But most, her influence all safe enfold thee, May she with gentle beams from her fair sphere behold
Thom. As whistling winds 'gainst rocks their voices tearing, As rivers through the valleys softly gliding, As haven after cruel tempests fearing,
Such, fairest boy, such is thy verses' sliding.
Thine be the prize; may Pan and Phœbus grace thee; Most, whom thou most admir'st, may she embrace thee,
And flaming in thy love, with snowy arms enlace thee.
Thirsil. You lovely boys, full well your art you guided, That with your striving songs your strife is ended; So you yourselves the cause have well decided, And by no judge can your reward be mended. Then since the prize for only one intended
You both refuse, we justly may reserve it, And as your offering in Love's temple serve it; Since none of both deserve, when both so well deserve it.
Yet, for such songs should ever be rewarded, Daphnis, take thou this hook of ivory clearest, Given me by Pan, when Pan my verse regarded; This fears the wolf, when most the wolf thou fearest. But thou, my Thomalin, my love, my dearest,
Take thou this pipe, which oft proud storms restrained, Which spite of Camus' spite, I still retained; Was never little pipe more soft, more sweetly plained.
And you, fair troop, if Thirsil you disdain not, Vouchsafe with me to take some short refection; Excess or daints my lowly roofs maintain not, Pears, apples, plums, no sugared made confection. So up they rose, and by love's sweet direction, Sea-nymphs with shepherds sort; sea-boys complain not That wood-nymphs with like love them entertain not. And all the day to songs and dances lending, Too swift it runs, and spends too fast in spending. With day their sports began, with day they take their ending.
Thomalin, my lief, thy music-strains to hear More rapts my soul than when the swelling winds On craggy rocks their whistling voices tear,
Or when the sea, if stopped his course he finds, With broken murmurs thinks weak shores to fear, Scorning such sandy cords his proud head binds; More than where rivers in the summer's ray, Through covert glades cutting their shady way, Run tumbling down the lawns and with the pebbles play.
Thy strains to hear, old Camus from his cell Comes guarded with an hundred nymphs around, An hundred nymphs, that in his rivers dwell, About him flock with water-lilies crowned; For thee the Muses leave their silver well, And marvel where thou all their art hast found; There sitting they admire thy dainty strains, And while thy sadder accent sweetly plains Feel thousand sugared joys creep in their melting veins.
How oft have I, the Muses' bower frequenting, Missed them at home and found them all with thee! Whether thou sing'st sad Eupathus' lamenting, Or tunest notes to sacred harmony, The ravished soul with thy sweet songs consenting, Scorning the earth, in heav'nly ecstasy
Transcends the stars and with the angels' train Those courts surveys; and now, come back again, Finds yet another heav'n in thy delightful strain.
Ah! couldst thou here thy humble mind content, Lowly with me to live in country cell, And learn suspect the court's proud blandishment, Here might we safe, here might we sweetly dwell. Live Pallas in her towers and marble tent, But ah, the country bowers please me as well;
There with my Thomalin I safe would sing, And frame sweet ditties to thy sweeter string; There would we laugh at spite and fortune's thundering.
No flattery, hate, or envy lodgeth there; There no suspicion walled in provëd steel, Yet fearful of the arms herself doth wear; Pride is not there, no tyrant there we feel; No clamorous laws shall deaf thy music ear; They know no change, nor wanton fortune's wheel; Thousand fresh sports grow in those dainty places; Light fawns and nymphs dance in the woody spaces, And little Love himself plays with the naked Graces.
But seeing fate my happy wish refuses, Let me alone enjoy my low estate. Of all the gifts that fair Parnassus uses, Only scorned poverty and fortune's hate Common I find to me and to the Muses; But with the Muses, welcome poorest fate.
Safe in my humble cottage will I rest, And lifting up from my untainted breast A quiet spirit to heav'n, securely live, and blest.
To thee I here bequeath the courtly joys, Seeing to court my Thomalin is bent; Take from thy Thirsil these his idle toys; Here will I end my looser merriment. And when thou sing'st them to the wanton boys Among the courtly lasses' blandishment,
Think of thy Thirsil's love that never spends, And softly say, His love still better mends, Ah, too unlike the love of court or courtly friends!
Go, little pipe, for ever I must leave thee, My little, little pipe, but sweetest ever; Go, go, for I have vowed to see thee never, Never, ah, never must I more receive thee; But he in better love will still persever. Go, little pipe, for I must have a new; Farewell, ye Norfolk maids, and Ida crew; Thirsil will play no more, forever now adieu.
Upon my brother, Mr. G. F. his book entitled Christ's Victory and Triumph
Fond lads, that spend so fast your posting time, Too posting time, that spends your time as fast, To chant light toys or frame some wanton rhyme, Where idle boys may glut their lustful taste, Or else with praise to clothe some fleshly slime With virgin roses and fair lilies chaste,
While itching bloods and youthful ears adore it, But wiser men, and once yourselves, will most abhor it.
But thou, most near, most dear, in this of thine Hast proved the Muses not to Venus bound; Such as thy matter, such thy muse, divine. Or thou such grace with mercy's self hast found That she herself deigns in thy leaves to shine,
Or stol'n from heav'n, thou brought'st this verse to ground, Which frights the numbëd soul with fearful thunder, And soon with honeyed dews thaws it 'twixt joy and wonder.
Then do not thou malicious tongues esteem; The glass through which an envious eye doth gaze Can eas'ly make a mole-hill mountain seem, His praise dispraises, his dispraises praise; Enough if best men best thy labors deem, And to the highest pitch thy merit raise; While all the Muses to thy song decree Victorious triumph, triumphant victory.
Drop, drop, slow tears,
And bathe those beauteous feet
Which brought from heav'n
The news and prince of peace.
Cease not, wet eyes,
His mercies to entreat;
To cry for vengeance
Sin doth never cease;
In your deep floods
Drown all my faults and fears,
Nor let his eye
See sin but through my tears.
WILLIAM BASSE
The Introduction and Notes are at page 1008 FROM Lansdowne Ms. 777
On Mr. William Shakespeare
Renowned Spenser, lie a thought more nigh To learned Chaucer; and rare Beaumont, lie A little nearer Spenser, to make room For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb. To lodge all four in one bed make a shift Until doomsday, for hardly will a fift Betwixt this day and that by fate be slain, For whom your curtains may be drawn again. If your precedency in death doth bar A fourth place in your sacred sepulcher,
Under this carved marble of thine own Sleep, rare tragedian, Shakespeare, sleep alone; Thy unmolested peace, unsharëd cave, Possess as lord, not tenant, of thy grave, That unto us and others it may be Honor hereafter to be laid by thee.
FROM IZAAK WALTON'S Complete Angler, 1653 The angler's song
As inward love breeds outward
And when the timorous trout I
Fresh rivers best my mind do The first men that our Savior dear
Did choose to wait upon him here, Blest fishers were, and fish the last Food was that he on earth did
I therefore strive to follow those Whom he to follow him hath
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