Minor Poems of Michael Drayton Part 18

The meanest weede the soyle there bare, Her breath did so refine, That it with Woodbynd durst compare, And beard the Eglantine.

The dewe which on the tender gra.s.se, The Euening had distill'd, 130 To pure Rose-water turned was, The shades with sweets that fill'd.

The windes were husht, no leafe so small At all was scene to stirre: Whilst tuning to the waters fall, The small Birds sang to her.

Where she too quickly me espies, When I might plainely see, A thousand _Cupids_ from her eyes Shoote all at once at me. 140

Into these secret shades (quoth she) How dar'st thou be so bold To enter, consecrate to me, Or touch this hallowed mold.

Those words (quoth she) I can p.r.o.nounce, Which to that shape can bring Thee, which the Hunter had who once Sawe _Dian_ in the Spring.

Bright Nimph againe I thus replie, This cannot me affright: 150 I had rather in thy presence die, Then liue out of thy sight.

I first vpon the Mountaines hie, Built Altars to thy name; And grau'd it on the Rocks thereby, To propogate thy fame.

I taught the Shepheards on the Downes, Of thee to frame their Layes: T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes, With Ditties of thy praise. 160

Thy colours I deuis'd with care, Which were vnknowne before: Which since that, in their braded hayre The Nimphes and Siluans wore.

Transforme me to what shape you can, I pa.s.se not what it be: Yea what most hatefull is to man, So I may follow thee.

Which when she heard full pearly floods, I in her eyes might view: 170 (Quoth she) most welcome to these Woods, Too meane for one so true.

Here from the hatefull world we'll liue, A den of mere dispight: To Ideots only that doth giue, Which be her sole delight.

To people the infernall pit, That more and more doth striue; Where only villany is wit, And Diuels only thriue. 180

Whose vilenesse vs shall neuer awe: But here our sports shall be: Such as the golden world first sawe, Most innocent and free.

Of Simples in these Groues that growe, Wee'll learne the perfect skill; The nature of each Herbe to knowe Which cures, and which can kill.

The waxen Pallace of the Bee, We seeking will surprise 190 The curious workmanship to see, Of her full laden thighes.

Wee'll suck the sweets out of the Combe, And make the G.o.ds repine: As they doe feast in _Ioues_ great roome, To see with what we dine.

Yet when there haps a honey fall, Wee'll lick the sirupt leaues: And tell the Bees that their's is gall, To this vpon the Greaues. 200

The nimble Squirrell noting here, Her mossy Dray that makes, And laugh to see the l.u.s.ty Deere Come bounding ore the brakes.

The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand, And when it takes the Bee, Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand, The Innocent to free.

Sometime weele angle at the Brooke, The freckled Trout to take, 210 With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke, Which him our prey shall make.

Of medling with such subtile tooles, Such dangers that enclose, The Morrall is that painted Fooles, Are caught with silken showes.

And when the Moone doth once appeare, Weele trace the lower grounds, When _Fayries_ in their Ringlets there Do daunce their nightly rounds. 220

And haue a Flocke of Turtle Doues, A guard on vs to keepe, A witnesse of our honest loues, To watch vs till we sleepe.

Which spoke I felt such holy fires To ouerspred my breast, As lent life to my Chast desires And gaue me endlesse rest.

By _Cynthia_ thus doe I subsist, On earth Heauens onely pride, 230 Let her be mine, and let who list, Take all the world beside.

FINIS.

THE SHEPHEARDS SIRENA

DORILVS in sorrowes deepe, Autumne waxing olde and chill, As he sate his Flocks to keepe Vnderneath an easie hill: Chanc'd to cast his eye aside On those fields, where he had scene, Bright SIRENA Natures pride, Sporting on the pleasant greene: To whose walkes the Shepheards oft, Came her G.o.d-like foote to finde, 10 And in places that were soft, Kist the print there left behinde; Where the path which she had troad, Hath thereby more glory gayn'd, Then in heau'n that milky rode, Which with Nectar _Hebe_ stayn'd: But bleake Winters boystrous blasts, Now their fading pleasures chid, And so fill'd them with his wastes, That from sight her steps were hid. 20 Silly Shepheard sad the while, For his sweet SIRENA gone, All his pleasures in exile: Layd on the colde earth alone.

