Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES, by ROBERT HERRICK


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Good day, mirtillo
Last Line: We'll blesse the babe, then back to countrie pleasures.


Presented to the King, and Set by
Mr. Nic: Laniere.

The Speakers, Mirtillo, Amintas, and Amarillis.

Amin. Good day, Mirtillo. Mirt. And to you no lesse:
And all faire Signs lead on our Shepardesse.
Amar. With all white luck to you. Mirt. But say, What news
Stirs in our Sheep-walk? Amin. None, save that my Ewes,
My Weathers, Lambes, and wanton Kids are well,
Smooth, faire, and fat, none better I can tell:
Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feast
For his Sheep-shearers. Mir. True, these are the least.
But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis,
Rest but a while here, by this bank of Lillies,
And lend a gentle eare to one report
The Country has. Amint. From whence? Amar. From whence?
Mir. The Court.
Three dayes before the shutting in of May,
(With whitest Wool be ever crown'd that day!)
To all our joy, a sweet-fac't child was borne,
More tender then the childhood of the Morne.
Chor. Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep,
Let Lullaby the pretty Prince asleep!
Mirt. And that his birth sho'd be more singular,
At Noone of Day, was seene a silver Star,
Bright as the Wise-men's Torch, which guided them
To Gods sweet Babe, when borne at Bethlehem;
While Golden Angels (some have told to me)
Sung out his Birth with Heav'nly Minstralsie.
Amint. O rare! But is't a trespasse if we three
Sho'd wend along his Baby-ship to see?
Mir. Not so, not so. Chor. But if it chance to prove
At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.
Amar. But deare Mirtillo, I have heard it told,
Those learned men brought Incense, Myrrhe, and Gold,
From Countries far, with Store of Spices, (sweet)
And laid them downe for Offrings at his feet.
Mirt. 'Tis true indeed; and each of us will bring
Unto our smiling, and our blooming King,
A neat, though not so great an Offering.
Amar. A Garland for my Gift shall be
Of flowers, ne'r suckt by th' theeving Bee:
And all most sweet; yet all lesse sweet then he.
Amint. And I will beare along with you
Leaves dropping downe the honyed dew,
With oaten pipes, as sweet, as new.
Mirt. And I a sheep-hook will bestow,
To have his little King-ship know,
As he is Prince, he's Shepherd too.
Chor. Come let's away, and quickly let's be drest,
And quickly give, The swiftest Grace is best.
And when before him we have laid our treasures,
We'll blesse the Babe, Then back to Countrie pleasures.





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