Whilst the earth, our common mother,
Hath her bosom deck'd with flowers.

Whilst the greatest torch of heaven
With bright rays warms Flora's lap,
Making nights and days both even,

Cheering plants with fresher sap;
My field of flowers quite bereaven
Wants refresh of better hap.

Echo, daughter of the air,

(Babbling guest of rocks and hills) Knows the name of my fierce fair, And sounds the accents of my ills.

Each thing pities my despair,

Whilst that she her lover kills.

Whilst that she (O cruel maid!)
Doth me and my love despise;

My life's flourish is decay'd

That depended on her eyes:
But her will must be obey'd;

And well he ends, for love who dies.

XXXVIII. A PASTORAL.

0

HAPPY, golden age!

Not for that rivers ran

With streams of milk, and honey dropp'd from trees;

Not that the earth did gage

Unto the husbandman

Her voluntary fruits, free without fees.

Not for no cold did freeze,

Nor any cloud beguile

Th' eternal flowering spring,

Wherein lived every thing;

And whereon th' heavens perpetually did smile:
Not for no ship had brought

From foreign shores or wars or wares ill sought.

But only for that name,

That idle name of wind,

That idol of deceit, that empty sound

Call'd Honour, which became

The tyrant of the mind,

And so torments our nature without ground,

Was not yet vainly found;

Nor yet sad griefs imparts

Amidst the sweet delights

Of joyful, amorous wights;

Nor were his hard laws known to free-born hearts;
But golden laws like these

Which nature wrote-That's lawful, which doth please.

Then amongst flowers and springs,

Making delightful sport,

Sat lovers without conflict, without flame;

And nymphs and shepherds sings,

Mixing in wanton sort

Whisperings with songs, then kisses with the same,

Which from affection came.

The naked virgin then

Her roses fresh reveals,

Which now her veil conceals,

The tender apples in her bosom seen;

And oft in rivers clear

The lovers with their loves consorting were.

Honour, thou first didst close

The spring of all delight;

Denying water to the amorous thirst,

Thou taught'st fair eyes to lose

The glory of their light,

Restrain'd from men, and on themselves reversed.

Thou in a lawn did'st first

Those golden hairs incase,

Late spread unto the wind;

Thou madest loose grace unkind;

Gavest bridle to their words, art to their pace.

O Honour, it is thou

That makest that stealth, which Love doth free allow.

It is thy work that brings

Our griefs and torments thus.

But thou, fierce lord of Nature and of Love,

The qualifier of kings;

What dost thou here with us,

That are below thy power, shut from above?

Go, and from us remove;

Trouble the mighty's sleep;

Let us neglected, base,

Live still without thy grace,

And th' use of th' ancient happy ages keep.

Let's love-this life of ours

Can make no truce with Time that all devours-
Let's love; the sun doth set, and rise again;

But when as our short light

Comes once to set, it makes eternal night.

RICHARD BARNFIELD.

(1574-1627.)

XXXIX. AN ODE.

From Poems in Divers Humours (1598). This poem, with another from the same volume, was printed as Shakespeare's in The Passionate Pilgrim (1599), but there can be little doubt that it is really by Barnfield. Another pastoral of Barnfield's is The Affectionate Shepherd (1594). His poems have been edited by Dr. Grosart, and also by Prof. Arber, in The English Scholar's Library.

S it fell upon a day,

As

In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,

Trees did grow, and plants did spring:
Every thing did banish moan,

Save the nightingale alone.

She (poor bird) as all forlorn,

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,

And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity.
"Fie, fie, fie", now would she cry
"Teru, teru", by and by:

That to hear her so complain,

Scarce I could from tears refrain:
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah (thought I) thou mourn'st in vain;
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion he is dead:

All thy friends are lapp'd in lead.

All thy fellow birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.

Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery:

Words are easy, like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find:
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful, they will him call.
And with such-like flattering,
Pity but he were a king.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice.
If to women he be bent,
They have at commandement.
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown:
They that fawn'd on him before
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need:
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief, in heart,
He, with thee, doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend, from flattering foe.