For pleasant was that pool, and near it, then,
Was neither rotten marsh nor boggy fen.
It was nor overgrown with boist'rous sedge,
Nor grew there rudely then along the edge
A bending willow, nor pricky bush,
Nor broad-leafed flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush.
But here, well ordered, was a grove with bowers,
There grassy plots set round about with flowers.
Here you might, through the water, see the land
Appear, strowed o'er with white or yellow sand.
Yon deeper was it; and the wind by whiffs
Would make it rise and wash the little cliffs,
On which oft pluming sate, unfrighted then,
The gaggling wild-goose and the snow-white swan,
With all those flocks of fowls which to this day
Upon those quiet waters breed and play.
For though those excellences wanting be
Which once it had, it is the same that we
By transposition name the Ford of Arle,
And out of which, along a chalky marl,
That river trills whose waters wash the fort
In which brave Arthur kept his royal court.
Northeast, not far from this great pool, there lies
A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,
With leisurely ascending, to such height
As from their tops the warlike Isle of Wight
You in the ocean's bosom may espy,
Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie.
The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,
Is strewèd o'er with marjarom and thyme,
Which grows unset. The hedge-rows do not want
The cowslip, violet, primrose, nor a plant
That freshly scents: as birch both green and tall;
Low sallows, on whose bloomings bees do fall;
Fair woodbinds, which about the hedges twine;
Smooth privet; and the sharp-sweet eglantine;
With many moe, whose leaves and blossoms fair
The earth adorn and oft perfume the air.
When you unto the highest do attain,
An intermixture both of wood and plain
You shall behold, which, though aloft it lie,
Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry;
So much, at least, as little needeth more,
If not enough to merchandize their store.
In every row hath Nature planted there
Some banquet for the hungry passenger:
For here the hazel-nut and filberd grows,
There bulloes, and a little further sloes;
On this hand standeth a fair wielding tree;
On that, large thickets of black cherries be;
The shrubby fields are raspice orchards there;
The new-felled woods like strawberry gardens are;
And, had the King of Rivers blest those hills
With some small number of such pretty rills
As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen
A sweeter plot of earth than this had been.
For what offence this place was scanted so
Of springing waters, no record doth show,
Nor have they old tradition left that tells.
But, till this day, at fifty-fathom wells
The shepherds drink; and strange it was to hear
They no such art esteemed, nor took much heed
The earth they grow on once in all the year,
Nor what is done among the shadows there.
Along those lovely paths, where never came
Report of Pan or of Apollo's name
Nor rumour of the Muses till of late,
Some nymphs were wand'ring, and by chance or fate
Upon a laund arrivèd where they met
The little flock of pastor Philaret.
They were a troop of beauties known well nigh
Through all the plains of happy Britainy.
A shepherd's lad was he, obscure and young,
Who, being first that ever there had sung,
In homely verse expressèd country loves,
And only told them to the beechy groves,
As if to sound his name he never meant
Beyond the compass that his sheep-walk went.
They saw not him, nor them perceived he,
For in the branches of a maple tree
He shrouded sate, and taught the hollow hill
To echo forth the music of his quill,
Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound
That where he was concealed they quickly found;
And there they heard him sing a madrigal,
That soon betrayed his cunning to them all.
Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a song,
Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,
Was never heard, they say, by any ear,
Until his Muses had inspired him there.
Though mean and plain his country habit seemed,
Yet by his song the ladies rightly deemed
That either he had travelled abrode,
Where swains of better knowledge make abode,
Or else that some brave nymph who used that grove
Had deigned to enrich him with her love.
Approaching nearer therefore to this swain,
They him saluted, and he them again,
In such good fashion as well seemed to be
According to their state and his degree.
Which greetings being passèd, and much chat
Concerning him, the place, with this and that,
He to an arbour doth those beauties bring:
Where he them prays to sit; they him, to sing
And to express that untaught country art
In setting forth the mistress of his heart,
Which they o'erheard him practise, when, unseen,
He thought no ear had witness of it been.
JAMES SHIRLEY
NO ARMOUR AGAINST FATE
The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to Death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Upon Death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds!
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb:
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust.
Drink not the third glass, which thou canst not tame,
When once it is within thee; but before
Mayst rule it as thou list, and pour the shame,
Which it would pour on thee, upon the floor.
It is most just to throw that on the ground
Which would throw me there if I keep the round.
The cheapest sins most dearly punished are,
Because to shun them also is so cheap;
For we have wit to mark them and to spare.
O crumble not away thy soul's fair heap!
If thou wilt die, the gates of hell are broad:
Pride and full sins have made the way a road.
Lie not; but let thy heart be true to God,
Thy mouth to it, thy actions to them both.
Cowards tell lies, and those that fear the rod;
The stormy working soul spits lies and froth.
Dare to be true. Nothing can need a lie:
A fault, which needs it most, grows two thereby.
Fly idleness; which yet thou canst not fly
By dressing, mistressing, and compliment.
If those take up thy day, the sun will cry
Against thee; for his light was only lent.
God gave thy soul brave wings; put not those feathers
Into a bed, to sleep out all ill weathers.
When thou dost purpose aught within thy power,
Be sure to do it though it be but small: Constancy knits the bones, and makes us stour When wanton pleasures beckon us to thrall. Who breaks his own bond forfeiteth himself: What nature made a ship he makes a shelf.
By all means use sometimes to be alone.
Salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear.
Dare to look in thy chest-for 't is thine own,
And tumble up and down what thou find'st there.
Who cannot rest till he good fellows find,
He breaks up house, turns out of doors his mind.
Be calm in arguing; for fierceness makes
Error a fault, and truth discourtesy.
Why should I feel another man's mistakes
More than his sicknesses or poverty?
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