Fair VIRTUE, THE MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE. Written by Geo. Wither. (continued 2)

When Philomela, with her strains, The Spring had welcomed in; And Flora to bestrew the plains, With daisies did begin: My Love and I (on whom suspicious eyes Had set a thousand spies) To cozen Argos strove; And seen of none, We got alone Into a shady grove. On every bush, the eglantine, With leaves perfumèd hung: The primrose made the hedgerows fine; The woods, of music rung: The earth, the air, and all things did conspire To raise contentment higher; That, had I come to woo, Nor means of grace, Nor time, nor place Were wanting thereunto. With hand in hand, alone we walked, And oft each other eyed; Of Love and Passions past we talked, Which our poor hearts had tried: Our souls infused into each other were. And what may be her care Did my more sorrow breed. One mind we bore, One faith we swore, And both in one agreed. Her dainty palm, I gently prest, And with her lips I played; My cheek, upon her panting breast, And on her neck, I laid; And yet we had no sense of wanton lust; Nor did we then mistrust The Poison in the Sweet. Our bodies wrought So close, we thought, Because our souls should meet. With pleasant toil, we breathless grew, And kist in warmer blood: Upon her lips, the honey dew, Like drops on roses stood. And on those flowers, played I the busy bee, Whose sweets, were such to me, Them could I not forego. No, not to feast On Venus' breast, Whence streams of sweetness flow. But kissing and embracing, we So long together lay; Her touches all inflamèd me, And I began to stray. My hands presumed so far, they were too bold! My tongue unwisely told How much my heart was changed. And Virtue quite Was put to flight; Or, for the time, estranged. O, what are we, if in our strength We over boldly trust? The strongest forts will yield at length, And so our virtues must. In Me, no force of Reason had prevailed, If She had also failed. But ere I further strayed, She, sighing, kist My naked wrist: And thus, in tears, she said. "Sweet Heart!" quoth she, "if in thy breast Those virtues real be, Which, hitherto, thou hast profest, And I believed in thee; Thyself and Me, O seek not to abuse! Whilst thee I thus refuse, In hotter flames I fry! Yet let us not, Our true love, spot! O, rather, let me die!" "For if thy heart should fall from good, What would become of mine? As strong a Passion stirs my blood, As can distemper thine! Yet in my breast, this rage I smother would, Though it consume me, should; And my desires contain. For where we see Such breaches be, They seldom stop again." "Are we the two that have so long Each other's loves embraced; And never did Affection wrong Nor think a thought unchaste? And shall, O shall we, now, our matchless Joy For one poor touch destroy? And all Content forego? O no, my Dear! Sweet Heart, forbear! I will not lose thee so!" "For should we do a deed so base As it can never be, I could no more have seen thy face! Nor wouldst thou look on me! I should, of all our Passions grow ashamed; And blush, when thou art named. Yea, though thou constant wert, I being nought, A jealous thought Would still torment my heart. "What goodly thing, do we obtain If I consent to thee? Rare joys we lose, and what we gain But common pleasures be. Yea, 'those,' some say, 'who are to lust inclined, Drive Love out of the mind! And so much Reason miss That they admire What kind of fire A chaste affection is.'" "No vulgar bliss I aimèd at, When first I heard thee woo; I'll never prize a Man for that Which every groom can do. If that be love, the basest men that be Do love as well as we! Who, if we bear us well, Do pass them then, As Angels, men In glory do excel." Whilst thus she spake, a cruel Band Of Passions seized my soul; And what one seemèd to command, Another did control. 'Twixt Good and Ill, I did, divided lie. But as I raised mine eye, In her, methought, I saw Those Virtues shine, Whose rays divine First gave Desire, a Law. With that, I felt the blush of shame Into my cheek return. And Love did, with a chaster flame, Within my bosom burn. My Soul, her light of Reason had renewed; And by those beams, I viewed How slily Lust ensnares! And all the fires Of ill Desires, I quenchèd with my tears. Go, wantons, now, and flout at this! My coldness, if you list! Vain fools! You never knew the bliss That doth in Love consist! You sigh, and weep, and labour to enjoy A Shade, a Dream, a Toy! Poor Folly, you pursue! And are unblest; Since every beast, In pleasure, equals you! You never took so rich content In all your wanton play; As this to me, hath pleasure lent, That chaste, She went away. For as some sins, which we committed have, Sharp stings behind them leave; Whereby we vexèd are: So, Ill supprest, Begetteth rest, And peace without compare. But lest this conquest slight you make, Which on Myself I won; Twelve labours I will undertake With Jove's victorious son, Ere I will such another brunt endure! For had Diana pure, Thus tempted been to sin; That Queen of Night (With her chaste light) Had scarce a maiden been!

