Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 9

only joy, what can I more?

If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destinies implore,
'Twas I, I say, against my will--
I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!
Would God Himself He
might thee see!
No doubt thou wouldst soon purchase grace,
I know
right well, for thee and me,
But come to mother, babe, and play,
For father false is fled away.
Sweet boy, if it by fortune chance
Thy father home again to send,
If
Death do strike me with his lance
Yet may'st thou me to him
commend:
If any ask thy mother's name,
Tell how by love she purchased blame.
Then will his gentle heart soon yield:
I know him of a noble mind:

Although a lion in the field,
A lamb in town[1] thou shalt him find:
Ask blessing, babe, be not afraid!
His sugar'd words hath me betray'd.
Then may'st thou joy and be right glad,
Although in woe I seem to
moan;
Thy father is no rascal lad:
A noble youth of blood and bone,
His glancing looks, if he once smile,
Right honest women may
beguile.
Come, little boy, and rock a-sleep!
Sing lullaby, and be thou still!
I,
that can do naught else but weep,
Will sit by thee and wail my fill:
God bless my babe, and lullaby,
From this thy father's quality.
[Transcribers' note 1: 'lown' in the original]
George Wither
Prelude
(From _The Shepherd's Hunting_)
Seest thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?

And that vapours which do breathe
From the Earth's gross womb

beneath,
Seem unto us with black steams
To pollute the Sun's bright
beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemished fair?
So,
my Willy, shall it be
With Detraction's breath on thee:
It shall never
rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale

Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross
conceits from muddy brains;
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
Twixt
men's judgments and her light;
But so much her power may do,

That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As
she makes wing she gets power;
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's
affronted still the more,
Till she to the highest hath past;
Then she
rests with Fame at last.
Let nought, therefore, thee affright;
But
make forward in thy flight.
For if I could match thy rhyme,
To the
very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fly
Till I reached
eternity.
But, alas, my Muse is slow,
For thy place she flags too low;

Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late;

And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Am put up myself a mewing.
But
if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did;
And though for her
sake I'm crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she
would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double,
I
should love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.

For
though, banished from my flocks
And confined within these rocks,

Here I waste away the light
And consume the sullen night,
She doth
for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss
the flowery fields,
With those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though
I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,

And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;

Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remains at last
But
Remembrance--poor relief!
That more makes than mends my grief:

She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will;
Whence
she should be driven too,
Were't in mortal's power to do.
She doth
tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makes the
desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest
discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss


Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw
I could
some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the
meanest object's sight;
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least
bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan
goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me,

Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her
help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that
may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness:
The dull loneness,
the black shade
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange
music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den
which rocks emboss
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals
that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of
neglect,
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these, and this dull
air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me, by her might,
To
draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will
cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven
to mortals lent!
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull
thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn

That to nought but earth are born
Let my life no longer be
Than I
am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call thee madness,

Let
me never taste of gladness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
More than
all their greatest wits.
And though some, too seeming holy,
Do
account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me