,made to Shine

,as black as hel l shall prove

Earth, heaven, fire, air, th e world transform’

d shallview,

Ere I prove false to fai th or strange to you

CCXIX

MONTANUS’

VOW

FIRST shall th e heavens want starry light,Th e seas b e robbed of their waves

Th e day want sun ,th e sun want b right,

Th e night want shade and dead m en graves ;Th e April, flowers and leaf and tree,Before I false my faith to thee.

196 THE GOLDEN POMP

Wend I to walk in secret grove,Ev’n there I meet with sacred Love ;If so I bain m e in th e Spring,Ev’n on th e b ank I hear him S ing ;If so I meditate alone,He will b e partner Ofmy moanIf so I mourn

,h e weeps with m e,

And where I am there h e will b e

CCXXI

I as base as is th e lowly plain,And you

,my Love

,as high as heaven above

,

Yet Should th e thoughts of m e, your humble swain,Ascend to heaven in honour Ofmy Love.

Were I as high as heaven ab ove th e plain,And you

,my Love

,as humb le and as low

As are th e deepest bottoms of th e main ,Wh ereso’

er you were,with you my love should go.

Were you th e earth,dear Love, and I th e skies,

My love Should shine on you like to th e Sun,And look upon you with ten thousand eyesTill heaven w ax

’

d blind,and till the world were

done .

Wh ereso’

er I am,— b elow

,or else ab ove you

Wh ereso ’

er you are ,my heart shall truly love you.

Joshua Sylvester.

TO ANTHEA 197

CCXXII

TO ANTHEA,WHO MAY COMMAND

HIM ANYTHING

BID m e to live, and I will l iveThy Pro testant to b e,

Or bid m e love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee .

A heart as soft, a heart as kind,A heart as sound and free

As in th e whole world thou canst find,

That heart I’ ll give to thee .

Bid that heart stay,and it will stay

TO honour thy decreeOr bid it languish quite away,And ’

t sh all do so for thee .

Bid m e to weep, and I will weepWhile I have eyes to see

And, having none, yet will I keepA heart to weep for thee .

Bid m e despair, and I’ll despair

Under that cypress-treeOr bid m e die, and I will dareE

’

en death to die for thee .

Thou art my life,my love, my heart,

Th e very eyes of m e

And hast comm and of every partTo live and die for thee.

198 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXXIII

LIKE as a ship, that through th e O cean wideBy gpnduct of some star doth make h er way,Whenas a storm hath dimm ’

d h er trusty guide,Out Ofh er course doth wander far astray

So I— whose star, that w ent with h er brigh t rayMe to direct, with clouds is overcastDo wander now in darkness and dism ayThrough hidden perils round about m e placed.

Yet hope I well that when this storm i s past,My Helice

,th e lodestar Ofmy life,

Wil l Shine again and look on m e at last,

With lovely l ight to clear my cloudy grief.

Till then I wander careful, comfort less,In secret sorrow and sad pensiveness .

Spenser.

CCXXIV

THE PATIENT LOVER

THOUGH I b e scorn’

d, yet will I not disdain,

But bend my thoughts fair beauty to adoreWhat though sh e smile when I sigh and complain ?

I t is,I know

,to try my faith th e more

For sh e i s fair, and fairness i s regarded ;And I am firm

,firm love will b e rewarded .

Suppose I love and languish to my end,

And sh e my plain ts, my S ighs, my tears despise

200 THE GOLDEN POMP

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart,Th e merit of true passion,With thinking that h e feels no smart

,

T hat sues for no compassion.

Silence in love bewrays more w oe

Than words,though ne

’

er so witty ;A beggar that is dumb

,you know

,

May challenge double pi ty.

Then wrong not,dearest to my heart,

My true, though secret passionHe sm arteth most that hides his smart,And sues for no compassion .

Sir W. Raleigh .

THE FULL LOVE IS HUSHED

MY love is strength en’

d, though more weak inseeming

I love not less, though less th e show appearThat love is merchandised whose ri ch esteemingTh e own er

’

s tongue doth pub lish eve rywhere .

Our love was new,and then but in th e spring,

When I was wont to greet it with my lays ;As Philomel in summer

’ s front doth sing

And stops h er pipe in growth of riper days

ABSENCE 201

Not th at th e summer is less pleasant nowTh an when h ermournful hymns did hush th e night,But that wild music burthens every bough,And sweets grown common lose the ir dear del ight.

Therefore,l ike h er, I sometimes hold my tongue,

Because I would not dull you w ith my song.

Shakespeare.

CCXXVIII

ABSENCE

How like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, th e pleasure of th e fleeting yearWhat freez ings have I felt, what dark days seen,What old December

’s bareness everywhere

And yet this time removed was summer’

s time ;

Th e teeming autumn, b ig with rich increase,Bearing th e wanton burden of th e primeLike w idow

’

dwombs after their lord’

s decease

Yet this abundant i ssue seem’

d to me

But hope Oforphan s and unfath er’

d fruit ;For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And, thou away, th e very birds are mute

Or if they sing,’tis with so dull a cheer

Th e leaves look pale, dreading th e winter’s near.

Shakespeare.

202 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXXIX

FROM you have I been ab sent in th e spring,When proud-pied April, dress

’

d in all hi s trim,

Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,

Th at heavy Saturn laugh’

d and leap’

d with him .

Yet nor th e lays of birds,nor th e sweet sm ell

Of difl’

erent flowers in Odour and in h ue,Could m ake m e any summ er

’

s story tell,

Or from their proud lap pluck them where theygrew

Nor did I wonder at th e l ily’s white,

Nor praise th e deep vermilion of th e rose ;They were but sweet

,but figures of del ight

,

Drawn after you, you pattern of all those .

Yet seem’

d i t winter still,and

,you away

,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

CCXXX

THE forward violet thus did I chide

Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that

smells,If not from my love

’ s breath ? Th e purple pride,Which on thy soft ch eck for complexion dwells,

204 THE GOLDEN POMP

0 then my joys,

So long distraught,shall re st

Reposed soft in thy chaste breast ,Exempt from all annoys.

You had th e powerMy w and

’

ring though ts first to restrain,You first did hear my love speak plain ;

A child before,Now it is grownConfirm

’

d,do you it keep

And let ’

t safe in your bosom Sleep,There ever made your own

T. Campion.

CCXXXII

That Time and absence proves,Rather helps than hurts to loves.

ABSENCE,hear thou my protestation,

Against thy strength,

Distance and length

DO what thou can for alteration,For hearts OftrI

'

Iest mettleAbsence doth j oin and time doth settle.

Wh o loves a m istress of such quality,He soon hath foundAffection

’s groundBeyond time, place, and all mortality.

To hearts that cannot varyAbsence is present, Tim e doth tarry.

ABSENCE 205

My senses want the ir outward motionsWhich now withinReason doth win

,

Redoub led in h er secret notionsLike rich m en that take pleasureIn hiding more than handling treasure .

By ab sence this good means I gain,That I can catch h erWhere none doth watch h er,

In some close corner of my brainThere I emb race and kiss h er

,

And SO I both enjoy and miss h er.

J. Donne.

ccxxx'

iii

SWEET love, renew thy force b e it not saidThine edge shall b luiiter b e than appetite .

Which but to-day by feeding is allay’

d,

TO-morrow sh arpen’

d in his former might

So ,love

,b e thou : a lthough to-day th en fill

Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fulness,TO -morrow see again, and do not kill

Th e spirit of love with a perpetual dulness .

Let this sad interim like th e ocean b eWhich parts th e shore, where two contracted new

Come daily to th e banks, that, when they see

Return of love, more b less’

dmay b e th e View

206 THE GOLDEN POMP

Or call it winter,which

,be ing full of care,

Make s summ er’

s welcome thrice more wish ’

d,more

rare.

Shakespeare.

CCXXXIV

BEING your slave , what Should I do but tendUpon th e hours and times Ofyour de sire ?

I h ave no precious time at all to spend,Nor services to do, till you require.

Nor dare I chide th e world-without-end hourWh i lst I, my sovereign, watch th e clock for you,Nor think th e bitterness ofabsence sourWhen you have bid your servant once adieu

Nor dare I question with my j ealous thoughtWhere you may b e, or your affairs suppose,But

,like a sad slave , stay and think of nought

Save, where you are how happy you make those

So true a fool i s love, that in your willThough you do any thing, h e thinks no ill.

CCXXXV

COMPLAINT OF THE ABSENCE OF HER

LOVER BEING UPON THE SEA

0 HAPPY dames ! that may embraceTh e fruit of your delight,

Help to bewail th e woful caseAnd eke th e heavy plight

208 THE GOLDEN POMP

Alas ! now drench eth 1my sweet foe,

That with th e spoil of my heart did go,And left m e but alas ! why did h e so ?

And when th e seas wax calm againTo chase from m e annoy,

My doubtful hope doth cause m e plainSO dread cuts offmy joy.

Thus is my wealth mingled with woeAnd Ofeach thought a doubt doth grow ;Now h e comes ! Will h e come ? Alas no

,no .

Earl ofSurrey.

CCXXXVI

VALEDICTION,FORBIDDING MOURNING

As virtuous m en pass mildly away,And whisper to the ir souls to go ;While some of their sad friends do say,Now h is breath goes, and some say, No ;

SO let us melt, andmake no noise,NO tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move

’Twere profanation Ofour j oys

TO tell th e laity our love.

Moving of th’

earth brings harms and fears,

Men reckon what it did and meant ;But trepidations of th e Spheres,Though greater far

,are innocent .

1 is drenchedordrowned.

VALEDICTION,FORBIDDING MOURNING 209

Dull sublunary lovers’ love,

Whose soul is sense, cannot admitAbsence for that it doth removeThose things which elem ented it.

But w e,by a love so far refined,

That ourselves know not what it is,Inter-assured Ofth e mind,Careless, eyes, l ips and hands to miss,

—O ur two souls therefore, which are one,

Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach,b ut an expan sion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they b e two, they are two soAs stiff twin compasses are two ;

Thy soul, th e fixt foot, makes no Show

To move, but doth if th’

other do.

And though it in th e centre Sit,

Yet when th e other far doth roam,

It leans and hearkens after it,And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou b e to me, who must,Like th

’ other foot, obliquely run ;Thy firmness makes my circles just,And makes m e endWhere I begun.

J. Donne.

210 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXXXVII

THE GREAT ADVENTURE

As careful merchants do expecting stand,After long time and merry gales of wind,

Upon th e place where the ir brave ship must landSo wait I for th e vesse l of my mind .

Upon a great adventure i t is bound,Whose safe return will valued b e at more

Than all th e wealthy priz es which have crown’

d

Th e golden wishes of an age before .

Out of th e East j ewels Ofworth Sh e brings ;Th’ unvalued diamond of h er sparkling eye

Wants 1 in th e treasures of all Europe’ s kings ;

And were it mine,they nor their crowns should buy.

Th e sapphires ringed on h erpanting breastRun as rich ve ins Ofore about th e mould ,

And are in sickness with a pale possess’

d,

So true, for them I should disvalue gold.

Th e melting rubie s on h er cherry lipAre of such power to hold, that as one day

Cupid flew thirsty by, h e stoop’

d to sip,

And fasten’d there could never get away.

1Is lacking.

212 THE GOLDEN POMP

If all those glittering Monarchs, that commandTh e servile quarters Ofthis earthly ball,

Should tender in exchange their shares of land,I would not change my fortunes for them allTheir wealth i s but a counter to my coin

Th e world’

s but theirs ; b ut my Beloved’

s mine.

F. Quarles .

CCXXXIX

THE TRIUMPH

SEE th e Chariot at hand here OfLove,Wherein my Lady rideth

Each that draws is a swan or a dove,And wel l th e car Love guideth .

As sh e goes, all hearts do dutyUnto h er beauty ;

And enamour’

d do wish,so they might

But enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by h er side,Through swords, through seas,whither sh e would ride.

DO but look on h er eyes, they do lightAll that Love

’

s world compriseth

DO but look on h er hair,it is bright

As Love’

s star when it ri seth

DO but m ark— h er forehead’

s smootherThan words that soothe h er;

BRIDAL SONG 213

And from h er arch’d brows,such a grace

Sheds itself through th e face,As alone there triumphs to th e lifeAll th e gain, all th e good, ofth e elements

’

strife .

Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch ’

d it ?Have you marked but th e fall of th e snowBefore th e soil hath smutch

’

d itHave you felt th e wool of th e beaver,

Or swan’

s down ever ?Or have smelt O

’

th e bud o’

th e brier,Or th e nard in th e fire ?

Or have tasted th e bag of th e b ee ?0 so white, 0 SO soft

,O SO sweet is sh e

B. Jonson.

CCXL

BRIDAL SONG

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,

Not royal in the ir smel ls alone,But in their h ue ;

Maiden pinks, of Odour faint,Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,And sweet thyme true

Primrose, firstborn child of VerMerry springtime

’

s harbinger,With h er bells dim ;

214 THE GOLDEN POMP

Oxlips in the ir cradle s growing,Marigolds on deathbeds blowing,Larks

’

-heel s trim .

All dear Nature’s children sweet

Lie’fore bride and bridegroom

’s feet,Blessing their sense

Not an angel of th e air,

Bird melodious or bird fair,

Be absent hence !

Th e crew, th e slanderous cuckoo, norTh e boding raven , nor chough hoar,Nor chattering pye,

May on our bridehouse perch or sing,Or with them any discord bring,But from it fly !

BRIDAL SONG

Now hath Flora robb ’

dh er bowersTo befriend this place with flowers

Strow about, strow about !Th e sky rain

’

d never kindlier showers.