O, how honoured are my Songs, Graced by your melodious tongues! And how pleasing do they seem, Now your voices carol them! Were not, yet, that task to do, Which my word enjoins me to; I would beg of you, to hear What your own inventions are? But, before I aught will crave, What I promised, you shall have! And as I, on mortal creatures Called, to view her body's features! Shewing how to make the Senses Apprehend her excellences: Now, I speak of no worse subject Than a Soul's, and Reason's object; And relate a Beauty's glories Fitting heavenly auditories. Therefore, whilst I sit and sing, Hem me, Angels! in a ring! Come, ye Spirits! which have eyes That can gaze on Deity's! And unclogged with brutish senses Comprehend such excellences! Or if any mortal ear Would be granted leave to hear, And find profit with delight, In what now I shall indite; Let him, first, be sure to season A preparèd heart with Reason! And, with judgement, drawing nigh, Lay all fond affections by! So, through all her veilings, he Shall the Soul of Beauty see! But, avoid! you earth-bred wights Cloyed with sensual appetites! On base objects, glut your eyes! Till your starveling pleasure dies. Feed your ears with such delights As may match your gross conceits For, within your muddy brain, These, you never can contain! Think not, you, who by the Sense, Only judge of excellence! Or do all contentment place In the beauty of a face! That these higher thoughts of ours Soar so base a pitch as yours! I can give, as well as you, Outward beauties all their due! I can, most contentments see, That, in love, or women be! Though I dote not on the features Of our dantiest female creatures, (Nor was e'er so void of shames, As to play their lawless games!) I more prize a snowy hand, Than the gold on Tagus strand! And a dainty lip before All the greatest Monarch's store! Yea, from these, I reap as true, And as large contents as you! Yet, to them I am not tied! I have rarer sweets espied; Wider prospects of true Pleasure, Than your curbèd thoughts can measure! In her Soul, my soul descries Objects that may feed her eyes; And the beauty of her Mind Shews my Reason where to find All my former pleasure doubled; Neither with such Passion troubled As wherewith it oft was crost, Nor so easy to be lost. I that ravished lay, well nigh, By the lustre of her eye; (And had almost sworn affection To the fore-expressed perfection; As if nothing had been higher, Whereunto I might aspire); Now, have found, by seeking nearer, Inward Worth, that shining clearer, (By a sweet and secret moving) Draws me to a dearer loving. And whilst I, that love conceive; Such impressions it doth leave In the intellective part, As defaceth from my heart Every thought of those delights Which allure base appetites: And my mind so much employs In contemplating those joys, Which a purer sight doth find In the beauty of her Mind; That I, so thereon am set As, methinks, I could forget All her sweetest outward graces, Though I lay in her embraces. But some thinking, with a smile, What they would have done the while; Now suppose my words are such As exceed my power too much. For all those—our wantons hold Void of vigour, dull and cold; Or, at best, but fools—whose flame Makes not way unto their shame. Though, at length, with grief they see, They, the fools do prove to be! These, the body so much minded, That their Reason, over blinded By the pleasures of the Sense, Hides from them, that Excellence, And that Sweetness, whose true worth I am here, to blazon forth! 'Tis not, 'tis not those rare graces That do lurk in women's faces; 'Tis not a displayed perfection, Youthful eyes, nor clear complexion; Nor a skin, smooth, satin-like; Nor a dainty rosy cheek; That to wantonness can move Such as virtuously do love. Beauty, rather, gently draws Wild Desires to Reason's Laws! And oft frights men from that sin, They had else, transgressèd in; Through a sweet amazement, stroke From an overruling look. Beauty never tempteth men To lasciviousness; but when Careless Idleness hath brought Wicked longings into thought. Nor doth Youth, or heat of blood Make men prove what is not good. Nor the strength, of which they vaunt, 'Tis the strength and power they want! And the baseness of the mind Makes their brute desires inclined To pursue those vain delights Which affect their appetites; And so blinded! do they grow, (Who are overtaken so) As their dulness cannot see, Nor believe that better be! Some have blood as hot as theirs Whose affections loosest are; Bodies that require no Art To supply weak Nature's part; Youth, they have; and, sure, might, too, Boast of what some, shameless, do: Yet their minds, that aim more high Than those baser pleasures lie, Taught by Virtue, can suppress All attempts of wantonness; And such powerful motives frame To extinguish Passions' flame, That, by Reason's good direction, Qualifying loose affection They'll, in midst of beauty's fires, Walk unscorched with ill Desires. Yet no such, as stupid Shame Keeps from actions worthy blame. But, in all, so truly Man! That their apprehensions can Prize the body's utmost worth; And find many pleasures forth In those beauties, more than you, That abuse them, ever knew! But, perhaps, her outward grace, Here described, hath ta'en such place In some o'er-enamoured breast; And so much his heart possest, As he thinks, it passeth telling, How she may be more excelling! Or what worth I can prefer To be more admired in her. Therefore, now, I will be brief To prevent that misbelief; And if there be present here, Any one whose nicer ear Tasks my Measures, as offending In too seriously commending What affects the Sense, or may Injure Virtue any way: Let them know, 'tis understood, That if they were truly good, It could never breed offence, That I shewed the excellence; With the power of GOD and Nature, In the beauty of His creature. They, from thence, would rather raise Cause to meditate His praise: And thus think, "How fair must He, That hath made this Fair One, be!" That was my proposèd end: And to make them more attend Unto this! so much excelling As it passeth means of telling. But, at worst, if any Strain Makes your memories retain Sparks of such a baneful fire As may kindle ill Desire: This, that follows after, shall, Not alone extinguish all; But e'en make you blush with shame, That your thoughts were so to blame. Yet I know, when I have done, In respect of that bright Sun, Whose inestimable light I would blazon to your sight! These ensuing flashes are As to Cynthia's beams, a star; Or a petty comet's ray, To the glorious Eye of Day. For what power of Words, or Art, Can her Worth at full, impart? Or what is there, may be found, Placed within the Sense's bound, That can paint those sweets to me, Which the Eyes of Love do see? Or the beauties of her Mind Which her body hath enshrined? Can I think, the Guide of Heaven Hath so bountifully given Outward features, 'cause He meant To have made less excellent Her divine part? or suppose Beauty, Goodness doth oppose! Like those fools who do despair To find any Good and Fair? Rather, there, I seek a Mind Most excelling; where I find GOD hath to the Body lent Most beseeming ornament. But though He that did inspire First, the true Promethean fire, In each several soul did place Equal excellence and grace; As some think: yet, have not they Equal beauties, every way! For they, more or less appear As the outward organs are; Following much the temp'rature Of the body, gross or pure. And I do believe it true That as we the Body view, Nearer to perfection grow: So the Soul herself doth shew Others, more and more excelling, In her Power, as in her Dwelling. For that pureness giveth way Better to disclose each ray To the dull conceit of man; Than a grosser substance can. Thus, through spotless crystal, we May the day's full glory see, When, if clearest sunbeams pass Through a foul polluted glass; So discoloured they'll appear, As those stains they shone through, were. Let no critics cavil then, If I dare affirm again, That her Mind's perfections are Fairer than her Body's, far! And I need not prove it by Axioms of Philosophy; Since no proof can better be Than their rare effect in me! For, while other men complaining, Tell their Mistress's disdaining: Free from care, I write a Story Only of her Worth, and Glory! While most lovers pining, sit, Robbed of liberty and wit, Vassaling themselves with shame To some proud imperious Dame; Or, in Songs, their fate bewailing, Shew the world, their faithless failing; I, enwreathed with boughs of myrtle, Fare like the beloved Turtle. Yea, while most are most untoward! Peevish! vain! inconstant! froward! While their best contentments bring Nought but after sorrowing: She (those childish humours slighting) Hath conditions so delighting, And doth so my bliss endeavour, As my joy increaseth ever. By her actions, I can see That her Passions so agree Unto Reason, as they err, Seldom, to distemper her. Love She can, and doth; but so As She will not overthrow Love's content, by any folly, Or by deeds that are unholy. Dotingly, She ne'er affects; Neither willingly neglects Honest love: but means doth find, With discretion to be kind. 'Tis not thundering phrase, nor oaths, Honours, wealth, nor painted clothes, That can her goodliking gain; If no other Worth remain. Never took her heart delight In your Court Hermaphrodite, Or such frothy gallants as For the Times, heroès pass: Such who, still in love, do all, "Fair!" and "Sweet!" and "Lady!" call; And where'er they hap to stray, Either prate the rest away, Or, of all discourse to seek, Shuffle in at Cent or Gleek. Goodness more delights her, than All their Mask of Folly can. Fond, She hateth to appear; Though She hold her Friend as dear As her part of life unspent, Or the best of her content. If the heat of youthful fires Warm her blood with those desires, Which are, by the course of Nature, Stirred in every perfect creature; As those Passions kindle, so Doth Heaven's grace, and Reason grow Abler to suppress in her Those rebellions; and they stir Never more affection, than One good thought allays again. I could say, so chaste is She As the new blown roses be; Or the drifts of snow that none Ever touched, or looked upon: But that were not worth a fly, Seeing so much chastity Old Pigmalion's picture had! Yea, those eunuchs born, or made Ne'er to know Desire, might say "She deserved no more than they!" Whereas, while their worth proceeds From such wants, as they must needs Be unmoved ('cause Nature framed No affections to be tamed) Through her dainty limbs are spread Vigour, heat; and freely shed Life blood into every vein Till they fill, and swell again: And no doubt they strive to force Way in some forbidden course; Which by Grace, She still resists, And so curbs within their lists Those Desires, that She is chaster Than if she had none to master. Malice, never lets She in; Neither hates She ought, but sin. Envy, if She could admit, There's no means to nourish it: For her gentle heart is pleased When She knows another's eased; And there's none whoever got That perfection, she hath not. So that no cause is there, why She should any one envy. Mildly Angry She'll appear; That the baser rout may fear, Through presumption, to misdo. Yet, She often feigns that too: But let wrong be whatsoever, She gives way to Choler, never! If She e'er, of Vengeance thought, 'Twas nor life, nor blood was sought; But, at most, some prayer to move Justice for abusèd love; Or that Fate would pay again Love's neglectors with disdain. If she ever craved of Fate To obtain a higher state; Or, ambitiously were given: Sure, 'twas but to climb to heaven! Pride is from her heart, as far As the poles in distance are. For her Worth, nor all this Praise Can her humble spirit raise; Less to prize me than before, Or herself to value more. Were She Vain, She might allege 'Twere her sex's privilege; But She's such, as, doubtless, no man Knows less folly in a woman. To prevent a being Idle, Sometimes with her curious needle, Though it be her meanest glory, She so limns an antique Story, As Minerva (would she take it!) Might her richest Sample[r] make it. Otherwhile, again, she rather Labours with delight, to gather Knowledge from such learned writs As are left by famous wits: Where, She chiefly seeks to know GOD! Herself! and what we owe To our neighbour! since, with these, Come all needful knowledges. She, with Adam, never will Long to learn both Good and Ill; But her state well understood, Rests herself content with Good. Avarice, abhorreth She, As the loathsom'st things that be; Since she knows it is an Ill That doth ripest virtue kill. And where'er it comes to rest, Though in some strict matron's breast; But she ne'er so seeming just, I'll no shews of goodness trust! For if you, but gold can bring; Such are hired to anything! If you think She Jealous be, You are wide! For, credit me! Her strong'st jealousies nought are Other than an honest care Of her friends. And most can tell, Whoso wants that, loves not well! Though some little Fear she shows; 'Tis no more than Love allows, So the Passion do not move her Till she grieve or wrong her lover! She may think he may do ill, Though She'll not believe he will! Nor can such a harmless thought Blemish true affection ought; Rather, when as else it would, Through security, grow cold; This, her Passion, keeping measure, Strengthens Love, and sweetens Pleasure! Cruelty, her soul detests! For, within her bosom rests Noblest Pity; ushered by An unequalled Courtesy: And is grieved at good men's moan, As the grief were all her own. Just, She is. So just, that I Know she would not wrong a fly; Or oppress the meanest thing, To be Mistress to a King. If our painters would include Temperance and Fortitude In one picture; She would fit, For the nonce, to pattern it! Patient as the lamb is She! Harmless, as the turtles be! Yea, so largely stored with all Which we mortals, Goodness call; That if ever Virtue were, Or may be incarnate here This is She! whose praises I Offer to Eternity. She's no Image trimmed about, Fair within, and foul without! But a Gem that doth appear, Like a diamond, everywhere Sparkling rays of beauty forth! All of such unblemished worth, That wer 't possible, your eye Might her inmost thoughts espy, And behold the dimmest part Of the lustre in her heart: It would find that Centre 'pass What the Superficies was; And that every angle there, Like a diamond's inside were. For although that excellence Pass the piercing'st eye of Sense; By their operations, we Guess at things, that hidden be. So, beyond our common reach, Wise men can, by reason teach, What the influences been Of a Planet, when unseen; Or the beauty of a star That doth shine above us far. So by that wide beaming light, Wherewith Titan courts our sight; By his clothing of the earth; By the wondrous, various birth Of new creatures, yearly bred Through his heat, and nourished: And by many virtues mo[r]e Which our Senses reach unto, We conclude, they are not all, Which make fair that goodly Ball. Though she prize her Honour more Than the far-fetched precious store Of the rich Moluccas, or All the wealth was trafficed for, Since our vessels passage knew Unto Mexico, Peru, Or those spacious kingdoms which Made the proud Iberians rich. 'Tis not that uncertain blast Keeps my Mistress Good, or Chaste! She, that but for Honour's sake, Doth of Ill a conscience make (More in fear what rumour says, Than in love to virtuous ways); Though she seemed more civil than You have seen a courtezan, For an honour; and cries "O, fie!" At each shew of vanity; Though she censure all that be Not so foolish coy as she; Though she, with the Roman Dame Kill herself, to purchase fame: She would prostitute become, To the meanest, basest groom; If so closely they may do it, As the world should never know it. So, at best, those women prove That for Honour, Virtue love. Give me her that goodness chooseth For its own sake! and refuseth To have greatest honours gained With her secret conscience stained. Give me her! that would be poor; Die disgraced; nay, thought a whore; And each Time's reproach become Till the general Day of Doom: Rather than consent to act Pleasing sin: though by the fact, With esteem of "virtuous," she Might the German Empress be! Such my Mistress is! and nought Shall have power to change her thought. Pleasures cannot tempt her eye, On their baits to glance awry. For their good, she still esteems As it is; not, as it seems: And she takes no comfort in Sweetest Pleasure soured with Sin. By herself, she hath such care That her actions decent are. For were she in secret hid, None might see what she did; She would do as if for spies Every wall was stuck with eyes: And be chary of her honour 'Cause the heavens do look upon her! And O, what had power to move, Flames of lust or wanton love So far, to disparage us; If we all, were minded thus? These are beauties that shall last When the crimson blood shall waste! And the shining hair wax gray Or, with age, be worn away! These yield pleasures such as might Be remembered with delight, When we gasp our latest breath On the loathèd bed of death. Though discreetly speak She can; She'll be silent, rather than Talk while others may be heard: As if She did hate, or feared The condition, who will force All to wait on their discourse. Reason hath on her bestowed, More of knowledge, than she owed To that sex; and Grace, with it, Doth aright, her practice fit. Yet hath Fate so framèd her As She may, at some time, err; But if e'er her judgement stray, 'Tis that other women may, Those much pleasing beauties see, Which in yielding natures be. For since no perfection can Here on earth be found in man; There's more good in free submissions, Than there's ill in our transgressions. Should you hear her, once, contend In discoursing, to defend, As She can, a doubtful cause; She, such strong positions draws From known truths, and doth apply Reasons with such majesty, As if She did undertake, From some Oracle to speak; And you could not think what might Breed more love, or more delight. Yet, if you should mark again Her discreet behaviour, when She finds reason to repent Some wrong-pleaded argument; She so temperately lets all Her mis-held opinions fall, And can, with such mildness bow, As 'twill more enamour you, Than her knowledge. For there are Pleasing sweets without compare In such yieldings! which do prove Wit, Humility, and Love. Yea, by those mistakings, you Her condition so shall know, And the nature of her mind So undoubtedly shall find, As will make her more endeared Than if she had never erred. Farther (that she nought may miss Which worth praise in woman is), This, unto the rest I add. If I, wound or sickness had; None should for my curing run! No, not to Apollo's son! She, so well the virtue knows Of each needful herb that grows; And so fitly, can apply Salves to every malady: That if She, no succour gave me, 'Twere no means of Art could save me! Should my Soul oppressèd lie, Sunk with grief and sorrow nigh; She hath balm for minds distressed, And could ease my pained breast. She, so well knows, how to season Passionate discourse with Reason; And knows how to sweeten it, Both with so much Love and Wit, That it shall prepare the Sense To give way with less offence. For grievèd minds can ill abide Counsel churlishly applied; Which instead of comfortings, Desperation often brings. But, hark, Nymphs! Methinks, I hear Music sounding in mine ear! 'Tis a Lute! and he's the best For a voice, in all the West, That doth touch it! And the Swain I would have you hear, so fain; That to my Song, forbear will I, To attend his melody. Hither comes he, day by day, In these groves to sing and play: And in yon close arbour, he Sitteth now, expecting me. He so bashful is, that mute Will his tongue be, and his lute; Should he happen to espy This unlooked for company. If you, therefore, list to hear him; Let's with silence walk more near him! 'Twill be worth your pains, believe me! (If a voice, content may give ye!) And, await you shall not long! For he now begins a Song.

