Where all true shepherds have rewarded been
For their long service. Say, sweet, shall it hold?
A Virtuous Well, about whose flowery banks
The nimble-footed fairies dance their rounds
By the pale moonshine, dipping oftentimes.
Their stolen children, so to make them free
From dying flesh and dull mortality.
By this fair fount hath many a shepherd sworn
And given away his freedom, many a troth
Been plight, which neither envy nor old time
Could ever break, with many a chaste kiss given
In hope of coming happiness: by this
Fresh fountain many a blushing maid
Hath crowned the head of her long-loved shepherd
With gaudy flowers, whilst he happy sung
Lays of his love and dear captivity.
CLOE. Shepherd, I pray thee stay; where hast thou been,
Or whither goest thou? Here be woods as green
As any, air likewise as fresh and sweet
As where smooth Zephyrus plays on the fleet
Face of the curled streams, with flowers as many
As the young Spring gives, and as choice as any.
Here be all new delights, cool streams and wells,
Arbours o'ergrown with woodbines, caves and dells:
Choose where thou wilt, whilst I sit by and sing,
Or gather rushes to make many a ring
For thy long fingers; tell thee tales of love,—
How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
She took eternal fire that never dies;
How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
Head of old Latmus, where she stoops each night,
Gilding the mountains with her brother's light,
To kiss her sweetest.
HE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crookèd 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 they stoop to fate,
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:
All heads must come to the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
HAT thou'd'st been with us at Duke Doria's garden!
The pretty contest between art and nature:
To see the wilderness, grots, arbours, ponds;
And in the midst, over a stately fountain,
The Neptune of the Ligurian Sea-
Andrew Doria-the man who first
Taught Genoa not to serve; then to behold
The curious waterworks and wanton streams
Wind here and there, as if they had forgot
Their errand to the sea.
And then again, within
The vast prodigious cage, in which the groves
Of myrtle, orange, jessamine, beguile
The winged quire with a native warble,
And pride of their restraint. Then, up and down,
An antiquated marble, or broken statue,
And such a glorious palace!
Such pictures, carving, furniture! my words.
Cannot reach half the splendour. And, after all,
To see the sea, fond of the goodly sight,
One while glide amorous, and lick her walls,
As who would say, Come, follow; but, repulsed,
Rally its whole artillery of waves,
And crowd into a storm!
W. DRUMMOND. (SCOTTISH POET.) 1585-1649.
HAT doth it serve to see the sun's bright face,
And skies enamelled with the Indian gold?
Or jetty moon at night in chariot rolled,
And all the glory of that starry place?
What doth it serve earth's beauty to behold?
The mountain's pride-the meadow's flowery grace
The stately comeliness of forests old
The sport of floods, which would themselves embrace?
What doth it serve to hear the sylvan's songs-
The cheerful thrush-the nightingale's sad strains,
Which in dark shades seem to deplore my wrongs?
For what doth serve all that this world contains,
Since she, for whom those once to me were dear,
Can have no part of them now with me here?
OW that the Winter's gone, the earth hath lost
Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream;
But the warm sun thaws the benumbèd earth,
And makes it tender; gives a second birth
To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree
The drowsy cuckoo and the humble bee;
Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring
In triumph to the world the youthful Spring;
The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array,
Welcome the coming of the longed-for May.
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