Classic Poem

I THAT whilere near Tavy's straggling spring
Unto my seely sheep did use to sing,
And play'd to please myself on rustic reed,
Nor sought for bay (the learned shepherd's meed),
But as a swain unkent fed on the plains,
And made the Echo umpire of my strains:
Am drawn by time (although the weak'st of many)
To sing those lays as yet unsung of any.
What need I tune the swains of Thessaly?
Or, bootless, add to them of Arcadie?
No, fair Arcadia cannot be completer;
My praise may lessen, but not make thee greater.
My Muse for lofty pitches shall not roam,
But homely pipen of her native home;
And to the swains, love rural minstrelsy;
Thus, dear Britannia, will I sing of thee.
High on the plains of that renowned isle,
Which all men Beauty's garden-plot enstyle,
A shepherd dwelt, whom Fortune had made rich
With all the gifts that silly men bewitch.
Near him a shepherdess for beauty's store
Unparallel'd of any age before.
Within those breasts her face a flame did move,
Which never knew before what 'twas to love,
Dazzling each shepherd's sight that view'd her eyes:
And as the Persians did idolatrize
Unto the sun: they thought that Cynthia's light
Might well be spar'd where she appear'd in night.
And as when many to the goal do run,
The prize is given never but to one:
So first, and only Celandine was led,
Of Destiny's and Heaven much favoured,
To gain this beauty, which I here do offer
To memory: his pains (who would not proffer
Pains for such pleasures?) were not great nor much,
But that his labour's recompense was such
As countervailed all: for she, whose passion,
(And passion oft is love,) whose inclination
Bent all her course to him-wards, let him know
He was the elm whereby her vine did grow:
Yea, told him, when his tongue began this task,
She knew not to deny when he would ask.
Finding his suit as quickly got as mov'd,
Celandine, in his thoughts not well approv'd
What none could disallow, his love grew seign'd,
And what he once affected now disdain'd.
But fair Marina (for so was she call'd)
Having in Celandine her love install'd,
Affected so this faithless shepherd's boy,
That she was rapt beyond degree of joy.
Briefly, she could not live one hour without him,
And thought no joy like theirs that liv'd about him,
This variable shepherd for a while
Did Nature's jewel by his craft beguile:
And still the perfecter her love did grow,
His did appear more counterfeit in show.
Which she perceiving that his flame did slake,
And lov'd her only for his trophy's sake:
" For he that's stuffed with a faithless tumour,
Loves only for his lust and for his humour: "
And that he often in his merry fit
Would say, his good came ere he hop'd for it:
His thoughts for other subjects being press'd,
Esteeming that as nought which he possess'd:
" For what is gotten but with little pain,
As little grief we take to lose again. "
Well-minded Marine grieving, thought it strange
That her ingrateful swain did seek for change.
Still by degrees her cares grew to the full,
Joys to the wane, heartrending grief did pull
Her from herself, and she abandon'd all
To cries and tears, fruits of a funeral;
Running the mountains, fields, by wat'ry springs,
Filling each cave with woful echoings;
Making in thousand places her complaint,
And uttering to the trees what her tears meant.
" For griefs conceal'd (proceeding from desire)
Consume the more, as doth a close-pent fire. "
Whilst that the day's sole eye doth gild the seas
In his day's journey to th' Antipodes,
And all the time the jetty-charioteer
Hurls her black mantle through our hemisphere,
Under the covert of a sprouting pine
She sits and grieves for faithless Celandine.
Beginning thus: Alas! and must it be
That Love which thus torments and troubles me
In settling it, so small advice hath lent
To make me captive, where enfranchisement
Cannot be gotten? nor where, like a slave,
The office due to faithful prisoners, have?
Oh cruel Celandine, why shouldst thou hate
Her, who to love thee, was ordain'd by Fate!
Should I not follow thee, and sacrifice
My wretched life to thy betraying eyes?
Aye me! of all my most unhappy lot;
What others would, thou may'st, and yet wilt not.
Have I rejected those that me ador'd,
To be of him, whom I adore, abhorr'd?
And pass'd by others' tears, to make election
Of one, that should so pass-by my affection?
I have: and see the heav'nly powers intend
" To punish sinners in what they offend. "