What is the cause, when elsewhere I resort, I have my gestures, and discourse more free: And if I please, can any Beauty court! Yet stand so dull, and so demure by Thee? Why are my speeches broken, whilst I talk? Why do I fear almost thy hand to touch? Why dare I not embrace thee, as we walk? Since, with the greatest Nymphs, I've dared as much! Ah, know that none of those I e'er affected! And therefore used a careless courtship there; Because I, neither their disdain respected; Nor reckoned them nor their embraces dear! But loving Thee! my love hath found content; And rich delights, in things indifferent.

Why covet I, thy blessed eyes to see! Whose sweet aspect may cheer the saddest mind? Why, when our bodies must divided be, Can I no hour of rest or pleasure find? Why do I sleeping, start; and waking, moan, To find that of my dreamèd hopes I miss? Why do I often contemplate alone, Of such a thing as thy Perfection is? And wherefore, when we meet, doth Passion stop My speechless tongue, and leave me in a panting? Why doth my heart, o'ercharged with fear and hope, In spite of reason, almost droop to fainting? Because, in me, thy excellences moving, Have drawn to me, an excellence in loving!

Fair! Since thy virtues, my affections move; And I have vowed my purpose is to join In an eternal band of chastest love, Our Souls, to make a marriage most divine. "Why," thou may'st think, "then, seemeth he to prize An outward beauty's fading hue so much? Why doth he Read such Lectures in mine eyes? And often strive my tender palm to touch?" O, pardon my presuming! For I swear My love is soiled with no lustful spot! Thy Soul's perfections, through those veils appear! And I half faint, that I embrace them not! No foul Desires doth make thy touches sweet; By my Soul striveth, with thy Soul to meet!

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die, because a woman's Fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care, 'Cause another's rosy are? Be She fairer than the Day, Or the flowery meads in May! If She be not so to me, What care I, how Fair She be? Should my heart be grieved or pined, 'Cause I see a woman Kind? Or a well disposèd nature Joinèd with a lovely feature? Be She meeker, kinder than Turtle dove, or pelican! If She be not so to me, What care I, how Kind She be? Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well deserving known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be She with that Goodness blest Which may gain her, name of Best! If She be not such to me, What care I, how Good She be? 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool, and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think "What with them they would do!" That, without them, dare to woo! And unless that mind I see, What care I, though Great She be? Great, or Good, or Kind, or Fair, I will ne'er the more despair! If She love me (this believe!) I will die, ere She shall grieve! If She slight me, when I woo; I can scorn, and let her go! For if She be not for me! What care I, for whom She be?

I wandered out, awhile agone, And went, I know not whither; But there, do Beauties, many a one, Resort, and meet together: And Cupid's power will there be shewn, If ever you come thither! For like two suns, two Beauties bright, I, shining saw together: And, tempted by their double light, My eyes I fixt on Either; Till Both, at once, so thralled my sight, I loved, and knew not, Whether? Such equal sweet, Venus gave, That I preferred not Either; And when for love, I thought to crave, I knew not well of Whether? For one while, This I wished to have; And then, I, That had liefer! A lover of the curious'st eye, Might have been pleased in Either; And so, I must confess, might I, Had they not been together. Now Both must love, or Both deny: In one, enjoy I Neither. But yet, at last, I scaped the smart I feared, at coming hither. For seeing my divided heart, I, choosing, knew not Whether; Love, angry grew, and did depart. And, now, I care for Neither!

