Classic Poem

P HILARETE . Willy .

Philarete.

Willy ! thou now full jolly tun'st thy reeds,
Making the nymphs enamoured on thy strains;
And whilst thy harmless flock unscared feeds,
Hast the contentment of hills, groves, and plains
Trust me, I joy thou and thy muse so speeds
In such an age, where so much mischief reigns;
And to my care it some redress will be
Fortune hath so much grace to smile on thee.

Willy.

To smile on me? I ne'er yet knew her smile,
Unless 'twere when she purposed to deceive me:
Many a train and many a painted wile
She casts, in hope of freedom to bereave me;
Yet now, because she sees I scorn her guile,
To fawn on fools she for my Muse doth leave me;
And here of late, her wonted spite doth tend
To work me care by frowning on my friend.

Philarete.

Why then I see her copper coin's no sterling,
'Twill not be current still, for all the gilding.
A knave or fool must ever be her darling,
For they have minds to all occasions yielding.
If we get anything by all our parling,
It seems an apple, but it proves a wilding.
But let that pass. Sweet shepherd, tell me this,
For what beloved friend thy sorrow IS .

Willy.

Art thou, Philarete, in durance here,
And dost thou ask me for what friend I grieve?
Can I suppose thy love to me is dear,
Or this thy joy for my content believe,
When thou think'st thy cares touch not me as near,
Or that I pin thy sorrows at my sleeve?
I have in thee reposed so much trust,
I never thought to find thee so unjust.

Philarete.

Why, Willy?

Willy.

Prithee, do not ask me why.
Doth it diminish any of thy care,
That I in freedom maken melody?
And think'st I cannot as well somewhat spare
From my delight to moan thy misery?
'Tis time our loves should these suspects forbear:
Thou art that friend, which thou, unnamed, should'st know,
And not have drawn my love in question so.

Philarete.

Forgive me, and I'll pardon thy mistake;
And so let this thy gentle anger cease.
I never of thy love will question make
Whilst that the number of our days increase.
Yet to myself I much might seem to take,
And something near unto presumption prease,
To think me worthy love from such a spirit,
But that I know thy kindness past my merit.

Besides, methought thou spak'st now of a friend,
That seemed more grievous discontents to bear:
Some things I find that do in show offend,
Which to my patience little trouble are;
And they ere long I hope will have an end,
Or though they have not, much I do not care.
So this it was made me that question move,
And not suspect of honest Willy's love.

Willy.

Alas! thou art exiled from thy flock,
And quite beyond the deserts here confined,
Hast nothing to converse with but a rock.
Or at least outlaws in their caves half pined;
And dos' thou at thy own misfortune mock,
Making thyself, too, to thyself unkind?
When heretofore we talked we did embrace.
But now I scarce can come to see thy face.

Philarete.

Yet all that, Willy, is not worth thy sorrow,
For I have mirth here thou would'st not believe:
From deepest cares the highest joys I borrow.
If aught chance out this day may make me grieve,
I'll learn to mend or scorn it by to-morrow.
This barren place yields somewhat to relieve,
For I have found sufficient to content me,
And more true bliss than ever freedom lent me.

Willy.

Are prisons then grown places of delight?

Philarete.

'Tis as the conscience of the prisoner is:
The very grates are able to affright
The guilty man that knows his deeds amiss;
All outward pleasures are exiled quite,
And it is nothing of itself but this:
Abhorred loneness, darkness, sadness, pains,
Numb cold, sharp hunger, scorching thirst and chains.

Willy.

And these are nothing?

Philarete.

Nothing yet to me:
Only my friend's restraint is all my pain;
And since I truly find my conscience free
From that my loneness too, I reap some gain.

Willy.

But grant in this no discontentment be,
It doth thy wished liberty restrain;
And to thy soul I think there's nothing nearer,
For I could never hear thee prize aught dearer.

Philarete.

True, I did ever set it at a rate
Too dear for any mortal's worth to buy:
'Tis not our greatest shepherd's whole estate
Shall purchase from me my least liberty;
But I am subject to the powers of fate,
And to obey them is no slavery:
They may do much, but when they have done all,
Only my body they may bring in thrall.

And 'tis not that, my Willy! 'tis my mind;
My mind's more precious freedom I so weigh.
A thousand ways they may my body bind,
In thousand thralls, butne'er my mind betray;
And thence it is that I contentment find,
And bear with patience this my load away:
I'm still myself, and that I'd rather be,
Than to be lord of all these downs in fee.

Willy.

Nobly resolved! and I do joy to hear't;
For 'tis the mind of man indeed that's all;
There's nought so hard but a brave heart will bear't;
The guiltless men count great afflictions small:
They'll look on death and torment, yet not fear't,
Because they know 'tis rising, so to fall.
Tyrants may boast they to much power are born,
Yet he hath more that tyrannies can scorn.

Philarete.

'Tis right; but I no tyrannies endure,
Nor have I suffered aught worth name of care.

Willy.

