1614
ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION

The Shepheards Pipe. The Fourth Eglogue.

The Shepheards Pipe. Other Eglogues: by Mr. Brooke, Mr. Wither and Mr. Davies. An other Eclogue by Mr. George Wither. Dedicated to his truely loving and worthy Friend, Mr. W. Browne.

William Browne of Tavistock


The father of the deceased, Sir Peter Manwood (d. 1625), studied at the Inner Temple (1583) and was a member of Parliament. This pastoral elegy noting the passing of virtue is the most Spenserian of the seven.

Thomas Davies: "The Shepherd's Pipe consists of seven Eclogues, among which is an excellent Monody upon the death of his Friend Mr. Thomas Manwood, whom he calls Philarete; I dare not say that it is equal to the celebrated Lycidas of Milton, but surely it is not much inferior: That great genius has not disdained to imitate William Browne; and Lycidas owes its origin to Philarete" Works of William Browne (1772) 1:iii.

Henry Headley: "Sylvester inscribes a Hymn 'to the worthy friend of worthiness, Sir Peter Manwood, Knight of the Honourable Order of the Bath.' The father probably of Browne's friend. P. 561, fol. edit." Specimens of Ancient English Poetry (1787-1810) 2:46.

Thomas Dermody: "His Shepherd's Pipe consists of seven eclogues; among which is an admirable monody entitled Philarete, written upon the death of his friend Mr. Thomas Manwood. This was certainly the model from which Milton did not disdain to borrow the idea of his Lycidas. There is another production of Browne, entitled the Inner-temple Masque, to which I imagine the world is equally indebted for Comus. These distinctions alone ought to have placed Browne in a more favourable light, for assuredly the divine author of Paradise Lost would not have condescended to copy an indifferent original at any time" in Raymond, Life of Dermody (1806) 2:294-95.

Thomas Corser: "The fourth Eglogue is a beautiful Elegy on the death of Mr. Thomas Manwood, a son of Sir Peter Manwood Knt., an intimate friend of the author, who is here shadowed under the name of Philarete. This Elegy, which is full of pleasing passages, expressed in gentle and harmonious verse, has been reprinted by Sir Egerton Brydges in his volume of Browne's Original Poems at the private press at Lea Priory in 1815, 4to, and is supposed to have given rise to Milton's poem of Lycidas; but beyond the expression of one or two similar sentiments there is not anything in common between the two" Collectanea Anglo-Poetica III (1867) 156.

Edmund Gosse: "The seven eclogues of the Shepherd's Pipe which are Browne's (for this was a composite work in which Brooke, Wither, and Davies of Hereford joined) are designed closely in the manner of Spenser, in lyrical measures of great variety and not a little sweetness. The forth, on the death of Philarete, is the finest, and is supposed to have influenced Milton in the composition of Lycidas; for this is an elegy, rather than an eclogue, and a very interesting specimen of its class. It may be interesting to note, as showing the especial attraction felt by Milton to all the poets of this Spenserian school, that in Mr. Huth's library there exists a copy of Browne copiously annotated in the hand of his great successor" The Jacobean Poets (1894) 155. The claim that this copy of Browne's Britannia's Pastorals was annotated by Milton has since been rejected; see Milton Encyclopedia (1978-83) "Marginalia."



THE ARGUMENT.
In this the Author bewailes the death of one whom he shadoweth under the name of Philarete, compounded of the Greeke words [Greek passage] and [Greek passage], a lover of vertue, a name well befitting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being sometime his truly loved (and now as much lamented) friend Mr. THOMAS MANWOOD, son to the worthy Sir PETER MANWOOD Knight.

Under an aged Oke was WILLY laid,
WILLY, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with joy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighb'ring flockes
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,
Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,
Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For uncouth paths unknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.

Autumne it was, when droop'd the sweetest floures,
And Rivers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes,
Poore grew the day of Summer's golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaves not halfe so fast
As did the Shepherdes teares.

As was his seate, so was his gentle heart,
Meeke and dejected, but his thoughts as hye
As those aye-wandring lights, who both impart
Their beames on us, and heaven still beautifie.
Sad was his looke, (O, heavy Fate!
That Swaine should be so sad
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate
With greatest pleasure clad.)
Broke was his tuneful pipe
That charm'd the christall Floods,
And thus his griefe tooke airie wings
And flew about the woods.