See! these trees so ill did hide us, That the Shepherd hath espied us! And, as jealous of his cunning, All in haste, away is running! To entreat him back again, Would be labour spent in vain: You may, therefore, now betake ye, To the Music, I can make thee! Who do purpose my Invention Shall pursue my first Intention. For in Her, whose worth I tell, Many excellences dwell Yet unmentioned; whose perfections Worthy are of best affections. That, which is so rare to find Both in Man, and Womankind; That, whose absence, love defaceth, And both sexes more disgraceth, That the spite of furrowed Age, Sicknesses, or Sorrow's rage; That's the jewel so divine Which doth on her forehead shine; And therewith endowed is She In an excellent degree: Constancy, I mean! the purest Of all beauties, and the surest. For whoe'er doth that possess, Hath an endless loveliness! All afflictions, labours, crosses; All our dangers, wounds, and losses; Games of Pleasure, we can make, For that matchless woman's sake! In whose breast that virtue bideth: And we joy, whate'er betideth! Most dejected hearts it gladeth. Twenty thousand glories addeth Unto Beauty's brightest Ray, And preserves it from decay! 'Tis the salt, that's made to season Beauty, for the use of Reason! 'Tis the varnish, and the oiling, Keeps her colours fresh from spoiling! 'Tis an excellence, whereby Age, though joined with poverty, Hath more dear affection won, That fresh Youth and Wealth have done! 'Tis a loveliness endearing Beauties, scarce worth note appearing! Whilst a fairer, fickle Dame Nothing gains, but scorn and shame. Further, 'tis a beauty such As I cannot praise too much, Nor frame Measures to express! No, nor any man! unless He who (more than all men crost) Finds it, in that woman lost; On whose faith, he would have pawned Life, and all he could command! Such a man, may, by that miss, Make us know, how dear it is! When, o'ercharged with grief, he shall Sigh, and break his heart withal. This is that Perfection which In her favour, makes me rich! All whose beauties named before, Else, would but torment me more: And in having this, I find, Whate'er haps, a quiet mind! Yea, 'tis that, which I do prize Far above her lips, her eyes; Or that general beauty, whence Shines each several excellence. For, alas! what gained hath he, Who may clip the fairest She, That the name of Woman bears; If, unhappily, he fears Any other's worth may win What he thought his own had been? Him, base minded deem I should, Who (although he were in hold, Wrapt in chains) would not disdain Love with her, to entertain! That, both daughter to a Peer, And most rich and lovely were; When a brainless Gull should dare In her favours with him share; Or the action of a Player Rob him of a hope so fair. This, I dread not! For I know Strainèd gestures, painted show, Shameless boastings, borrowed jests, Female looks, gay-plumed crests, Vows, nor protestations vain (Wherewith fools are made so vain) Move Her can! save to contemn, Or, perhaps, to laugh at them. Neither can I doubt or fear, Time shall either change or wear This her virtue, or impair That which makes her soul so fair! In which trust great comforts are, Which the fear of loss would mar. Nor hath this my rare hope stood So much in her being good, With her love to Blessèd Things; As in her acknowledgings From a Higher Power, to have them! And her love to Him that gave them! For, although to have a mind Naturally to Good inclined, And to love it, would assure Reason that it might endure: Yet, since man was first unjust, There's no warrant for such trust! Virtues that, most wonder win, Would converted be to Sin; If their flourishings began From no better root than Man! Our best virtues (when they are Of themselves) we may compare To the beauty of a Flower, That is blasted in an hour; And which growing to be fuller, Turns into some loathèd colour: But those (being freely given, And confirmed in us from Heaven) Have a promise on them past And for evermore shall last! Diamond like, their lustre clearing, More and more, by use and wearing! But if this rare Worth I praise, Should, by Fate's permission, raise Passions in some gentle breast That distemper may his rest: And be author of such treason As might nigh endanger Reason; Or enforce his tongue to crave What another man must have. Mark, in such a strait as this, How discreet her dealing is! She is nothing of their humours Who, their honour build on rumours; And had rather private sporting, Than allow of open courting: Nor of theirs, that would seem holy By divulging other's folly. Farther is She from their guise That delight to tyrannise; Or make boastings, in espying Others, for their favours dying. She, a spirit doth possess So replete with Nobleness, That if She be there beloved; Where she ought not to be moved Equally to love again: She doth so well entertain That affection, as there's none Can suppose it ill bestown. From Deluding, She is free! From Disdain, as far is She! And so feelingly bears part Of what pains another's heart; That no curse of scornèd duty, Shall draw vengeance on her beauty: Rather, with so tender fear Of her honour, and their care, She is touched; that neither shall Wrong unto herself befall By the favour She doth show; Nor will She neglect them so As may just occasion give Any way to make them grieve. Hope, She will not let them see! Lest they should presuming be; And aspire to that, which none Ever must enjoy but One. From Despair, She keeps them too! Fearing they might hap to do, Either through Love's indiscretions, Or much over stirrèd passions, What might, with their hurt and shame, Into question, call her name; And a scandal on her bring Who is just in everything. She hath marked how others run, And by them hath learnt to shun Both their fault, who, over wise, Err by being too precise; And their folly, that o'er kind, Are to all complaints inclined. For her Wit hath found the way How, a while, to hold them play; And that inconvenience shun Whereinto both seem to run, By allowing them a scope Just betwixt Despair and Hope: Where confined, and reaching neither, They do take a part in either; Till, long living in suspense, Tired by her Indifference, Time, at last, their Passion wears. Passions wearing, Reason clears! Reason gives their Judgement light! Judgement bringeth all to right! So, their Hope appearing vain; They become themselves again! And with high applauses (fit For such Virtue with such Wit) They, that service only proffer, She may take, and they may offer! Yet, this course she never proves Save with those, whose virtuous loves Use the noblest means of gaining Favours, worthy the obtaining. And if such should chance to err Either 'gainst themselves, or Her, In some oversights, when they Are, through Passion, led astray; She, so well man's frailty knows! With the darts, that Beauty throws! As she will not, adding terror, Break the heart, for one poor error! Rather, if still good they be, Twenty remedies hath She Gently to apply, where Sense Hath invaded Reason's fence: And, without a wound, or scar, Turns to peace, a lawless war. But to those, whose baser fires Breathe out smoke of such desires As may dim, with impure steams, Any part of Beauty's beams: She will deign no milder way, Those foul burnings to allay; Save with such extreme neglect As shall work her wished effect. And to use so sharp a cure, She's not oft constrainèd, sure, 'Cause, on her forehead, still, Goodness sits; so feared of Ill! That the scorn and high disdains Wherewithal she entertains Those loathed glances, giveth ending To such flamings the tynding That their coolèd hopes needs must Freeze Desires in heat of Lust. 'Tis a power that never lies In the fair'st immodest eyes! Wantons! 'tis not your sweet eyings, Forcèd passions, feignèd dyings, Gestures' temptings, tears' beguilings, Dancings, singings, kissings, smilings! Nor those painted sweets, with which, You, unwary men bewitch! All united, nor asunder That can compass such a Wonder! Or, to win you love prevails, Where her moving virtues fails. Beauties! 'tis not all those features, Placèd in the fairest creatures; Though their best they should discover, That can tempt from Her, a lover! 'Tis not those soft snowy breasts Where Love, rocked in Pleasure, rests; And by their continual motions Draweth hearts to vain devotions! Nor the nectar that we sip From the honey-dropping lip! Nor those eyes, whence Beauty's lances Wound the heart with wanton glances! Nor those sought delights that lie In Love's hidden treasury! That can liking gain, where She Will the best belovèd be! For should those who think they may Draw my love from her away, Bring forth all their female graces! Wrap me in their close embraces! Practise all the Art they may! Weep! or sing! or kiss! or pray! And, with sighs and looks, come woo me! When they soonest may undo me, One poor thought of Her would arm me So, as Circe could not harm me! Since besides those excellences Wherewith others please the Senses, She, whom I have prizèd so, Yields delights for Reason too! Who could dote on thing so common As mere outward-handsome woman? Those Half-Beauties only win Fools, to let affection in! Vulgar wits, from Reason shaken, Are with such impostures taken! And, with all their art in love, Wantons can but wantons move! But when, unto those are joined, Those things which adorn the Mind; None their excellences see, But they straight enthrallèd be! Fools and wise men, worst and best, Subjects are to Love's Arrest; For when Virtue wooes a lover She's an unresisted mover, That will have no kind of "Nay!" And in love, brooks no delay. She can make the sensual wights To restrain their appetites; And her beauty, when they see, Spite of Vice, in love to be: Yea, (although themselves be bad) Praise the good they never had! She hath to her service brought Those that Her have set at nought, And can fair enough appear To inflame the most severe. She hath, oft, allurèd out The religiously devout From their cloisters, and their vows, To embrace what She allows! And to such