Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 6

Aglaia, she
Whom the world may joy to see?
If ye
have not seen all these,
Then ye do but labour leese;
While ye tune
your pipes to play
But an idle roundelay;

And in sad Discomfort's

den
Everyone go bite her pen;
That she cannot reach the skill

How to climb that blessed hill
Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
Where
exceedings do excell,
And in simple truth confess
She is that fair
shepherdess
To whom fairest flocks a-field
Do their service duly
yield:
On whom never Muse hath gazèd
But in musing is amazèd;

Where the honour is too much
For their highest thoughts to touch;

Thus confess, and get ye gone
To your places every one;
And in
silence only speak
When ye find your speech too weak.
Blessèd be
Aglaia yet,
Though the Muses die for it;
Come abroad, ye blessèd
Muses,
Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,
When she would command a
creature
In the honour of Love's nature,
For the sweet Aglaia fair

All to sweeten all the air,
Is abroad this blessèd day;
Haste ye,
therefore, come away:
And to kill Love's maladies
Meet her with
your melodies.
Flora hath been all about,
And hath brought her
wardrobe out;
With her fairest, sweetest flowers,
All to trim up all
your bowers.
Bid the shepherds and their swains
See the beauty of
their plains;
And command them with their flocks
To do reverence
on the rocks;
Where they may so happy be
As her shadow but to
see:
Bid the birds in every bush
Not a bird to be at hush:
But to sit,
and chirp, and sing

To the beauty of the Spring:
Call the sylvan
nymphs together,
Bid them bring their musicks hither.
Trees their
barky silence break,
Crack yet, though they cannot speak
Bid the
purest, whitest swan
Of her feathers make her fan;
Let the hound
the hare go chase;
Lambs and rabbits run at base;
Flies be dancing
in the sun,
While the silk-worm's webs are spun;
Hang a fish on
every hook
As she goes along the brook;
So with all your sweetest
powers
Entertain her in your bowers;
Where her ear may joy to hear

How ye make your sweetest quire;
And in all your sweetest vein

Still Aglaia strike her strain;
But when she her walk doth turn,
Then
begin as fast to mourn;
All your flowers and garlands wither
Put up
all your pipes together;
Never strike a pleasing strain
Till she come
abroad again.

Phyllida and Corydon
In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a
troop of damsels playing
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
When
anon by a woodside,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied, all
alone,
Phyllida and Corydon.
Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not:

She said, never man was true;
He says, none was false to you.
He
said, he had loved her long:
She says, Love should have no wrong.
Corydon would kiss her then,
She says, maids must kiss no men,

Till they do for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All
the heavens to witness, truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with
many a pretty oath,
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth!--
Such as
silly shepherds use
When they will not love abuse;
Love, which had
been long deluded,
Was with kisses sweet concluded:
And Phyllida,
with garlands gay,
Was made the lady of the May.
Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon
Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
Was never morn so fair,
There
shone a sun, though not the sun
That shineth in the air.
For the earth,
and from the earth,
(Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face
(was never face
That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O blessèd
hill!
Was never hill so blessèd),
There stood a man (was never man

For woman so distressed):
This man beheld a heavenly view,

Which did such virtue give
As clears the blind, and helps the lame,

And makes the dead man live.
This man had hap (O happy man!


More happy none than he);
For he had hap to see the hap
That none
had hap to see.
This silly swain (and silly swains
Are men of
meanest grace):
Had yet the grace (O gracious gift!)
To hap on such
a face.
He pity cried, and pity came
And pitied so his pain,
As
dying would not let him die
But gave him life again.
For joy

whereof he made such mirth
As all the woods did ring;
And Pan
with all his swains came forth
To hear the shepherd sing;
But such
a song sung never was,
Nor shall be sung again,
Of Phyllida the
shepherds' queen,
And Corydon the swain.
Fair Phyllis is the
shepherds' queen,
(Was never such a queen as she,)
And Corydon
her only swain
(Was never such a swain as he):
Fair Phyllis hath
the fairest face
That ever eye did yet behold,
And Corydon the
constant'st faith
That ever yet kept flock in fold;
Sweet Phyllis is
the sweetest sweet
That ever yet the earth did yield,
And Corydon
the kindest swain
That ever yet kept lambs in field.
Sweet Philomel
is Phyllis' bird,
Though Corydon be he that caught her,
And
Corydon doth hear her sing,
Though Phyllida be she that taught her:

Poor Corydon doth keep the fields
Though Phyllida be she that
owes them,
And Phyllida doth walk the meads,
Though Corydon be
he that mows them:
The little lambs are Phyllis' love,
Though
Corydon is he that feeds them,
The gardens fair are Phyllis' ground,

Though Corydon is he that weeds them.
Since then