Limos over-reaches and comes to a grisly end, and the Third Song concludes with the story of the nymph Walla.
F. W. Moorman: "In the Third Song Thetis arrives at the Devonshire coast and is greeted first by the Nymphe of Exe, and finally by Browne himself, as the bard of the Tavy, with the story of Walla. In Daniel's Masque [Tethys Festival] the Nymphs of the Rivers are ladies of high rank at court. Browne, on the other hand, introduces the poets as welcoming Thetis. In Daniel, too, the whole scene is laid in Milford Haven; in Browne it takes the form of a triumphal procession around the south and west coasts. Beside the Masque-literature, this introduction of poets and historical characters recalls Spenser's Colin Clouts Come Home Again" William Browne (1897) 29-30.
Nathan Drake: "Had Browne paid due attention to simplicity and selection, he had been a favourite poet as long as the language he had written in should endure. He has accumulated a vast store of rural imagery, but his style and manner are so fantastic, so very quaint and puerile, that he is deservedly hastening to oblivion" Literary Hours (1800) 2:171.
Leigh Hunt: "Browne, like his friend Wither, from whom we quoted a passage last week, wanted strength and the power of selection; though not to such an extent. He is, however, well worth reading by those who can expatiate over a pastoral subject, like a meadowy tract of country: finding out the beautiful spots, and gratified, if not much delighted, with the rest. His genius, which was by no means destitute of the social part of passion, seems to have been turned almost wholly to description, by the beauties of his native county Devonshire" The Indicator (1819-21; 1845) 1:199n.
George Saintsbury: "It is fair to say that there is in him no trace of the mawkish silliness which (blasphemy as the assertion may seem to some admirers of Keats) disfigures occasionally the work of that great poet. But Browne, like Keats, had that kind of love of Nature which is really the love of a lover, not of a mere artist, or a mere man of science, or a mere preacher; and he had, like Keats, a wonderful gift of expression of his love. When he tried other themes he was not generally successful, but his success, such as it is, is great; and, close student of poetry as Browne has been admitted to be, it must be added that, like Keats, who was also a close student in his way, he never smells of the lamp. It is evident that he would at any time and in any circumstances have sung, and that his studies have only to some extent coloured and conditioned the manner of his singing.... He may never reach the highest poetry, but he is always a poet" History of Elizabethan Literature (1887) 301, 302.
A Redbrest doth from pining save
Marina shut in Famines Cave.
The Golden age described plaine,
And Limos by the Shepheards slaine,
Doe give me leave a while to move
My Pipe of Tavy and his Love.
Alas that I have done so great a wrong
Unto the fairest Maiden of my Song,
Divine Marina, who in Limos Cave
Lyes ever fearefull of a living grave,
And night and day upon the hardned stones
Rests, if a rest can be amongst the mones
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand still afraid to heare the Deaths-man call.
Thrice had the golden Sun his hote Steeds washt
In the West Maine, and thrice them smartly lasht
Out of the Baulmy East, since the sweet Maide
Had in that dismall Cave beene sadly laid.
Where hunger pinch'd her so, shee need not stand
In feare of murdring by a second hand:
For through her tender sides such darts might passe
Gainst which strong wals of stone, thicke gates of brasse
Deny no entrance, nor the Campes of Kings,
Since soonest there they bend their flaggy wings.
But heaven that stands still for the best's availe,
Lendeth his hand when humane helpings faile;
For 'twere impossible that such as shee
Should be forgotten of the Deitie;
Since in the spacious Orbe could no man finde
A fairer face match'd with a fairer minde.
A little Robin Red-brest one cleare morne,
Sate sweetly singing on a well-leav'd Thorne:
Whereat Marina rose, and did admire
He durst approach from whence all else retire:
And pittying the sweet Bird what in her lay,
She fully strove to fright him thence away.
Poore harmeles wretch (quoth she) goe seeke some spring,
And to her sweet fall with thy fellowes sing;
Fly to the well-replenish'd Groves, and there
Doe entertaine each Swaines harmonious eare,
Traverse the winding branches; chant so free,
That every lover fall in love with thee;
And if thou chance to see that lovely Boy
(To looke on whom the Silvans count a joy):
He whom I lov'd no sooner then I lost,
Whose body all the Graces hath ingrost,
To him unfold (if that thou dar'st to be
So neare a neighbour to my Tragedie)
As farre as can thy voyce, (in plaints so sad,
And in so many mournefull accents clad,
That as thou sing'st upon a tree there by
He may some small time weepe, yet know not why),
How I in death was his, though Powres divine
Will not permit that he in life be mine.
Doe this, thou loving Bird; and haste away
Into the woods: but if so be thou stay
To doe a deede of charity on me,
When my pure soule shall leave mortalitie,
By cov'ring this poore body with a sheet
Of greene leaves, gath'red from a vally sweet;
It is in vaine: these harmelesse lims must have
Then in the Caityfes wombe, no other grave.
Hence then, sweet Robin; least in staying long
At once thou chance forgoe both life and song.
With this she husht him thence, he sung no more,
But (fraid the second time) flew tow'rds the shore.
Within as short time as the swiftest Swaine
Can to our May-pole run and come againe,
The little Redbrest to the prickled thorne
Return'd, and sung there as he had beforne:
And faire Marina to the loope-hole went,
Pittying the pretty Bird, whose punishment
Limos would not deferre if he were spide.
No sooner had the bird the Maiden eyde,
But leaping on the rocke, downe from a bough,
He takes a Cherry up (which he but now
Had thither brought, and in that place had laid
Till to the cleft his song had drawne the Maid),
And flying with the small stem in his bill,
(A choiser fruit, then hangs on Bacchus hill)
In faire Marina's bosome tooke his rest,
A heavenly seat fit for so sweet a guest:
Where Citherea's Doves might billing sit,
And Gods and men with Envie looke on it;
Where rose two mountaines, whose rare sweets to crop
Was harder then to reach Olympus top:
For those the Gods can; but to climbe these hils
Their powres no other were then mortall wils.
Here left the Bird the Cherry, and anone
Forsooke her bosome, and for more is gone,
Making such speedy flights into the Thicke,
That shee admir'd he went and came so quicke.
Then least his many Cherries should distast,
Some other fruit he brings then hee brought last.
Sometime of Strawberries a little stem,
Oft changing colours as he gath'red them:
Some greene, some white, some red on them infus'd,
These lov'd, those fear'd, they blush'd to be so us'd.
The Peascod greene oft with no little toyle
Hee'd seeke for in the fattest fertil'st soile,
And rend it from the stalke to bring it to her,
And in her bosome for acceptance wooe her.
No Berry in the Grove or Forrest grew,
That fit for nourishment the kinde Bird knew,
Nor any powrefull herbe in open field
To serve her brood the teeming earth did yeeld,
But with his utmost industry he sought it,
And to the Cave for chaste Marina brought it.
So from one well-stor'd garden to another,
To gather Simples runs a carefull mother,
Whose onely childe lyes on the shaking bed
Grip'd with a Fever (sometime honoured
In Rome as if a God) nor is she bent
To other herbes then those for which she went.