Flowers with bridals well agree,Fresh as brides and bridegrooms b e

Strow about, strow about,

216 THE GOLDEN POMP

If weary, they prepare us rest ; if sick, their handattends us

When with grief our hearts are press’

d,their com

fort best befriends us ;Sweet or sour, they W illing go to share what fortune

sends us.

What pretty babes with pains they h ear, our nameand form presenting

What w e get how wise they keep, by Sparing wants

preventing!

Sorting all the ir household cares to our Observed

contenting '

All this,Of whose large use I sing, in two words is

expressedGood Wife is th e good I praise, if by good m en

possessed .

Bad with b ad in il l su it well, but good with good

live blessed.

T. Campion.

CCXLIII

A LULLABY

UPON my lap my sovere ign sitsAnd sucks upon my breast ;Meantime his love maintains my

And gives my sense h er rest.

S ing lul lab y, my little boy,S ing lullaby, mine only j oy !

SEPHESTIA’

S SONG TO HER CHILD 217

When thou hast taken thy repast,Repose, my babe, on m e ;

SO may thy mother and thy nurseThy cradle also b e.

S ing lullaby, my little boy,S ing lullaby

,mine only j oy

I grieve that duty doth not workAll that my wishing wouldBecause I would not b e to theeBut in th e best I should.

Sing lullaby, my little boy,Sing lullaby, mine only j oy !

Yet as I am,and as I may,

I must and will b e thine,Though all too little for thyselfVouch safing to b e mine .

S ing lullaby ,my little boy,

S ing lullaby,mine only j oy !

Anon .

CCXLIV

SEPHESTIA’

S SONG TO HER CHILD

WEEP not, my wanton, smile upon my kneeWhen thou art Old there ’

s grief enough for thee.

Mother’ s wag

, pretty boy,Father

’

s sorrow,father

’ s j oy ;

THE GOLDEN POMP

Wh en thy father first did see

Such a boy byh im and m e,

He was glad, I w as w oe ;

Fortune changed made him so,

When h e left h is pretty boy,Last h is sorrow

,first h is joy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee ;When thou art Old there ’

S grief enough for thee.

Streaming tears that never stint,Like pearl-drops from a fl int

,

Fell by course from his eyes,That one another

’ s place suppliesThus h e griev

’d in every part,

Tears of blood fell from his heart,

When h e left his pretty boy,Father

’

s sorrow,father

’

s j oy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my kneeWhen thou art Old there ’

s grief enough for thee.

Th e wanton sm iled, father wept,Mother cried

,baby leapt

More h e crow’

d,more w e cried,

Nature could not sorrow hideHe must go, h e must kissChild and mother, baby bless,For h e left his pretty boy,Father

’s sorrow,father’s j oy.

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,When thou art old there

’

s grief enough for thee .

R. Greene.

220 THE GOLDEN POMP

Sweet boy, if i t by fortune chanceThy father home again to send,Ifdeath do strike m e with h is lance,Yet mayst thou m e to him commend

If any ask thy mother’ s name

,

Tell how by love sh e purchased blame .

Then will h is gentle heart soon yieldI know him of a gentle mindAlthough a lion in th e field,A lamb in town thou shalt him find

Ask blessing,babe, b e not afraid,

His sugar’

dwords hath m e b e tray’

d.

Then mayst thou joy and b e right gladAlthough in w oe I seem to moan,Thy father i s no rascal lad ,

A noble youth Ofblood and boneHis glancing looks, if h e once smile,Right honest women may beguile.

Come l ittle boy and rock asleep,Sing lullaby and b e th en stillI,that can do naught else but weep,

Will sit by thee and wail my fillGod bless my bab e, and lullabyFrom this thy father

’

s quality.

N . Breton.

WALYWALY,LOVE BE BONNY 221

CCXLVI

WALY WALY,LOVE BE BONNY

O WALY waly up th e bank,And waly waly down th e brae,

And waly waly yon burnsideWhere I and my Love wont to gae

I leant my back unto an aik,

I thought it was a trusty treeBut first it h ow’d and syne it brak,Sae my true Love did lightly m e.

O waly waly, gin love b e bonnyA little time while i t is n ew ;

But when’tis auld, it waxeth cauld,

And fades awa’ l ike morning dew .

O wherefore should I busk my headOr wherefore should I kame my hair ?

For my true Love has me forsook,

And says h e ’

11never love m e mair.

Now Arthur Seat sall b e my b edTh e Sheets shall ne

’

er b e’

filed1 by m e

Saint Anton’s Well sall b e my drink,

S ince my true Love has forsaken m e.

Marti’

mas wind,when wilt thou blaw

And shake th e green leaves afl’

th e treeO gentle Death, when wilt thou come ?

For of my life I am w earie.

1Defiled.

222 THE GOLDEN POMP

’

Tis not th e frost,that freez es fell

,

Nor blawing snaw ’s inclem en cie’

Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry,But my Love’s heart grown cauld to

When w e came in by Glasgow townWe were a comely sight to see

My love was clad in th e black velvet,And I mysell in cramasie.

1

But had I wist,before I kist,

That love had been sae i ll tae winI had lockt my heart in a case Ofgowd,And pinn

’

d it with a siller pin .

And0 if my young babe were born,And set upon th e nurse

’ s knee,And I myself were dead andgame ,

And the green grass growing over me !

Anon.

CCXLVII

OPHEL IA S INGS

HOW Should I your true love knowFrom another one ?

By h is cockle hat and staff,And his sandal shoon.

1 Crimson.

224 THE GOLDEN POMP

Good-morning to this primrose too,Good-morrow to each maid

That will with flowers th e tomb bestrewWh ere in my love is laid .

Ah ! w oe is m e, w oe, w oe is m e,

Alack and wel l-a-dayFor pity, sir, find out that b eeWhich h ere my love away .

I ’ ll seek him in your bonnet brave,I ’

ll seek him in your eyesNay, now I think they

’

ve made his graveI’

th’

bed Ofstrawberries .

I’

ll seek him there I know ere thi sTh e cold, cold earth doth shake h im ;

But I wil l go or send a kissBy you

, sir, to awake him .

Pray hurt him not ; though h e b e dead,He knows well who do love him,

And who with green turfs rear his head,And who do rudely move him.

He’

s soft and tender (pray take heed)With bands of cowslips bind him ,

And bring him home but’

tis decreedThat I shall never find him.

SIGH No MORE,LADIES 225

S IGH NO MORE, LADIES

SIGH no more,ladies, sigh no more ;

Men were deceivers everOne foot in sea, and one on shore,To

‘

One thing constant never.Then Sigh not so

,

But let them go,

And b e you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of w oe

Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no m oe,

Of dumps so dull and heavyTh e fraud of m en was ever so,Since summer first was leafy.

Then sigh not so,But let them go,

And b e you blithe and bonny,Converting all your sounds of w oe

Into Hey Donny, noniiy.

226 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLI

TAKE,0 TAKE THOSE LI PS AWAY

TAKE,0 take those lips away,

That so sweetly were forsw om ;

And those eyes, th e break Ofday,Lights that do mislead th e morn

But my kisses bring again,Bring again ;

Seals of love, but seal’

d in vain,

S cal’

d in vain

CCLII

A LEAVE-TAK ING

HARDEN now thy tired heart with more than flintyrage !

Ne’

er let h er false tears henceforth thy constantgrief assuage

Once true happy days th en saw’

st when sh e stoodfirm and kind

,

Both as one then l ived and held one ear, one tongue,one mind

But now those bright hours h e fled, and never mayreturn ;

What then remains but h er untruths to mourn ?

S illy traitress, who Shall now thy careless tresses

place ?

Wh o thy pretty talk supply, whose ear thy musicgrace ?

228 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLIV

AN EARNEST SU IT TO HIS UNK IND

MISTRESS, NOT TO FORSAKE HIM

ANDwilt thou leave m e thus ?

Say nay, say nay ,for shame

-TO save thee from th e b lameOf all my grief and grame .

1

And wilt thou leave m e thus ?

Say nay ! say nay

And wilt thou leave m e thus,That hath loved thee so longIn wealth and woe amongAnd is thy heart so strongAs for to leave m e thus ?

Say nay say nay !

And wilt thou leave me thus,That hath given thee my heartNever for to departNe ither for pain nor smart

Andwilt thou leave m e thus ?Say nay ! say nay !

And wilt thou leave m e thus,And have no more pityeOf h im that loveth thee ?Alas

,thy cruelty !

And wilt thou leave m e thus

THE PARTING 229

CCLV

THE RECALL OF LOVE

FAREWELL thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know

’

st thy est im ateTh e charter of thy worth gives thee releasing ;My bonds in thee are al l determinate .

For how do I hold thee b ut by thy grantingAnd for that riches where is my deserving ?Th e cause of this fair gift in m e i s wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving.

Thyself thou gav’

st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or m e, to whom thou gav

’

st it, else m istaking ;SO thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better j udgment making.

Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter,

In sleep a king b ut waking, no such matter.Shakespeare.

CCLVI

THE PARTING

SINCE there ’

s no help, come let us kiss and partNay

,I have done, you get no more of m e

And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,

That thus so cleanly I myself can free ;

Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,And when w e meet at any time again

,

Be i t not seen in e ither of our browsThat we one j et of former love retain.

230 THE GOLDEN POMP

Now at th e last gasp of Love’s latest breath,

When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies,When Faith is kneel ing by his b ed of death

,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes,

—Now if thou wouldst,when all have given himover,

From death to life thou might’st h im yet recover.

M. Drayton.

THEN hate m e when thou wilt ; ifever, nowNow

,while th e world is bent my deeds to cross,

Join with th e Spite of fortune, make m e bow,

And do not drop in for an after-loss

Ah do not, when my heart hath’ scaped this sorrow,

Come in th e rearward Ofa conquer’

d w oe

Give not a windy night a rainy m orrow,

To linger out a purposed overthrow.

If thou wilt leave m e,do not leave me last,

When other petty griefs have done the ir Spite,But in th e onset come : so Shall I tasteAt first th e very worst of fortune

’

s might ;

And other strains of w oe, which now seem w oe,

Compared with loss of thee will not seem so !

232 THE GOLDEN POMP

For if th e sinewy thread mybrain lets fallThrough every part

Can tie those parts, and make m e one of allThose hairs,which upward grow,

and strength and artHave from a b etter brain

,

Can better do’ t : except Sh e meant that I

By this should know my pain,As pri soners then are manacled, when they

’re com

demn’

d to die .

Whate ’

er Sh e meant by’

t,bury it with m e

,

For since I am

Love’s m artyr

,it might breed idolatry

If into other hands these rel iques came.

As ’ twas hum ilityT’ afford to it all that a soul can do

,

So’tis some bravery

That, since you would have none of m e, I bury some

of you.J. Donne.

CCLX

DAPHNAIDA

AN ELEGY

HOW happy was I when I saw h er lead

Th e shepherd’ s daughters dancing in a round !

How trimly would sh e trace and softly tread

Th e tender grass,with rosy garland crown

’

d !

And when sh e list advance h er heavenly voice,Both Nymphs and Muses nigh sh e made astown

’

d

And flocks and shepherds caused to rej oice.

DAPHNAIDA 233

But now, ye sh epherd lasses, who shall lead

Your wandering troops, or sing your virelays ?Or w h o shall dight your bow

’rs,sith sh e is dead

That was th e Lady Ofyour holy days ?

Let now your bliss b e turned into bale,And into plaints convert your j oyous plays,And with th e same fill every hill and dale .

But I will walk this wandering pilgrimageThroughout th e world from on e to other end,And in affl iction waste my better ageMy bread Shall b e th e anguish Ofmy mind

,

My drink th e tears which fro’ mine eyes do rain,

My b edth e ground that hardest I may find ;SO will I wilfully increase my pain.

Ne sleep (th e harbinger of weary wights)Shall ever lodge upon mine eye

-lids moreNe shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,Nor fail ing force to former strength restoreBut I will wake and sorrow all th e nightWi th Philomene, my fortune to deplore,—With Philomene, th e partner of my plight.

And ever as I see th e star to fall,And underground to go to give them lightWhich dwell in darkness, I to mind will callHow my fair star

,that shined on m e so bright ,

Fell suddenly and faded undergroundS ince whose departure day is turn

’

d to night,And n ight without a Venus star is found .

234 THE GOLDEN POMP

And sh e,— my Love that was, my Saint that is,

When sh e beholds from h er celestial throne,In which sh e joyeth in eternal blis s

,

My bitter penance, will my case bemoan,And pity m e that living thus do dieFor heavenly spirits have compassionOn mortal m en

,and rue the ir misery.

So when I have with sorrow satisfiedTh importune Fates,which vengeance on me seek,And th

’

Heavens with long languor pacified,Sh e, for pure pity of my sufferance meek,Will send for m e : for which I daily longAnd wil l till then my painful penance eke .

Weep, shepherd, w eepe, to make my undersong l

Spenser.

CCLXI

GONE IS THE FLOWER OF FLOWERS

WHEN thou from earth didst pass,Sweet nymph, perfection

’

s mirror broken was,And this oflate so glorious world Ofours,

Like meadow without flowers,Or ring Ofa rich gem made blind, appear

’

d;

Or night,by star nor Cynthia ne ither cleared.

Love when h e saw thee die

En tomb’

d him in th e lid of e ither eye,And left his torch within thy sacred urn,

There for a lamp to burn .

Worth,honour

, pleasure, with thy life expired,Death since, grown sweet, begins to b e desired.

236 THE GOLDEN POMP

Thou art th e sam e which still thou wast before,Del icious, wanton, amiab le, fair ;But sh e, whose b reath emb alm

’

d thy wholesome air,Is gone— nor gold nor gems h er can restore .

