Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE FIFTH EGLOGUE, by GEORGE WITHER


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THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE FIFTH EGLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Philaret alexis moves
Last Line: Never was any that more sweetly sung.
Subject(s): Brooke, Christopher (1570-1628); Browne, William (1591-1645); Ferrar, William (17th Century); Prisons & Prisoners


The Argument.

Philaret Alexis moves,
To embrace the Muses loves;
Bids him never carefull seeme,
Of anothers dis-esteeme:
Since to them it may suffice,
They themselves can justly prize.

Philarete. Alexis.

Philarete.

Alexis, if thy worth doe not disdaine
The humble friendship of a meaner Swaine,
Or some more needfull businesse of the day,
Urge thee to be too hasty on thy way;
Come (gentle Shepheard) rest thee here by mee,
Beneath the shadow of this broad leav'd tree:
For though I seeme a stranger, yet mine eye
Observes in thee the markes of courtesie:
And if my judgement erre not, noted to,
More then in those that more would seeme to doe.
Such Vertues thy rare modesty doth hide.
Which by their proper luster I espy'd;
And though long maskt in silence they have beene,
I have a Wisedome through that silence seene,
Yea, I have learned knowledge from thy tongue,
And heard when thou hast in concealement sung.
Which me the bolder and more willing made
Thus to invite thee to this homely shade.
And though (it may be) thou couldst never spie,
Such worth in me, I might be knowne thereby:
In thee I doe; for here my neighbouring Sheepe
Upon the border of these Downes I keepe:
Where often thou at Pastorals and Playes,
Hast grac'd our Wakes on Summer Holy-dayes:
And many a time with thee at this cold spring
Met I, to heare your learned shepheards sing,
Saw them disporting in the shady Groves,
And in chaste Sonnets wooe their chaster Loves:
When I, endued with the meanest skill,
Mongst others have been urg'd to tune my quill.
But, (cause but little cunning I had got)
Perhaps thou saw'st me, though thou knew'st me not.

Alexis.

Yes Philaret, I know thee, and thy name.
Nor is my knowledge grounded all on fame:
Art thou not he, that but this other yeere,
Scard'st all the Wolves and Foxes in the Sheere?
And in a match at Foot-ball lately tride
(Having scarce twenty Satyrs on thy side)
Held'st play: and though assailed kept'st thy stand
Gainst all the best-tride Ruffians in the Land?
Did'st thou not then in dolefull Sonnets mone,
When the beloved of great Pan was gone?
And at the wedding of faire Thame and Rhine,
Sing of their glories to thy Valentine?
I know it, and I must confesse that long
In one thing I did doe thy nature wrong:
For, till I mark'd the ayme thy Satyrs had,
I thought them over-bold, and thee halfe mad.
But, since I did more neerely on thee looke,
I soone perceiv'd that I all had mistooke;
I saw that of a Cynicke thou mad'st show,
Where since, I finde, that thou wert nothing so;
And that of many thou much blame had'st got,
When as thy Innocency deserv'd it not.
But that too good opinion thou hast seem'd
To have of me (not so to be esteem'd,)
Prevailes not ought to stay him who doth feare,
He rather should reproofes then prayses heare.
'Tis true, I found thee plaine and honest to,
Which made mee like, then love, as now I do;
And, Phila, though a stranger, this to thee Ile say,
Where I doe love, I am not coy to stay.

Philarete.

Thankes, gentle Swaine, that dost so soone unfold
What I to thee as gladly would have told:
And thus thy wonted curtesie exprest
In kindly entertaining this request.
Sure, I should injure much my owne content,
Or wrong thy love to stand on complement:
Who hast acquaintance in one word begun,
As well as I could in an age have done.
Or by an over-weaning slownesse marre
What thy more wisdome hath brought on so farre.
Then sit thou downe, and Ile my minde declare,
As freely, as if we familiars were:
And if thou wilt but daigne to give me eare,
Something thou mayst for thy more profit heare.