The feathred houres five times were over-told,
And twice as many floods and ebbs had rold
The small sands out and in, since faire Marine
(For whose long losse a hundred Shepheards pine)
Was by the charitable Robin fed:
For whom (had she not so beene nourished)
A hundred Doves would search the Sun-burnt hils,
Or fruitfull Vallies lac'd with silver rils,
To bring her Olives. Th' Eagle strong of sight
To Countries farre remote would bend her flight,
And with unwearied wing strip through the skie
To the choise plots of Gaule and Italy,
And never lin till home-ward she escape
With the Pomgranat, Lemmon, Oringe, Grape,
Or the lov'd Citron, and attain'd the Cave.
The well-plum'd Goshawke (by th' Egyptians grave
Us'd in their misticke Characters for speede)
Would not be wanting at so great a neede,
But from the well-stor'd Orchards of the Land
Brought the sweet Peare (once by a cursed hand
At Swinsted us'd with poyson, for the fall
Of one who on these Plaines rul'd Lord of all.)
The sentfull Osprey by the Rocke had fish'd
And many a prettie Shrimp in Scallops dish'd,
Some way convay'd her; no one of the shole
That haunt the waves, but from his lurking hole
Had pull'd the Cray-fish, and with much adoe
Brought that the Maid, and Perywinckles too.
But these for others might their labours spare,
And not with Robin for their merits share.
Yet as a Herdesse in a Summers day,
Heat with the glorious Suns all-purging ray,
In the calme Evening (leaving her faire flocke)
Betakes her selfe unto a froth-girt Rocke,
On which the head-long Tavy throwes his waves,
(And foames to see the stones neglect his braves:)
Where sitting to undoe her Buskins white,
And wash her neate legs, (as her use each night)
Th' inamour'd flood, before she can unlace them,
Rowles up his waves as hast'ning to imbrace them,
And though to helpe them some small gale doe blow,
And one of twenty can but reach her so;
Yet will a many little surges be
Flashing upon the rocke full busily,
And doe the best they can to kisse her feet,
But that their power and will not equall meet:
So as shee for her Nurse look'd tow'rds the land,
(And now beholds the trees that grace the strand,
Then lookes upon a hill whose sliding sides
A goodly flocke (like winters cov'ring) hides,
And higher on some stone that jutteth out,
Their carefull master guiding his trim rout
By sending forth his Dog (as Shepheards doe),
Or piping sate, or clouting of his shoe.)
Whence, nearer hand drawing her wandring sight
(So from the earth steales the all-quickning light)
Beneath the rocke, the waters high, but late,
(I know not by what sluce or emptying gate)
Were at a low ebbe; on the sand shee spies
A busie Bird that to and fro still flyes,
Till pitching where a heatfull Oyster lay,
Opening his close jawes, (closer none then they
Unlesse the griping fist, or cherry lips
Of happy Lovers in their melting sips.)
Since the decreasing waves had left him there
Gaping for thirst, yet meets with nought but ayre,
And that so hote; ere the returning tyde,
He in his shell is likely to be fride;
The wary Bird a prittie pibble takes
And claps it twixt the two pearle hiding flakes
Of the broad yawning Oyster, and she then
Securely pickes the fish out (as some men
A tricke of policie thrust, tweene two friends,
Sever their powres, and his intention ends)
The Bird thus getting that, for which shee strove,
Brought it to her: to whom the Queene of Love
Serv'd as a foyle, and Cupid could no other,
But flye to her mistaken for his Mother.
Marina from the kinde Bird tooke the meat,
And (looking downe) shee saw a number great
Of Birds, each one a pibble in his bill,
Would doe the like, but that they wanted skill:
Some threw it in too farre, and some too short;
This could not beare a stone fit for such sport,
But, harmelesse wretch, putting in one too small,
The Oyster shuts and takes his head withall.
Another bringing one too smooth and round,
(Unhappy Bird that thine owne death hast found)
Layes it so little way in his hard lips,
That with their sodaine close, the pibble slips
So strongly forth (as when your little ones
Doe twixt their fingers slip their Cherry-stones)
That it in passage meets the breast or head
Of the poore wretch, and layes him there for dead.
A many striv'd, and gladly would have done
As much or more then he which first begun,
But all in vaine: scarce one of twenty could
Performe the deede, which they full gladly would.
For this not quicke is to that act he go'th,
That wanteth skill, this cunning, and some both:
Yet none a will, for (from the cave) she sees
Not in all-lovely May th' industrious Bees
More busie with the flowres could be, then these
Among the shell-fish of the working Seas.
Limos had all this while beene wanting thence,
And but just heav'n preserv'd pure innocence
By the two Birds, her life to ayre had flit,
Ere the curst Caytife should have forced it.
The first night that he left her in his den,
He got to shore, and neare th' abodes of men
That live as we by tending of their flockes,
To enterchange for Ceres golden lockes,
Or with the Neatherd for his milke and creame,
Things we respect more then the Diademe
His choise made-dishes. O! the golden age
Met all contentment in no surplusage
Of dainty viands, but (as we doe still)
Dranke the pure water of the christall rill,
Fed on no other meates then those they fed,
Labour, the salad that their stomacks bred.
Nor sought they for the downe of silver Swans,
Nor those Sow-thistle lockes each small gale fans,
But hydes of Beasts which when they liv'd they kept,
Serv'd them for bed and cov'ring when they slept.
If any softer lay, 'twas (by the losse
Of some rocks warmth) on thicke and spungy mosse,
Or on the ground: some simple wall of clay
Parting their beds from where their cattle lay.
And on such pallats one man clipped then
More golden slumbers then this age agen.
That time Physitians thriv'd not: or, if any,
I dare say all: yet then were thrice as many
As now profess 't, and more; for every man
Was his owne Patient and Physitian.
None had a body then so weake and thin,
Bankrout of natures store, to feed the sinne
Of an insatiate female, in whose wombe
Could nature all hers past, and all to come
Infuse, with vertue of all drugs beside,
She might be tyr'd, but never satisfied.
To please which Orke her husbands weakned peece
Must have his Cullis mixt with Amber-greece:
Phesant and Partridge into jelly turn'd,
Grated with gold, seven times refin'd and burn'd
With dust of Orient Pearle, richer the East
Yet ne're beheld: (O Epicurian feast!)
This is his breakfast; and his meale at night
Possets no lesse provoking appetite,
Whose deare ingredients valew'd are at more
Then all his Ancestors were worth before.
When such as we by poore and simple fare
More able liv'd, and dyde not without heyre,
Sprung from our owne loynes, and a spotlesse bed
Of any other powre unseconded:
When th' others issue (like a man falne sicke,
Or through the Fever, Gout, or Lunatike,
Changing his Doctors oft, each as his notion
Prescribes a sev'rall dyet, sev'rall potion,
Meeting his friend (who meet we now adayes
That hath not some receipt for each disease?)
