Classic Poem

THE Argument .

Philarete on Willy calls
To sing out his pasiorals;
Warrants fame shall grace his rhymes,
'Spite of envy and the times;
And shows how in care he uses
To take comfort from his Muses.

P HILARETE , W ILLY .

Philarete.

P RITHEE , Willy! tell me this;
What new accident there is,
That thou, once the blithest lad,
Art become so wond'rous sad,
And so careless of thy quill
As if thou hadst lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so cheered me with thy song
That I have forgot my wrong,
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old wont thou hast lost.
Tell me, have I aught missaid,
That hath made thee ill-apaid?
Hath some churl done thee a spite?
Dost thou miss a lamb to-night?
Frowns thy fairest shepherd's lass?
Or how comes this ill to pass?
Is there any discontent
Worse than this my banishment?

Willy.

Why, doth that so evil seem
That thou nothing worse dost deem?
Shepherds there full many be,
That will change contents with thee.
Those that choose their walks at will,
On the valley or the hill,
Or those pleasures boast of can,
Groves or fields may yield to man,
Never come to know the rest
Wherewithal thy mind is blest?
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troop at sports,
And in company some while,
Happens to strain forth a smile,
Feels more want and outward smart,
And more inward grief of heart
Than this place can bring to thee.
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth,
But what find'st thou in this earth
Wherein aught may be believed
Worth to make me joyed or grieved?
And yet feel I, natheless,
Part of both I must confess.
Sometime I of mirth do borrow,
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But my present state is such,
As nor joy nor'grieve I much.

Philarete.

Why hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall
His well-tuned pastoral,
And my ears that music bar
Which I more long after far
Than the liberty I want?

Willy.

That were very much to grant.
But doth this hold alway, lad!
Those that sing not, must be sad?
Didst thou ever that bird hear
Sing well that sings all the year?
Tom the Piper doth not play
Till he wears his pipe away:
There's a time to slack the string,
And a time to leave to sing.

Philarete.

Yea; but no man now is still
That can sing or tune a quill.
Now to chaunt it were but reason:
Song and music are in season.
Now, in this sweet, jolly tide,
Is the Earth in all her pride:
The fair lady of the May,
Trimmed up in her best array,
Hath invited all the swains,
With the lasses of the plains,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.
Corydon, with his bold rout,
Hath already been about
For the elder shepherds' dole,
And fetched in the summer-pole;
Whilst the rest have built a bower
To defend them from a shower,
Ceiled so close, with boughs all green,
Titan cannot pry between.
Now the dairy wenches dream
Of their strawberries and cream,
And each doth herself advance
To be taken in to dance;
Every one that knows to sing,
Fits him for his carolling;
So do those that hope for meed,
Either by the pipe or reed;
And though I am kept away,
I do hear, this very day,
Many learned grooms do wend
For the garlands to contend
Which a nymph, that hight Desert,
Long a stranger in this part,
With her own fair hand hath wrought;
A rare work, they say, past thought,
As appeareth by the name,
For she calls them Wreaths of Fame.
She hath set in their due place
Every flower that may grace;
And among a thousand moe,
Whereof some but serve for show,
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,
That they may not blasted be;
Which with Time she edged about,
Lest the work should ravel out.
And that it might wither never,
Intermixed it with Live-ever.
These are to be shared among
Those who do excel for song,
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then, for those among the rest
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a kidling with the dam,
A fat wether and a lamb.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrestle, run, and throw the bar,
There's appointed guerdons too:
He that best the first can do,
Shall for his reward be paid
With a sheep-hook, fair inlaid
With fine bone of a strange beast
That men bring out of the West,
For the next, a scrip of red,
Tasselled with fine-coloured thread.
There's prepared for their meed
That in running make most speed,
Or the cunning measures foot,
Cups of turned maple-root,
Whereupon the skilful man
Hath engraved the loves of Pan;
And the last hath for his due
A fine napkin wrought with blue.
Then, my Willy, why art thou
Careless of thy merit now?
What dost thou here, with a wight
That is shut up from delight
In a solitary den,
As not fit to live with men?
Go, my Willy, get thee gone,
Leave me in exile alone,
Hie thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy song.
Thou art young, yet such a lay
Never graced the month of May,
As, if they provoke thy skill,
Thou canst fit unto thy quill.
I with wonder heard thee sing
At our last year's revelling.
Then I with the rest was free,
When, unknown, I noted thee,
And perceived the ruder swains,
Envy thy far sweeter strains.
Yea, I saw the lasses cling
Round about thee in a ring,
As if each one jealous were
Any but herself should hear;
And I know they yet do long
For the res'due of thy song.
Haste thee, then, to sing it forth,
Take the benefit of worth;
And desert will sure bequeath
Fame's fair garland for thy wreath.
Hie thee, Willy, hie away!

