213. A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES. PRESENTED TO THE KING, AND SET BY MR. NIC. LANIERE.

_The Speakers_, Mirtillo, Amintas _and_ Amarillis.

_Amin._ Good-day, Mirtillo. _Mirt._ And to you no less, And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.

_Amar._ With all white luck to you. _Mirt._ But say, what news Stirs in our sheep-walk? _Amin._ None, save that my ewes, My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well, Smooth, fair and fat! none better I can tell: Or that this day Menalcas keeps a feast For his sheep-shearers. _Mirt._ True, these are the least; But, dear Amintas and sweet Amarillis, Rest but a while here, by this bank of lilies, And lend a gentle ear to one report The country has. _Amin._ From whence? _Amar._ From whence?

_Mirt._ The Court.

Three days before the shutting in of May (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!) To all our joy a sweet-fac'd child was born, More tender than the childhood of the morn.

_Chor._ Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep!

_Mirt._ And that his birth should be more singular At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them To G.o.d's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels (some have told to me) Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy.

_Amin._ O rare! But is't a trespa.s.s if we three Should wend along his babyship to see?

_Mirt._ Not so, not so.

_Chor._ But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.

_Amar._ But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told Those learned men brought incense, myrrh and gold From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet.

_Mirt._ 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming king A neat, though not so great an offering.

_Amar._ A garland for my gift shall be Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet; yet all less sweet than he.

_Amin._ And I will bear, along with you, Leaves dropping down the honeyed dew, With oaten pipes as sweet as new.

_Mirt._ And I a sheep-hook will bestow, To have his little kingship know, As he is prince, he's shepherd too.

_Chor._ Come, let's away, and quickly let's be dress'd, And quickly give--_the swiftest grace is best_.

And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe, then back to country pleasures.

_White_, favourable.

214. TO THE LARK.

Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say: Because I do Begin to woo, Sweet-singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say, Amen.

And if I prove Bless'd in my love, Then thou shalt be High-priest to me, At my return, To incense burn; And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice.

215. THE BUBBLE. A SONG.

To my revenge and to her desperate fears Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears.

In the wild air when thou hast rolled about, And, like a blasting planet, found her out.

Stoop, mount, pa.s.s by to take her eye, then glare Like to a dreadful comet in the air: Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight For thy revenge to be most opposite, Then, like a globe or ball of wild-fire, fly, And break thyself in shivers on her eye.

216. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

You are a tulip seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud, Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine, And can with tendrils love entwine, Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosed well In amber, or some crystal sh.e.l.l, Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

217. THE BLEEDING HAND; OR, THE SPRIG OF EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID.

From this bleeding hand of mine Take this sprig of eglantine, Which, though sweet unto your smell, Yet the fretful briar will tell, He who plucks the sweets shall prove Many thorns to be in love.

218. LYRIC FOR LEGACIES.

Gold I've none, for use or show, Neither silver to bestow At my death; but this much know; That each lyric here shall be Of my love a legacy, Left to all posterity.

Gentle friends, then do but please To accept such coins as these As my last remembrances.

219. A DIRGE UPON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT VALIANT LORD, BERNARD STUART.

Hence, hence, profane! soft silence let us have While we this trental sing about thy grave.

Had wolves or tigers seen but thee, They would have showed civility; And, in compa.s.sion of thy years, Washed those thy purple wounds with tears.

But since thou'rt slain, and in thy fall The drooping kingdom suffers all;

_Chor._ This we will do, we'll daily come And offer tears upon thy tomb: And if that they will not suffice, Thou shall have souls for sacrifice.

Sleep in thy peace, while we with spice perfume thee, And cedar wash thee, that no times consume thee.

Live, live thou dost, and shall; for why?

_Souls do not with their bodies die_: Ign.o.ble offsprings, they may fall Into the flames of funeral: Whenas the chosen seed shall spring Fresh, and for ever flourishing.

_Chor._ And times to come shall, weeping, read thy glory Less in these marble stones than in thy story.

_Trental_, a dirge; but see Note.

_Cedar_, oil of cedar.

220. TO PERENNA, A MISTRESS.

Dear Perenna, prithee come And with smallage dress my tomb: Add a cypress sprig thereto, With a tear, and so Adieu.

_Smallage_, water-parsley.

223. THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL DEDICATED TO MR. JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

Rare temples thou hast seen, I know, And rich for in and outward show: Survey this chapel, built alone, Without or lime, or wood, or stone: Then say if one thou'st seen more fine Than this, the fairies' once, now thine.

THE TEMPLE.

A way enchased with gla.s.s and beads There is, that to the chapel leads: Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the halcyon's curious nest: Into the which who looks shall see His temple of idolatry, Where he of G.o.dheads has such store, As Rome's pantheon had not more.

His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones instead of walls.