He tels him of a plaister, which he takes;
And finding after that, his torment slakes,
(Whether because the humour is out-wrought,
Or by the skill which his Phisitian brought,
It makes no matter:) for he surely thinkes
None of their purges nor their dyet drinkes
Have made him sound; but his beliefe is fast
That med'cine was his health which he tooke last:
So (by a mother) being taught to call
One for his Father, though a Sonne to all,
His mothers often scapes (though truly knowne)
Cannot divert him; but will ever owne
For his begetter, him, whose name and rents
He must inherit. Such are the descents
Of these men; to make up whose limber heyre
As many as in him must have a share;
When he that keepes the last yet least adoe,
Fathers the peoples childe, and gladly too.
Happyer those times were, when the Flaxen clew
By faire Arachne's hand the Lydians knew,
And sought not to the worme for silken threds,
To rowle their bodies in, or dresse their heads.
When wise Minerva did th' Athenians learne
To draw their milke-white fleeces into yarne;
And knowing not the mixtures which began
(Of colours) from the Babilonian,
Nor wooll in Sardis dyde, more various knowne
By hues, then Iris to the world hath showne:
The bowels of our mother were not ript
For Mader-pits, nor the sweet meadowes stript
Of their choise beauties, nor for Ceres loade
The fertile lands burd'ned with needlesse Woade.
Through the wide Seas no winged Pine did goe
To Lands unknowne for staining Indico;
Nor men in scorching clymates moar'd their Keele
To traffique for the costly Coucheneele.
Unknowne was then the Phrygian brodery,
The Tyrian purple, and the Scarlet dye,
Such as their sheepe clad, such they wove and wore,
Russet or white, or those mixt, and no more:
Except sometimes (to bravery inclinde)
They dide them yealow caps with Alder rynde.
The Graecian mantle, Tuscan robes of state,
Tissue, nor Cloth of gold of highest rate,
They never saw; onely in pleasant woods,
Or by th' embrodered margin of the floods,
The dainty Nymphs they often did behold
Clad in their light silke robes, stitcht oft with gold.
The Arras hangings round their comely Hals
Wanted the Cerites web and minerals:
Greene boughes of trees which fatning Acornes lade,
Hung full with flowres and Garlands quaintly made,
Their homely Cotes deck'd trim in low degree,
As now the Court with richest Tapistry.
In stead of Cushions wrought in windowes laine,
They pick'd the Cockle from their fields of Graine,
Sleepe-bringing Poppy, by the Plow-men late
Not without cause to Ceres consecrate,
For being round and full at his halfe birth
It signifi'd the perfect Orbe of earth;
And by his inequalities when blowne,
The earths low Vales and higher Hils were showne.
By multitude of graines it held within,
Of men and beasts the number noted bin;
And she since taking care all earth to please,
Had in her Thesmophoria offred these.
Or cause that seedw our Elders us'd to eat,
With honey mixt (and was their after meate)
Or since her Daughter that she lov'd so well
By him that in th' infernall shades doth dwell,
And on the Stygian bankes for ever raignes
(Troubled with horrid cryes and noyse of chaines)
(Fairest Proserpina) was rapt away;
And she in plaints, the night; in teares, the day
Had long time spent, when no high Power could give her
Any redresse; the Poppy did relieve her:
For eating of the seedes they sleepe procur'd,
And so beguil'd those griefes she long endur'd.
Or rather since her Love (then happy man)
Micon (ycleep'd) the brave Athenian,
Had beene transform'd into this gentle Flowre,
And his protection kept from Flora's powre.
The Daizy scattred on each Mead and Downe,
A golden tuft within a silver Crowne:
(Fayre fall that dainty flowre! and may there be
No Shepheard grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
The Primrose, when with sixe leaves gotten grace
Maids as a True-love in their bosomes place:
The spotlesse Lilly, by whose pure leaves be
Noted the chaste thoughts of virginitie;
Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
The fit Impresa's for imflam'd desire;
The Hare-bell for her stainlesse azur'd hue
Claimes to be worne of none but those are true;
The Rose, like ready youth, inticing stands,
And would be cropt if it might choose the hands;
The yealow King-cup, Flora them assign'd
To be the badges of a jealous minde;
The Oringe-tawny Marigold: the night
Hides not her colour from a searching sight.
To thee then, dearest Friend (my songs chiefe mate)
This colour chiefly I appropriate,
That spight of all the mists Oblivion can
Or envious frettings of a guilty man,
Retain'st thy worth; nay, mak'st it more in prise,
Like Tennis-bals, throwne downe hard, highest rise.
The Columbine in tawny often taken,
Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;
Flora's choise buttons of a russet dye
Is Hope even in the depth of misery.
The Pansie, Thistle, all with prickles set,
The Cowslip, Honisuckle, Violet,
And many hundreds more that grac'd the Meades,
Gardens and Groves, (where beautious Flora treads)
Were by the Shepheards Daughters (as yet are
Us'd in our Cotes) brought home with speciall care:
For bruising them they not alone would quell
But rot the rest, and spoile their pleasing smell.
Much like a Lad, who in his tender prime
Sent from his friends to learne the use of time,
As are his mates or good or bad, so he
Thrives to the world, and such his actions be.
As in the Rainbowes many coloured hewe,
Here see wee watchet deepned with a blewe:
There a darke tawnie with a purple mixt,
Yealow and flame, with streakes of greene betwixt,
A bloudy streame into a blushing run,
And ends still with the colour which begun;
Drawing the deeper to a lighter staine,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'st againe,
With such rare Art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blew with watchet, greene and red with yealow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the Doves necke with varietie,
Where none can say (though he it strict attends)
Here one begins, and there the other ends:
So did the Maidens with their various flowres
Decke up their windowes, and make neate their bowres:
Using such cunning as they did dispose
The ruddy Piny with the lighter Rose,
The Moncks-hood with the Buglosse, and intwine
The white, the blew, the flesh-like Columbine
With Pinckes, Sweet-williams; that farre off the eye
Could not the manner of their mixtures spye.
Then with those flowres they most of all did prise,
(With all their skill, and in most curious wise
On tufts of Hearbs and Rushes) would they frame
A daintie border round their Shepheards name.
Or Poesies make, so quaint, so apt, so rare,
As if the Muses onely lived there:
And that the after world should strive in vaine
What they then did, to counterfeit againe.
Nor will the Needle nor the Loome e're be
So perfect in their best embroderie,
Nor such composures make of silke and gold,
As theirs, when Nature all her cunning told.
The word of Mine did no man then bewitch,
They thought none could be fortunate if rich.
And to the covetous did wish no wrong
But what himselfe desir'd: to live here long.
As of their Songs, so of their lives they deem'd:
Not of the long'st, but best perform'd, esteem'd.
They thought that heaven to him no life did give,
Who onely thought upon the meanes to live.
Nor wish'd they 'twere ordain'd to live here ever,
But as life was ordain'd they might persever.
O happy men! you ever did possesse
No wisedome but was mixt with simplenesse;
So, wanting malice: and from folly free,
Since reason went with your simplicitie.
You search'd your selves if all within were faire,
And did not learne of others what you were.
Your lives the patternes of those vertues gave,
Which adulation tels men now they have.