contentments come As blind Zeal had barred them from; While (her laws misunderstood) They did Ill, for love of Good. Where I find True Worth to be Sweetest are their lips to me! And embraces tempt me so, More than outward beauties do, That my firm belief is this; If I ever do amiss, Seeming-Good, the bait will lay, That to Ill, shall me betray. Since where Shews of Goodness are, I am oft emboldened there, Freedoms so permit and use, Which I elsewhere do refuse; For because I think they mean, To allow no deed unclean. Yet where two, love Virtue shall, Both, at once, they seldom fall! For when one hath thoughts of Ill, T'other helps exile them still. My Fair Virtue's power is this, And that power the beauty is Which doth make Her, here exprest, Equally both Fair and Blest: This! was that contenting grace Which affection made me place With so dear respect, that never Can it fail, but last for ever. This! a Servant made me sworn, Who, before time, held in scorn To yield vassalage or duty; Though unto the Queen of Beauty! Yet that I, her Servant am, It shall more be to my fame, Than to own these woods and downs, Or be Lord of fifty towns: And, my Mistress, to be deemed, Should more honour be esteemed Than those titles to acquire Which most women most desire. Yea, when you a woman shall, Countess, or a Duchess call: That respect it shall not move, Neither gain her half such love As to say, "Lo! this is She That supposèd is to be Mistress to Phil'arete! And that lovely Nymph, which he In a Pastoral Poem famed, And Fair Virtue, there hath named!" Yea, some ladies (ten to one!) If not many, now unknown, Will be very well apaid When, by chance, she hears it said She that "Fair One" is, whom I Have, here, praised concealedly. And though, now, this Age's Pride May so brave a Hope deride; Yet, when all their glories pass, As the thing that never was, And on monuments appear That they e'er had breathing here, Who envy it; She shall thrive In her fame, and honoured live; While Great Britain's Shepherds sing English in their Sonneting! And whoe'er, in future days, Shall bestow the utmost praise On his love, that any man Attribute to creature can; 'Twill be this! that he hath dared, His and Mine to have compared. O, what stars did shine on me, When her eyes I first did see! And how good was their aspect, When we first did both affect! For I never since to changing Was inclined, or thought of ranging! Me, so oft my Fancy drew Here and there, that I ne'er knew Where to place Desire, before, So that range it might no more. But as he that passeth by Where, in all her jollity, Flora's riches, in a row, Doth in seemly order grow; And a thousand flowers stand, Bending as to kiss his hand: Out of which delightful store, One, he may take, and no more! Long he pausing, doubteth whether Of those fair ones he should gather. First, the Primrose courts his eyes! Then, the Cowslip he espies! Next, the Pansy seems to woo him! Then, Carnations bow unto him! Which, whilst that enamoured Swain From the stalk, intends to strain; (As half fearing to be seen) Prettily, her leaves between, Peeps the Violet! pale to see That her virtues slightèd be: Which so much his liking wins That, to seize her, he begins; Yet before he stooped so low He, his wanton eye did throw On a stem that grew more high, And the Rose did there espy. Who, besides her precious scent, To procure his eyes' content, Did display her goodly breast; Where he found, at full exprest, All the Good that Nature showers On a thousand other flowers. Wherewith he, affected, takes it! His Beloved Flower, he makes it! And, without desire of more, Walks through all he saw before. So I, wandering but erewhile, Through the Garden of this Isle, Saw rich Beauties, I confess, And in number, numberless; And so differing lovely too, That I had a world to do, Ere I could set up my rest Where to choose, and choose the best. One I saw, whose Hair excellèd! On another's Brow there dwellèd Such a Majesty, it seemed She was best to be esteemed! This had, with her Speeches won me! That, with Silence had undone me! On her Lips, the Graces hung! T'other charmed me with her tongue! In her Eyes, a third did bear That which did anew ensnare! Then a fourth did fairer show, Yet wherein I did not know! Only this perceivèd I, Somewhat pleased my Fantasy. Now the Wealth, I most esteemed! Honour then, I better deemed! Next, the love of Beauty seized me! And then Virtue better pleased me! Juno's love I nought esteemed! Whilst a Venus fairer seemed! Nay, both could not me suffice, Whilst a Pallas was more wise! Though I found enough in One To content, if still alone. Amarillis, I did woo! And I courted Phillis too! Daphne, for her love I chose! Cloris, for that damask rose In her cheek, I held as dear! Yea, a thousand liked, well near! And in love with All together, Feared the enjoying Either! 'Cause to be, of one possest, Barred the hope of all the rest. Thus I fondly fared, till Fate, (Which I must confess, in that, Did a greater favour to me, Than the world can malice do me) Shewed to me that matchless flower Subject for this Song of our. Whose perfection having eyed Reason instantly espied, That Desire, which ranged abroad, There, would find a period. And, no marvel! if it might: For it, there, hath all Delight; And in Her, hath Nature placed What each several Fair once graced. Nor am I, alone delighted, With those graces, all united, Which the Sense's eye doth find Scattered throughout Womankind. But my Reason finds perfections To inflame my Soul's affections: Yea, such virtues She possesseth, As, with firmest pleasures blesseth; And keeps sound that Beauty's state, Which would else grow ruinate. In this Flower are sweets, such store: I shall never wish for more! Nor be tempted out to stray For the fairest buds in May! Let, who list! for me, advance The admired flowers of France! Let, who will! praise and behold The reservèd Marigold! Let the sweet-breathed Violet, now, Unto whom she pleaseth, bow! And the fairest Lily spread, Where she will, her golden head! I have such a flower to wear; That for those, I do not care! Never shall my Fancy range! Nor once think again of change! Never will I, never more! Grieve or sigh, as heretofore! Nor within the lodgings lie Of Despair, or Jealousy! Let the young and happy Swains, Playing on the Britain plains, Court, unblamed, their shepherdesses! And with their gold-curlèd tresses Toy uncensured! until I Grudge at their prosperity! Let all Times, both Present, Past; And the Age that shall be last; Vaunt the beauties they bring forth! I have found in One, such worth! That, content, I neither care What the best before me were; Nor desire to live and see Who shall fair hereafter be. For I know the hand of Nature Will not make a fairer creature! Which, because succeeding days Shall confess, and add their praise In approving what my tongue (Ere they had their being) sung: Once again, come, lend an ear! And a Rapture you shall hear (Though I taste no Thespian spring) Will amaze you; whilst I sing! I do feel new Strains inspiring, And to such brave heights aspiring; That my Muse will touch a key, Higher than you've heard to-day! I have Beauties to unfold That deserve a Pen of Gold! Sweets that never dreamed of were! Things unknown; and such as Ear Never heard a Measure sound Since the sun first ran his round! When Apelles limbed to life, Loathèd Vulcan's lovely wife; With such beauties he did turn Each sweet feature, and each limb, And so curiously did place Every well becoming grace; That 'twas said, ere he could draw Such a Piece, he naked saw Many women in their prime And the fairest of that Time; From all which, he, parts did take, Which, aright disposed, make Perfect Beauty. So when you Know what I have yet to show, It will seem to pass so far Those things which expressèd are; That you will suppose I've been Privileged, where I have seen All the Good that's spread in parts Through a thousand women's hearts! With their fair'st conditions lie Bare, without hypocrisy! And that I have took from thence, Each dispersèd excellence To express Her, who hath gained More than ever One obtained. And yet, soft! I fear, in vain I have boasted such a Strain! Apprehensions ever are Greater than Expression, far! And my striving to disclose What I know, hath made me lose My Invention's better part: And my Hopes exceed my Art! Speak, I can; yet Think I more! Words, compared with Thoughts, are poor! And I find, had I begun Such a Strain, it would be done When we number all the sands Washed o'er perjured Godwin's lands. For of things I should indite, Which, I know are infinite. I do yield! My Thoughts did climb Far above the power of Rhyme! And no wonder it is so, Since there is no Art can show Red in roses, white in snow; Nor express how they do grow. Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree, That inferior creatures be, Beauties have, which we confess Lines unable to express; They more hardly can enrol Those that do adorn a Soul. But suppose my Measures could Reach the height, I thought they would: Now, relate, I would not though, What did swell within me so. For if I should all descry, You would know as much as I! And those clowns the Muses hate, Would of things above them, prate! Or, with their profaning eyes, Come to view those mysteries Whereof, since they disesteemed them, Heaven hath unworthy deemed them! And besides, it seems to me, That your ears nigh tirèd be! I perceive the fire that charmeth And inspireth me, scarce warmeth Your chill hearts! Nay, sure, were I Melted into Poesy, I should not a Measure hit, (Though Apollo prompted it) Which should able be to leave That in you, which I conceive! You are cold! and here I may Waste my vital heat away Ere you will be moved so much As to feel one perfect touch Of those Sweets; which, yet concealed, Swell my breast, to be revealed. Now, my Words, I therefore cease! That my mounting Thoughts, in peace, May, alone, those pleasures share, Whereof Lines unworthy are! And so you, an end do see, Of my Song; though long it be!