Willy.

Phila! rather let me stay
And be desolate with thee,
Than at those their revels be.
Nought such is my skill, Iwis,
As indeed thou deem'st it is;
But whate'er it be, I must
Be content, and shall, I trust.
For a song I do not pass
'Mongst my friends; but what, alas!
Should I have to do with them
That my music do contemn?
Some there are, as well I wot,
That the same yet favour not;
Yet I cannot well avow,
They my carols disallow;
But such malice I have spied,
'Tis as much as if they did.

Philarete.

Willy, what may those men be,
Are so ill to malice thee?

Willy.

Some are worthy-well esteemed;
Some without worth are so deemed;
Others of so base a spirit,
They have nor esteem nor merit.

Philarete.

What's the wrong?

Willy.

A slight offence,
Wherewithal I can dispense;
But hereafter, for their sake,
To myself I'll music make.

Philarete.

What, because some clown offends,
Wilt thou punish all thy friends?

Willy.

Do not, Phil, misunderstand me:
Those that love me may command me;
But thou know'st I am but young,
And the pastoral I sung
Is by some supposed to be,
By a strain, too high for me;
So they kindly let me gain
Not my labour for my pain.
Trust me, I do wonder why
They should me my own deny.
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit
On the wings of borrowed wit.
I'll make my own feathers rear me
Whither others cannot bear me.
Yet I'll keep my skill in store,
Till I've seen some winters more.

Philarete.

But in earnest mean'st thou so?
Then thou art not wise, I trow:
Better shall advise thee, Pan,
For thou dost not rightly than:
That's the ready way to blot
All the credit thou hast got.
Rather in thy age's prime
Get another start of Time;
And make those that so fond be,
Spite of their own dulness, see
That the sacred Muses can
Make a child in years a man,
It is known what thou canst do;
For it is not long ago,
When that, Cuddy, thou, and I,
Each the other's skill to try,
At Saint Dunstan's charmed well,
As some present there can tell,
Sang upon a sudden theme,
Sitting by the crimson stream;
Where, if thou didst well or no,
Yet remains the song to show.
Much experience more I've had,
Of thy skill, thou happy lad!
And would make the world to know it,
But that time will further show it.
Envy makes their tongues now run,
More than doubt of what is done;
For that needs must be thy own,
Or to be some other's known;
But how then will't suit unto
What thou shalt herealter do?
Or I wonder, where is he
Would with that song part to thee.
Nay, were there so mad a swain,
Could such glory sell for gain,
Phaebus would not have combined
That gift with so base a mind.
Never did the Nine impart
The sweet secrets of their art
Unto any that did scorn
We should see their favours worn.
Therefore unto those that say,
Where they pleased to sing a lay
They could do't and will not though,
This I speak, for this I know,
None e'er drank the Thesplan spring
And knew how, but he did sing.
For, that once infused in man,
Makes him show't, do what he can;
Nay, those that do only sip,
Or but even their fingers dip
In that sacred fount, poor elves!
Of that brood will show themselves.
Yea, in hope to get them fame,
They will speak, though to their shame.
Let those, then, at thee repine
That by their wits measure thine:
Needs those songs must be thine own,
And that one day will be known.
That poor imputation too,
I myself do undergo;
But it will appear, ere long,
That 'twas Envy sought our wrong;
Who, at twice ten, have sung more
Than some will do at fourscore.
Cheer thee, honest Willy, then,
And begin thy song again.

Willy.