With poverty, in love we onely close,
Because our Lovers it most truely showes:
When they who in that blessed age did move,
Knew neyther poverty, nor want of love.
The hatred which they bore was onely this,
That every one did hate to doe amisse.
Their fortune still was subject to their will:
Their want (O happy!) was the want of ill.
Ye truest, fairest, lovelyest Nymphes that can
Out of your eyes lend fire Promethian,
All-beautious Ladies, love-alluring Dames,
That on the banckes of Isca, Humber, Thames,
By your encouragement can make a Swaine
Climbe by his Song where none but soules attaine:
And by the gracefull reading of our lines
Renew our heate to further brave designes.
(You, by whose meanes my Muse thus boldly sayes:
Though she doe sing of Shepheards loves and layes,
And flagging weakly low gets not on wing
To second that of Hellens ravishing:
Nor hath the love nor beauty of a Queene
My subject, grac'd, as other workes have beene;
Yet not to doe their age nor ours a wrong,
Though Queenes, nay Goddesses fam'd Homers song):
Mine hath beene tun'd and heard by beauties more
Then all the Poets that have liv'd before.
Not cause it is more worth: but it doth fall
That Nature now is turn'd a prodigall,
And on this age so much perfection spends,
That to her last of treasure it extends;
For all the ages that are slid away
Had not so many beauties as this day.
O what a rapture have I gotten now!
That age of gold, this of the lovely brow
Have drawne me from my Song! I onward run
Cleane from the end to which I first begun.
But ye, the heavenly creatures of the West,
In whom the vertues and the graces rest,
Pardon! that I have run astray so long,
And grow so tedious in so rude a song,
If you your selves should come to adde one grace
Unto a pleasant Grove or such like place,
Where here the curious cutting of a hedge:
There, by a pond, the trimming of the sedge;
Here the fine setting of well shading trees,
The walkes there mounting up by small degrees,
The gravell and the greene so equall lye,
It, with the rest, drawes on your lingring eye:
Here the sweet smels that doe perfume the ayre,
Arising from the infinite repayre
Of odoriferous buds, and hearbs of price,
(As if it were another paradice)
So please the smelling sence, that you are faine
Where last you walk'd to turne and walke againe.
There the small Birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a Spring that smileth as she floates:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing goe:
Here further downe an over-arched Alley
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
You spye at end thereof a standing Lake,
Where some ingenious Artist strives to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of Lead
Through Birds of earth most lively fashioned)
To counterfeit and mocke the Silvans all,
In singing well their owne set Madrigall.
This with no small delight retaines your eare,
And makes you thinke none blest but who live there.
Then in another place the fruits that be
In gallant clusters decking each good tree,
Invite your hand to crop some from the stem,
And liking one, taste every sort of them:
Then to the arbours walke, then to the bowres,
Thence to the walkes againe, thence to the flowres,
Then to the Birds, and to the cleare spring thence,
Now pleasing one, and then another sense.
Here one walkes oft, and yet anew begin'th,
As if it were some hidden Laborinth;
So loath to part, and so content to stay,
That when the Gardner knocks for you away,
It grieves you so to leave the pleasures in it,
That you could wish that you had never seene it:
Blame me not then, if while to you I told
The happinesse our fathers clipt of old,
The meere imagination of their blisse
So rapt my thoughts, and made me sing amisse.
And still the more they ran on those dayes worth,
The more unwilling was I to come forth.
O! if the apprehension joy us so,
What would the action in a humane show?
Such were the Shepheards (to all goodnesse bent)
About whose Thorps that night curs'd Limos went.
Where he had learn'd that next day all the Swaines,
That any sheepe fed on the fertill plaines,
That feast of Pales Goddesse of their grounds
Did meane to celebrate. Fitly this sounds,
He thought, to what he formerly intended,
His stealth should by their absence be befriended:
For whilst they in their offrings busied were,
He 'mongst the flocks might range with lesser feare.
How to contrive his stealth he spent the night.
The Morning now in colours richly dight
Stept o're the Easterne thresholds, and no lad
That joy'd to see his pastures freshly clad,
But for the holy rites himselfe addrest
With necessaries proper to that feast.
The Altars every where now smoaking be
With Beane-stalkes, Savine, Laurell, Rosemary,
Their Cakes of Grummell-seed they did preferre,
And Pailes of milke in sacrifice to her.
Then Hymnes of praise they all devoutly sung
In those Palilia for increase of young.
But ere the ceremonies were halfe past
One of their Boyes came downe the hill in haste,
And told them Limos was among their sheepe;
That he, his fellowes, nor their dogs could keepe
The Rav'ner from their flocks; great store were kild,
Whose blood he suck'd, and yet his panch not fild.
O hasten then away! for in an houre
He will the chiefest of your fold devoure.
With this most ran (leaving behinde some few
To finish what was to faire Pales due),
And as they had ascended up the hill,
Limos they met, with no meane pace and skill
Following a well-fed Lambe; with many a shout
They then pursv'd him all the plaine about.
And eyther with fore-laying of his way,
Or he full gorg'd ran not so swift as they,
Before he could recover downe the strand,
No Swaine but on him had a fastned hand.
Rejoycing then (the worst Wolfe to their flocke
Lay in their powres), they bound him to a Rocke
With chaines tane from the plow, and leaving him
Return'd backe to their Feast. His eyes late dim
Now sparkle forth in flames, he grindes his teeth,
And strives to catch at every thing he seeth;
But to no purpose: all the hope of food
Was tane away; his little flesh, lesse bloud,
He suck'd and tore at last, and that denyde,
With fearefull shrikes most miserably dyde.
Unfortunate Marina, thou art free
From his jawes now, though not from misery.
Within the Cave thou likely art to pine,
If (O may never) faile a helpe divine,
And though such aid thy wants doe still supply;
Yet in a prison thou must ever lye:
But heav'n that fed thee, will not long defer
To send thee thither some deliverer:
For, then to spend thy sighes there to the maine
Thou fitter wert to honour Thetis trayne:
Who so farre now with her harmonious crew
Scour'd through the Seas (O who yet ever knew
So rare a consort?) she had left behinde
The Kentish, Sussex shores, the Isle assignde
To brave Vespasians conquest, and was come
Where the shrill Trumpet and the ratling Drum
Made the waves tremble, (ere befell this chance)
And to no softer Musicke us'd to dance.
Haile thou my native soile! thou blessed plot
Whose equall all the world affordeth not!
Shew me who can? so many christall Rils,
Such sweet-cloath'd Vallies or aspiring Hils:
Such Wood-ground, Pastures, Quarries, wealthy Mynes:
Such Rockes in whom the Diamond fairely shines:
And if the earth can shew the like agen,
Yet will she faile in her Sea-ruling men.
Time never can produce men to ore-take
The fames of Greenvil, Davies, Gilbert, Drake,
Or worthy Hawkins, or of thousands more
That by their powre made the Devonian shore
Mocke the proud Tagus; for whose richest spoyle
The boasting Spaniard left the Indian soyle
Banckrupt of store, knowing it would quit cost
By winning this though all the rest were lost.
