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

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 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