Fain I would, but I do fear,
When again my lines they hear,
If they yield they are my rhymes
They will feign some other crimes;
And 'tis no safe vent'ring by,
Where we see Detraction lie;
For, do what I can, I doubt
She will pick some quarrel out;
And I oft have heard defended,
Little said is soon amended.

Philarete.

Seest thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's ravs?
And that vapours which do breathe
From the Earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem unto us with black steams
To pollute the Sun's bright beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemished fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With Detraction's breath on thee:
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains;
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
'Twixt men's judgments and her light:
But so much her power may do,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing she gets power;
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still the more,
Till she to the highest hath past;
Then she rests with Fame at last.
Let nought, therefore, thee affright;
But make forward in thy flight.
For if I could match thy rhyme,
To the very stars I'd climb;
There begin again, and fly
Till I reached eternity.
But, alas, my Muse is slow,
For thy place she flags too low;
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late;
And poor I, her fortune ruing,
Am put up myself a mewing.
But if I my cage can rid,
I'll fly where I never did;
And though for her sake I'm crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more than ten times double,
I should love and keep her too,
Spite of all the world could do.
For though, banished from my flocks
And confined within these rocks,
Here I waste away the light
And consume the sullen night,
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keeps many cares away.
Though I miss the flowery fields,
With those sweets the spring-tide yields;
Though I may not see those groves,
Where the shepherds chaunt their loves,
And the lasses more excel
Than the sweet-voiced Philomel;
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remains at last
But Remembrance — poor relief!
That more makes than mends my grief:
She's my mind's companion still,
Maugre envy's evil will;
Whence she should be driven too,
Were't in mortal's power to do.
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow,
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace,
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw
I could some invention draw,
And raise pleasure to her height
Through the meanest object's sight;
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the teast bough's rustling;
By a daisy, whose leaves spread,
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more intuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very gall of sadness:
The dull loneness, the black shade
That these hanging vaults have made;
The strange music of the waves
Beating on these hollow caves;
This black den which rocks emboss
Overgrown with eldest moss;
The rude portals that give light
More to terror than delight;
This my chamber of neglect,
Walled about with disrespect;
From all these, and this dull air,
A fit object for despair,
She hath taught me, by her might,
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy, thou sweet'st content
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent!
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorn
That to nought but earth are born,
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call thee madness.
Let me never taste cf gladness,
If I love not thy maddest fits
More than all their greatest wits,
And though some, too seeming holy,
Do account thy raptures folly,
Thou dost teach me to contemn
What makes knaves and fools of them.
O high power! that oft doth carry
Men above —

Willy.

Good Philarete! tarry:
I do fear thou wilt be gone
Quite above my reach, anon.
The kind flames of poesy
Have now borne thy thoughts so high,
That they up in Heaven be,
And have quite forgotten me.
Call thyself to mind again.
Are these raptures for a swain
That attends on lowly sheep,
And with simple herds doth keep?

Philarete.

Thanks, my Willy! I had run
Till that time had lodged the sun,
If thou hadst not made me stay;
But thy pardon here I pray.
Loved Apollo's sacred sire
Had raised up my spirits higher
Through the love of poesy,
Than indeed they use to fly.
But as I said, I say still;
If that I had Willy's skill,
Envy nor Detraction's tongue
Should e'er make me leave my song;
But I'd sing it every day,
Till they pined themselves away,
Be thou then advised in this,
Which both just and fitting is:
Finish what thou hast begun,
Or at least still forward run.
Hail and thunder ill he'll bear,
That a blast of wind doth fear;
And if words will thus affray thee,
Prithee how will deeds dismay thee?
Do not think so rathe a song
Can pass through the vulgar throng,
And escape without a touch,
Or that they can hurt it much:
Frosts we see do nip that thing
Which is forward'st in the spring;
Yet at last, for all such lets,
Somewhat of the rest it gets;
And I'm sure that so may'st thou.
Therefore, my kind Willy, now,
Since thy folding-time draws on,
And I see thou must be gone,
Thee I earnestly beseech
To remember this my speech,
And some little counsel take,
For Philarete his sake;
And I more of this will say
If thou come next holiday.