As oft the Sea-Nimphs on her strand have set
Learning of Fisher-men to knit a net,
Wherein to wynde up their dishevel'd hayres,
They have beheld the frolicke Mariners
For exercise (got earely from their beds)
Pitche bars of silver, and cast golden sleds.
At Ex a lovely Nymph with Thetis met:
She singing came, and was all round beset
With other watry powres, which by her song
She had allur'd to float with her along.
The Lay see chanted she had learn'd of yore,
Taught by a skilfull Swaine, who on her shore
Fed his faire flocke: a worke renown'd as farre
As His brave subject of the Trojan warre.
When she had done, a prettie Shepheards boy
That from the neare Downes came (though he smal joy
Tooke in his tunefull Reede, since dire neglect
Crept to the brest of her he did affect,
And that an ever-busie-watchfull eye
Stood as a barre to his felicitie,)
Being with great intreaties of the Swaines
And by the faire Queene of the liquid plaines
Woo'd to his Pipe, and bade to lay aside
All troubled thoughts, as others at that tyde,
And that he now some merry note should raise,
To equall others which had sung their layes:
He shooke his head, and knowing that his tongue
Could not belye his heart thus sadly sung:
As new-borne babes salute their ages morne
With cryes unto their wofull mother hurld:
My infant Muse that was but lately borne
Began with watry eyes to woo the world.
She knowes not how to speake, and therefore weepes
Her woes excesse,
And strives to move the heart that senslesse sleepes,
Her eyes invail'd with sorrowes clouds
Scarce see the light,
Disdaine hath wrapt her in the shrowds
Of loathed night.
How should she move then her grief-laden wing,
Or leave my sad complaints, and Paeans sing?
Six Pleyads live in light, in darknesse one.
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
It is enough that I in silence sit,
And bend my skill to learne your layes aright;
Nor strive with you in ready straines of wit,
Nor move my hearers with so true delight.
But if for heavy plaints and notes of woe
Your eares are prest;
No Shepheard lives that can my Pipe out-goe
In such unrest.
I have not knowne so many yeeres
As chances wrong,
Nor have they knowne more floods of teares
From one so yong.
Faine would I tune to please as others doe,
Wert not for faining Song and numbers too.
Then (since not fitting now are songs of mone)
Sing mirthfull Swaines, but let me sigh alone.
The Nymphs that floate upon these watry plaines
Have oft beene drawne to listen to my Song,
And Sirens left to tune dissembling straines
In true bewailing of my sorrowes long.
Upon the waves of late a silver Swan
By me did ride;
And thrilled with my woes forthwith began
To sing, and dyde.
Yet where they should, they cannot move.
O haplesse Verse!
That fitter, then to win a Love
Art for a Herse.
Hence-forward silent be; and ye my cares
Be knowne but to my selfe, or who despaires.
Since pittie now lyes turned to a stone.
Sing mirthfull Swaines; but let me sigh alone.
The fitting accent of His mournfull lay
So pleas'd the pow'rfull Lady of the Sea,
That she intreated him to sing againe;
And he obeying tun'd this second straine:
Borne to no other comfort then my teares,
Yet rob'd of them by griefes too inly deepe,
I cannot rightly waile my haplesse yeares,
Nor move a passion that for me might weepe.
Nature alas too short hath knit
My tongue to reach my woe:
Nor have I skill sad notes to fit
That might my sorrow show.
And to increase my torments ceaselesse sting,
There's no way left to shew my paines,
But by my pen in mournfull straines,
Which others may perhaps take joy to sing.
As (woo'd by Mayes delights) I have beene borne
To take the kinde ayre of a wistfull morne
Neere Tavies voycefull streame (to whom I owe
More straines then from my Pipe can ever flowe):
Here have I heard a sweet Bird never lin
To chide the River for his clam'rous din;
There seem'd another in his song to tell,
That what the fayre streame did he liked well;
And going further heard another too,
All varying still in what the others doe;
A little thence, a fourth with little paine
Con'd all their lessons, and them sung againe;
So numberlesse the Songsters are that sing
In the sweet Groves of the too-carelesse spring,
That I no sooner could the hearing lose
Of one of them, but straight another rose,
And perching deftly on a quaking spray,
Nye tyr'd her selfe to make her hearer stay,
Whilst in a bush two Nightingales together
Shew'd the best skill they had to draw me thither:
So (as bright Thetis past our cleeves along)
This shepherds lay pursu'd the others song,
And scarce one ended had his skilfull stripe,
But streight another tooke him to his Pipe.
By that the younger Swaine had fully done,
Thetis with her brave company had wonne
The mouth of Dert, and whilst the Tritons charme
The dancing waves, passing the christall Arme
Sweet Yalme and Plim; ariv'd where Thamar payes
Her daily tribute to the westerne Seas.
Here sent shee up her Dolphins, and they plide
So busily their fares on every side,
They made a quicke returne, and brought her downe
A many Homagers to Thamars crowne,
Who in themselves were of as great command
As any meaner Rivers of the Land.
With every Nymph the Swaine of most account
That fed his white sheepe by her clearer fount:
And every one to Thetis sweetly sung.
Among the rest a Shepheard (though but young,
Yet hartned to his Pipe) with all the skill
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill.
By Tavies speedy streame he fed his flocke,
Where when he sate to sport him on a rocke,
The Water-nymphs would often come unto him,
And for a dance with many gay gifts woo him.
Now posies of this flowre, and then of that;
Now with fine shels, then with a rushie hat,
With Corrall or red stones brought from the deepe
To make him bracelets, or to marke his sheepe:
WILLY he hight. Who by the Oceans Queene
More cheer'd to sing then such young Lads had beene,
Tooke his best framed Pipe, and thus gan move
His voyce of Walla, Tavy's fairest Love.
Faire was the day, but fairer was the Maide
Who that dayes morn into the green-woods straid.
Sweet was the ayre, but sweeter was her breathing,
Such rare perfumes the Roses are bequeathing.
Bright shone the Sun, but brighter were her eyes,
Such are the Lampes that guide the Deities;
Nay such the fire is, whence the Pythian Knight
Borrowes his beames, and lends his Sister light.
Not Pelop's shoulder whiter then her hands,
Nor snowy Swans that jet on Isca's sands.
Sweet Flora as if ravisht with their sight,
In emulation made all Lillies white:
For as I oft have heard the Wood-nimphs say,
The dancing Fairies, when they left to play,
Then blacke did pull them, and in holes of trees
Stole the sweet honey from the painfull Bees;
Which in the flowre to put they oft were seene,
And for a banquet brought it to their Queene.
But shee that is the Goddesse of the flowres
(Invited to their groves and shady bowres)
Mislik'd their choise. They said that all the field
No other flowre did for that purpose yeeld;
But quoth a nimble Fay that by did stand:
If you could give 't the colour of yond hand;
(Walla by chance was in a meadow by
Learning to 'sample earths embrodery)
It were a gift would Flora well befit,
And our great Queene the more would honour it.
She gave consent; and by some other powre
Made Venus Doves be equall'd by the flowre,
But not her hand; for Nature this prefers:
All other whites but shadowings to hers.
