Lo, I the man that whilom loved and lost,
Not dreading loss, do sing again of love,
And like a man but lately tempest-tossed,
Try if my stars still inauspicious prove;
Not to make good that poets never can
Long time without a chosen mistress be,
Do I sing thus, or my affections ran
Within the maze of mutability.

What last I loved was beauty of the mind,
And that lodged in a temple truly fair,
Which ruined now by death, if I can find
The saint that lived therein some otherwhere,

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I may adore it there and love the cell
For entertaining what I loved so well.

Why might I not for once be of that sect
Which hold that souls, when nature hath her right,
Some other bodies to themselves elect,
And sunlike make the day and license night?
That soul whose setting in one hemisphere
Was to enlighten straight another part,
In that horizon, if I see it there,

Calls for my first respect and its desert;
Her virtue is the same and may be more,
For as the sun is distant, so his power
In operation differs, and the store
Of thick clouds interposed make him less our.
And verily I think her climate such,

Since to my former flame it adds so much.

So sat the Muses on the banks of Thames,
And pleased to sing our heavenly Spenser's wit,
Inspiring almost trees with powerful flames,
As Cælia, when she sings what I have writ;
Methinks there is a spirit more divine,
An elegance more rare when aught is sung
By her sweet voice, in every verse of mine,
Than I conceive by any other tongue;
So a musician sets what some one plays
With better relish, sweeter stroke, than he
That first composed; nay, oft the maker weighs
If what he hears his own or other's be.

Such are my lines: the highest, best of choice,
Become more gracious by her sweetest voice.

Were't not for you, here should my pen have rest
And take a long leave of sweet poesy;
Britannia's swains, and rivers far by west,
Should hear no more mine oaten melody;
Yet shall the song I sung of them awhile
Unperfect lie, and make no further known
The happy loves of this our pleasant isle,
Till I have left some record of mine own.
You are the subject now, and writing you,
I well may versify, not poetize;
Here needs no fiction, for the Graces true
And virtues clip not with base flatteries.

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10

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Here, could I write what you deserve of praise,
Others might wear, but I should win the bays.

[Down in a valley]

Down in a valley, by a forest's side,
Near where the crystal Thames rolls on her waves,
I saw a mushroom stand in haughty pride,
As if the lilies grew to be his slaves.
The gentle daisy, with her silver crown,
Worn in the breast of many a shepherd's lass;
The humble violet, that lowly down
Salutes the gay nymphs as they trimly pass;
These, with a many more, methought, complained
That nature should those needless things produce,
Which not alone the sun from others gained,
But turn it wholly to their proper use.

I could not choose but grieve that nature made
So glorious flowers to live in such a shade.

In obitum M. S., X Maii, 1614

May! be thou never graced with birds that sing,

Nor Flora's pride!

In thee all flowers and roses spring,
Mine only died.

On the Countess Dowager of Pembroke

Underneath this sable hearse

Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother.
Death, ere thou hast slain another
Fair and learn'd and good as she,
Time shall throw a dart at thee.

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Marble piles let no man raise
To her name, for after-days
Some kind woman, born as she,
Reading this, like Niobe
Shall turn marble, and become
Both her mourner and her tomb.

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GEORGE WITHER

The Introduction and Notes are at page 1005

FROM Juvenilia, 1622

The Shepherd's Hunting

The fourth eclogue

To his truly beloved loving

Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Worse than this my banishment?

Willy.

friend, Mr. William Browne, of Why, doth that so evil seem

the Inner Temple

Thou wert wont to charm thy And more inward grief of heart,