Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton,Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William B | Page 7

comfort have been seen?Dead men brought to life again.
Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis
Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain?May sue to thee for grace,?See not thy loving shepherd slain?With looking on thy face;?But think what power thou hast got?Upon my flock and me;?Thou seest they now regard me not,?But all do follow thee.?And if I have so far presumed,?With prying in thine eyes,?Yet let not comfort be consumed?That in thy pity lies;?But as thou art that Phyllis fair,?That fortune favour gives,?So let not love die in despair?That in thy favour lives.?The deer do browse upon the briar,?The birds do pick the cherries;?And will not Beauty grant Desire?One handful of her berries??If it be so that thou hast sworn?That none shall look on thee,?Yet let me know thou dost not scorn?To cast a look on me.?But if thy beauty make thee proud,?Think then what is ordain'd;?The heavens have never yet allow'd?That love should be disdain'd.?Then lest the fates that favour love?Should curse thee for unkind,?Let me report for thy behoof,?The honour of thy mind;?Let Corydon with full consent?Set down what he hath seen,?That Phyllida with Love's content?Is sworn the shepherds' queen.
A Report Song in a Dream,?between a shepherd and?his nymph
Shall we go dance the hay? _The hay?_?Never pipe could ever play?Better shepherd's roundelay.
Shall we go sing the song? _The song?_?Never Love did ever wrong.?Fair maids, hold hands all along.
Shall we go learn to woo? _To woo?_?Never thought came ever to[o](?)?Better deed could better do.
Shall we go learn to kiss? _To kiss?_?Never heart could ever miss?Comfort where true meaning is.
Thus at base they run, _They run,_?When the sport was scarce begun;?But I waked, and all was done.
Another of the Same
Say that I should say I love ye,?Would you say 'tis but a saying??But if Love in prayers move ye,?Will ye not be moved with praying?
Think I think that Love should know ye,?Will you think 'tis but a thinking??But if Love the thought do show ye,?Will ye loose your eyes with winking?
Write that I do write you blessed,?Will you write 'tis but a writing??But if Truth and Love confess it,?Will ye doubt the true inditing?
No, I say, and think, and write it,?Write, and think, and say your pleasure;?Love, and truth, and I indite it,?You are bless��d out of measure.
A Shepherd's Dream
A silly shepherd lately sat?Among a flock of sheep;?Where musing long on this and that,?At last he fell asleep.?And in the slumber as he lay,?He gave a piteous groan;?He thought his sheep were run away,?And he was left alone.?He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,?But not a sheep came near him;?Which made the shepherd sore appall'd?To see that none would hear him.?But as the swain amaz��d stood,?In this most solemn vein,?Came Phyllida forth of the wood,?And stood before the swain.?Whom when the shepherd did behold?He straight began to weep,?And at the heart he grew a-cold,?To think upon his sheep.?For well he knew, where came the queen,?The shepherd durst not stay:?And where that he durst not be seen,?The sheep must needs away.?To ask her if she saw his flock,?Might happen patience move,?And have an answer with a mock,?That such demanders prove.?Yet for because he saw her come?Alone out of the wood,?He thought he would not stand as dumb,?When speech might do him good;?And therefore falling on his knees,?To ask but for his sheep,?He did awake, and so did leese?The honour of his sleep.
A Quarrel with Love
Oh that I could write a story?Of love's dealing with affection!?How he makes the spirit sorry?That is touch'd with his infection.
But he doth so closely wind him,?In the plaits of will ill-pleased,?That the heart can never find him?Till it be too much diseased.
'Tis a subtle 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