Shrill as a thrush upon a morn of May.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

Music on the Thames

As I have seen when on the breast of Thames A heavenly bevy of sweet English dames, In some calm ev'ning of delightful May, With music give a farewell to the day, Or as they would, with an admired tone, Greet Night's ascension to her ebon throne, Rapt with their melody a thousand more Run to be wafted from the bounding sh.o.r.e.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

A Concert of Birds

The mounting lark (day's herald) got on wing, Bidding each bird choose out his bough and sing.

The lofty treble sung the little wren; Robin the mean, that best of all loves men; The nightingale the tenor, and the thrush The counter-tenor sweetly in a bush.

And that the music might be full in parts, Birds from the groves flew with right willing hearts; But (as it seem'd) they thought (as do the swains, Which tune their pipes on sack'd Hibernia's plains) There should some droning part be, therefore will'd Some bird to fly into a neighb'ring field, In emba.s.sy unto the King of Bees, To aid his partners on the flowers and trees Who, condescending, gladly flew along To bear the ba.s.s to his well-tuned song.

The crow was willing they should be beholding For his deep voice, but being hoa.r.s.e with scolding, He thus lends aid; upon an oak doth climb, And nodding with his head, so keepeth time.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

Flowers

The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down, A golden tuft within a silver crown; (Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!) The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place; The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity; Carnations sweet with colour like the fire, The fit impresas for inflam'd desire; The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue Claims to be worn of none but those are true; The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands, And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands, The yellow kingcup Flora them a.s.sign'd To be the badges of a jealous mind; The orange-tawny marigold: the night Hides not her colour from a searching sight....

The columbine in tawny often taken, Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken; Flora's choice b.u.t.tons of a russet dye Is hope even in the depth of misery.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

Morning

The Muses' friend (grey-eyed Aurora) yet Held all the meadows in a cooling sweat, The milk-white gossamers not upwards snow'd, Nor was the sharp and useful-steering goad Laid on the strong-neck'd ox; no gentle bud The sun had dried; the cattle chew'd the cud Low levell'd on the gra.s.s; no fly's quick sting Enforc'd the stonehorse in a furious ring To tear the pa.s.sive earth, nor lash his tail About his b.u.t.tocks broad; the slimy snail Might on the wainscot, by his many mazes, Winding meanders and self-knitting traces, Be follow'd where he stuck, his glittering slime Not yet wip'd off. It was so early time, The careful smith had in his sooty forge Kindled no coal; nor did his hammers urge His neighbours' patience: owls abroad did fly, And day as then might plead his in fancy.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

Night

Now great Hyperion left his golden throne That on the dancing waves in glory shone, For whose declining on the western sh.o.r.e The oriental hills black mantles wore, And thence apace the gentle twilight fled, That had from hideous caverns ushered All-drowsy Night, who in a car of jet, By steeds of iron-grey, which mainly sweat Moist drops on all the world, drawn through the sky, The helps of darkness waited orderly.

First thick clouds rose from all the liquid plains; Then mists from marishes, and grounds whose veins Were conduit-pipes to many a crystal spring; From standing pools and fens were following Unhealthy fogs; each river, every rill Sent up their vapours to attend her will These pitchy curtains drew 'twixt earth and heaven And as Night's chariot through the air was driven, Clamour grew dumb, unheard was shepherd's song And silence girt the woods; no warbling tongue Talk'd to the Echo; satyrs broke their dance, And all the upper world lay in a trance.

Only the curled streams soft chidings kept; And little gales that from the green leaf swept Dry summer's dust, in fearful whisp'rings stirred.

As loath to waken any singing bird.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

A Pleasant Grove

Unto a pleasant grove or such like place, Where here the curious cutting of a hedge: There, by a pond, the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of the sedge: Here the fine setting of well-shading trees: The walks there mounting up by small degrees, The gravel and the green so equal lie, It, with the rest, draws on your ling'ring eye: Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air, Arising from the infinite repair Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price, (As if it were another Paradise) So please the smelling sense, that you are fain Where last you walk'd to turn and walk again.