Whate'er thou'lt call't thou may'st, but I am sure
Many more pine that much less pained are.
Thy look, methinks, doth say thy meaning's pure,
And by this past I find what thou dost dare;
But I could never yet the reason know,
Why thou art lodged in this house of woe.

Philarete.

Nor I, by Pan I nor never hope to do;
But thus it pleases some, and I do guess
Partly a cause that moves them thereunto,
Which neither will avail me to express,
Nor thee to hear, and therefore let it go:
We must not say they do so that oppress;
Yet I shall ne'er, to sooth them or the times,
Injure myself by bearing others' crimes.

Willy.

Then thou may'st speak freely: there's none hears
But he whom, I do hope, thou dost not doubt.

Philarete.

True; but if doors and walls have gotten ears,
And closet-whisperings may be spread about,
Do not blame him that in such causes fears
What in his passion he may blunder out
In such a place, and such strict times as these,
Where what we speak is took as others please.

But yet to-morrow, if thou come this way,
I'll tell thee all my story to the end:
'Tis long, and now I fear thou canst not stay,
Because thy stock must watered be and penned
And night begins to muffle up the day;
Whence to inform thee how alone I spend,
I'll only sing a sorry prisoner's lay
I framed this morn; which, though it suits no fields,
Is such as fits me and sad thraldom yields.

Willy.

Well, I will set my kit another string,
And play into it whilst that thou dost sing.

Sonnet.

Philarete.

N OW that my body, dead-alive,
Bereaved of comfort, lies in thrall,
Do thou, my soul, begin to thrive,
And unto honey turn this gall;
So shall we both, through outward woe,
The way to inward comfort know.

As to the flesh we food do give
To keep in us this mortal breath;
So souls on meditations live,
And shun thereby immortal death;
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,
Than when thou find'st me most opprest.

First, think, my soul, if I have foes
That take a pleasure in my care,
And to procure these outward woes
Have thus entrapt me unaware,
Thou should'st by much more careful be,
Since greater foes lay wait for thee.

Then, when mewed up in grates of steel,
Minding those joys mine eyes do miss,
Thou find'st no torment thou dost feel
So grievous as privation is;
Muse how the damned, in flames that glow,
Pine in the loss of bliss they know.

Thou seest there's given so great might
To some that are but clay as I,
Their very anger can affright;
Which, if in any thou espy,
Thus think: if mortal's frowns strike fear,
How dreadful will God's wrath appear!

By my late hopes, that now are crost,
Consider those that firmer be;
And make the freedom I have lost
A means that may remember Thee:
Had Christ not thy Redeemer been,
What horrid thrall thou hadst been in!

These iron chains, these bolts of steel,
Which other poor offenders grind,
The wants and cares which they do feel,
May bring some greater thing to mind;
For by their grief thou shalt do well
To think upon the pains of hell.

Or when through me thou seest a man
Condemned unto a mortal death,
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,
Drawing with fear his panting breath;
Think, if in that such grief thou see,
How sad will, " Go, ye cursed! " be.

Again, when he that feared to die,
Past hope, doth see his pardon brought,
Read but the joy that's in his eye,
And then convey it to thy thought;
There think, betwixt my heart and thee,
How sweet will " Come, ye blessed! " be.

Thus if thou do, though closed here,
My bondage I shall deem the less,
I neither shall have cause to fear,
Nor yet bewail my sad distress;
For whether live, or pine, or die,
We shall have bliss eternally.

Willy.

Trust me, I see the cage doth some birds good;
And, if they do not suffer too much wrong,
Will teach them sweeter descants than the wood.
Believe't, I like the subject of thy song:
It shows thou art in no distempered mood;
But 'cause to hear the residue I long,
My sheep to-morrow I will nearer bring,
And spend the day to hear thee talk and sing.

Yet ere we part, Philarete, areed
Of whom thou learn'dst to make such songs as these.
I never yet heard any shepherd's reed
Tune in mishap a strain that more could please.
Surely thou dost invoke, at this thy need,
Some power that we neglect in other lays;
For here's a name and words that but few swains
Have mentioned at their meeting on the plains.

Philarete.

Indeed, 'tis true; and they are sore to blame
That do so much neglect it in their songs;
For thence proceedeth such a worthy fame
As is not subject unto envy's wrongs;
That is the most to be respected name
Of our true Pan, whose worth sits on all tongues,
And what the ancient shepherds used to praise
In sacred anthems upon holidays.

He that first taught his music such a strain
Was that sweet shepherd who, until a king,
Kept sheep upon the honey-milky plain,
That is enriched by Jordan's watering:
He in his troubles eased the body's pains
By measures raised to the soul's ravishing;
And his sweet numbers only, most divine,
Gave first the being to this song of mine.

Willy.

Let his good spirit ever with thee dwell,
That I might hear such music every day!

Philarete.

Thanks, swain! But hark, thy wether rings his bell,
And swains to fold or homeward drive away.

Willy.

And yon goes Cuddy; therefore fare thou well!
I'll make his sheep for me a little stay;
And, if thou think it fit, I'll bring him too
Next morning hither.

Philarete.

Prithee, Willy, do.