Neglected virtue, season s go and come,

While thine forgot lie closed in a tomb .

Drummond ofHawthornden.

CCLXIII

TO HIS LUTE

MY lute, b e as thou wast when thou didst growWith thy green mother in some shady grove,When immelodious winds but made thee move,And birds on thee the ir ramage 1 did bestow.

S ith that dear voice which did thy sounds approve,Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,

IS reft from earth to tune those spheres above,What art thou but an harbinger of woe ?

Thy pleasing notes b e pleasing notes no more,But orphan wailings to th e fainting ear ;

Each stop a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear

Be therefore silent as in woods before

Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,Like widow

’

d turtle, stil l h er loss complain.

DrummondofHawthornden.

1Music ofth e bough, woodland song.

FIDELE 237

CCLXIV

F I D E L E

FEAR no more th e heat O’

th e sun,Nor th e furious winter’s rages

Thou thy worldly task hast done,Home art gone, and ta

’

en thy wagesG olden lads and girls all must

,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more th e frown O’

th e great,Thou art past th e tyrant

’ s stroke ;Care no more to clothe and eat ;

TO thee th e reed is as th e oakThe sceptre, learning, physic, mustAll follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more th e lightning-flash ,

Nor th e all-dreaded thunder-stoneFear not slander

,censure rash

Thou hast finish’

d j oy and moan

All lovers young, all lovers mustConsign to thee

,and come to dust.

NO exerciser harm theeNor no witchcraft charm thee !Ghost unlaid forbear theeNothing ill come near thee !

Quiet consummation have ;And renowned b e thy grave

THE GOLDEN POMP

IDLE TEARS

WEEP no more, nor sigh, nor groan

Sorrow calls no time that ’ s goneV iolets pluck

’

d, the sweetest rainMakes not fresh nor grow againTrim thy ‘

ocks, look cheerfully ;Fate

’ s hid ends eyes cannot see ;Joy as winged dreams fly past,Why should sadness longer last ?

Grief is but a wound to w oe

Gentlest fair, mourn, mourn no moe .

J. Fletcher.

CCLXV !

MARJNA’

S gone, and now sit IAs Philomela— ou a thorn,

Turu’

d out of nature’s l iveryM irthless, alone, and all forlorn

Only sh e smgs not, while my sorrows canBreathe forth such notes as fit a dying swan .

So shuts th e marigold h er leavesAt th e departure of th e sun ;

So from th e honeysuckle sheavesTh e b ee goes when th e dayis done ;

So sits th e turtle when sh e is but one,And so all woe, as I, now sh e i s gone.

THE GOLDEN POMP

But changed above,Sh e l ikes not there

,

Forb ear thereforeAnd lull asleepThy woes, and weepNo more.

Herrick.

CCLXVIII

LET NO BIRD SING !

GLIDE soft, ye silver floods,And every spring :

With in th e shady woodsLet no bird sing !

Nor from th e grove a turtle-doveBe seen to couple with h er love

But silence on each dale and mountain dwell,

Wh ilst Willy bids his friend and joy farewell .

But of great Thetis’

train,

Ye mermaids fair,That on th e shores do plain

1

Your sea-green ha ir,As ye in trammels knit your locks

,

Weep ye ; and so enforce th e rocks

In heavy murmurs through th e broad shores tell

How Willy bade his friend and joy farewell .1 Smooth.

Cease, cease, ye murdering winds,To move a wave

But if with troubled mindsYou seek his grave,

Know’

tis as various as yourselves,Now in th e deep, then on th e shelves,

His coffin toss’

d by fish and surges fell,Whilst Willy weeps and bids all joy farewell .

Had h e Arion-likeBeen judged to drown,

He on his lute could strikeSo rare a sown,

A thousand dolphins would have comeAnd jointly strove to bring him home .

But h e on shipboard died, by sickness fell,S ince when his Willy bade all Joy farewell.

Great Neptune, hear a swain !His coffin take,

Andwith a golden chainFor pity make

It rast unto a rock near landWhere every calmy morn I

’

ll stand,And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell ,SadWilly

’ s pipe shall bid his friend farewell .Wm. Browne.

THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLXIX

THE NOBLE BALM

HIGH-SPIRITED friend,

I send nor balms nor cor’

sives to your woundYour fate hath found

A gentler and m ore agile hand to tendTh e cure of that which is but corporalAnd doubtfu l days

,which were named critical

,

Have made their fairest fl ightAnd now are out of sight.

Yet doth some wholesome physic for th e mindWrapped in this paper lie,

Which in th e taking if you misapply,You are unkind .

Your covetous hand,Happy in that fair honour it hath gain

’

d,

Must now b e rein’d.

True valour doth h er own renown commandIn one full action nor have you now moreTo do

,than b e a husband of that store .

Think but how dear you boughtThis same which you have caught

Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth .

’Tis wisdom,and that high

,

For m en to use their fortune reverently,Even in youth.

B. Jonson.

244 THE GOLDEN POMP

And lullaby my wanton willLet reason

’

s rule now reign thy thoughtS ince all too late I find by skillHow dear I have thy fancies bought ;

With lul laby now take thine ease,With lullaby thy doubts appease ;For trust to this, if thou b e still,My body shall obey thy will .

Thus lullaby my youth,mine eyes,

My will, my ware, and all that wasI can no more delays deviseBut welcome pain, let pleasure pass.

With lullaby now take your leaveWith lullab y your dreams dece ive ;And when you rise with waking eye,

Remember then this lul laby.

Geo. Gasooiyne.

CCLXXI

LINES WRITTEN ON A GARDEN SEAT

IF thou sit here to view this pleasant garden place,Think thus— At last will come a frost and all these

flowers defaceBut if thou sit at ease to rest thy weary bones,Remember death brings final rest to all our grievous

groans

So whether for delight, or here thou sit for ease,Think still upon th e latter day : so sh alt thou God

best please.

Geo. Gascoigne.

VIKI PUELLIS NUPER IDONEUS 245

CCLXXII

VIKI PUELLIS NUPER IDONEUS

THEY flee from m e that sometime did m e seek,With naked foot stalking within my chamber

Once have I seen them gentle, tame,and meek,

That now are wild , and do not once rememberThat sometime they have put themselves in dangerTo take bread at my hand and now they range,Busily seeking in continual change.

Thanked b e fortune, i t hath been otherwiseTwenty tim es better ; but once especial .

In thin array : after a pleasant guise,When h er long gown did from h er shoulders fall

,

And sh e m e caught in h er arms long and small,

And therewithal so sweetly did m e kiss,

And softly said, Dear heart, how likeyou this

It was no dream ; for I lay broad awakingBut all is turu ’d now

,through my gentleness,

Into a bitter fashion of forsaking ;And I have leave to go of h er goodness ;

And sh e also to use new -fangleness.

But since that I unkindly so am served,How likeyou this .

9 —what hath sh e now deserved ?Sir Thomas Wyat.

246 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLXXIII

CHIDIOCK TICHBORNE’

S LAMENT

MY prime of youth is but a frost of caresMy feast of joy is but a dish of pain ;

My crop of corn is“but a field of tares

And all my good is b ut vain hope of gainTh e day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ;And now I live, and now my life i s done !

Th e spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ;Th e fruit is dead, and yet th e leaves b e green

My youth is gone, and yet I am but young ;I saw th e world, and yet I was not seen ;

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spunAnd now I l ive, and now my life i s done

I sought my death, and found it in my womb ;I look ’

d for life, and saw it was a shadeI trod th e earth

,and knew it was my tomb

And now I die,and now I am but made ;

Th e glass is full,and now my glass is run ;

And now I live,and now my life i s done .

Chidiock Tiehborne.

CCLXXIV

HER AUTUMN

l

WHEN I do count th e clock that tel ls th e time,And see th e brave day sunk in hideous night ;When I behold th e violet past prime,

And sable curls all silver’

d o’

er with white

THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLXXVI

TO MEADOWS

YE have beenfresh and green,Ye have been fill ’d with flowers,

And ye th e walks have b eenWhere maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how theyWith wicker arks did come

To kiss and bear awayTh e richer cowslips home.

You ’ve heard them sweetly sing,And seen them in a round

Each virgin like a spring,With honeysuckles crown

’

d.

But now w e see none hereWhose silvery feet did tread

And with dish evell’

d hairAdorn

’

d this smoother mead .

Like unthrift s, having spentYour stock and needy grown,

You ’

re left here to lamentYour poor estates, alone.

IN TIME OF PLAGUE 249

CCLXXVII

BRIGHT SOUL OF THE SAD YEAR

FAIR summer droops,droopmen and beasts therefore,So fair a summer look for never more :All good things vanish less than in a day,Peace, plenty, pleasure suddenly decay.

Go not yet away, bright soul of th e sad year,Th e earth is hell when thou leav

’

st to appear.

What, shall those flowers, that deck’

d thy garlanderst,

Upon thy grave b e wastefully dispersed ?0 trees, consume your sap in sorrow

’s source,Streams, turn to tears your tributary course .

Go not yet hence, bright soul of th e sad year,Th e earth is hell when thou leav

’

st to appear.T.

CCLXXVIII

IN TIME OF PLAGUE

ADIEU, farewel l earth’ s bliss

,

This world uncertain isFond are life

’s lustful j oys,

Death proves them all but toys .None from his dart s can fly

I am sick, I must dieLord have mercy on as !

250 THE GOLDEN POMP

Rich m en, trus t not in wealth,Gold cannot buy you healthPhysic himself must fadeAll things to end are made ;Th e plague full swift goes by ;I am sick

,I m ust die

Lordhave mercy on us

Beauty is but a flowerWhich wrinkles will devourBrightness falls from th e air ;Queens have died young and fair ;Dust hath closed Helen

’ s eyeI am sick

,I must die

Lord have mercy on as

Strength stoops unto th e grave,Worms feed on Hector b raveSwords m ay not fight with fateEarth still holds ope h er gate.

Come, come th e bells do cryI am sick

,I m ust die

Lord have mercy on us

Wit with his wantonnessTasteth death

’

s b itternessHell

’ s executioner

Hath no ears for to hearWhat vain art can replyI am sick, I m ust die

o u as

252 THE GOLDEN POMP

A FAREWELL TO ARMS

(TO QUEEN ELIZ ABETH)

His golden locks time hath to silver turu ’d ;0 time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing !

His youth ’gainst time and age hath ever spurn’

d,

But spurn’

d in vain youth wan eth by increasingBeauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading

seen ;Duty, faith, love are roots, and ever green .

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees ;And

,lovers

’

sonnets turu’

d to holy psalms,A man-at-arms m ust now serve on his knees,And feed on prayers, which are age his alms

But though from court to cottage h e depart,His Saint i s sure of hi s unspotted heart .

And when h e saddest sits in homely cell,He

’

ll teach his swains th i s carol for a song,Blest be th e hearts that wish my sovereign well

,

Curst b e th e soul s that think h er any wrong.

’

Goddess, allow this aged man h is rightTo b e your beadsman now that was your knight .

Geo. Peele.

WHEN THAT I WAS AND A TINY BOY 253

CCLXXXI

WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE

TINY BOY

WHEN that I was and a little tiny boy,With h ey, ho, th e wind and th e rain

A foolish thing was but a toy,For th e rain it raineth every day.

But when I came to man’s estate,

With h ey, ho, th e wind and th e rain ;’

Gainst knaves and th ieves m en shut their gate,For th e rain it raineth every day.

But when I came,alas ! to wive,

Wi th h ey, ho, th e wind and th e rainBy swaggering could I never thrive,For th e rain it raineth every day.

But when I came unto my beds,With h ey, ho, th e wind and th e rain

With toss-pots still had drunken heads,For th e rain it raineth every day.

A great while ago th e world begun,With h ey, ho, th e wind and th e rain

But that ’

s all one, our play is done,And w e ’

11strive to please you every day.

Shakespeare.

254 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLXXXII

TIMES GO BY TURNS

THE lopped tree in time may grow again,

Most naked plants renew both fruit and flowerTh e sore st wight may find release of pain,Th e driest soil suck in some moist

’

n ing shower ;Times go by turns and chances change by course,From foul to fair

,from better h ap to worse .

Th e sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,

Sh e draws h er favours to th e lowest eb bHer time hath equal times to come and go

,

Her loom doth weave th e fine and coarsest w ebNo j oy so great but runneth to an end,

No h ap so hard but m ay in fine amend .

Not always fall of leaf nor ever Spring,No endless night yet not eternal day ;Th e saddest birds a season find to sing,Th e roughest storm a calm may soon allayThus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may h Ope to rise, yet fear to fall .

A chance may win that by mischance was lost

Th e well that holds no great, take s little fish ;In some things all

,in all th ings none are cross

’

d,

Few all they need, but none have all they wish

U'

nm eddled 1 j oys here to no man befall

Wh o least, hath some who most, hath never all.R. Southwell.

1 Unmixed. Cf. p. 51, line I.

THE GOLDEN POMP

CCLXXXVI

GOD Lyaeus, ever young,Ever h onour’d, ever sung,Stain

’

dwith blood of lusty grapes,In a thousand lusty shapesDance upon th e maz er

’

s l brim,

In th e crimson liquor sw im ;

From thy plenteous hand divineLet a river run with wineGod of youth, let this day hereEnter neither care nor fear .

J. Fletcher.

CCLXXXVII

BORN was I to b e oldAnd for to die here

After that, in th e mouldLong for to lie here.

But before that day comes

Still I be bouz ing,For I know in th e tombs

There’

s no carousing.

1A bowl ofmaple-wood.