Her haire was rowl'd in many a curious fret,
Much like a rich and artfull Coronet,
Upon whose arches twenty Cupids lay
And were or tide, or loath to flye away.
Upon her bright eyes Phoebus his inclinde,
And by their radience was the God stroke blinde,
That cleane awry th' Ecclipticke then he stript,
And from the milky way his horses whipt;
So that the Easterne world to feare begun
Some stranger drove the Chariot of the Sun.
And never but that once did heavens bright eye
Bestow one looke on the Cymmerii.
A greene silke frock her comely shoulders clad,
And tooke delight that such a seat it had,
Which at her middle gath'red up in pleats,
A love-knot Girdle willing bondage threats.
Not Venus Ceston held a braver peece,
Nor that which girt the fairest flowre of Greece.
Downe from her waste, her mantle loose did fall,
Which Zephyre (as afraid) still plaid withall,
And then tuck'd up somewhat below the knee
Shew'd searching eyes where Cupids columnes be.
The inside lin'd with rich Carnation silke,
And in the midst of both, Lawne white as milke.
Which white beneath the red did seeme to shroud,
As Cynthia's beautie through a blushing cloud,
About the edges curious to behold
A deepe fringe hung of rich and twisted gold,
So on the greene marge of a christall brooke
A thousand yealow flowres at fishes looke;
And such the beames are of the glorious Sun,
That through a tuft of grasse dispersed run.
Upon her leg a payre of Buskins white,
Studded with oryent Pearle and Chrysolite,
And like her Mantle stitcht with gold and greene,
(Fairer yet never wore the Forrests Queene)
Knit close with ribands of a party hue,
A knot of Crimson and a tuft of blew,
Nor can the Peacocke in his spotted traine
So many pleasing colours shew againe;
Nor could there be a mixture with more grace,
Except the heav'nly Roses in her face.
A silver Quiver at her backe shee wore,
With Darts and Arrowes for the Stag and Boare,
But in her eyes she had such darts agen
Could conquer Gods, and wound the hearts of men.
Her left hand held a knotty Brasill Bow,
Whose strength with teares she made the red Deere know.
So clad, so arm'd, so drest to win her will
Diana never trode on Latmus hill.
Walla, the fairest Nimph that haunts the woods,
Walla, belov'd of Shepheards, Faunes and Floods,
Walla, for whom the frolike Satyres pine,
Walla, with whose fine foot the flowrets twine,
Walla, of whom sweet Birds their ditties move,
Walla, the earths delight, and Tavy's love.
This fairest Nimph, when Tavy first prevail'd
And won affection where the Silvans fail'd,
Had promis'd (as a favour to his streame)
Each weeke to crowne it with an Anadem:
And now Hyperion from his glitt'ring throne
Sev'n times his quickning rayes had bravely showne
Unto the other world, since Walla last
Had on her Tavy's head the Garland plac'd;
And this day (as of right) she wends abroad
To ease the Meadowes of their willing load.
Flora, as if to welcome her, those houres
Had beene most lavish of her choisest flowres,
Spreading more beauties to intice that morne
Then she had done in many dayes beforne.
Looke as a Maiden sitting in the shade
Of some close Arbour by the Wood-bynde made,
With-drawne alone where undiscride she may
By her most curious Needle give assay
Unto some Purse (if so her fancy move)
Or other token for her truest Love,
Varietie of silke about her pap,
Or in a boxe she takes upon her lap,
Whose pleasing colours wooing her quicke eye,
Now this she thinkes the ground would beautifie,
And that, to flourish with, she deemeth best;
When spying others, she is straight possest
Those fittest are; yet from that choice doth fall
And shee resolves at last to use them all:
So Walla, which to gather long time stood,
Whether those of the field, or of the wood;
Or those that 'mong the springs and marish lay;
But then the blossomes which inrich'd each spray
Allur'd her looke; whose many coloured graces
Did in her Garland challenge no meane places:
And therefore shee (not to be poore in plenty)
From Meadowes, springs, woods, sprayes, culs some one daintie,
Which in a scarfe shee put, and onwards set
To finde a place to dresse her Coronet.
A little Grove is seated on the marge
Of Tavy's streame, not over-thicke nor large,
Where every morne a quire of Silvans sung,
And leaves to chattring winds serv'd as a tongue,
By whom the water turnes in many a ring,
As if it faine would stay to heare them sing;
And on the top a thousand young Birds flye,
To be instructed in their harmony.
Neere to the end of this all-joysome Grove
A dainty circled plot seem'd as it strove
To keepe all Bryers and bushes from invading
Her pleasing compasse by their needlesse shading,
Since it was not so large, but that the store
Of trees around could shade her brest and more.
In midst thereof a little swelling hill,
Gently disburd'ned of a christall rill
Which from the greenside of the flowrie banke
Eat down a channell; here the Wood-nymphs drank,
And great Diana having slaine the Deere
Did often use to come and bathe her here.
Here talk'd they of their chase, and where next day
They meant to hunt; here did the shepherds play,
And many a gaudy Nymph was often seene
Imbracing shepherds boyes upon this greene.
From hence the spring hasts downe to Tavy's brim,
And payes a tribute of his drops to him.
Here Walla rests the rising mount upon,
That seem'd to swell more since she sate thereon,
And from her scarfe upon the grasse shooke downe
The smelling flowres that should her River crowne:
The Scarfe (in shaking it) she brushed oft,
Whereon were flowres so fresh and lively wrought,
That her owne cunning was her owne deceit,
Thinking those true which were but counterfeit.
Under an Alder on his sandy marge
Was Tavy set to view his nimble charge,
And there his Love he long time had expected:
While many a rose-cheekt Nymph no wyle neglected
To woo him to imbraces; which he scorn'd,
As valluing more the beauties which adorn'd
His fairest Walla, then all Natures pride
Spent on the cheekes of all her sexe beside.
Now would they tempt him with their open brests,
And sweare their lips were Loves assured Tests:
That Walla sure would give him the deniall
Till she had knowne him true by such a triall,
Then comes another, and her hand bereaves
The soone slipt Alder of two clammy leaves,
And clapping them together, bids him see
And learne of love the hidden mystery.
Brave Flood (quoth shee) that hold'st us in suspence,
And shew'st a God-like powre in abstinence,
At this thy coldnesse we doe nothing wonder,
These leaves did so, when once they grew asunder;
But since the one did taste the others blisse,
And felt his partners kinde partake with his,
Behold how close they joyne; and had they power
To speake their now content, as we can our,
They would on Nature lay a haynous crime
For keeping close such sweets untill this time.
Is there to such men ought of merit due,
That doe abstaine from what they never knew?
No: then as well we may account him wise
For speaking nought, who wants those faculties.
Taste thou our sweets; come here and freely sip
Divinest Nectar from my melting lip;
Gaze on mine eyes, whose life-infusing beames
Have power to melt the Icy Northern streames,
And so inflame the Gods of those bound Seas
They should unchaine their virgin passages,
And teach our Marriners from day to day
To bring us Jewels by a neerer way.