There the small birds with their harmonious notes Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats: For in her face a many dimples show, And often skips as it did dancing go: Here further down an over-arched alley, That from a hill goes winding in a valley, You spy at end thereof a standing lake, Where some ingenious artist strives to make The water (brought in turning pipes of lead Through birds of earth most lively fashioned) To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all, In singing well their own set madrigal.

This with no small delight retains your ear, And makes you think none blest but who live there.

Then in another place the fruits that be In gallant cl.u.s.ters decking each good tree, Invite your hand to crop some from the stem, And liking one, taste every sort of them: Then to the arbours walk, then to the bowers, Thence to the walks again, thence to the flowers, Then to birds, and to the clear spring thence, Now pleasing one, and then another sense.

Here one walks oft, and yet anew begin'th, As if it were some hidden labyrinth; So loath to part and so content to stay, That when the gard'ner knocks for you away, It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it, That you could wish that you had never seen it.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

An Angler

Now as an angler melancholy standing Upon a green bank yielding room for landing, A wriggling yellow worm thrust on his hook, Now in the midst he throws, then in a nook: Here pulls his line, there throws it in again, Mendeth his cork and bait, but all in vain, He long stands viewing of the curled stream; At last a hungry pike, or well-grown bream s.n.a.t.c.h at the worm, and hasting fast away, He knowing it a fish of stubborn sway, Pulls up his rod, but soft, as having skill, Wherewith the hook fast holds the fish's gill; Then all his line he freely yieldeth him, Whilst furiously all up and down doth swim Th' insnared fish, here on the top doth scud, There underneath the banks, then in the mud, And with his frantic fits so scares the shoal, That each one takes his hide, or starting hole: By this the pike, clean wearied, underneath A willow lies.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

A Rill

So when the pretty rill a place espies, Where with the pebbles she would wantonize, And that her upper stream so much doth wrong her To drive her thence, and let her play no longer; If she with too loud mutt'ring ran away, As being much incens'd to leave her play, A western, mild and pretty whispering gale Came dallying with the leaves along the dale, And seem'd as with the water it did chide, Because it ran so long unpacified: Yea, and methought it bade her leave that coil, Or he would choke her up with leaves and soil: Whereat the riv'let in my mind did weep, And hurl'd her head into a silent deep.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

"Glide soft, ye Silver Floods"

Glide soft, ye silver floods, And every spring: Within the shady woods Let no bird sing!

Nor from the grove a turtle-dove Be seen to couple with her love; But silence on each dale and mountain dwell, Whilst w.i.l.l.y bids his friend and joy farewell.

But (of great Thetis' train) Ye mermaids fair, That on the sh.o.r.es do plain Your sea-green hair, As ye in trammels knit your locks, Weep ye; and so enforce the rocks In heavy murmurs through the broad sh.o.r.es tell How w.i.l.l.y bade his friend and joy farewell.

Cease, cease, ye murd'ring winds, To move a wave; But if with troubled minds You seek his grave; Know 'tis as various as yourselves, Now in the deep, then on the shelves, His coffin toss'd by fish and surges fell, Whilst w.i.l.l.y weeps and bids all joy farewell.

Had he Arion-like Been judged to drown, He on his lute could strike So rare a sowne, A thousand dolphins would have come And jointly strive to bring him home.

But he on shipboard died, by sickness fell, Since when his w.i.l.l.y bade all joy farewell.

Great Neptune, hear a swain!

His coffin take, And with a golden chain For pity make It fast unto a rock near land!

Where ev'ry calmy morn I'll stand, And ere one sheep out of my fold I tell, Sad w.i.l.l.y's pipe shall bid his friend farewell.

"Venus by Adonis' Side"

Venus by Adonis' side Crying kiss'd, and kissing cried, Wrung her hands and tore her hair For Adonis dying there.

Stay (quoth she) O stay and live!

Nature surely doth not give To the earth her sweetest flowers To be seen but some few hours.

On his face, still as he bled For each drop a tear she shed, Which she kiss'd or wip'd away, Else had drown'd him where he lay.

Fair Proserpina (quoth she) Shall not have thee yet from me; Nor my soul to fly begin While my lips can keep it in.