RELIGIOUS USE OF TAKING TOBACCO 257

CCLXXXVIII

TROLL THE BOWL

COLD’

s th e wind,and wet

’ s th e rain,Saint Hugh b e our good speed !Ill is th e weather that bringeth no gain,Nor helps good hearts in need .

Troll th e bowl, th e j olly n ut-brown bowl,

And here ’

s,kind mate, to thee

Let’

s sing a dirge for Saint Hugh’ s soul

,

And down it merrily.

T. Dekker.

CCLXXX IX

A RELIGIOUS USE OF TAKING TOBACCO

THE Indian weed withered quiteG reen at morn

,cut down at night ;

Shows thy decay all flesh is hay :Thus think

,then drink tobacco.

And when th e smoke ascends on high,Think thou beholds th e vanityOf worldly stufl

'

; gone with a puffThus think

,then drink tob acco.

But when th e pipe grows foul within,Think of thy soul defiledwith sin,And that th e fire doth it require

Thus think,then drink tobacco.

R

THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e ashes that are left behind,May serve to put thee still in mind,That unto dust re turn thou must

Thus think,then drink tobacco.

ccxc

AMANTIUM IRAE

INgoing to mynaked b edas one that would have slept,I heard a wife s ing to h er child, that long before

h adwept

Sh e sighed sore and sang full sweet, to bring th e

babe to rest,That would not cease but cried still, in sucking at

h er breast.

Sh e w as full weary of h er watch, and grieved withh er child,

Sh e rocked it and rated it, till th at on h er it sm iledThen did sh e say, Now have I found this proverb

true to prove,Th e falling out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

Then took I paper, pen, and ink ,this proverb for to

write,

In register for to remain, of such a worthy wightAs sh e proceeded thus in song unto h er l ittle brat,Much matter utter

’

d sh e of we ight, in place whereassh e sat :

And proved plain there was no beast, nor creaturebearing life,

Could well b e known to live in love without discordand strife

260 THE GOLDEN POMP

Thus in song sh e oft rehearsed, as did h erwell behove,Th e falln out of faithful friends renewing is of love .

I marvel much pardy (quoth sh e) for to b ehold th erout

,

To see man, woman, boy, and beast, to toss th e

Some kneel, some crouch, some beck,some check,

and some can smoothly smile,And some emb race others in arm,

and there thinkmany awile,

Some stand aloof at cap and knee, some humble andsome st out,

Yet are they never friends in deed until they oncefall out ;

Thus ended sh e h er song and said, before sh e did

remove,

Th e fall ing out of faithful friends renewing is of love.

RichardEdrvardcs.

ccxci

M Y R A

I,WITH whose colours Myra dress

’

dh er head,I,that wore posies of h er own hand-making,

I,that mine own name in th e chimneys 1 readBy Myra finely wrought ere I was waking :

Must I look on, in hope time com ing m ayWith change bring back myturn again to play ?

1 Chem z'

nées, chimney-screens of tapestry work.

A NOSEGAY 261

I , that on Sunday at th e church-stile foundA garland sweet with true-love-knots in flowers,

Which I to wear about mine arms was boundThat each of us might know that all was ours

Must I lead now an idle l ife in w ishes,And follow Cupid for his loave s and fishes ?

I, that did wear th e ring h ermother left,I, for whose love sh e gloried to b e b lamed,

I, with whose eyes h er eyes committed theft,I, who did make h er blush when I was named

Must I lose ring, flowers,blush

,theft, and go naked,

Watching with sighs till dead love b e awaked ?

Was i t for this that I might Myra seeWashing th e water with h er beauties white ?

Yet would sh e never write h er love to m e .

Thinks wit of change when thoughts are in delight !

Mad girls may safely love as they may leaveNo man can print a kiss : lines may deceive .

1

Fulke Greville, LordBrooke.

ccxcn

A NOSEGAY

SAY,crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil,With Violet blue ;

Since you have seen th e beauty of my saint,And eke h er view

262 THE GOLDEN POMP

Did not h er sight ( fair sight you lonely fill,With sweet delight

Of goddess’ grace and angels’ sacred te int 1

In fine, most bright ?

Say, golden Primrose, sanguine Cowslip fair,Wi th Pink most fine

S ince you beheld th e visage of my dear,

And eyes divine ;Did not h er globy front, and glisten ing hair,With cheeks most sweet

,

So gloriously like damask flowers appear,Th e gods to greet ?

Say, snow-white L ily, speckled Gilly-flow er,With Daisy gay ;

S ince you have viewed th e Queen of my desire,In h er array

Did not h er ivory paps, fair Venus’

bower,Wi th heavenly glee,

A Juno’

s grace, conj ure you to requireHer face to see ?

Say Rose, say Dafl'

odil, and V iolet blue,

With Primrose fair,S ince ye have seen mynymph

’

s sweet dainty face,And gesture rare,

Didnot (brightCowslip, b loom ingPink) h erView

(White Lily) shine

(Ah, G illy-flow er, ah Daisy with a graceLike stars divine

John Reynolds.

1 Tint , hue.

264 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXCIV

A NOBLE SUIT

THOUGH beauty b e th e mark of praise,And yours Ofwhom I sing b e suchAs not th e world can praise too much,

Yet’ tis your V irtue now I raise.

A virtue , like allay 1 so goneThroughout your form as

,though that move

And draw and conquer all men’ s love,

This subj ects you to love of one .

Where in you triumph yet, - because’Tis Ofyour flesh, and that you use

Th e noblest freedom,not to choose

Against or faith or honour’

s laws .

But who should less expect from you ?

In whom alone Love l ives againBy whom h e is restored to m en,

And kept and b red and brought up true.

His fall ing temples you have rear’

d,

Th e w ith er’

d garlands ta’

en away ;His altars kept from that decay

That envy wish’

d,and nature fear

’

d

1 Alloy.

BEYOND 265

And on them burn so chaste a flame,With so much loyalty’ s expense,As Love to acquit such excellence

Is gone himself into your name.

And you are h e, - th e deityTo whom all lovers are design

’

d

That would their better objects findAmong which faithful troop am I

Wh o as an ofl" ring 1 at your shrine

Have sung this hymn,and here entreat

One spark of your diviner heatTo light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scantAppear, and that to shortest view,

Ye t give m e leave to adore in youWhat I in h er am grieved to want

B. Jonson.

CCXCV

BEYOND

O No, Belov’

d I am most sureThese virtuous habits w e acquireAs being with th e soul entire

Must with it evermore endure.

1 Old editions ofi-spring.

’

266 THE GOLDEN POMP

Else should our souls in vain elect ;And vainer yet were Heaven

’ s laws,

When to an everlasting causeThey give a perishing effect.

These eyes again thine eyes shall see,These hands again thine hand enfold,And all chaste blessings can b e told

Shall with us everlasting b e .

For if no use of sense remainWhen bodies once this l ife forsake,Or they could no delight partake ,

Why should they ever rise again ?

And if ev’

ry imperfect mindMake love th e end of knowledge here,How perfect will our love b e where

All imperfection is refined

So when from hence w e shall b e gone,And b e no more nor you or IAs one another

’ s mysteryEach shall b e both, yet both but one

Edward,LordHerbert ofCherbury.

ccxcv 1

FOR SOLDIERS

YE buds of Brutus’ land

,

1 courageous youths, now

play your parts

Unto your tackle stand . abide th e brunt with valiant

hearts..

1 Scions of England heldofmy th ical descent from Brute, or

268 THE GOLDEN POMP

Stout hearts gain praise, when dastards sail in

Slander’ s seas

Hap what h ap shal l, w e sure shall die but once forall.

Alarm methinks they cry, Be packing, mates ; begonewith speed

Our foes are very nigh shame have that man thatshrinks at n eed

,

Unto it b oldly let us stand, God will give Right th eupper hand .

Our cause i s good ,w e need not doub t, in sign of

com ing give a shout.March forth

,b e strong, good h ap will come ere it

b e long.

Shrink not, fight well, for lusty lads must bear th ebell.

All you that will shun evil, must dwell in warfareevery day ;

Th e world, th e flesh, and devil, always do seek oursoul

’

s decay.

Strive with these foes with all your might, so shallyou fight a worthy fight .

That conquest doth deserve most praise, where vicedo yield to virtue

’

s ways .Beat down foul sin, a worthy crown then shall ye

win ;If ye live well, in heaven with Christ our souls shall

dwell.

A SONG FOR PRIESTS 269

ccxcvn

A SONG FOR PRIESTS

O WEARISOME condition of humanity !

Born under one law,to another bound

Vainly begot, and yet forbidden vanityCreated sick, commanded to b e sound

-What meaneth Nature by thesediverse laws ?

Passion and Reason self-division cause.

Is it th e mark or m ajesty of powerTo make ofl

’

ences that it may forgive ?

Nature herself doth h er own self deflower,To hate those errors sh e herself doth give .

But how should Man think that h e may not do,

If Nature did not fail and punish too ?

Tyrant to others, to herself unjust,Only commands things diflicult and hard .

Forbids us all things which it knows w e lust ;Makes easy pains, impossible reward.

If Nature did not take delight in blood,

Sh e would have m ade more easy ways to good.

We that are bound by vows, and by promotion,With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites,

To lead belief in good and ’ stil 1 devotion .

To preach of Heaven’ s wonders and delightsYet when each of us in his own heart looks

,

He finds th e God there far unl ike his booksFulke Grem

’

lle, LordBrooke.

1 Instil.

270 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCXCVIII

THE LIFE OF MAN

I

LIKE to th e fall ing of a star,

Or as th e flights of eagles are,Or like th e fresh spring

’ s gaudy hue,Or silver drops of morning dew,

O r like th e wind that chafes th e flood,Or bub bles which on water stoodEven such is Man

,whose b orrow

’

d lightIs straight call

’

d in and paid to night.

Th e wind blows out ; th e bubble diesTh e spring entomb

’

d in autumn lies ;Th e dew

’

s dry’

d up ; th e star is shot ;Th e fl ight is past ; and man forgot.

HenryKing.

CCXCIX

THE World’

s a bubble ; and th e life of Man

Less than a spanIn his conception wretched— from th e womb

So to th e tomb ;Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years

With cares and fears .Wh o then to frail m ortality shall trustBut limns on water, or but writes in dust.

272 THE GOLDEN POMP

THIS life,which seem s so fair

,

Is like a bubble blown up in th e air

By sporting children’ s breath,

Wh o chase it everywhereAnd strive who can most motion it bequeath .

And though it sometime seem of its own mightLike to an eye of gold to b e fix

’

d there,

And firm to hover in that empty he ight,That on ly is because i t i s so light.— But in that pomp it doth not long appear ;For e

’

en when most admired,i t in a thought

,

As sw ell’

dfrom nothing, doth dissolve in naught .DrummondofHawthornden.

CCCI

INEXORABLE DEATH

MY thoughts hold mortal strife

I do detest my life,And with lamenting criesPeace to my soul to bringOft call that prince which here doth monarchise— But h e, grim-grinning K ing,Wh o caitifl

'

s scorns, and doth th e blest surprise,Late having deck

’

dwith b eauty’

s rose his tomb,

Disdains to crop a weed , and will not come .

A PASSION 273

CCCII

OF MISERY

CORPSE,1 clad with carefulness ;

Heart, h eap’

dwith heavinessPurse, poor and penniless ;Back bare in bitterness0 get my grave in readiness ;Fain would I die to end this stress .

Thomas Howell.

CCCIII

A PASS ION

HAPPY were h e could finish forth his fateIn some unhaunted desert, where, ob scureFrom all society

,from love and hate

Ofworldly folk, there might h e sleep secure

Then wake again, and ever give GodpraiseContent with hips,with haws, with bramble-berry;In contemplation spending still h is days,And change of holy thoughts to make h im merry '

Where,when h e dies, his tomb may b e a bush,

Where harmle ss robin dwells with gentle thrushHappy were h e !

R. Devereux, Earl ofEssex .

274 THE GOLDEN POMP

THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE

How happy is h e born and taughtThat serveth not another

’

s willWhose arm our is his honest thought

,

And simple truth his utmost skill !

Whose passions not his masters are ;Whose soul is stil l prepared for death,Untied unto th e world by careOf publi c fam e or private breath ;

Wh o envies none that ch ance doth raise ,

Nor vice who never understoodHow deepe st wounds are given by praiseNor rules of state

,b ut rules of good

Wh o hath his life from rumours freedWhose conscience is his strong retreat ;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make Oppressors great ;

Wh o God doth late and early prayMore of His grace than gifts to lend ;And entertains th e harmless dayWith a religious book or friend ;

—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall :Lord of himse lf, though not Oflands,And having nothing

, yet hath all .SirH. Wotton.

276 THE GOLDEN POMP

Some have too much , yet still do crave ;I little have, and seek no more .

They are but poor, though much they have,And I am rich with little store ;

They poor, I rich ; they b eg, I give ;They lack

,I leave ; they pine, I l ive .

I laugh not at another’

s loss,

I grudge not at another’

s gain ;No worldly waves my mind can tossMy state at one doth still remain

I fear no foe, I fawn no friend ;I loathe not l ife, nor dread my end.

Some weigh the ir pleasure by the ir lust,Their wisdom by their rage of will

Their treasure is their only trust,A cloaked craft the ir store of skill

But all th e pleasure that I findI s to maintain a quiet mind.

My wealth is health and perfect ease,My conscience clear my chief defence ;

I neither seek by bribes to please,Nor by deceit to b reed Ofl

’

ence :

Thus do I live ; thus will I die ;Would all did so as well as I

THE GENTLE MAN 277

CCCVI

IT i s nOt growing like a tree,In bulk

,doth m ake man better b e

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last

,dry

,bald and sere

A lily of a dayI s fairer far in May

Although it fall and die th at n ight,

I t was th e pl ant and flower of light.In small proportions we j ust beauties see ;And in short measures l ife may perfect b e .