Whilst his gamesome cut-tayld Curre, With his mirthlesse Master playes, Striuing him with sport to stirre, As in his more youthfull dayes, DORILVS his Dogge doth chide, Layes his well-tun'd Bagpype by, 30 And his Sheep-hooke casts aside, There (quoth he) together lye.

When a Letter forth he tooke, Which to him SIRENA writ, With a deadly down-cast looke, And thus fell to reading it.

DORILVS my deare (quoth she) Kinde Companion of my woe, Though we thus diuided be, Death cannot diuorce vs so: 40 Thou whose bosome hath beene still, Th' onely Closet of my care, And in all my good and ill, Euer had thy equall share: Might I winne thee from thy Fold, Thou shouldst come to visite me, But the Winter is so cold, That I feare to hazard thee: The wilde waters are waxt hie, So they are both deafe and dumbe, 50 Lou'd they thee so well as I, They would ebbe when thou shouldst come; Then my coate with light should shine, Purer then the Vestall fire: Nothing here but should be thine, That thy heart can well desire: Where at large we will relate, From what cause our friendship grewe, And in that the varying Fate, Since we first each other knewe: 60 Of my heauie pa.s.sed plight, As of many a future feare, Which except the silent night, None but onely thou shalt heare; My sad hurt it shall releeue, When my thoughts I shall disclose, For thou canst not chuse but greeue, When I shall recount my woes; There is nothing to that friend, To whose close vncranied brest, 70 We our secret thoughts may send, And there safely let it rest: And thy faithfull counsell may, My distressed case a.s.sist, Sad affliction else may sway Me a woman as it list: Hither I would haue thee haste, Yet would gladly haue thee stay, When those dangers I forecast, That may meet thee by the way, 80 Doe as thou shalt thinke it best, Let thy knowledge be thy guide, Liue thou in my constant breast, Whatsoeuer shall betide.

He her Letter hauing red, Puts it in his Scrip againe, Looking like a man halfe dead, By her kindenesse strangely slaine; And as one who inly knew, Her distressed present state, 90 And to her had still been true, Thus doth with himselfe debate.

I will not thy face admire, Admirable though it bee, Nor thine eyes whose subtile fire So much wonder winne in me: But my maruell shall be now, (And of long it hath bene so) Of all Woman kind that thou Wert ordain'd to taste of woe; 100 To a Beauty so diuine, Paradise in little done, O that Fortune should a.s.signe, Ought but what thou well mightst shun, But my counsailes such must bee, (Though as yet I them conceale) By their deadly wound in me, They thy hurt must onely heale, Could I giue what thou do'st craue To that pa.s.se thy state is growne, 110 I thereby thy life may saue, But am sure to loose mine owne, To that ioy thou do'st conceiue, Through my heart, the way doth lye, Which in two for thee must claue Least that thou shouldst goe awry.

Thus my death must be a toy, Which my pensiue breast must couer; Thy beloued to enioy, Must be taught thee by thy Louer. 120 Hard the Choise I haue to chuse, To my selfe if friend I be, I must my SIRENA loose, If not so, shee looseth me.

Thus whilst he doth cast about, What therein were best to doe, Nor could yet resolue the doubt, Whether he should stay or goe: In those Feilds not farre away, There was many a frolike Swaine, 130 In fresh Russets day by day, That kept Reuells on the Plaine.

Nimble TOM, sirnam'd the _Tup_, For his Pipe without a Peere, And could tickle _Trenchmore_ vp, As t'would ioy your heart to heare.

RALPH as much renown'd for skill, That the _Taber_ touch'd so well; For his _Gittern_, little GILL, That all other did excell. 140 ROCK and ROLLO euery way, Who still led the Rusticke Ging, And could troule a Roundelay, That would make the Feilds to ring, COLLIN on his _Shalme_ so cleare, Many a high-pitcht Note that had, And could make the Eechos nere Shout as they were wexen mad.