No sooner had the Shepherd Phil'aret, To this Description, his last period set; But instantly, descending from a wood, Which on a rising ground, adjoining stood, A troop of Satyrs, to the view of all, Came dancing, of a new devisèd brall. The measures they did pace, by Him were taught them, Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them, That he had learned their rudeness an observing Of such respect unto the well deserving; As they became to no man else, a terror, But such as did persist in wilful error: And they, the Ladies, made no white affeared Though since that time, they some Great Men have scared. Their dance, the Whipping of Abuse they named; And though the Shepherd, since that, hath been blamed: Yet, now, 'tis daily seen in every town! And there's no Country Dance that's better known! Nor that hath gained a greater commendation 'Mongst those that love an honest recreation! This Scene presented; from a grove was heard A Set of Viols; and there, was prepared A Country Banquet, which this Shepherd made To entertain the Ladies, in the shade. And 'tis supposed, his Song prolongèd was Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass. So well it was performed that each one deemed, The banquet might the City have beseemed; Yet, better was their Welcome, than their Fare, Which they perceived, and the merrier were. One Beauty though, there sat among the rest, That looked as sad as if her heart oppressed With love had been. Whom Phil'aret beholding Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding: "Lady!" quoth he, "am I, or this poor cheer, The cause that you so melancholy are? For if the object of your thoughts be higher, It fits nor me to know them, nor inquire: But if from me it cometh, that offends; I seek the cause, that I may make amends!" "Kind Swain!" said she, "it is nor so! nor so! No fault in you! nor in your cheer I know! Nor do I think there is a thought in me, That can too worthy of your knowledge be! Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had Than here I find, though I have seemèd sad. My heart is sometimes heavy when I smile; And when I grieve, I often sing the while. Nor is it sadness that doth me possess, But rather, musing, with much seriousness, Upon that multitude of sighs and tears, With those innumerable doubts and fears Through which you passed, ere you could acquire A settled Hope of gaining your Desire. For you dared love a Nymph, so great and fair, As might have brought a Prince unto despair; And, sure, the excellency of your Passions Did then produce as excellent impressions. If, therefore, me the suit may well become! And if to you, it be not wearisome! In name of all the Ladies, I entreat That one of those sad Strains you would repeat, Which you composed, when greatest Discontent Unsought-for help, to your Invention lent!" "Fair Nymphs!" said Phil'aret, "I will so do! For though your Shepherd doth no Courtship know, He hath Humanity! and what's in me, To do you service, may commanded be!" So, taking down a lute, that near him hung; He gave't his boy, who played: whilst this, he sung.

"Ah, me!" Am I the Swain That late, from sorrow free, Did all the cares on earth disdain? And still untouched, as at some safer games, Played with the burning coals of Love, and Beauty's flames? Was't I, could dive, and sound each Passion's secret depth at will; And from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason, still? And am I, now, O heavens! (for trying this in vain) So sunk, that I shall never rise again? Then let Despair set Sorrow's string For Strains, that doleful'st be! And I will sing "Ah, me." But why, O fatal Time! Dost Thou constrain, that I Should perish in my Youth's sweet prime? I, but a while ago, You cruel Powers! In spite of Fortune, cropped Contentment's sweetest flowers. And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She, That ever was beloved of Man, or eyes did ever see. Yea, one, whose tender heart would rue for my distress; Yet I, poor I! must perish nay-the-less: And, which much more augments my care, Unmoaned, I must die! And no man e'er Know why! Thy leave, My dying Song! Yet take! ere Grief bereave The breath which I enjoy too long. Tell thou that Fair One this! "My Soul prefers Her love above my life, and that I died hers! And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear, Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here!" And now, farewell, thou place of my unhappy birth! Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth: Since me, my wonted joys forsake, And all my trust deceive; Of all, I take My leave! Farewell, Sweet Groves, to you! You Hills, that highest dwell; And all you humble Vales, adieu! You wanton Brooks! and solitary Rocks! My dear Companions all! and you, my tender Flocks! Farewell, my Pipe! and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving Strains Delighted once the fairest Nymphs that dance upon the plains! You Discontentments (whose deep and over-deadly smart Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)! Sighs! Tears! and every sad Annoy That erst did with me dwell! And all others' Joy! Farewell! Adieu Fair Shepherdesses! Let garlands of sad yew Adorn your dainty golden tresses! I that loved you, and often, with my quill Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill! I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace; Yea, with a thousand rarer favours, would vouchsafe to grace! I, now, must leave you all alone! of Love to 'plain, And never Pipe, nor never Sing again I must, for evermore, be gone! And, therefore, bid I you, And every one, Adieu! I die! For O, I feel Death's horrors drawing nigh! And all this frame of Nature reels! My hopeless heart, despairing of relief, Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief! Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein, All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again. My swimming head begins to dance Death's giddy round! A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound! Benumbed is my cold-sweating brow! A dimness shuts my eye! And now, O now, I die!