B. Jonson.

CCCVII

THE GENTLE MAN

WISE m en patience never want,Good m en pity cannot hide

Feeb le Spirits only vauntOfrevenge, th e poorest pride

He alone, forgive that can,Bears th e true soul of a man .

Deeds from love, and words, that flow,

Foster like kind April showers ;In th e warm sun all things grow,

Wholesome fruits and pleasant flowersAll so thrive s his gentle raysWhereon human love displays.

278 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCVIII

INTEGER VITAE

THE m an of life upright,Whose guiltless heart is free

From all dishonest deeds,

O r thought of vanity ;

Th e man whose silent daysIn harmless j oys are spent,

Whom hopes cann ot delude,Nor sorrow discontent ;

That man needs neither towersNor armour for defence,

Nor secret vaults to flyFrom thunder

’

s violence

He only can beholdWith un aflfigh ted eyes

Th e horrors of th e deepAnd terrors of th e skies.

Thus,scorning all th e cares

That fate or fortune brings,He makes th e heaven h is book,His wisdom heavenly things ;

Good thoughts his only friends,His wea lth a well-spent age,

Th e earth his sober innAnd quiet pilgrimage.

T. Campion.

280 THE GOLDEN POMP

Thou art of what I did intendTh e all and end;

And what was made, was made to meetThee, thee, my sheet.

Come then and b e to my chaste sideBoth b ed and bride

We two, as rel iques left, will haveOne rest, one grave

And hugging close, w e will not fearLust entering here

Where all desires are dead and coldAs is th e mould ;

And all afl'

ections are forgot,Or trouble not.

Here, here, th e slaves and prisoners b eFrom shackles free

And weeping widows long oppress’

d

Do here find rest.Th e wronged client ends his laws

Here, and his cause .

Here those long suits of Chancery lie

Quiet, or dieAnd all Star-Chamber bills do cease

Or hold their peace .

Here needs no Court for our RequestWhere all are best,

All wise, all equal, and all j ustAlike i’ th

’ dust .Nor need w e here to fear th e frown

Of court or crownWhere fortune bears no sway o

’

er things,There all are kings .

A SEA DIRGB 281

In this securer place w e’11keep

As lull’d asleep ;Or for a little time w e

’

11lie

As robes laid byTo b e another day reworn,

Turn’d,but not torn

Or l ike old testaments engross’

d,

Lock’d up, not lost.

And for a while lie here conceal’

d,

TO b e reveal’

d

Next at th e great Platonick year,1

And then meet here.

CCCXII

A SEA DIRGE

FULL fathom five thy father liesOf his bones are coral made

Those are pearls that were his eyesNothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-ChangInto something rich and strange .

Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knellDing-dong.

Hark now I hear them,

Ding-dong,bell

Shakespeare.

1 Th e 36,oooth year, when all creation returns upon itself, andbegins a new cycle.

282 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXIII

A LAND DIRGE

CALL for th e robin-redbreast and th e wren,S ince o

’

er shady groves they hover,And with leaves and flowers do coverTh e friendless bodies of unburied m en.

Call unto his funeral dole 1

Th e ant, th e field-mouse, and th e mole,To rear him hillocks that shal l keep him warm

,

And (when gay tombs are rob b’

d) sustain no harm ;But keep th e wolf far hence, that

’s foe to m en,

For with his nails he’ ll dig them up again .

J. Webster.

CCCXIV

THE SHROUDING OF THE DUCHESS

OF MALFI

HARK ! Now everything is still,Th e screech-owl and th e whistler shrill,Call upon our dame aloud,And bid h er quickly don h er shroud !

Much you had of land and rent ;Your length in clay

’ s now competentA long war disturb

’

d your mind

Here your perfect peace i s sign’

d.

1 Lamentauon.

THE GOLDEN POMP

cccxv1

VANITAS VANITATUM

ALL th e flowers of th e springMeet to perfume our buryingThese have but the ir growing prime,

And man does flourish but his time :

Survey our progress from our birthWe are set, w e grow,

w e turn to earth .

Courts adieu, and all delights,All bewitching appetites

Sweetest breath and clearest eyeLike perfumes go out and die ;And consequently this i s doneAs shadows wai t upon th e sun .

Vain th e ambition of kingsWh o seek by trophies and dead thingsTo leave a living nam e behind,Andweave but nets to catch th e wind .

J. Webster.

CCCXVII

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY

MORTALITY, behold and fear !

What a change of flesh is here !Think how many royal bones

Sleep beneath this heap of stones

DEATH’

S EMISSARIES 285

Here they lie had realms and lands,Wh o now want strength to stir their handsHere from their pulpits seal

’

dwith dustThey preach,

‘ In greatness is no trust.’

Here is an acre sown indeedWith th e richest, royall

’st seed

That th e earth did e’er suck in

S ince th e first man died for sinHere th e bones of birth have cried

,

‘ Though gods they were, as m en they diedHere are sands

,ignoble things

,

Dropt from th e ruin’

d sides of kings ;Here ’

s a world of pomp and state,Buried in dust, once dead by fate .

Francis Beaumont.

CCCXVIII

DEATH’

S EMISSARIES

VICTORIOUs m en of earth,no more

Proclaim how wide your empires are ;Though you bind on every shoreAnd your triumphs reach as far

As night or day,

Yet you, proud m onarchs, must obeyAnd mingle with forgotten ashes, whenDeath calls ye to th e crowd of common men.

286 THE GOLDEN POMP

Devouring Famine,Plague, and War,

Each able to undo mankind,

Death’

s servile emissaries are ;Nor to these alone confined,

He hath at willMore quaint and subtle ways to kill

A smile or kiss, as h e will use th e art,Shall h ave th e cunning skill to break a heart .

CCCXIX

DEATH THE LEVELLER

THE glories of our blood and stateAre shadows

,not substantial things ;

There is no armour against Fate ;Death lays his icy hand on kings

Sceptre and CrownMust tumb le down,

And in th e dust b e equal m adeWith th e poor crooked scythe and spade .

Some m en with swords may reap th e field,And plant fresh laurels where they kill

But their strong nerves at last must yield ;They tame b ut one another sti ll

Early or lateThey stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breathWhen they, pale captives, creep to death .

288 THE GOLDEN POMP

Lord keep m e faithful to th e trustWhich my dear spouse reposed in m e

To him now dead pre se rve m e j ustIn all that should performed b e

For though our be ing man and wifeExtendeth only to this life,

Yet neither l ife nor death shall endTh e being of a faithful friend .

Geo. Wither.

CCCXXI

THE MOURNING DOVE

LIKE as th e Culver1 on th e bared boughS its mourning for th e absence of h er mate

And in h er song sends many a wishful vowFor his return that seems to linger late.

So I alone now left disconsolateMourn to myself th e absence Ofmy love

And wand’

ring here and there all desolate

Seek with my plaints to match that mournful dove

Ne j oy of aught that under heaven doth hoveCan comfort m e, b ut h er own j oyous sight

Whose sweet aspect both God and man can moveIn h er unspotted pleasance to del ight.

Dark is my day while s h er fair light I miss,And dead my life that wants such lively bliss.

Spenser.

1Dove.

THE PH(ENIX AND THE TURTLE 289

CCCXXII

THE PHCENIX AND THE TURTLE

LET th e bird of loudest layOn th e sole Arab ian tree

,

Herald sad and trumpet b eTo whose sound chaste wings obey .

But thou shrieking h arbinger,Foul precurrer of th e fiend,Augur of th e fever

’

s end,

To this troop come thou not near.

From this session interdictEvery fowl of tyrant wing

Save th e eagle, feathered kingKeep th e obsequy so strict.

Let th e priest in surpl ice whiteThat defunctive music can,1

Be th e death divining swan ,

Lest th e requiem lack his right.

And thou,treble-dated crow,

That thy sable gender mak’

st

With th e breath thou giv’

st and tak’st,

’Mongst ourmourners shalt thou go .

1Knows.

290 THE GOLDEN POMP

Here th e anthem doth comm enceLove and constancy is deadPhoenix and th e turtle fled

In a mutual flame from hence .

So they loved, as love in twainHad th e essence but in one ;

Two distincts,division none ;

Numb er there in love was slain .

Hearts remote, yet not asunder ;Distance, and no space was seen’Twixt th e turtle and his queen :

But in them it were a wonder.

So beween them love did shine,That th e turtle saw his rightFlam ing in th e phoenix sight

Either was th e other'

s mine.

Property was thus appall’

d,

That th e se lf was not th e same ;S ingle nature’ s double name

Ne ither two nor one was call’

d.

Reason,in itself confounded,

Saw division grow together ;To themselve s yet e ither neither,

Simple were so well compounded.

292 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXXIII

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PHILI P SIDNEY

GIVE pardon, blessed soul, to my bold cries,If they

,importunate, interrupt th e song

Which now,with joyful note s, thou sing

’ st amongTh e angel-choristers of heavenly skies.

G ive pardon eke, swee t soul, to my slow eyes,That since I saw thee now it is so long

,

And yet th e tears that unto thee b elongTo thee as yet they did not sacrifice .

I did not know that thou wert dead beforeI did not feel th e grief I did sustain ;Th e greater stroke astonish eth th e moreAs tonishment takes from us sense of pain ;

I stood amaz ed when others’ tears begun ,

And now begin to weep when they have done .

CCCXXIV

UPON THE DEATH OF SIR ALBERTUSMORTON

’

S WIFE

HE first deceased sh e for a little tried

To l ive without him , liked it not, and died .

Sir H. Wotton.

ON SALATHIEL PAVY 293

CCCXXV

IN OBITUM M S,X

° MAIJ, 1614

MAY ! Be thou never graced with birds thatNor Flora’ s pride

In thee all flowers and roses spring,M ine only died.

Wm. Browne.

CCCXXVI

EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGEROF PEMBROKE

UNDERNEATH this sable herseLies th e subject ofall verseSidney’s sister

,Pembroke

’s motherDeath, ere thou hast slain another

Fair and learn’

d and good as sh e,Time shall throw a dart at thee .

B. Jonson or Wm. Browne.

CCCXXVII

ON SALATH IEL PAVY

CHILD OF QUEEN ELIZ ABETH’

s CHAPEL

WEEP with m e, all you that readThis l ittle story

Andknow,for whom a tear you shed

Death’

s self is sorry.

294 THE GOLDEN POMP

"

Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature

,

As Heaven and Nature seem’d to strive

Which own’d th e creature .

Years h e numb er’

d scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn

’

d cruel,Yet three fill

’

d z odiacs had h e beenTh e stage

’ s j ewel ;And did act (what now w e moan)

Oldm en so duly,As sooth th e Parcae thought him one,

He played so truly.

So, by error, to'

bis fateThey all consented

But, v iewing h im since, alas, too lateThey have repented

And have sought,to give n ew birth,

In baths to steep himBut

, b e ing so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep h im .

B. Jonson.

CCCXXVIII

ON THE LADY MARY VILLIERS

THE Lady Mary Villiers liesUnder this stone ; with weeping eyesTh e parents that first gave h er birth,And their sad friends

,lai d h er in earth

296 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXXXI

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter’s night

Stood shivering in th e snow,

Surprised was I with sudden heatWhich m ade my heart to glow ;

And lifting up a fearful eyeTo view what fire w as near,

A pretty babe all burning brightDid in th e air appear ;

Wh o,scorched with excessive heat,

Such floods of tears did shedAs though His floods should quench His

flam e s,

Which with His tears were fedAlas ! ’ quoth He, but newly bornIn fiery heats I fry,

Yet none approach to warm their heartsOr feel my fire but I

My faul tless breast th e furnace isTh e fuel

,wounding thorns ;

Love i s th e fire , and sighs th e smoke ;Th e ashes

,shames and scorns

Th e fuel Justice layeth on,And Mercy blows th e coals,

Th e m etal in this furnace wrought

Are men’

s defiled souls

A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY SAVIOUR 297

For which , as now on fire I amTo work them to their good,

So will I melt into a b ath,To wash them in my blood .

’

With this He vanish’

d out of sightAnd swiftly shrunk away,

And straight I called unto mindThat it was Christmas Day.

R. Southwell.

CCCXXXII

A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY

SAVIOUR

I SING th e Birth was born to-night,

Th e Author both of life and light ;Th e angel s so did sound it

,

And like th e ravish’

d shepherds said,Wh o saw th e l ight, and were afraid,

Yet search’

d,and true they found

Th e Son of God,th

’

eternal K ing,

That did us all salvation bring,

And freed th e soul from dangerHe whom th e whole world could not take,Th e Word

,which heaven and earth did make,

Was now laid in a manger.

296 THE GOLDEN POMP

Th e Father’

s wisdom will’d it so,

Th e Son’

s obedience knew no No,

Both wills were in one statureAnd as that wisdom hath decreed

,

Th e Word was now made flesh indeed,And took on him our nature .

What comfort by him do w e win,

Wh o made himself th e price of sin,To make us he irs of glory !

To see this Bab e, all innocence ;A martyr b orn in our defence

Can man forget this storyB. Jonson.

CCCXXXIII

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

CHORUS

WHAT sweeter music can w e bringThan a carol for to singTh e birth of this our Heavenly King ?

Awake th e voice awake th e string !Heart, ear, and eye, and everythingAwake th e while th e active fingerRuns division with th e singer.

From the Flourish they came to the Song.

Dark and dull night fly hence awayAnd give th e honour to this dayThat sees December turn

’

d to May.