Alexis.

Philarete, I willingly obey.

Philarete.

Then know, Alexis, from that very day,
When as I saw thee at thy Shepheards Coate,
Where each (I thinke) of other tooke first note;
I meane that Pastor who by Tavies springs,
Chaste Shepheards loves in sweetest numbers sings,
And with his Musicke (to his greater fame)
Hath late made proud the fairest Nymphs of Thame.
E'ne then (me thought) I did espy in thee
Some unperceiv'd and hidden worth to bee:
Which, in thy more apparant vertues, shin'd;
And, among many, I (in thought) devin'd,
By something my conceit had understood,
That thou wert markt one of the Muses brood.
That, made me love thee: and that Love I beare
Begat a Pitty, and that Pitty, Care:
Pitty I had to see good parts conceal'd,
Care I had how to have that good reveal'd,
Since 'tis a fault admitteth no excuse,
To possesse much, and yet put nought in use.
Hereon I vow'd (if wee two ever met)
The first request that I would strive to get,
Should be but this, that thou would'st shew thy skill,
How thou could'st tune thy Verses to thy quill:
And teach thy Muse in some well-framed Song,
To shew the Art thou hast supprest so long:
Which if my new-acquaintance may obtaine,
I will for ever honour this daies gaine.

Alexis.

Alas! my small experience scarce can tell,
So much as where those Nymphs, the Muses, dwell;
Nor (though my slow conceit still travels on)
Shall I ere reach to drinke of Hellicon.
Or, if I might so favour'd be to taste
What those sweet streames but over-flow in waste,
And touch Parnassus, where it low'st doth lie,
I feare my skill would hardly flag so hie.

Philarete.

Despaire not Man, the Gods have prized nought
So deere, that may not be with labour bought:
Nor need thy paine be great, since Fate and Heaven,
That (as a blessing) at thy birth have given.

Alexis.

Why, say they had?

Philarete.

Then use their gifts thou must.
Or be ungratefull, and so be unjust:
For if it cannot truely be deni'd,
Ingratitude mens benefits doe hide;
Then more ungratefull must he be by ods,
Who doth conceale the bounty of the Gods.

Alexis.

That's true indeed, but Envy haunteth those
Who seeking Fame, their hidden skill disclose:
Where else they might (obscur'd) from her espying,
Escape the blasts and danger of envying:
Cryticks will censure our best straines of Wit,
And pur-blind I gnorance misconster it.
And which is bad, (yet worse then this doth follow)
Most hate the Muses, and contemne Apollo.

Philarete.

So let them: why should wee their hate esteeme?
Is't not enough we of our selves can deeme?
'Tis more to their disgrace that we scorne them,
Then unto us that they our Art contemne.
Can we have better pastime then to see
Their grosse heads may so much deceived bee,
As to allow those doings best, where wholly
We scoffe them to their face, and flout their folly?
Or to behold blacke Envy in her prime,
Die selfe-consum'd, whilst we vie lives with time:
And, in despight of her, more fame attaine,
Then all her malice can wipe out againe?

Alexis.

Yea, but if I appli'd mee to those straines,
Who should drive forth my Flocks unto the plaines,
Which, whil'st the Muses rest, and leasure crave,
Must watering, folding, and attendance have?
For if I leave with wonted care to cherish
Those tender heards, both I and they should perish.

Philarete.

