And is no lesser honour to a crown T' have writers, than have actors of renown. And tho' you have a swannet of your own, And in a softy tune is set to sound Tho' I, the remnant of another time, And to the Muses, wish that good success To others' travail, that in better place 50 And to the union of the commonweal. We have this peace; and thou hast sung enow, And more than will be heard, and then as good Is not to write, as not be understood. 120 60 70 And better comfort they may be inchear'd And it may be, the genius of that time But still have done the fairest offices William Browne, of Tavistock, in Devonshire, had studied at Oxford when, at the age of twenty-three, in the year 1613, he published the first part of a poem called "Britannia's Pastorals." The second part followed in 1616. As this is a continuous work of some length, I do not describe it here; but a collection of a dozen pastoral love-gifts, each with a posy or paper of verses to it, is so characteristic of one feature in the polite taste of the time, that it may at once be given. It is from the third song of the first book. Each copy of verses is set in a border of such ornaments as the printer had in stock, except the eleventh and twelfth, which have original designs. Shepherds have been enclosed in a circle of shepherdesses, who dance round them. Upon this there has been a song, and then come the LOVERS' GIFTS. Each swain his thoughts thus to his love commended. The first presents his Dog, with these: He clean mistakes what I bid do, 80 90 Distain'd with any loose immodesty, Nor ever noted to be touch'd with gall, To aggravate the worst man's infamy, And bends his pace still towards you. The second, his pipe, with these: Bid me to sing (fair maid), my song shall prove There ne'er was truer pipe sung truer love. The third, a pair of gloves, thus: These will keep your hands from burning, Whilst the sun is swiftly turning: But who can any veil devise To shield my heart from your fair eyes? The fourth, an anagram : MAIDEN AIDMEN Maidens should be aiding men, And for love give love agen: 1 His poem on the Civil Wars. Learn this lesson from your mother, The fifth, a ring, with a picture in a jewel on it : The sixth, a nosegay of roses, with a nettle in it : Such is the posy Love composes, A stinging-nettle mix'd with roses. The seventh, a girdle: This during light I give to clip your waist: Fair, grant mine arms that place when day is past. The eighth, a heart: You have the substance, and I live The ninth, a shepherd's hook : The tenth, a comb: Lovely maiden, best of any Of our plains, though thrice as many : Vail to Love, and leave denying, Endless knots let fates be tying. Such a face, so fine a feature (K indest, fairest, sweetest creature) N ever yet was found, but loving; O then let my plaints be moving! Trust a shepherd though the meanest, Truth is best when she is plainest. I love not with vows contesting: Faith is faith without protesting. Time that all things doth inherit Renders each desert his merit. If that fail in me, as no man Doubtless Time ne'er won a woman. Maidens still should be relenting, And once flinty, still repenting. Youth with youth is best combinéd, Each one with his like is twinéd, Beauty should have beauteous meaning, E ver that hope caseth plaining. Unto you whom Nature dresses Needs no comb to smooth your tresses. In your locks to shade your beauty. The eleventh: (These lines written in the shape of a true-love-knot.) This is Love and worth commending, Still beginning, never ending, Like a wily net ensnaring, In a round shuts up all squaring. In and out whose every angle More and more doth still entangle, Keeps a measure still in moving, The twelfth: Lo Cupid leaves his bow, his reason is CUPID LEAVING HIS Bow. From Browne's "Britannia's Pastorals." George Wither, born at Bentworth, near Alton, Hampshire, in 1588, was educated at Oxford, went home to help in managing his father's farm, and then went to London, where he excited wrath by the fearlessness of his satires, published in 1613 under the name of "Abuses Stript and Whipt." The satires were named after the human passions. He offended great men, and was locked up in the Marshalsea, and there, dauntless, he sang of the Shepherds' Hunting, his own hunting as Philarete (Lover of Virtue), with ten couple of dogs, his satires, let loose upon the wolves and beasts of prey that spoil human society. This is Doth it diminish any of thy care, That I in freedom maken melody? And think'st I cannot as well somewhat spare From my delight to moan thy misery? 'Tis time our loves should these suspects forbear: Thou art that friend, which thou, unnam'd, should'st And not have drawn my love in question so. Philarete. Forgive me, and I'll pardon thy mistake; And so let this thy gentle anger cease. I never of thy love will question make Willy. Alas! thou art exiléd from thy flock, [know, Only my friend's restraint is all my pain; And since I truly find my conscience free From that my loneness too, I reap some gain. Willy. But grant in this no discontentment be, And to thy soul I think there's nothing nearer, True, I did ever set it at a rate Too dear for any mortal's worth to buy: 'Tis not our greatest shepherd's whole estate Shall purchase from me my least liberty; But I am subject to the powers of fate, And to obey them is no slavery: They may do much, but when they have done all, Only my body they may bring in thrall. 90 Thou seest there's given so great might To some that are but clay as I, Which, if in any thou espy, Thus think if mortal's frowns strike fear, How dreadful will God's wrath appear! By my late hopes, that now are crost, And make the freedom I have lost Had Christ not thy redeemer been, These iron chains, these bolts of steel, Or, when through me thou seest a man Again, when he that fear'd to die, Past hope, doth see his pardon brought, And then convey it to thy thought; There think, betwixt my heart and thee, How sweet will "Come ye blessed!" be. Thus if thou do, though closéd here, I neither shall have cause to fear, Trust me! I see the cage doth some birds good; It shews thou art in no distemper'd mood, But 'cause to hear the residue I long. My sheep to-morrow I will nearer bring, And spend the day to hear thee talk and sing. Yet ere we part, Philáreté, areed1 Of whom thou learn'dst to make such songs as these. 1 Areed (First-English "arædian "'), tell 180 190 200 213 Shall a woman's virtues move 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 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 sec, What care I though great she be! Great or good, or kind, or fair, Was that sweet shepherd who, until a king, FRANCIS QUARLES, like George Wither, began to write in the reign of James I., and in the reign of Charles I. in the same year, 1635, each produced a volume of "Emblems." Quarles, four years younger than Wither, was much less stirred by political excitement. He was born at Romford in 1592, educated at Christ's College, Cambridge, became cupbearer to the Queen of Bohemia, daughter of James I., and afterwards secretary to Archbishop Usher. This is one of his Emblems, written to the picture of one clipping the round World within his arms: There is no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches.— O how our widen'd arms can over-stretch Of our laborious thoughts is ever going, And coining new desires; desires not knowing 10 Joinéd with a lovely feature? Be she meeker, kinder than What care I how kind she be! Where next to pitch; but, like the boundless ocean, Gain, and gain ground, and grow more strong by motion. The pale-fac'd lady of the black-eyed night First tips her hornéd brows with easy light, |