300 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXXXIV

VERSES FROM THE SHEPHERDS’

HYMN

WE saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,Young dawn of our eternal dayWe saw Thine eyes break from th e East

,

And chase th e trembling shades awayWe saw Thee, and w e blest th e sight,We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.

Poor world,said I

,what wilt thou do

To entertain this starry strangerIs this th e best thou canst be stowA cold and not too cleanly manger ?

Contend, th e powers of heaven and earth,To fit a b ed for this huge birth.

Proud world,said I, cease your contest,

And let th e mighty bab e alone,Th e phoenix builds th e phmnix

’ nest,Love

’ s architecture i s His own .

Th e babe, whose birth embraves this morn,Made His own b ed ere He was born .

I saw th e curl’

d drops, soft and slow,

Come hovering o’

er th e place’

s head ,

Ofl”ring the ir whitest sheets of snow ,

To furnish th e fair infant’s b ed.

Forb ear, said I, b e not too bold,Your fleece i s white, but

’tis too cold.

VERSES FROM THE SHEPHERDS’ HYMN 301

I saw th’ obsequious seraph

’

Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,

For well they now can spare their wings,S ince Heaven itself lies here below .

Well done, said I but are you sureYour down

,so warm

,

‘will pass for pure ?

No, no, your K ing’s not yet to seek

Where to repose His royal headSee, see how soon His new -b loom

’

d cheek’Twixt mother

’s breasts is gone to b ed.

Sweet choice, said w e,no way but so,

Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow

Sh e sings Thy tears asleep, and dipsHer kisses in Thy weeping eye ;

Sh e spreads th e red leaves of Thy lips,That in the ir buds yet blushing lie .

Sh e’gainst those mother diam onds tries

Th e points of h er young eagle’

s eyes.

Welcom e— tho’

not to those gay fl ies,

G ilded 1 th’ beams of earthly beings,

Slippery souls in smiling eyesBut to poor shepherds, homespun things,

Whose wealth ’s their flocks, whose wit’ s to

Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April’ s husband sh ow

’

rs

Shall bless th e fruitful Maia’ s b ed

,

We’ ll bring th e first-born of h er flowers,To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.

302 THE GOLDEN POMP

To Thee , dread Lamb whose love must keepTh e shepherd

’

s while they feed their sheep.

To Thee, meek Majesty,soft K ing

Of simple graces and sweet loves !Each of us hi s lamb will bring

,

Each his pair of silver dovesAt last

,in fire of Thy fair eyes,

Ourselves become our own best sacrifice !R. Orashaw.

TO HIS SAVIOUR, A CHILD : A PRESENT

BY A CHILD

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower

Unto thy little Saviour ;And tell Him, by that bud now blown ,

He is th e Rose of Sharon known .

When thou hast said so, stick it thereUpon His b ib or stomacherAnd tell Him for good handsel

,

1 too,

That thou has t b rought a whistle new ,

Made of a clean straight oaten reed,To charm His cries at time of need .

Te ll Him ,for coral

,thou hast none,

But if thou had st,He should have one ;

And poor thou art, and known to b e

Even as moneyless as He .

1 Earnest money.

304 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXXXVIII

THY KING COMETH

YET if His Maj esty,our sovereign lord,

Should of his own accordFriendly himself invite,And say ‘ I

’

ll b e your guest to-morrow night,

’

How should w e stir ourselves,call and command

All hands to work ! Let no man idle stand.

Set m e fine Spanish tables in th e hallSee they b e fitted all

Let there b e room to eat

And order taken that there want no meat .See every sconce and candlestick made bright

,

That without tapers they may give a light.Look to th e presence are th e carpets spread,Th e daz ie o

’

er th e head,Th e cushions in th e chairs

,

And all th e candle s lighted on th e stairs ?

Perfum e th e chambers, and, in any case,Le t each man give attendance in his place !

’

Thus if a king were coming would w e do ;And ’twere good reason too

For’tis a duteous thing

To show all honour to an earthly king,And after all our travail and our cost,So h e b e pleased, to think no labour lost .

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS 305

But at th e coming of th e K ing of HeavenAll

’

s set at six and sevenWe wallow in our sin

,

Christ cannot find a chamber in th e inn .

We entertain Him always like a stranger,And

,as at first

,still lodge Him in a manger.

Anon.

CCCXXXIX

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS

COME,bring with a noise,

My merry,merry boys,

Th e Chri stm as log to th e firing ;While my good dame , sh e

Bids ye all b e freeAnd drink to your heart

’s desiring.

With th e last year’

s brandL ight th e new block

,and

For good success in his spendingOn your psaltries play,That sweet luck may

Come while th e log is a-teending.

‘

Drink now th e strong beer,Cut th e white loaf here

Th e while th e meat is a—shreddingFor th e rare mince-pie,And th e plumes stand by

To fill th e paste that’s a-kneading.

306 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCXL

W I N T E R

WHEN icicles hang by th e wall,And Dick th e shepherd b lows his nail,

And Tom bears logs into th e b all,

And milk comes froz en home in pail,When blood is nipped, and ways b e foul,Then nightly sings th e staring owl,

To-whitTo-who

,a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel 1 th e po t .

When all around th e wind doth b low,

And coughing drowns th e parson’s saw

,

And birds sit brooding in th e snow,

And Marian’

s nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in th e b owl,Then nightly sings th e staring owl

To-whit ;To-who

,a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel th e pot .

Shakespeare.

CCCXLI

WINTER’

S GAIETY

Now winter nightsenlargeTh e numb er of their hours,And clouds their storms dischargeUpon th e airy towers .

308 THE GOLDEN POMP

And thou yet in that frostWh ich flower and fruit hath lost,As if all here immortal were, dost stay.

For shame thy powers awake,Look to that Heaven which never night makes black,And there at that immortal sun

’

s bright rays,Deck thee with flowers which fear not rage of days.

Drummond ofHawthornden.

CCCXLIII

THE FLOWER

How fresh , O Lord how sweet and cleanAre thy returns ! Ev n as th e flowers in Spring,To which , besides their own demean,

1

Th e late-pas t frosts tributes of pleasure bring ;G rief melts awayL ike snow in May,

As if there were no such cold thing.

Wh o would have thought my sh rivell’

d heartCould have recover

’

d greenness ? It was gone

Q uite under ground ; as flowers departTo see the ir mother-root, when they have blown,

Where they togetherAll th e hard weather,

Dead to th e world, keep house unknown .

1 Demesne, domain ; which, as coming after a season offrost, have a pleasantness over and above their own proper

charm.

”

THE FLOWER 309

These are Thy wonders , Lord of power,K illing and quick

’

ning, bringing down to HellAnd up to Heaven in an hour ;

Making a chiming of a passing bell.We say amissThis or that is

Thy word is all,if w e could spe ll .

1

0 that I once past changing were,Fast in thy Paradise where no flower can wither !Many a Spring I shoot up fair,

Ofl’

ring at Heaven, growing and groaning thither ;Nor doth my flowerWant a Spring shower,

My sins and I j oining together.

But while I grow in a straight line,Still upwards bent, as if Heaven were mine own,Thy anger comes, and I decline

What frost to that ? What pole is not th e z oneWhere all things burn,When Thou dost turn,

And th e least frown of Thine is shown

And now in age I b ud again,After so m an y deaths I live and write ;I once more smel l th e dew and rain,

And relish versing : O my only L ight !It cannot b e

That I am h e

On whom Thy tempests fell all

1 Interpret.

310 THE GOLDEN POMP

These are thy wonders, Lord of love,To make us see w e are but flowers that glide ;Which when w e once can find and prove,

Th ou hast a garden for us where to bide .

Wh o would b e more,Swelling through store,

Forfeit the ir Paradise by their pride .

Geo. Herbert.

CCCXLIV

SELF-TRIAL

LET not th e sluggish sleepClose up thy waking eye,

Until with j udgment deepThy daily deeds thou try

He that one sin in conscience keepsWhen h e to quiet goe s,

More vent’rous is than h e that sleepsWith twenty mortal foes .

Anon.

CCCXLV

THE BOOK

OF this fair volume which w e World do nameIf w e th e sheets and leaves could turn with care,Of Him who it corrects and did it frame

We clear might read th e art and wisdom rare

312 THE GOLDEN POMP

TO HIS EVER-LOVING GOD

CAN I not come to Thee, my God,for these

So very-many-meeting hindrances,

That slack my pace, b ut yet not make m e stay ?Wh o slowly goes

,rids

,in th e end

,his way.

Clear Thou my paths , or shorten Thou my miles,Remove th e bars, or lift m e o

’

er th e stilesS ince rough th e way is, help m e when I call,And take m e up ; or e l se prevent th e fall .I ken my hom e , and it affords some easeTo see far offth e sm oking vi llages.Fain would I re st

, yet covet not to dieFor fear of future biting penuryNo, no, my God

,— Thou know ’

st my wishes b eTo leave this life not loving it, but Thee .

Herrick.

CCCXLVIII

THE PULLEY

WHEN God at first made Man,Having a glass of b lessings standing by,Let us ( said He) pour on him all w e can ;Le t th e world

’s riches which dispersed lie

Contract into a span .

THE COLLAR 313

So strength first made a way,Then beauty flow’d

,then wisdom, honour, pleasure

When alm ost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that, alone of all his treasure,

Rest in th e bottom lay.

For if I should ( said He)Bestow this j ewel also on My creature,He would adore My gifts instead ofMe,

And rest in Nature, not th e God of NatureSo both should losers b e.

Yet let him keep‘

th e rest,

But keep them with repining restlessnessLet him b e rich and weary

,that at least,

If goodness lead him not, yet weariness

May toss him to My breast.

CCCXLIX

THE COLLAR

I STRUCK th e board and cried, No more ;I will ab road .

What, sh all I ever sigh and pine ?

My lines and life are free, free as th e road,Loose as th e wind

,as large as store .

THE GOLDEN POMP

Shall I b e still in suit ?

Have I no harvest b ut a thornTo let m e blood

,and not restore

What I h ave lost with cordial fruit ?

Sure there was w ineBefore my sighs did dry it ; there w as cornBefore my tears did drown it.Is th e year only lost to m e ?

Have I no bays to crown it ?

No flowers,no garlands gay ? All blasted ?

All wasted ?

Not so,my heart but there i s fruit,And thou has t hands .

Recover all thy sigh-blown age

On double pleasure : leave thy cold disputeOf what is fit and not ; forsake thy cage,

Thy rope of sandsWhich pe tty thoughts have m ade, andmade to theeGood cab le to enforce and draw

And b e thy law,

Wh ile thou dost wink and would’

st not see.

Away : take heed,I will abroad.

Call in thy death’ s-head there : tie up thy fears.

He that forbearsTo suit and serve his needDeserve s his load.

But as I raved and grew more fierce and wildAt every word,

Methought I heard one cal ling Child

And I replied‘My Lord.

’

Geo. Herbert.

316 THE GOLDEN POMP

Pleasures such as shall pursueMe immortali sed

,and you

And fresh j oys,as never tooHave ending.

COCLI

GOOD FRIDAY

MOST glorious Lord OfLife,that on day

Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin,And having h arrow

’

d hell, didst b ring awayCaptivity thence captive, us to win

This j oyous day, dear Lord, with j oy begin,And grant that w e, for whom thou diddest die

,

Being with Thy dear blood clean w ash’

dfrom sin,

May live for ever in felicity

And that Thy love w e weighing worthily,

May likewise love Thee for th e same againAnd for Thy sake, that all like dear didst buy,With love may one another entertain .

So let us love,dear Love, like as w e ought,

Love is th e lesson which th e Lord us taught.Spens er.

THE WEEPER 317

CCCLII

T H E W E E P E R

MARY MAGDALENE

THE dew no more will weepTh e primrose

’s pale cheek to deckTh e dew no more will sleepNuz z led in th e lily

’s neckMuch rather would it tremble hereAnd leave them both to b e thy tear.

Not th e soft gold whichSteals from th e amber-weeping tree,

Makes Sorrow half so richAs th e drops distill

’

d from theeSorrow’ s best j ewels lie in theseCaskets of which Heaven keeps th e keys .

When Sorrow would b e seenIn h er brightest maj esty,

— For sh e i s a QueenThen is sh e drest by none but thee

Then, and only then, sh e wearsHer richest pearls— Imean thy tears.

Not in th e evening’s eyes,

When they redwith weeping are

For th e sun that dies,Sits Sorrow with a face so fair

Nowhere but here doth meet

Sweetness so sad, sadness so sweet.

318 THE GOLDEN POMP

When some new b right guestTakes up among th e stars a room,

And Heaven will make a feast,Angels with the ir bottles come,

And draw from these full eyes of thineTheir Master

’

s water,their own wine.

Does th e night arise ?

Still thy tears do fall and fall .Does night lose h er eye s ?

Still th e fountain weeps for all .Let night or day do what they will,Thou hast thy task

,thou weepest still.

R. Crashaw.

CCCLIII

DISCI PL INE

THROW away Thy rod,Throw away Thy wrath

O my God,

Take th e gentle path.

For my heart’

s desireUnto Thine is bent :

I aspireTo a full consent.

Not a word or lookI affect to own,

And Thy book alone.

320 THE GOLDEN POMP

His food w as locusts,and what young doth spring

With honey that from virgin hives distill’d;Parch

’

d body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing,Made him appear, long since from earth exiled.

Th en’

b urst h e forth All ye, whose hopes relyOn God

,with m e amidst these deserts m ourn ;

Repent, repent, and from Old errors turn ! ’

—Wh o listen’

d to h is voice, obey’d h is cry ?

Only th e echoes,which h e made re lent,

Rung from their flin ty1 caves Repent ! RepentDrummond ofHawthornden.