So movingly these lines he did express, And to a tune so full of heaviness; As if, indeed, his purpose had been past To live no longer than the Song did last. Which in the Nymphs, such tender passion bred, That some of them, did tears of pity shed. This she perceiving, who first craved the Song, "Shepherd!" she said, "although it be no wrong Nor grief to you, those Passions to recall Which, heretofore, you have been pained withal! But comforts rather, since they, now, are over; And you, it seemeth, an enjoying lover: Yet some Nymphs among us, I do see; Who, so much movèd with your Passions be, That, if my aim I have taken aright, Their thoughts will hardly let them sleep to-night. I dare not, therefore, beg of you again To sing another of the selfsame Strain; For fear it breed within them, more unrest Than women's weaknesses can well digest. Yet, in your Measures, such content you have! That one Song more, I will presume to crave. And if your memory preserves of those Which you, of your affections did compose Before you saw this Mistress; let us hear What kind of Passions, then, within you were!" To which request, he instantly obeyed; And this ensuing Song, both sung and played.

You gentle Nymphs! that on these meadows play, And oft relate the loves of Shepherds young; Come, sit you down! For if you please to stay, Now may you hear an uncouth Passion sung! A Lad there is, and I am that poor Groom; That's fall'n in love, and cannot tell with whom! O do not smile at sorrow, as a jest! With others' cares, good natures movèd be; And I should weep, if you had my unrest! Then, at my grief, how can you merry be? Ah, where is tender pity now become? I am in love, and cannot tell with whom! I, that have oft, the rarest features viewed, And Beauty in her best perfection seen; I, that have laughed at them that love pursued, And ever free from such affections been: Lo, now at last, so cruel is my doom! I am in love, and cannot tell with whom! My heart is full nigh bursting with Desire; Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow: My breast doth burn, but She that lights the fire, I never saw, nor can I come to know. So great a bliss, my fortune keeps me from; That though I dearly love, I know not whom! Ere I had twice four Springs renewed seen, The force of Beauty I began to prove; And ere I nine years old had fully been, It taught me how to frame a Song of Love, And little thought I, this day should have come, Before that I, to love had found out whom! For on my chin, the mossy down you see! And in my veins, well heated blood doth glow! Of Summers I have seen twice three times three; And fast, my youthful time away doth go! That much I fear, I agèd shall become, And still complain, I love, I know not whom! O, why had I a heart bestowed on me, To cherish dear affections, so inclined? Since I am so unhappy born to be No Object, for so true a Love to find. When I am dead, it will be missed of some; Yet, now I live, I love, I know not whom! I to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known! A hundred Ladies' favours do I wear! I, with as many, half in love am grown; Yet none of them, I find, can be my Dear! Methinks, I have a Mistress yet to come! Which makes me sing, I love, I know not whom! There lives no Swain doth stronger Passion prove For her, whom most he covets to possess; Than doth my heart, that being full of love Knows not to whom it may the same profess! For he that is despised, hath sorrow some; But he hath more, that loves, and knows not whom! Knew I my Love, as many others do, To some one object might my thoughts be bent! So they divided, should not wandering go Until the Soul's united force be spent. As his, that seeks and never finds a home, Such is my rest, that love, and know not whom! Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide, May live to meet, and descant on their woe; And he hath gained a Lady for his bride, That durst not woo her Maid, a while ago. But O, what end unto my hopes can come? That am in love, and cannot tell with whom! Poor Collin grieves that he was late disdained; And Cloris doth, for Willy's absence pine; Sad Thirsis weeps, for his sick Phœbe pained: But all their sorrows cannot equal mine! A greater care, alas, on me is come. I am in love, and cannot tell with whom! Narcissus like, did I affect my shade; Some shadow yet I had to dote upon! Or did I love some Image of the dead, Whose Substance had not breathed long agone? I might despair! and so an end would come; But O, I love! and cannot tell you whom! Once, in a dream, methought, my Love I viewed, But never, waking, could her face behold; And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed That more my tirèd heart, torment it should. For, since that time, more grieved I am become; And more in love, I cannot tell with whom! When on my bed, at night, to rest I lie, My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek; And then, "O would it once were day!" I cry, Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek. For who can tell, though all the earth he roam; Or when, or where to find, he knows not whom? O, if she may be among the beauteous trains Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver rills! Or if you know her, Ladies of the plains! Or you, that have your bowers on the hills! Tell, if you can, who will my Love become? Or I shall die, and never know for whom!

The Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard, Because the Passion strange to them appeared, And stranger was it, since by his expression, As well as by his own unfeigned confession, It seemèd true! But having sung it out; And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought, To urge him further: thus to them, he spake. "Fair Ladies! forasmuch as doubt you make To re-command me; of mine own accord, Another Strain I freely will afford. It shall not be of Love, nor any Song Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong; But that, hereafter, when you hence are gone, Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon! To shew you also, what Content the Field And lonely Grove to honest minds may yield! That you, my humble fate may not despise, When you are returned unto your braveries; And not suppose that, in these homely bowers, I hug my fortune, 'cause I know not yours. Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed by me, When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be, Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate, As in contempt of my more happy state. And these they be—"

