To Phyllis, the Fair
Shepherdess
My Phyllis hath the morning sun,
At first to look upon her ;
And Phyllis hath morn-waking birds
Her risings for to honour.
My Phyllis hath prime-feathered flowers
That smile when she treads on them ;-
And Phyllis hath a gallant flock
That leaps since she doth own them.
But Phyllis hath so hard a heart,-
Alas, that she should have it ! -
As yields no mercy to desert,
Nor grace to those that crave it.
Sweet sun, when thou look’st on,
Pray her regard my moan;
Sweet birds, when you sing to her,
To yield some pity, woo her ;
Sweet flow'rs, whenas she treads on,
Tell her, her beauty deads one;
And if in life her love she nill agree me,
Pray her before I die she will come see me.
(Phyllis.)
FAIR art thou, Phyllis ; ay, so fair, sweet maid,
As nor the sun nor I have seen more fair ;
For in thy cheeks sweet roses are embayed,
And gold more pure than gold doth gild thy hair.
Sweet bees have hived their honey on thy tongue,
And Hebe spiced her nectar with thy breath :
About thy neck do all the graces throng,
And lay such baits as might entangle Death.
In such a breast what heart would not be thrall ?
From such sweet arms who would not wish embraces ?
At thy fair hands who wonders not at all
Wonder itself through ignorance embases."
Yet, nathëless, though wondrous gifts you call these,
My faith is far more wonderful than all these.
(Phyllis.)
A VERY Phønix, in her radiant eyes
I leave mine age, and get my life again :
True Hesperus, I watch her fall and rise,
And with my tears extinguish all my pain.
My lips for shadows shield her springing roses ;
Mine eyes for watchmen guard her while she sleepeth ;
My reasons serve to quiet her faint supposes.
Her fancy mine, my faith her fancy, keepeth :
She, flower; I, branch; her sweets my sours sup
porteth ;-
O, happy Love, where such delights consorteth!
(Scylla's Metamorphosis.)
The earth, late choked with showers,
Is now arrayed in green;
Her bosom springs with flowers,
The air dissolves her teen :
The heavens laugh at her glory,
Yet bide I sad and sorry.
The woods are decked with leaves,
The trees are clothed gay, 1 Is humbled.
And Flora, crowned with sheaves,
With oaken boughs doth play;
Where I am clad in black,
The token of my wrack.
The birds upon the trees
Do sing with pleasant voices,
And chant in their degrees
Their loves and lucky choices;
When I, whilst they are singing,
With sighs mine arms am wringing.
The thrushes seek the shade,
And I my fatal grave;
Their flight to heaven is made,
My walk on earth I have ;
They free, I thrall; they jolly,
I sad and pensive wholly.
(Scylla's Metamorphosis.)
"Fair Phoebus' Flower upon a Summer Morn"
FAIR Phoebus' flower upon a summer morn,
'Gan, proud with love, to show her painted pride,
And, gay with glory, with a curious scorn
Disdained those buds that blossomed her beside ;
When Rose and Lilies, Violets and Balm
(Scarce warmed to work their beauties to a flow'r)
With envious wrath near to a water calm
Behold my Phyllis in a happy hour.
Not waked, nor won too much with solemn sleep,
But sweetly slumb'ring, they behold my Saint:
The Rose and Lilies both together creep;
The one her lip, the next her cheek, did taint.
And both they spread ; the Violet, consumed
To gentle air, her amber breath fulfilled :
Apollo, feeling all the air perfumed,
With gentle beams into her eyes distilled.
His flower, amazed, gave Rose and Lilies place ;
The Sun his shine within her eyes containeth ;
The Rose her lips, the Lilies deck her face ;
The Violet within her breath remaineth.
THEN cease, fond men, henceforth to boast your flow'rs,
Since Roses, Lilies, Violets are ours,
And Phoebus' Aow'r doth homage to their pow'rs,
And Phyllis eye his glorious beams devours.
(Scylla's Metamorphosis.)
Imitated from the Italian of
Martelli
O SHADY vales, O fair enriched meads,
O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains;
O painted flowers, green herbs, where Flora treads,
Refreshed by wanton winds and wat'ry fountains !
O all you winged choristers of wood,
That, perched aloft, your former pains report,
And straight again recount with pleasant mood
Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort !
O all you creatures, whosoever thrive
On mother earth, in seas, by air, or fire,-
More blest are you than I here under sun :
Love dies in me, whenas he doth revive
In you; I perish under Beauty's ire,
Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.
(A Margarite of America.) P.6 B
17
"For Pity, Pretty Eyes"
FOR pity, pretty eyes, surcease
To give me war, and grant me peace.
Triumphant eyes, why bear you arms
Against a heart that thinks no harms?
A heart already quite appalled,
A heart that yields and is enthralled?
Kill rebels, proudly that resist ;
Not those that in true faith persist,
And conquered serve your deity.
Will you, alas, command me die?
Then die I yours, and death my cross;
But unto you pertains the loss.
(The Phenix Nest.)
ACCURST be Love, and those that trust his trains ! He tastes the fruit whilst others toil;
He brings the lamp, we lend the oil;
He sows distress, we yield him soil;
He wageth war, we bide the foil.
Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains!
He lays the trap, we seek the snare;
He threat'neth death, we speak him fair;
He coins deceits, we foster care;
He favoureth pride, we count it rare.
Accurst be Love, and those that trust his trains !
He seemeth blind, yet wounds with art;
He vows content, he pays with smart ;
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