Day, thou art too officious in thy place,
And night too sparing of a wished stay,
Yee wandring lamps: O be ye fix'd a space!
Some other hemisphere grace with your ray.
Great Phoebus! Daphne is not heere,
Nor Hyacinthus faire;
Phoebe! Endimion and thy deare
Hath long since cleft the aire.
But yee have surely seene
(Whom we in sorrow misse)
A Swaine whom Phoebe thought her love,
And Titan deemed his.

But he is gone; then inwards turne your light,
Behold him there; here never shall you more;
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternal night!
Or change the gaudy green she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. HYPERION great
To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a lovers heate
But blacke beseemes a mourner.
Yet neither this thou canst,
Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blindes thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on earth.

Let not a shepherd on our haplesse plaines
Tune notes of glee, as used were of yore!
For PHILARET is dead. Let mirthfull straines
With PHILARETE cease for evermore!
And if a fellow swaine do live
A niggard of his teares,
The Shepherdesses all will give
To store him part of theirs.
Or I would lend him some,
But that the store I have
Will all be spent before I pay
The debt I owe his grave.

O what is left can make me leave to mone?
Or what remains but doth increase it more!
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their masters gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked arms have vowd our love,
(Our love which time shall see
In shepheards songs for ever move,
And grace their harmony)
It solitary seemes.
Behold our flowrie beds;
Their beauties fade, and Violets
For sorrow hang their heads.

Tis not a Cypresse bough, a count'nance sad,
A mourning garment, wailing Elegie,
A standing herse in sable vesture clad,
A Toombe built to his names eternitie,
Although the shepheards all should strive
By yearly obsequies,
And vow to keepe thy fame alive
In spight of destinies
That can suppress my griefe:
All these and more may be,
Yet all in vaine to recompence
My greatest losse of thee.

Cypresse may fade, the countenance be changed,
A garment rot, an Elegie forgotten,
A herse 'mongst irreligious rites bee ranged,
A toombe pluckt down, or else through age be rotten:
All things th' unpartiall hand of Fate
Can raze out with a thought,
These have a sev'ral fixed date
Which ended, turne to nought.
Yet shall my truest cause
Of sorrow firmly stay,
When these effects the wings of Time
Shall fanne and sweepe away.

Looke as a sweete rose fairely budding forth
Bewrayes her beauties to th' enamour'd morne,
Untill some keene blast from the envious North,
Killes the sweet budd that was but newly borne,
Or else her rarest smels delighting
Make her her selfe betray,
Some white and curious hand inviting
To plucke her thence away:
So stands my mournfull case,
For had he beene less good,
He yet (uncropt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.

Yet though so long hee liv'd not as hee might,
Hee had the time appointed to him given.
Who liveth but the space of one poore night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that Even.
Who ever doth the period see
Of dayes by Heaven forth plotted,
Dyes full of age, as well as hee
That had more yeares alotted.
In sad Tones then my verse
Shall with incessant teares
Bemoane my hapless losse of him,
And not his want of yeares.

In deepest passions of my grief-swolne breast
(Sweete soul!) this onely comfort seizeth me,
That so few yeares did make thee so much blest,
And gave such wings to reach ETERNITY.
Is this to dye? No: as a shippe,
Well built with easie winde,
A lazy hulke doth farre outstrippe,
And soonest harbour finde:
So PHILARETE fled,
Quicke was his passage given,
When others must have longer time
To make them fit for heaven.

Then not for thee these briny teares are spent,
But as the Nightingale against the breere
Tis for my selfe I mone, and doe lament
Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st mee heere.
Heere, where without thee all delights
Fail of their pleasing powre,
All glorious dayes seeme ugly nights;
Me thinks no Aprill showre
Embroider should the earth,
But briny teares distill,
Since FLORAS beauties shall no more
Be honour'd by thy quill.

And ye his sheepe (in token of his lacke),
Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine,
Yeane never Lambe, but bee it cloath'd in blacke.
Ye shady Sicamours! when any Swaine,
To carve his name upon your rinde
Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shedde droppes, if he be so unkinde
To raze it with his hand.
And thou, my loved Muse
No more should'st numbers move,
But that his name should ever live,
And after death my love.

This said, he sigh'd, and with o're-drowned eyes
Gaz'd on the heavens for what he mist on earth,
Then from the earth, full sadly gan arise
As farre from future hope as present mirth,
Unto his Cote with heavy pace
As ever sorrow trode
He went, with minde no more to trace
Where mirthful Swaines abode;
And as he spent the day,
The night he past alone,
Was never shepherd lov'd more deere,
Nor made a truer mone.

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