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And, like her mantle, stitch'd with gold and green,

(Fairer yet never wore the forest's queen)
Knit close with ribands of a party hue,

A knot of crimson and a tuft of blue,
Nor can the peacock in his spotted train
So many pleasing colours show again;
Nor could there be a mixture with more grace,
Except the heavenly roses in her face.

A silver quiver at her back she wore,

With darts and arrows for the stag and boar;
But in her eyes she had such darts again,

Could conquer gods, and wound the hearts of men.

Her left hand held a knotty Brazil bow,

Whose strength, with tears, she made the red deer know.
So clad, so armed, so dressed to win her will
Diana never trod on Latmus hill.

Walla, the fairest nymph that haunts the woods
Walla, beloved of shepherds, fauns, and floods,
Walla, for whom the frolic satyrs pine,

Walla, with whose fine foot the flowerets twine,
Walla, of whom sweet birds their ditties move,
Walla, the earth's delight, and Tavy's love.


The song of Tavy.

As careful merchants do expecting stand
(After long time and merry gales of wind)
Upon the place where their brave ship must land,
So wait I for the vessel of my mind.

Upon a great adventure is it bound

Whose safe return will valued be at more
Than all the wealthy prizes which have crowned
The golden wishes of an age before.

Out of the East jewels of wealth she brings.
Th' unvalu'd diamond of her sparkling eye

Wants in the treasure of all Europe's kings;

And were it mine they nor their crowns should buy.

The sapphires ringed on her panting breast
Run as rich veins of ore about the mould,
And are in sickness with a pale possest
So true, for them I should disvalue gold.
The melting rubies on her cherry lip

Are of such power to hold; that as one day
Cupid flew thirsty by, he stooped to sip,
And fastened there could never get away.

The sweets of Candie are no sweets to me,
When hers I taste; nor the perfumes of price,
Robb'd from the happy shrubs of Araby,

As her sweet breath, so powerful to entice.
Oh hasten then, and if thou be not gone

Unto that wished traffic through the main,
My powerful sighs shall quickly drive thee on,
And then begin to draw thee back again.
If in the mean rude waves have it opprest
It shall suffice, I ventured at the best.

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The complaint of Pan.

What boot is it though I am said to be
The worthy son of winged Mercury?

That I with gentle nymphs in forests high

Kissed out the sweet time of my infancy?

And when more years had made me able grown,
Was through the mountains as their leader known?
That high-browed Mænalus where I was bred,
And stony hills not few have honoured
Me as protector by the hands of swains,
Whose sheep retire there from the open plains?
That I in shepherd's cups-rejecting gold-
Of milk and honey measures eight times told
Have offered to me, and the ruddy wine
Fresh and new pressed from the bleeding vine?

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That gleesome hunters pleased with their sport
With sacrifices due have thanked me for 't?
That patient anglers standing all the day
Near to some shallow stickle or deep bay,
And fishermen whose nets have drawn to land
A shoal so great it wellnigh hides the sand,
For such success some promontory's head
Thrust at by waves, hath known me worshipped?
But to increase my grief, what profits this,
'Since still the loss is as the loser is ?'


The song of Celadyne.

Marina's gone and now sit I

As Philomela on a thorn,
Turned out of nature's livery,

Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn:

Only she sings not, while my sorrows can
Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan

So shuts the marigold her leaves

At the departure of the sun;
So from the honey-suckle sheaves

The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I, since she is gone.

To some few birds kind Nature hath
Made all the summer as one day;
Which once enjoy'd, cold winter's wrath,
As night, they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, they know not yet
The pain to be deprived, or to forget.

I oft have heard men say there be
Some, that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory;

But could they teach forgetfulness,

I'd learn, and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.

Sad melancholy, that persuades

Men from themselves, to think they be
Headless, or other body's shades,

Hath long and bootless dwelt with me.
For could I think she some idea were

I still might love, forget, and have her here.

But such she is not; nor would I

For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved company

Hath brought to those I felt before;

For then no future time might hap to know
That she deserv'd, or I did love her so.

Ye hours then, but as minutes be!

Though so I shall be sooner old,
Till I those lovely graces see,

Which, but in her, can none behold.
Then be an age! that we may never try
More grief in parting, but grow old and die.


A comparison.

As when a woodman on the greeny lawns,

Where daily chants the sad-sweet nightingale,

Would count his herd, more bucks, more prickets, fawns
Rush from the copse and put him from his tale;
Or some way-faring man, when morning dawns,
Would tell the sweet notes in a joysome vale,
At every foot a new bird lights and sings,
And makes him leave to count their sonnettings.
So when my willing muse would gladly dress
Her several graces in immortal lines,
Plenty empoors her; every golden tress,

Each little dimple, every glance that shines
As radiant as Apollo, I confess

My skill too weak for so admired designs; For whilst one beauty I am close about, Millions do newly rise and put me out.


[From Minor Poems.]

Welcome, welcome do I sing
Far more welcome than the spring:
He that parteth from you never

Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that to the voice is near
Breaking from your ivory pale,
Need not walk abroad to hear
The delightful nightingale.

Welcome, welcome then I sing
Far more welcome than the spring
He that parteth from you never
Shall enjoy a spring for ever.

Love, that looks still on your eyes,
Tho' the winter have begun

To benumb our arteries,

Shall not want the summer's sun.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that still may see your cheeks,
Where all rareness still reposes,

Is a fool if ere he seeks

Other lilies, other roses.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, to whom your soft lip yields,
And perceives your breath in kissing,

All the odours of the fields

Never, never shall be missing.

Welcome, welcome, &c.

Love, that question would anew
What fair Eden was of old,

Let him rightly study you,
And a brief of that behold.

Welcome welcome &c.

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