CCCLV

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT

IN th e hour of my distre ss,When temptations m e Oppress,And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort m e !

When I lie within my b ed,S ick in heart and sick in head,And with doub ts discom forted

,

Sweet Spirit, comfort m e

When th e house doth sigh and weep,And th e world is drown

’

d in sleep,Yet mine eyes th e watch do keep,

Sweet Spi rit, comfort m e

1 ‘marble.

’

LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT 321

When th e passing bell doth toll,And th e furie s in a ShoalCome to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, com fort m e

Wh en th e tapers now burn blue,And th e comforters are few ,

And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort m e

Wh en th e priest his last hath pray’

d,

And I nod to what is said,

'

Cause my speech is now decay’

d,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When,God knows, I

’m toss’

d aboutEither with de spair or doubtYet before th e glass b e out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me !

When th e tempter m e pursu’

th

With th e sins of all my youth,And half-damns m e with untruth

,

Sweet Spirit, comfort m e

When th e flames and hellish criesFright mine ears and fright mine eyes,And all terrors m e surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort m e

When th e j udgm ent is reveal’

d,

And that open’

dwhich was seal’

d,

When to Thee I have appeal’

d,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me

322 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCLVI

A LITANY

DROP, drop, slow tears,

And bathe those beauteous feetWhich brought from HeavenTh e news and Prince of Peace

Cease not, w et eyes,

His mercy to entreatTo cry for vengeanceSin doth never cease.

In your deep floodsDrown all my faults and fears ;

Nor let His eyeSee sin

,but through my tears .

CCCLVII

EASTER SONG

I GOT m e flowers to strew Thy way,I got m e boughs oflmany a tree

But Thou wast up by break of day,And b rough t

’

st Thy sweets along with Thee.

Th e sun arising in th e East,Though h e give l ight and th

’ East perfume,If they should offer to contestWi th Thy arising

,they presume.

324 THE GOLDEN POMP

CCCLIX

LOVE

LOVE bade m e welcome ; yet my soul drew back,Guilty of dust and sin .

But quick-eyed Love, observing m e grow slackFrom my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to m e , sweetly questioningIf I lack ’

d anything.

A guest,’

I answ er’d, worthy to b e hereLove said

,You shall b e h e .

’

‘ I, th e unkind, ungrateful ? Ah,my dear,

I cannot look on Thee.

’

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,‘Wh o made th e eyes b ut I ?

’

‘ Truth, Lord ; but I have marr’

d them : let

shame

Go where it doth deserve.

’

And know you not ,’

says Love, ‘ Wh o boreblame ?

’

My dear, then I will serve.

’

‘ You must sit down,

’ says Love, ‘ and tastemeat.

’

So I did sit and eat.

Geo. Herbert.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH’

S PILGRIMAGE 325

CCCLX

SIR WALTER RALEIGH’

S PILGRIMAGE

GIVE m e my scallop- shell of quiet,My staffof faith to walk upon,

My scrip of j oy, immortal diet,My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory,hope

’

s true gageAnd thus I

’

11take my pilgrimage.

Blood must b e my body’s balmer ;

No other balm will there b e givenWhilst my soul

,like quiet palmer,

Travelleth towards th e land of heaven ;Over th e silver mountains,Where spring th e nectar fountains

There will I kissTh e bowl of bliss ;

And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken hill .My soul will b e a-dry beforeBut after it will thirst no more.

Sir W. Raleigh.

326 GOLDEN POMP

CCCLXI

THE CONCLUS ION

EVEN such is Time, that takes inOur youth

,our j oys

,our all w e have,

And pays us b ut with earth and dust ;Wh o in th e dark and silent grave,

When w e have wander’

d all our ways,Shuts up th e story of our daysBut from this earth, this grave, thi s dust,My God shall raise me up, I trust .

THE GOLDEN POMP

at noone day in Bosphorus, and con tinued from morne to even.

’

(This is from Aristotle , Meteor. iii. 2 , Three Sunnes togetherour Aun citors in old tim e have Often beheld, as namely , whenSp. Posth umius wi th Q . Mutins , Q . Martins with M . Porcius ,M A n tonius w ith P. Dolabella , andMar. Lepidus with L. Plan enswere consuls . Yea, and we in our claims have seene th e like, in

th e time ofC1. Caesar of fam ous m emorie , h is consulsh ip, togetherwith Cornelius Orsitus his co lleague. More than three we never tothis dayfind to have been seene together.

’

Drummond'

s reference is perhaps to th e famous instance itali

Page 4, line 19 Th ese purple ports of death . ElsewhereDrummond speaks of th e lips as

‘ those coral ports of bliss .

’

Lips, double port oflove .

’Ports gates.

Page 4, lin e 24—Nn like a dru nkard reels . Professor

Masson compares Romeo and j ulz'

et, Ac t ii. Sc. iii. 1. 4‘Andfleckéddarkness like a drunkardreelsFrom forth day’s path andTitan

’

s fiery wheels.

’

VPage 5

— ‘ Corydon , arise , my Corydon.

’

This artless and

beautiful song is from E ngland’

s Helicon , where it is signed

lgnoto. Like most pieces thus subscribed it has been attributedto SirWal terRaleigh , but with no good reason.

VI

Page 7—‘ Get up, get up for shame ! Th e blooming morn

’

line 2 , the god unshorn : Imb erb is Apollo . For a full accountofth e May

-day customs alluded to in this glowing pastoral , consult Brand'

s Popular Antiquities , VOL i. pp. 2 12 sqq.

Page 10— ‘ Is not th ilke th e merry month of May.

’

FromThe S hepherds Calendar : May. This is one of th e few instancesin which I have ventured to make a short extract from a longpoem andpresent it as a separate lyric.

Page 11 See where my Love a-maying goes'

From FrancisPilkington

’

s First S et ofMadrigals, 1614.

XVPage 15

—‘ Ga ther ye rosebuds while ye may.

’Th e advice

is of course a commonplace of th e poets ; but Herrick ’s Openinglines seem to b e taken direct from Ausonius, 361, ll . 49 50

Collige , Virgo, rosas , dum flos novus et nova pubes,Et memoresto aevum sxc properare tuum.

’

NOTES 329

andagainQuarn longa una dies, aetas tam longa rosarum.

which in turn reminds us Of

Et Rose, elle a vécu cc que vivent les rosesL

’

espace d'

un niatin .

’

Compare this numberwith XVII Love in thy youth , fairmaid,

b e wise and th e sonnets of Shakespeare and Daniel thatfollow (XXI. where th e same note is sounded with deeperthought and feeling.

XVI

Page 15 Shun delays, they breed remorse.

’

Southwell addedfour stan zas to th e three here given they convey th e same advicein a variety ofform s, and conclude

Happyman,that soon doth knock

Bab el s babes against th e rock

Page 18—‘ Come, my Celia, let us prove.

’

Imitated fromCatullus’

Vivamus, mea Lesb ia, atque amemus. ’

Foranotherrendering of the same see th e first song in Campionand Rosseter

'

s first Book of A irs, th e verses being undoubtedlyCampion

’

s

My sweetest Lesbia, le t us live and loveAnd though th e sager sort ourdeeds reprove,Let us not weigh them : heaven’

s great lamps do diveInto th e west, andstraigh t again reviveBu t soon as once is set our little light,Then must we sleep In ever-during night.Ifallwould lead their lives in love like me,Then b loody swords andarmour shouldnot be ;No drum or trumpet peaceful sleeps shouldmove,U nless alarm came from th e camp ofLove :But fools do live, andwaste their little light,Andseek with pain their ever-during night.When timel death my life and fortune ends,Let not my cart be vext with mourning friends ;But le t all lovers, rich in triumph, come

Andwith sweet pastimes grace my happy tombAnd, Lesbia, close thou up my little light,Andcrown with love my ever-during night. ’

XXVI!Page 23 Th e ousel-cock , so black ofhue

’

: line 6, The plainson

gcuckoo gray : In ‘

plain-song’

th e descant rested With the

wil ofth e singer ; in prick-song ,

’

on th e otherhand, the harmony,

330 THE GOLDEN POMP

being more elaborate, was pricked or written down . Thus therich and involvedmusic of th e nightingale is often called “

pricksong.

’

E .g. .

‘ What b ird so sings, yet so does wail ?0 ,

’

tis th e ravish’d nightingale .

l ugu'

ug “5 m . term sh e crias,And still erwoe s at midnightBrave prick song !

Page 2 3—‘ Spring , th e sweet Spring, is th e year’s pleasant

king .

’

Nashe’

s S ummer’

s Last Will and Tfi lamen t, from whichthis is taken , was acted in th e autumn of 1593, while Londonwas being devas tated by th e plague . It is pathetic to contras tthese gay spring lines with numbers CCLxxv u. and ccnxxvnx. ,extracts from th e sam e play.

Autumn hath all th e summer'

s fruitful treasure ;Gone is our r

,t fled is ourCroydon ’

5 pleasure !Short days, days, long nights come on apaceAh ,

wh o shall hide us from th e winter’s face ?Colddoth mcrease , th e sickness will notAndhere w e lie, God knows, with little ease.

From winter, plague, andpestilence, goodLorddeliverus l'

XXX !

Page as—This rapturous little ca tch w e owe to Mr. A. H . Bu llen,

wh o disinterred it from th e collection ofearly MS. music-books preserved in th e library ofChris t Church , Oxford. In th e M8. th e linesare subscribed ‘ Mr. Gyles .

’

Nathaniel Giles was a choris ter at

Magdalen, and successively organist andmasterofth e choristers atS t. George

'

s , W indsor, and master of th e Children of th e ChapelRoyal. He diedJanuary a4th , 1633, andwas buried atW indsor.

XXXIIPage 25

—From Thomas Morley’s Madrigals to Four Voices,1600.

XXXIV

Page 27 , line x— l c Golden Pomp is come is O vid'

s‘ Aurea

pompavenit,

’

and N ow reigns tlze rose Martial’s ‘nunc regnat

rosa.

‘My retorted hairs ’

seems to b e Martial again , vi. 39 . 6,re torto crine Maurus .

’ My uncon trolled brow’may b e soluta,

libera. explicita frons .

’

But Herrick used h is classics so freely thatit would b e a mistake to seek to identify all that looks like directtranslation.

Page 3o—‘ Sweet day, so cool, so calm , so bright

’

is fromTIn Templc : S acred Poems and Private Ej aculations, 1632

-33.

332 THE GOLDEN POMP

XLVIII, xmxPages 40 , 41

—‘ C0me live with me and b e my love.

’ Marlowe '

s song (minus th e fourth and sixth verses and without th eauthor's name ) was first published in Tbe Passionate Pilgrim ,

1599, followed by th e first verse of th e Reply.

’

Th e next year itwas printed complete, with Marlowe’s name attached, in England

’

s

Th e ‘ Reply’

in E ng land’

s Helicon is signed ‘ Ignoto andthe evidence that Raleigh wrote it is confined to a famous passagein th e Compleat A ng ler

‘ As I left this place, and entered intoth e next field, a second pleasure en tertained me.

'

Twas a handsome m ilkmaid, that h ad not yet attained so much age and

wisdom as to load h er m ind with any fears ofmany things thatwill never b e , as too many men too often do : but sh e cast awayall care, and sung like a nightingale : h er voice was good, and the

ditty fitted for it : it was that smooth song which was made byKit Marlowe ,

now at least fifty years ago : and th e milkmaid’

s

mother sung an answer to it , which was made by Sir WalterRaleigh in h is younger days.

’

In th e second edition of th e A ngler Walton inserted—probab ly from a broad-sheet—ah extra penultimate stanza in bothSong andReply

Marlowe. Th y silverdishes for thy meat,As precious as th e gods do eat,Shall on an ivory tab le b ePrepared each day for thee andme.

’

Raleigk What shouldw e talk ofdainties, then,Ofbe ttermeat than ’

s fit formen ?

These are b ut vain : that '

5 only goodWhich Godhath b lest, andsent forfood.

'

We may conclude with a modes t conjecture ofth e late ProfessorHenry Morley’

s.

‘ Sharing ,

’

h e says, ‘

th e spe ll upon th e mind

that is in every familiar word of this old song , I feel like a duncewhen suggesting that there may b e two original m isprin ts in it,of cup

”

for cap.

"

and of fair-lined for fur-lined.

” —E ng[is/z Writers, vol. x. p. 135, note.

LII

Page 44— ‘What bird so sings, yet so does wail.

’

For ‘

prick

m g'

see note on No. xxvn .

LIIIPage 44

— ‘

This day Dame Nature seem'

d in love ’

: Reliquie

Wottoniance. Quoted in Walton ’

s A ng ler :‘ And I do easily

believe ,that peace and patience and a calm conten t did coh ab 1t

in th e cheerful heart of Sir Henry Wotton ; b ecause I knowthat when h e was beyond seventy years of age, h e made thisdescription of a part of th e present pleasure that possessed him,

NOTES 333

as he sat quietly, in a summer’

s evening, on a bank a-fish ing.

It is a description of th e spring ; which because it g lided as softand sweetly from h is pen , as that riverdoes at this time, by wh ichit was then made, I shall repeat unto you.

’

LVIIPage 48

—‘

Quivering fears, heart-tearing cares’

: Rel. Wotton.

with the signature Ignoto.

’

A lso described in Walton’

s A ngler

as‘a copy printed among some of Sir Henry Wotton

'

s, and

doubtless made either by h im or by a lover of angling.

’

It has

been claimed (vide note on No. v . ) for Sir Walter Raleigh , buton no evidence.

LIX

Page 53—‘ Th e damask meadows and th e crawling streams.’

