BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS,

BOOK I.

THE FIRST SONG.

THE ARGUMENT.

Marina's love, ycleep'd the faire, Celand's disdaine, and her despaire, Are the first wings my Muse puts on To reach the sacred Helicon.

I THAT Whileare, neere Tavie's' stragling spring,
Unto my seely sheepe did use to sing,
And plar'd to please myselfe, on rusticke reede,
Nor sought for baye, (the learned shepheard's
meede)

But as a swayne unkent fed on the plaines,
And made the Eccho umpire of my straines :
And drawne by time (altho' the weak'st of many)
To sing those layes as yet unsung of any.
What neede I tune the swaines of Thessaly?
Or, bootelesse, adde to them of Arcadie?
No: faire Arcadia cannot be compleater,

My prayse may lesson, but not make thee greater.

1 Tavie is a river, having his head in Dertmore, in Devon, some few miles from Marie-Tavy, and falls southward into Tamar: out of the same moore riseth, running northward, another, called Tau: which by the way the rather I speake of, because in the printed Malmesburie de Gest, Pontific. lib. 2. fol. 146. you reade, Est in Domnonia cœnobium Monachorum juxta Tau fluvium, quod Tavistock vocatur: whereas upon Tau stands (neere the north-side of the shire) Taustocke, being no remnants of a monasterie: so that you must there reade, juxta Tavi Fluvium, as in a manuscript copie of Malmesburie, (the forme of the hand assuring Malmesburie's time) belonging to the abbey of S. Augustine, in Canterburie, I have seen, in the hands of my very learned friend M. Selden.

My Muse for lofty pitches shall not rome,
But homely pipen of her native home:
And to the swaynes, love rural minstralsie,
Thus, deare Britannia, will I sing of thee.

High on the plaines of that renowned ile,
Which all men Beautie's Garden-plot enstyle,
A shepheard dwelt, whom fortune had made rich
With all the gifts that seely men bewitch.
Neere him a shepheardesse, for beautie's store
Unparalell'd of any age before.

[eyes,

Within those brests her face a flame did move,
Which never knew before what 'twas to love,
Dazeling each shepheard's sight that view'd her
And, as the Persians, did idolatrise
Unto the Sunne: they thought that Cinthia's light
Might well be spar'd, where she appear'd in night.
And as when many to the goale doe runne,
The prize is given never but to one:
So first, and onely Celandine was led,
Of destinies and Heaven much favoured,
To gaine this beautie, which I here do offer
To memorie: his paynes (who would not proffer
Paynes for such pleasures?) were not great nor
much,

But that his labour's recompence was such
As countervayled 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 elme whereby her vine did grow:
Yea, told him, when his tongue began this taske,
She knew not to deny when he would aske.
Finding his suite as quickly got as mov'd,
Celandine, in his thoughts, not well approv'd
What none could disallow, his love grew fained,
And what he once affected, now disdained.
But faire Marina (for so was she call'd)
Having in Celandine her love install'd,
Affected so this faithlesse shepbeard's boy,
That she was rapt beyond degree of joy.
Briefely, she could not live one houre without him,
And thought no joy like theirs that liv'd about him.
This variable shepheard for a while
Did Nature's jewell, by his craft, beguile :
And still the perfecter her love did grow,
His did appeare more counterfeit in show.

Which she perceiving that his flame did slake,
And lov'd her onely for his trophie's sake:
"For he that's stuffed with a faithlesse tumour,
Loves onely 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 prest,
Esteeming that as nought, which he possest:
"For, what is gotten but with little paine,
As little griefe we take to lose againe :"
Well-minded Marine, grieving, thought it strange,
That her ingratefull swaine did seeke for change.
Still by degrees her cares grew to the full,
Joyes to the wane: heart-rending griefe did pull
Her from herselfe, and she abandon'd all
To cryes and teares, fruits of a funerall:
Running, the mountaines, fields, by wat'ry springs,
Filling each cave with wofull ecchoings;
Making in thousand places her complaint,
And uttering to the trees what her tears meant.
"For griefcs conceal'd (proceeding from desire)
Consume the more, as doth a close-pent fire."
Whilst that the daye's sole eye doth guide the seas,
In his daye's journey to th' Antipodes :
And all the time the jetty chariotere
Hurles her black mantle through our hemisphere,
Under the covert of a sprouding pyne
She sits and grieves for faithlesse Celandine.
Beginning thus: "Alas! and must it be
That love, which thus torments and trouble 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 faithfull 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 mai'st, and yet wilt not.
Have I rejected those that me ador'd,
To be of him, whom I adore, abhor'd?
And pass'd by others' teares, 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!'
May be he takes delight to see in me
The burning rage of hellish jealousie ;
Tries if in fury any love appeares;

And bathes his joy within my floud of teares.
But if he lov'd to soile my spotlesse soule,
And me amongst deceived maides enroule,
To publish to the world my open shame :
Then, heart, take freedome; hence, accursed flame!
And, as queene regent, in my heart shall move
'Disdaine, that onely over-ruleth love :'
By this infranchiz'd sure my thoughts shall be,
And in the same sort love, as thou lov'st me.
But what! or can I cancell or unbinde
That which my heart hath seal'd and love bath
No, no! griefe doth deceive me more each houre;
For, whoso truely loves, hath not that power.'
I wrong to say so, since of all 'tis knowne,
Who yeelds to love doth leave to be her owne.'
But what availes my living thus apart?
Can I forget him? or out of my heart
Can tears expulse his image? Surely no.

[sign'd?

We well may flye the place, but not the woe: Love's fire is of a nature which by turnes Consumes in presence, and in absence burnes.'