Lordly Gallants! tell me this! (Though my safe Content you weigh not!) In your greatness, what one bliss Have you gained, that I enjoy not? You have Honours, you have Wealth! I have Peace, and I have Health! All the day I merry make; And, at night, no care I take! Bound to none, my fortunes be; This, or that man's fall, I fear not! Him I love, that loveth me; For the rest, a pin I care not! You are sad, when others chafe; And grow merry as they laugh! I, that hate it, and am free, Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me! You may boast of favours shown, Where your service is applied! But my pleasures are mine own, And to no man's humours tied. You oft flatter, sooth, and feign! I, such baseness do disdain! And to none, be slave I would, Though my fetters might be gold! By greatest titles, some believe, Highest honours are attained; And yet Kings have power to give To their Fools, what these have gained. Where they favour, there they may All their Names of Honour lay! But I look not, raised to be, Till mine own wing carry me! Seek to raise your titles higher! They are toys not worth my sorrow. Those that we, to-day, admire, Prove the Age's scorn to-morrow! Take your Honours! Let me find Virtue in a free born mind! This, the greatest Kings that be, Cannot give, nor take from me! Though I vainly do not vaunt Large demesnes to feed my pleasure: I have favours, where you want, That would buy Respect with treasure! You have lands lie here, and there; But my wealth is everywhere! And this addeth to my store, Fortune cannot make me poor! Say, you purchase, with your pelf, Some respect, where you importune! Those may love me, for myself; That regard you for your fortune! Rich, or born of high degree, Fools, as well as you, may be! But that Peace in which I live, No Descent, nor Wealth can give! If you boast that you may gain The respect of high-born Beauties; Know I never wooed in vain, Nor preferrèd scornèd duties! She I love, hath all delight, Rosy red with lily white; And, whoe'er your Mistress be, Flesh and blood as good as She! Note of me, was never took For my womanlike perfections; But so like a Man I look, It hath gained me best affections! For my love, as many showers Have been wept, as have for yours! And yet none doth me condemn For abuse, or scorning them! Though of dainties, you have store To delight a choicer palate! Yet your taste is pleased no more Than is mine, in one poor sallat! You to please your senses feed! But I eat, good blood to breed! And am most delighted then When I spend it like a man! Though you Lord it over me; You, in vain, thereof have bravèd! For those Lusts, my servants be; Whereunto your minds are slavèd! To yourselves you wise appear, But, alas, deceived you are! You do, foolish me esteem; And are that, which I do seem! When your faults I open lay; You are moved, and mad with vexing! But you ne'er could do, or say Ought to drive me to perplexing! Therefore, my despisèd power Greater is, by far, than your! And whate'er you think of me, In your minds, you poorer be! You are pleasèd, more or less, As men, well or ill report you! And shew discontentedness When the Times forbear to court you! That in which my pleasures be, No man can divide from me! And my care it adds not to, Whatso others say or do. Be not proud, because you view You, by thousands are attended! For, alas, it is not You, But Your Fortune! that's befriended. Where I shew of love have got, Such a danger, fear I not! Since they nought can seek of me; But for love, beloved to be. When your hearts have everything; You are pleasantly disposed! But I can both laugh and sing, Though my foes have me enclosed. Yea, when dangers me do hem, I delight in scorning them! More than you, in your renown; Or a King can, in his crown. You do bravely domineer Whilst the sun upon you shineth! Yet if any storm appear, Basely, then, your mind declineth! But, or shine, or rain, or blow, I, my resolutions know! Living, dying, thrall, or free; At one height, my Mind shall be! When in thraldom, I have lain; Me, not worth your thought you prizèd! But your malice was in vain, For your favours I despisèd. And howe'er you value me, I, with praise, shall thought on be! When the world esteems you not, And your Names shall be forgot. In these thoughts my riches are, Now, though poor and mean you deem me! I am pleased, and do not care How the Times, or you esteem me! For those toys that make you gay. Are but Play Games for a Day! And when Nature craves her due, I, as brave shall be, as you!

Here Phil'aret did give his Song an ending. To which the Nymphs so seriously attending About him sate, as if they had supposed He still had somewhat more to be disclosed. And, well they know not, whether did belong Most praise unto the Shepherd, or his Song. For though, they must confess, they often hear Those Lays, which much more deeply learned are; Yet, when they well considered of the place, With how unlikely (in their thought) it was To give them hope of hearing of such a Strain; Or that so young, and so obscure a Swain Should such a matchless Beauty's favour get; And know her worth so well, to sing of it: They wondered at it. And some thus surmised That He a greater man was, so disguised; Or else that She, whom he so much had praised, Some goddess was, that those his Measures raised, Of purpose, to that rare attainèd height In Envy's, and presuming Art's despite. But whilst they, musing with themselves, bethought Which way, out of this Shepherd to have wrought What Nymph this Fair One was? and where she lived? Lo, at that very instant, there arrived Three men that, by their habits, Courtiers seemed: For, though obscure, by some, he is esteemed, Among the Greatest: who do not contemn, In his retirèd walks, to visit him; And there, they taste those pleasures of the mind, Which they can, nor in Court, nor City find. Some news or message, these new guests had brought him; And to make haste away, it seems, besought him: For instantly he rose! And that his nurture Might not be taxed by a rude departure, Himself excusing; he, those Nymphs did pray His noble friends might bring him on their way. "Who, as it seems," said he, "were therefore come, That they might wait upon him to their home." So, with their favour, he departed thence; And, as they thought, to meet her Excellence, Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this But an Idea of a Mistress is: Because to none, he yet had deigned the telling Her proper name; nor shown her place of dwelling!

When he was gone, a Lady, from among Those Nymphs, took up his lute, and sang this Song.

Gentle Swain! Good speed befall thee! And in love still prosper thou! Future Times shall happy, call thee! Though thou lie neglected now. Virtue's lovers shall command thee! And perpetual fame attend thee! Happy are these woody mountains, In whose shadows, thou dost hide! And as happy, are those fountains By whose murmurs, thou dost 'bide! For Contents are here excelling, More than in a Prince's dwelling. These, thy flocks do clothing bring thee! And thy food, out of the fields: Pretty songs, the birds do sing thee! Sweet perfumes the meadow yields: And what more is worth the seeing? Heaven and Earth, thy prospect being! None comes hither, who denies thee Thy contentments, for despite; Neither any that envies thee, That wherein thou dost delight. But all happy things are meant thee! And whatever may content thee! Thy Affection, Reason measures, And distempers none it feeds: Still so harmless are thy pleasures, That no other's grief it breeds. And if night beget thee sorrow; Seldom stays it till the morrow. Why do foolish men so vainly Seek contentment in their store? Since they may perceive so plainly Thou art rich, in being poor! And that they are vexed about it; Whilst thou merry are without it! Why are idle brains devising How high titles may be gained! Since, by those poor toys despising, Thou hast higher things obtained! For the man who scorns to crave them, Greater is than they that have them. If all men could taste that sweetness Thou dost, in thy meanness, know! Kings would be to seek, where greatness And their honours to bestow. For it such content would breed them, As they would not think they need them. And if those, who so aspiring To the Court preferments be, Knew how worthy the desiring Those things are, enjoyed by thee! Wealth and titles would, hereafter, Subjects be for scorn and laughter. He that Courtly styles affected, Should a May-Lord's honour have; He that heaps of Wealth collected, Should be counted as a slave: And the man, with few'st things cumbered, With the noblest should be numbered. Thou, their folly hast discerned; That neglect thy mind and thee! And to slight them, thou hast learned, Of what title e'er they be! That, no more with thee obtaineth; Than with them, thy meanness gaineth. All their riches, honours, pleasures, Poor unworthy trifles seem; If comparèd with thy treasures! And do merit no esteem: For they, true contents provide thee, And from them, can none divide thee. Whether thrallèd, or exilèd; Whether poor, or rich thou be! Whether praisèd, or revilèd; Not a rush it is to thee! This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee; But the Mind, which is within thee! Then, O, why so madly dote we On those things that us o'erload? Why no more their vainness note we, But still make of them a god? For, alas, they still deceive us; And, in greatest need, they leave us! Therefore have the Fates provided Well, thou happy Swain! for thee! That may'st here, so far divided From the world's distractions be! Thee, distemper let them never; But in peace continue ever! In these lonely groves, enjoy thou That contentment here begun! And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou Till the latest glass be run! From a fortune so assured, By no temptings, be allured! Much good do 't them, with their glories, Who, in Courts of Princes dwell! We have read in antique stories How some rose, and how they fell. And 'tis worthy well the heeding, "There's like end, where's like proceeding." Be thou still, in thy affection, To thy noble Mistress, true! Let her never-matched perfection Be the same unto thy view! And let never other Beauty Make thee fail in love or duty! For if thou shalt not estrangèd, From thy course professed, be; But remain, for aye, unchangèd, Nothing shall have power on thee! Those that slight thee now, shall love thee; And, in spite of spite, approve thee! So those virtues now neglected; To be more esteemed, will come: Yea, those toys so much affected, Many shall be wooèd from. And the Golden Age, deplored, Shall, by some, be thought restored.

Thus sang the Nymph! so rarely-well inspired, That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired; And (as I heard by some that there attended) When this her Song was finished, all was ended.

If any carp, for that my younger Times Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight rhymes, It is no matter, so they do not swear That they so ill employed, never were. Whilst their Desires, perhaps, they looselier spent; I gave my heats of youth this better vent: And, oft, by writing thus, the blood have tamed, Which some, with reading wanton Lays enflamed. Nor care I, though their censure some have past, Because my Songs exceed the Fidler's Last: For do they think that I will make my Measures The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures? Or maim, or curtalise my free Invention, Because Fools weary are, of their attention! No! Let them know, who do their length condemn; I Make to please myself, and not for them!