Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 8

kind or spirit
Of a venom-kind of nature,
That can, like
a coney-ferret,
Creep unawares upon a creature.
Never eye that can behold it,
Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor
conceit that can unfold it,
Though in thoughts be all its being.
Oh! it maketh old men witty,
Young men wanton, women idle,

While that patience weeps, for pity
Reason bite not nature's bridle.
What it is, in conjecture;
Seeking much, but nothing finding;
Like
to fancy's architecture

With illusions reason blinding.
Yet, can beauty so retain it,
In the profit of her service,
That she
closely can maintain it
For her servant chief on office?

In her eye she chiefly breeds it;
In her cheeks she chiefly hides it;
In
her servant's faith she feeds it,
While his only heart abides it.
A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty
Love and my mistress were at strife
Who had the greatest power on
me:
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
Nay, what a death is this to
be!
She said, she did it with her eye;
He said, he did it with his dart;

Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)
'Tis I that have the wounded
heart.
She said, she only spake the word
That did enchant my peering sense;

He said, he only gave the sound
That enter'd heart without defence.
She said, her beauty was the mark
That did amaze the highest mind;

He said, he only made the mist
Whereby the senses grew so blind.
She said, that only for her sake,
The best would venture life and limb:

He said, she was too much deceiv'd;
They honour'd her because of
him.
Long while, alas, she would not yield,
But it was she that rul'd the
roost;[1]
Until by proof, she did confess,
If he were gone, her joy
was lost.
And then she cried, "Oh, dainty love,
I now do find it is for thee,

That I am lov'd and honour'd both,
And thou hast power to conquer
me."
But, when I heard her yield to love,
Oh! how my heart did leap for
joy!
That now I had some little hope
To have an end to mine annoy!
But, as too soon, before the field
The trumpets sound the overthrow,

So all too soon I joy'd too much,
For I awaked, and nothing saw.[2]

[Transcriber's note 1: The original had 'roast']
[Footnote 2: Ellis reads _so_.]
Love
Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love
is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That
doth prove the work of it.
Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth
doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in
Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.
There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;

Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare

Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.
Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it
grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in
highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn discard it.
_The Passionate Shepherd._
Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
That hand that holds the
heart of every eye,
That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
The
sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;
That eye, that hand, that wit,
that heavenly sense
Doth show my only mistress' excellence.
O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!
O hands that hold the highest
thoughts in thrall!
O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!
O sense
that shews the secret sweet of all!
The heaven of heavens with
heavenly power preserve thee,
Love but thyself, and give me leave to
serve thee.
To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,
To look, to live to kiss that

heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
To
know that sense, no sense can understand,
To understand that all the
world may know,
Such wit, such sense, eyes, hands, there are no
moe.
Sonnet
The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold
A kind of heaven in his
authorities;
The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
Makes to his
soul a kind of Paradise;
The epicure that eats and drinks all day,

Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;
And she, whose beauty
seems a sunny day,
Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.

But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,
No miser's wealth, nor
beauty's fading gloss,
Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward
sour,
And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:
No, my dear Lord,
let my Heaven only be
In my Love's service, but to live to thee.
A Sweet Lullaby
Come, little babe, come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's
grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.
Thou little thinkst, and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's
moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all
alone;
Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
And know'st not yet what
thou dost ail?
Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,
Mine