From ‘ A Country Life : To h is brother, Mr. Th o. Herrick .

’

—Hesperza’es, 106. Th e poem is usually attributed to Bishop

Corbet (1582 but every line seems to claim Herrick forits author.

It is based on Horace, E1) . i. 10 , and is ful l of classical reminiscences. E .g. , With holy meal and crackling sal t ’ is Horace’sfarre pio et saliente mica.

’

Th e Thomas Herrick , to whom it is dedicated, was an elderbrother of th e poet

'

s , born May 7 , 1588, and apprenticed by h isuncle, Sir William Herrick , to a London merchant , Mr. Massam . In 1610 , however, Thomas quitted London and returnedto th e country, where b e cultivated a small farm.

LXPage 53

—‘ Heigh0 ! chill go to plough no more.’

From JohnMundy’s S ongs andPsalms, 1594.

LXI

Page 54— ‘ My Love is neither h ot nor cold.

’

From RobertJones

'

s S econdBook ofS ongs andA irs, 1601.

Lxl lI

Page 55 Diaph enia like th e daffadowndilly.

’

Signed H. C.

’

Helicon . It is set to music in Francis Pilkington’

s

S ongs or A irs, 1605.

Henry Constab le was born about 1555, of a staunch RomanCatholic family : was educated at S t. John

’

s College, Cambridge ,where h e took h is degree in 1579 . In 1595 falling (as a RomanCatholic ) under suspicion of treasonable correspondence withFrance , h e h ad to fly th e country. Ab out 160 1 h e ventured to

return ; but was detected and committed to th e Tower, where h elanguished until th e close of 1604. Th e exact date of his deathis uncertain, but it happenedbefore 1616.

334 THE GOLDEN POMP

LXIVPage 56 Like to Diana in h er summerweed.

’

From Greene'

s

romance ofMenaplion , 1589 . What manner ofwoman is sh e ? ’

quoth Melicertus.

‘As well as I can , answered Doron,

‘ I willmake description ofh er

Like taDiana , e tc.’

‘ Thou hast ,’ quoth Melicertus , made such a description as ifPn

'

amus’ young boyshouldpaint out th e perfection ofh is Greekish

paramour.

’

LXVPage 57 See where sh e sits upon the grassy green.

’

An

extract from Tbe S beplzerd’

s Calenda r . April. T h e same being‘

purposely intended to th e honour and prayse of our mostgratious soveraigne, queene Elizabeth . whom abruptly h e

termeth Eliza.

’

Th e original ditt extends to fourteen stanzas.

Th e opulence ofSpenser’

s muse wi1always b e th e despair of the

anthologist, and I commend my extracts to th e readerwith muchdifiidence. But it was a question between curtailment and omitting altogether.

LXVIIPage 64

—‘ It fell upon a holy eve.

’

From The S luplzerd’

s

Calendar : August.

LXVIIIPage 66- ‘ Tell me, thou skilful shepherd swain.

’

FromDrayton

’

s Pastorals : Tbe N in tli E clogue. It is included, under

th e title here given, in Eng land’

s Helicon .

LXIXPage 67 Fair and fair and twice so fair.

’From Peele

’

s

Arraignment of Paris, 1584. For light-hearted melody I

believe this little duet can hardly b e matched in the whole range

of our poe try. Its charm is impossible to analyse as that of

Shakespeare'

s‘ It was a lover and h is lass —mere spontaneous

gaiety and th e perfection ofwriting.

LXXPage 68

— ‘Like th e Idalian queen.

’

Paramours= sing. paramour

(of course without th e ofi’

enswe modern connotation). Compare

Chaucer, Trailas and Criseyde, v. 157 :

‘ I lov ede neverwomman h ereb ifornAs paramours, ne nevershall no m

'

336 THE GOLDEN POMP

as certain as can b e that Web ster took no h and in it. WilliamRowley. ‘

once a rare Sch ollar of learned Pembroke Hal l of

Cambridge ,

’

colab orated with Middleton in The Spanish Gipsy(published in 1652 , though written quite thirty years earlier), andprobably also in Adore Dissemblers besides IVomen written at

least as early as 162 3 and published in Th e dates ofh is

birth anddeath are al1ke uncertain.

LXXIXPage 76

—‘ Shepherd. what ’s Love, I pray thee tell.’Origin

ally sub scribed S . W . R.

’

in E ngland'

s Helicon , 1600 ; butin extant copies this has been obliterated by a label on which isprin ted Ignoto .

’

Signed S . W . Rawly ,

’

in Davison ’

s list , Harl.MS. 280 , fol. 99 , but anonymous in The Phoenix N est, 1593,and Davison’

s Poetical Rhapsody,1602 , where it is headed T he

Anatomy ofLove.

’

In th e two last th e first line runs Now whatis Love , Ipray thee tell ?

’

There is an early MS . copy in Harl . MS .

69 10 , andan imperfect copy of the first and last stanzas form th e‘third song

’

in T . Heywood’

s The Rape ofLucrece, 1608. Th e

song was also set to music in Robert Jones’

s S econdBook ofS ongsandA irs, 1601.

LXXXIIPage 79

—‘Hey, down a down didDian sing.

’

From England :

Helicon . Th e signature again is Igh oto.

’

LXXXIIIPage 80 Never love unless you can.

’From Th omas

Campion’

s Th ird Book of A irs, not dated, b ut certainly not

earlier than 1617.

LXXXIVPage 81 Thus saith my Chloris bright .

’

From JohnW1lbye

'

s Madrigals , 1598 : a rendering ofan Italian madrigal byLuca Marenzio. Another version is foundin Musica Transalpina .

The S econdBook ofMadrigals, 1597

So saith my fairand beautiful Lycoris,When now and then she talkethWith me ofloveLove is a spirit that walketh,

That soars and files ,Andnone alive can holdh im ,

Nor touch h im, nor behold h im.

”

Yet wh en h er eye sh e turneth,I spy where h e sojourne thIn h er eyes there h e flies,But none can catch h imTill from h er lips h e fetch him.

’

NOTES 337

LXXXVPage 81 Come hither, shepherd

’

s swain .

’

Found entirein Deloney

’

s Garland of Goodw ill (whence Percy obtained th e

version in h is Religues) and in Breton’

s Bow er of Deligh ts, 1597.

A shorter copy is found in Puttenh am'

s A rt of Poesy, 1589 ,where it is attrib uted to Edward, Earl ofOxford, a most nob leand learned gentleman .

’

EdwardVere, seventeenth earl ofOxford, was born not earlierthan 1540 : travelled in Italy in early youth . and returned withvery foppish manners anda pair of gloves which so pleased E lizabeth , to whom h e presented them , that sh e was drawn With themon h er b ands. In 1585 h e took part in th e Earl of Leicester’sexpedition for th e relief ofth e states ofHolland and Z ealand. In

th e following year h e sat as Lord Great Chamberlain of Englandat th e trial ofMary, Queen ofScots . In 1588 h e fi tted out shipsat h is own charges against th e Spanish Armada. In 1589 h e

helped to try Phil1p Howard, Earl ofArundel ; and in 160 1, th e

Earls of Essex and Southampton. In private life h e appears to

bare been something of a rufhah . He died in th e summer of

1 4.

Page 81, line 6—Prime ofMay v .I. pride ofMay.

‘

Page 82 , line 2 Unfeigned lovers’

tears : v .1. unsavoury lovers’tears.

’

Page 82 , line ao—A thousand times a day : v .l. ‘ten thousand

times a day.

’

LXXXVIPage 83 Th e sea hath many thousand sands.

’

FromRob ert Jones

’

s The Muses Garden of Deligh ts, 1610—a b ookwhich (says Mr. Bullen)

‘I have sought early and late without

success. In 1812 a copy was in th e library of th e Marquis of

S tafford ; and in that year Beloe printed six songs from it in th e

sixth volume of h is Anecdotes’ —th e song under notice is one of

that half-dozen . These six songs are so delightful that Iam consumedwith a desire to see th e rest of th e contents of th e

song-book.’

LXXXVIIPage 83 If thou long

'

st so much to learn,

’

etc . T hisand th e following song , so similar in subject and treatment , areboth from Campion

’

s Th irdBook ofS ongs andA irs (circ.

LXa

Page 86 Love guards th e roses of thy lips.

’

From Lodge’

s

Ph illis. Th e old editions have Love guides th e roses‘evidently (says Mr. Bullen ), a misprin t for Butthe reading here adopted seems even more obvious.

338 THE GOLDEN POMP

XC

Page 87 Sweet Love , if thou wilt gain a monarch’s glory.

’

From Joh n Wilbye’

s Madrigals, 1598.

XCI

Page 87— ‘ Cupid and my Campaspe played.

’

This littlepoem , so easy and yet inimitable, so artless apparently and yet

unapproachable , is from Lyly’

s A lexander and Campaspe, probably actedat Court in th e year 1581. Lyly

’

s songs , however, werenot included in th e early edit1ons of h is plays, b ut appear for th efirst time in th e collected edition of1597 .

XCIVPage 89 Come , you pretty false-eyed wanton.

’

From th e

second book of Two Books of A irs. Th e first containing Div ineand Moral S ongs : th e second, Ligh t Conceits of Lovers

’

(circ.where a third stan za is given

Wouldit were dumb midnigh t now ,

Wh en all th e world lies sleepingWould this place some desert were ,Which no man hath in keeping

Mydesires should then be safe ,Andwhen you cried, then would I laugh

But ifaugh t might breed offence ,Love only should be b lamed

Iwould live your servant still,Andyou my saint unnamed.

'

XCVIPage 90 Turn back, you wanton flyer.

‘ From Campionand Rosseter

'

s A Booh ofA irs, 160 1.

Page 91, line 8 times’

or seasons’

sw erv ing .

’

Old ed. changing .

’

S'

Verving’

is Mr. Bullen ’

s correction.

Page 9a lines 10 , 11—Th e original reads :

‘Then what w e sow with our lips,Le t us reap, love

'

s gains dividmg .

’

And it is so printed in Mr. Bullen’

s edition ofCampion

Th e arrangement in th e text , however, gives us two even stanzas,andh as th e furtheradvan tage ofmaking sense.

XCVIIPage 91 S teer, hither steer your winged pines .

’

The

Opening song of Th e Inner Temple Masque,

‘

presen ted by th e

gentlem en there ,

’

in January 1614, but not printed until 1772 ,

when Thomas Davies included it in h is edition of Browne ,h is

authority being a MS. in th e library of Emmanuel College, Cam

340 THE GOLDEN POMP

Page 105, line 14—Teren, Tereu For th e meaning of th is cry

see th e poem pieceding. Pandion was Philomela’

s father.

CV

Page 106— ‘While that the sun with his beams h ot.’

T heauthor of these delicate and simple-hearted lines cannot b ediscovered. They appeared first in S ongs of S undry N atures,

1589 , where they were set to m usic by William Byrd, a gentleman

of th e Chape l Royal , previously (1563-69 ) organist of LincolnCathedral , and one of th e earliest ofE lizabe than composers . It

was copied Out ofM. Bird’

s Set Songs into E ngland'

s Helicon .

CVIIPage 108— ‘ Th e earth , late choked with showers.

’

FromS cylla

’

s Metamorphosis, 1589 . Imitated from a poem ofPhilippeDesportes :

La terre naguére glacéeEst ores de vert ta issee ,Son sein est embe i de dents,L ’

air est encore amoureux d’

elle,Le ciel rit de la voir si belle,E t moij

'

en augmente mes pleurs.Les bois sont couverts de feuillage,De vert se pare le b ocage,Ses rameaux sont tous verdissants ;E t moi, las privé de ma g loire,ge m

’

hab ille de couleur noire,ign e des ennuis q ue j e sens.

Des oiseaux la troupe legereChantant d’une voix ramagéreS

'

égaye aux bois aquimieux mieuxE t moi tout remplide furie

Je sanglotte, soupire et criear les plus solitaires lieux.

Les oiseaux cherchent la verdureMoi, j e cherche une sépulture ,Pour voirmon malheur limité.Vers le ciel ils ont leur voléeE t mon ame trop désoléeN ’

aime rien que l’

obscurité .

’

Lodge was an admirer and imitator ofDesportes , of whosepoems h e speaks , in 1589 , as being for th e most part Englishedand ordinarily in every man

’

s hands .

’Cf. note on numberCCXIX.

,

s 1shal l th e heavens wan t starry light .’

CIX

Page 109 Little th ink ’

st thou. poor dower.

’

Having omitted

NOTES 341

th e three concluding stanzas of Donne’

s poem, I now repentandadd them in th e notes

But thou, which loy’

st to beSub tle to plague thyself, wilt sayAlas i ifyou must go, what

’

5 that to me ?Here lies my business, andherewill Istay

You go to friends, whose love andmeans presen tVarious content

To your eyes, ears, and taste, andevery partIfthen yourbody go,what need your heart ?Well

,then, stay here : b ut know

Wh en thou hast saidanddone thymost,A naked thinking heart, th at makes no show,Is to a woman but a kind ofghost ;

How shall sh e know my heart ? Or, having none,

Know thee forone ?Practice may make h erknow some otherpart,But take myword, sh e doth not know a heart.Meet me in London, then,Twenty days hence , and thou shalt seeMe fresh er andmore fat, by b e ing with men,Than ifIh ad stay

'

d still with h erand thee.ForGod’

s sake, ifyou can, b e you so too

Iwill give youThere to another friend,whom you shall findAs glad to have my body as my mind.

CXIVPage 113 Clear h ad th e day been from th e daw n.

’

FromTheMuses

’

E lysium ,Nymphal vi.

CXV

Page 114 Like to th e clear in highest sphere.