Many a l.u.s.ty Swaine beside, That for nought but pleasure car'd, 150 Hauing DORILVS espy'd, And with him knew how it far'd.

Thought from him they would remoue, This strong melancholy fitt, Or so, should it not behoue, Quite to put him out of 's witt; Hauing learnt a Song, which he Sometime to Sirena sent, Full of Iollity and glee, When the Nimph liu'd neere to _Trent_ 160 They behinde him softly gott, Lying on the earth along, And when he suspected not, Thus the Iouiall Shepheards song.

Neare to the Siluer _Trent_, _Sirena_ dwelleth: Shee to whom Nature lent All that excelleth: By which the _Muses_ late, And the neate _Graces_, 170 Haue for their greater state Taken their places: Twisting an _Anadem_, Wherewith to Crowne her, As it belong'd to them Most to renowne her.

Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let the Swanes sing her, And with their Musick, 180 Along let them bring her._

_Tagus_ and _Pactolus_ Are to thee Debter, Nor for their gould to vs Are they the better: Henceforth of all the rest, Be thou the Riuer, Which as the daintiest, Puts them downe euer, For as my precious one, 190 O'r thee doth trauell, She to Pearl Parragon Turneth thy grauell.

Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanns sing her, And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._

Our mournefull _Philomell_, That rarest Tuner, 200 Henceforth in _Aperill_ Shall wake the sooner, And to her shall complaine From the thicke Couer, Redoubling euery straine Ouer and ouer: For when my Loue too long Her Chamber keepeth; As though it suffered wrong, The Morning weepeth. 210 Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanes sing her, And with their Musick, Along let them bring her._

Oft have I seene the Sunne To doe her honour.

Fix himselfe at his noone, To look vpon her, And hath guilt euery Groue, 220 Euery Hill neare her, With his flames from aboue, Striuing to cheere her, And when shee from his sight Hath her selfe turned, He as it had beene night, In Cloudes hath mourned.

Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanns sing her, 230 And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._

The Verdant Meades are seene, When she doth view them, In fresh and gallant Greene, Straight to renewe them, And euery little Gra.s.se Broad it selfe spreadeth, Proud that this bonny La.s.se Vpon it treadeth: 240 Nor flower is so sweete In this large Cincture But it upon her feete Leaueth some Tincture.

Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke, Let thy Swanes sing her, And with thy Musick, Along let them bring her._

The Fishes in the Flood, 250 When she doth Angle, For the Hooke striue a good Them to intangle; And leaping on the Land From the cleare water, Their Scales vpon the sand, Lauishly scatter; Therewith to paue the mould Whereon she pa.s.ses, So her selfe to behold, 260 As in her gla.s.ses.

Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Ranke, Let thy Swanns sing her, And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._

When shee lookes out by night, The Starres stand gazing, Like Commets to our sight Fearefully blazing, 270 As wondring at her eyes With their much brightnesse, Which to amaze the skies, Dimming their lightnesse, The raging Tempests are Calme, When shee speaketh, Such most delightsome balme From her lips breaketh.

Cho. _On thy Banke, In a Rancke_, &c. 280

In all our _Brittany_, Ther's not a fayrer, Nor can you fitt any: Should you compare her.

Angels her eye-lids keepe All harts surprizing, Which looke whilst she doth sleepe Like the Sunnes rising: She alone of her kinde Knoweth true measure 290 And her vnmatched mind Is Heauens treasure: Cho. _On thy Bancke, In a Rancke Let thy Swanes sing her, And with their Musick, Along let them bring her._

Fayre _Doue_ and _Darwine_ cleere Boast yee your beauties, To _Trent_ your Mistres here 300 Yet pay your duties, My Loue was higher borne Tow'rds the full Fountaines, Yet she doth _Moorland_ scorne, And the _Peake_ Mountaines; Nor would she none should dreame, Where she abideth, Humble as is the streame, Which by her slydeth, Cho. _On thy Bancke, 310 In a Rancke, Let thy Swannes sing her, And with their Musicke, Along let them bring her._