Have you not heard it said full oft,
A woman's nay doth stand for nought?
Think women still to strive with men,
To sin, and never for to saint.
There is no heaven, by holy then,
When time with age shall them attaint.1
Were kisses all the joys in bed,
One woman would another wed.
But soft; enough, too much I fear,
Lest that my mistress hear my song;
She'll not stick to round me i' th' ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long:
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewrayed.
Live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.
There will we sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
1 These four lines are thus given in Mr. Lysons's manuscript :"Think, women love to match with men,
And not to live so like a saint:
Here is no heaven; they holy then
Begin, when age doth them attaint.”
The one copy is somewhat more intelligible than the other.
There will I make thee a bed of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrt.e.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs ;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
If that the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.1
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and plants did spring:
Every thing did banish moan
Save the nightingale alone :
1 We insert this poem in the order in which it appears in The Passionate Pilgrim. The variations of other copies will be found in our Illustrations.
2 This poem is also incompletely printed in "England's Helicon; " where it bears the signature Ignoto. There are some variations in the twenty-eight lines there given, as in the case before us, of grove in The Passionate Pilgrim, which in "England's Helicon" is group.
She, poor bird, as all forlorn,
Leaned her breast up-till' a thorn,
And there sung the dolefull'st ditty,
That to hear it was great pity:
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry,
Teru, Teru, by and by:
That to hear her so complain,
Scarce I could from tears refrain ;
For her griefs so lively shown,
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain ;
None take pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion, he is dead;
All thy friends are lapped in lead.
All thy fellow-birds do sing,
Careless of thy sorrowing.
[Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me."]
Whilst as fickle Fortune smiled,
Thou and I were both beguiled.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easy like the wind;
Faithful friends are hard to find.
Every man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend;
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
1 Up-till. This is given against in " England's Helicon."
2 Bears. In "England's Helicon" beasts.
3 The poem in "England's Helicon" here ends; but the two nes with which it concludes are wanting in The Passionate Pilgrim.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call:
And with such-like flattering,
"Pity but he were a king."
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
If to women he be bent,
They have him at commandement;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown,
They that fawned on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will help thee in thy need;
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep:
Thus of every grief in heart
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.
Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn,
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn:
But my kisses bring again,
Seals of love, but sealed in vain.
Hide, O, hide those hills of snow,
Which thy frozen bosom bears,
On whose tops the pinks that grow
Are of those that April wears.
But first set my poor heart free,
Bound in those icy chains by thee.'
1 The collection entitled The Passionate Pilgrim, &c., ends with the Sonnet to Sundry Notes of Music which we have numbered Malone adds to the collection this exquisite song, of which we find the first verse in Measure for Measure. (See Illustrations.)
|