Twyne thy long fingers in my shining haire,
And thinke it no disgrace to hide them there;
For I could tell thee how the Paphian Queene
Met me one day upon yond pleasant Greene,
And did intreat a slip (though I was coy)
Wherewith to fetter her lascivious Boy.
Play with my teates that swell to have impression;
And if thou please from thence to make digression,
Passe thou that milkie way where great Apollo
And higher powres then he would gladly follow.
When to the full of these thou shalt attaine,
It were some mastry for thee to refraine;
But since thou know'st not what such pleasures be
The world will not commend but laugh at thee.
But thou wilt say, thy Walla yeelds such store
Of joyes, that no one Love can raise thee more;
Admit it so, as who but thinkes it strange?
Yet shalt thou finde a pleasure more, in change,
If that thou lik'st not, gentle Flood, but heare
To prove that state the best I never feare.
Tell me wherein the state and glory is
Of thee, of Avon, or brave Thamesis?
In your owne Springs? or by the flowing head
Of some such River onely seconded?
Or is it through the multitude that doe
Send downe their waters to attend on you?
Your mixture with lesse Brookes addes to your fames,
So long as they in you doe loose their names:
And comming to the Ocean, thou dost see,
It takes in other Floods as well as thee;
It were no sport to us that hunting love
If we were still confinde to one large Grove.
The water which in one Poole hath abiding
Is not so sweet as Rillets ever gliding.
Nor would the brackish waves in whom you meet
Containe that state it doth, but be lesse sweet,
And with contagious streames all mortals smother,
But that it moves from this shore to the other.
There's no one season such delight can bring,
As Summer, Autumne, Winter, and the Spring.
Nor the best Flowre that doth on earth appeare
Could by it selfe content us all the yeare.
The Salmons, and some more as well as they,
Now love the freshet, and then love the Sea.
The flitting Fowles not in one coast doe tarry,
But with the yeare their habitation vary.
What Musicke is there in a Shepheards quill
(Plaid on by him that hath the greatest skill)
If but a stop or two thereon we spy?
Musicke is best in her varietie.
So is discourse, so joyes; and why not then
As well the lives and loves of Gods as men?
More she had spoke, but that the gallant Flood
Replyde: yee wanton Rangers of the wood,
Leave your allurements; hye ye to your chase;
See where Diana with a nimble pace
Followes a strucke Deere: if you longer stay
Her frowne will bend to me another day.
Harke how she wynds her Horne; she some doth call
Perhaps for you, to make in to the fall.
With this they left him. Now he wonders much
Why at this time his Walla's stay was such,
And could have wish'd the Nymphs back, but for feare
His Love might come and chance to finde them there.
To passe the time at last he thus began
(Unto a Pipe joyn'd by the art of Pan)
To praise his Love: his hasty waves among
The frothed Rockes, bearing the Under-song.
As carefull Merchants doe expecting stand
(After long time and merry gales of wynde)
Upon the place where their brave Ship must land:
So waite I for the vessell of my minde.
Upon a great adventure is it bound,
Whose safe returne will vallu'd be at more
Then all the wealthy prizes which have crown'd
The golden wishes of an age before.
Out of the East Jewels of worth she brings,
Th' unvalu'd Diamond of her sparkling Eye
Wants in the Treasures of all Europe's Kings,
And were it mine they nor their crownes should buy.
The Saphires ringed on her panting brest,
Run as rich veynes of Ore about the mold,
And are in sicknesse with a pale possest,
So true; for them I should disvalue gold.
The melting Rubyes on her cherry lip
Are of such powre to hold; that as one day
Cupid flew thirsty by, he stoop'd to sip
And fast'ned there could never get away.
The sweets of Candy are no sweets to me
When hers I taste; nor the Perfumes of price
Rob'd from the happy shrubs of Araby,
As her sweet breath, so powrefull to intice.
O hasten then! and if thou be not gone
Unto that wished trafficke through the Mayne,
My powrefull sighes shall quickly drive thee on,
And then begin to draw thee backe againe.
If in the meane rude waves have it opprest,
It shall suffice I venter'd at the best.
Scarce had he given a period to his Lay
When from a Wood (wherein the Eye of day
Had long a stranger beene, and Phoebe's light
Vainly contended with the shades of night.)
One of those wanton Nymphs that woo'd him late
Came crying tow'rds him; O thou most ingrate
Respectlesse Flood! canst thou here idely sit,
And loose desires to looser numbers fit?
Teaching the ayre to court thy carelesse Brooke,
Whil'st thy poore Walla's cryes the hils have shooke
With an amazed terror: heare! O heare!
A hundred Eccho's shriking every where!
See how the frightfull Heards run from the Wood;
Walla, alas, as shee to crowne her Flood,
Attended the composure of sweet flowres,
Was by a lust-fir'd Satyre 'mong our bowres
Well-neere surpriz'd, but that she him discryde
Before his rude imbracement could betyde.
Now but her feet no helpe, unlesse her cryes
A needfull ayd draw from the Deities.
It needlesse was to bid the Flood pursue:
Anger gave wings; wayes that he never knew
Till now, he treads; through dels and hidden brakes
Flyes through the meadowes, each where overtakes
Streames swiftly gliding, and them brings along
To further just revenge for so great wrong,
His current till that day was never knowne,
But as a Meade in July, which unmowne
Beares in an equall height each bent and stem,
Unlesse some gentle gale doe play with them.
Now runs it with such fury and such rage
That mightie Rockes opposing vassalage
Are from the firme earth rent and overborne
In Fords where pibbles lay secure beforne.
Low'd Cataracts, and fearefull roarings now
Affright the Passenger; upon his brow
Continuall bubbles like compelled drops,
And where (as now and then) he makes short stops
In little pooles drowning his voyce too hie,
'Tis where hee thinkes he heares his Walla cry.
Yet vaine was all his haste, bending a way,
Too much declining to the Southerne Sea,
Since shee had turned thence, and now begun
To crosse the brave path of the glorious Sun.
There lyes a Vale extended to the North
Of Tavy's streame, which (prodigall) sends forth
In Autumne more rare fruits then have beene spent
In any greater plot of fruitfull Kent.
Two high brow'd rockes on eyther side begin,
As with an arch to close the vally in:
Upon their rugged fronts short writhen Oakes
Untouch'd of any fellers banefull stroakes:
The Ivy twisting round their barkes, hath fed
Past time wylde Goates which no man followed.
Low in the Valley some small Heards of Deere,
For head and footmanship withouten peere,
Fed undisturb'd. The Swaines that thereby thriv'd
By the tradition from their Sires deriv'd,
Call'd it sweet Ina's Coombe: but whether she
Were of the earth or greater progeny
Judge by her deedes; once this is truely knowne
She many a time hath on a Bugle blowne,
And through the Dale pursu'd the jolly Chase,
As shee had bid the winged windes a base.
Pale and distracted hither Walla runs,
As closely follow'd as shee hardly shuns;
Her mantle off, her haire now too unkinde
Almost betray'd her with the wanton winde.
Breathlesse and faint she now some drops discloses,
As in a Limbeck the kinde sweate of Roses,
Such hang upon her brest, and on her cheekes;
Or like the Pearles which the tand Aethiop seekes.
The Satyre (spur'd with lust) still getteth ground,
And longs to see his damn'd intention crown'd.
As when a Greyhound (of the rightest straine)
Let slip to some poore Hare upon the plaine;
He for his prey strives, th' other for her life;
And one of these or none must end the strife:
Now seemes the Dog by speede and good at bearing
To have her sure; the other ever fearing
Maketh a sodaine turne, and doth deferre
The Hound a while from so neere reaching her:
Yet being fetcht againe and almost tane,
Doubting (since touch'd of him) she scapes her bane:
So of these two the minded races were,
For Hope the one made swift, the other Feare.
O if there be a powre (quoth Walla then
Keeping her earnest course) o'reswaying men
And their desires! O let it now be showne
Upon this Satyre halfe-part earthly knowne.
What I have hitherto with so much care
Kept undefiled, spotlesse, white and faire,
What in all speech of love I still reserv'd,
And from its hazard ever gladly swerv'd;
O be it now untouch'd! and may no force
That happy Jewell from my selfe devorce!
I that have ever held all women be
Void of all worth if wanting chastitie;
And who so any lets that best flowre pull,
She might be faire, but never beautifull:
O let me not forgoe it! strike me dead!
Let on these Rockes my limbes be scattered!
Burne me to ashes with some powrefull flame,
And in mine owne dust bury mine owne name,
Rather then let me live and be defil'd.
Chastest Diana! in the Deserts wilde,
Have I so long thy truest handmaid beene?
Upon the rough rocke-ground thine arrowes keene,
Have I (to make thee crownes) beene gath'ring still
Faire-cheekt Etesia's yealow Cammomill?
And sitting by thee on our flowrie beds
Knit thy torne Buck-stals with well twisted threds,
To be forsaken? O now present be,
If not to save, yet helpe to ruine me!
If pure Virginitie have heretofore
By the Olympicke powres beene honour'd more
Then other states; and Gods have beene dispos'd
To make them knowne to us, and still disclos'd
To the chaste hearing of such Nymphs as we
Many a secret and deepe misterie;
If none can lead without celestiall ayde
Th' immaculate and pure life of a Maide,
O let not then the Powres all-good divine
Permit vilde lust to soile this brest of mine!
Thus cryde she as she ran: and looking backe
Whether her hot pursuer did ought slacke
His former speede, she spies him not at all,
And somewhat thereby cheer'd gan to recall
Her nye fled hopes: yet fearing he might lye
Neere some crosse path to worke his villanie,
And being weary, knowing it was vaine
To hope for safety by her feet againe,
She sought about where shee her selfe might hide.
A hollow vaulted Rocke at last shee spide,
About whose sides so many bushes were,
She thought securely she might rest her there.
Farre under it a cave, whose entrance streight
Clos'd with a stone-wrought dore of no meane weight;
Yet from it selfe the gemels beaten so
That little strength could thrust it to and fro.
Thither shee came, and being gotten in
Barr'd fast the darke Cave with an iron pin.
The Satyre follow'd, for his cause of stay
Was not a minde to leave her, but the way
Sharpe ston'd and thornie, where he pass'd of late,
Had cut his cloven foote, and now his gate
Was not so speedy, yet by chance he sees
Through some small glade that ran between the trees
Where Walla went. And with a slower pace
Fir'd with hot blood, at last attain'd the place.
When like a fearefull Hare within her Forme,
Hearing the Hounds come like a threatning storme,
In full cry on the walke where last she trode,
Doubts to stay there, yet dreads to goe abroad:
So Walla far'd. But since he was come nye,
And by an able strength and industry
Sought to breake in, with teares anew she fell
To urge the Powres that on Olympus dwell.
And then to Ina call'd: O if the roomes,
The Walkes and Arbours in these fruitfull coombes
Have famous beene through all the Westerne Plaines
In being guiltlesse of the lasting staines
Pour'd on by lust and murther: keepe them free!
Turne me to stone, or to a barked tree,
Unto a Bird, or flowre, or ought forlorne;
So I may die as pure as I was borne.
"Swift are the prayers and of speedy haste,
That take their wing from hearts so pure and chaste.
And what we aske of Heaven it still appeares
More plaine to it in mirrours of our teares."
Approv'd in Walla. When the Satyre rude
Had broke the doore in two, and gan intrude
With steps prophane into that sacred Cell,
Where oft (as I have heard our Shepheards tell)
Faire Ina us'd to rest from Phoebus ray:
She or some other having heard her pray,
Into a Fountaine turn'd her; and now rise
Such streames out of the cave, that they surprise
The Satyre with such force and so great din,
That quenching his lifes flame as well as sinne,
They roul'd him through the Dale with mighty rore
And made him flye that did pursue before.
Not farre beneath i'th Valley as she trends
Her silver streame, some Wood-nymphs and her friends
That follow'd to her ayde, beholding how
A Brooke came gliding, where they saw but now
Some Herds were feeding, wondring whence it came:
Untill a Nymph that did attend the game
In that sweet Valley, all the processe told,
Which from a thicke-leav'd-tree she did behold:
See, quoth the Nymph, where the rude Satyre lyes
Cast on the grasse; as if she did despise
To have her pure waves soyl'd with such as he:
Retaining still the love of puritie.
To Tavy's Christall streame her waters goe,
As if some secret power ordained so,
And as a Maide she lov'd him, so a Brooke
To his imbracements onely her betooke.
Where growing on with him, attain'd the state
Which none but Hymens bonds can imitate.
On Walla's brooke her sisters now bewaile,
For whom the Rockes spend teares when others faile,
And all the Woods ring with their piteous mones:
Which Tavy hearing, as hee chid the stones,
That stopt his speedy course, raising his head
Inquir'd the cause, and thus was answered:
Walla is now no more. Nor from the hill
Will she more plucke for thee the Daffadill,
Nor make sweet Anadems to gird thy brow,
Yet in the Groves she runs; a River now.
Looke as the feeling Plant which (learned Swaines
Relate to grow on the East Indian Plaines)
Shrinkes up his dainty leaves, if any sand
You throw thereon, or touch it with your hand:
So with the chance the heavy Wood-nymphs told,
The River (inly touch'd) began to fold
His armes acrosse, and while the torrent raves,
Shrunke his grave head beneath his silver waves.
Since when he never on his bankes appeares
But as one franticke: when the clouds spend teares
He thinkes they of his woes compassion take,
(And not a Spring but weepes for Walla's sake)
And then he often (to bemone her lacke)
Like to a mourner goes, his waters blacke,
And every Brooke attending in his way,
For that time meets him in the like aray.
Here WILLY that time ceas'd; and I a while:
For yonder's Roget comming o're the stile,
'Tis two dayes since I saw him (and you wonder,
You'le say, that we have beene so long asunder).
I thinke the lovely Heardesse of the Dell
That to an Oaten Quill can sing so well,
Is shee that's with him: I must needs goe meet them,
And if some other of you rise to greet them
'Twere not amisse, the day is now so long
That I ere night may end another Song.