Alexis, now I see thou dost mistake,
There is no meaning thou thy Charge forsake;
Nor would I wish thee so thy selfe abuse,
As to neglect thy calling for thy Muse.
But, let these two, so each of other borrow,
That they may season mirth, and lessen sorrow.
Thy Flocke will helpe thy charges to defray,
Thy Muse to passe the long and teadious day:
Or whilst thou tun'st sweet measures to thy Reed,
Thy Sheepe, to listen, will more neere thee feed;
The Wolves will shun them, birds above thee sing,
And Lamkins dance about thee in a Ring.
Nay, which is more; in this thy low estate,
Thou in contentment shalt with Monarks mate:
For mighty Pan, and Ceres, to us grants,
Our Fields and Flocks shall helpe our outward wants:
The Muses teach us Songs to put off cares,
Grac'd with as rare and sweet conceits as theirs:
And we can thinke our Lasses on the Greenes
As faire, or fairer, then the fairest Queenes:
Or, what is more then most of them shall doe,
Wee'le make their juster fames last longer to,
And have our Lines by greatest Princes grac'd
When both their name and memori's defac'd.
Therefore, Alexis, though that some disdaine
The heavenly Musicke of the Rurall plaine,
What is't to us, if they (o'reseene) contemne
The dainties which were nere ordain'd for them?
And though that there be other-some envy
The prayses due to sacred Poesie,
Let them disdaine, and fret till they are weary,
Wee in our selves have that shall make us merry:
Which, he that wants, and had the power to know it,
Would give his life that he might die a Poet.

Alexis.

A brave perswasion.

Philarete.

Here thou see'st mee pent
Within the jawes of strict imprisonment;
A fore-lorne Shepheard, voyd of all the meanes,
Whereon Mans common hope in danger leanes:
Weake in my selfe, exposed to the Hate
Of those whose Envies are insatiate:
Shut from my friends, banish'd from all delights;
Nay worse, excluded from the sacred Rites.
Here I doe live mongst out-lawes markt for death,
As one unfit to draw the common breath,
Where those who to be good did never know,
Are barred from the meanes should make them so.
I suffer, cause I wish'd my Country well,
And what I more must beare I cannot tell.
I'me sure they give my Body little scope,
And would allow my Minde as little Hope:
I waste my Meanes, which of it selfe is slender,
Consume my Time (perhaps my fortunes hinder)
And many Crosses have, which those that can
Conceive no wrong that hurts another man,
Will not take note of; though if halfe so much
Should light on them, or their owne person touch,
Some that themselves (I feare) most worthy thinke,
With all their helpes would into basenesse shrinke.
But, spight of Hate, and all that Spight can do,
I can be patient yet, and merry to.
That slender Muse of mine, by which my Name,
Though scarse deserv'd, hath gain'd a little fame,
Hath made mee unto such a Fortune borne,
That all misfortunes I know how to scorne;
Yea, midst these bands can sleight the Great'st that bee,
As much as their disdaine misteemes of mee.
This Cave, whose very presence some affrights,
I have oft made to Eccho forth delights,
And hope to turne, if any Justice be,
Both shame and care on those that wish'd it me.
For while the World rancke villanies affords,
I will not spare to paint them out in words;
Although I still should into troubles runne,
I knew what man could act, ere I begun;
And I'le fulfill what my Muse drawes mee to,
Maugre all Jayles, and Purgatories to.
For whil'st shee sets mee honest task's about,
Vertue, or shee, (I know) will beare mee out:
And if, by Fate, th'abused power of some
Must, in the worlds-eye, leave mee overcome,
They shall find one Fort yet, so fenc'd I trow,
It cannot feare a Mortals over-throw.
This Hope, and Trust, that great power did infuse,
That first inspir'd into my brest a Muse,
By whom I doe, and ever will contemne
All those ill haps, my foes despight, and them.

Alexis.

Th'hast so well (young Philaret) plaid thy part,
I am almost in love with that sweet Art:
And if some power will but inspire my song,
Alexis will not be obscured long.

Philarete.

Enough kinde Pastor: But oh! youder see
Two honest Shepheards walking hither, bee
Cuddy and Willy, that so dearely love,
Who are repairing unto yonder Grove:
Let's follow them: for never braver Swaines
Made musicke to their flocks upon these Plaines.
They are more worthy, and can better tell
What rare contents doe with a Poet dwell.
Then whiles our sheepe the short sweet grasse do sheare
And till the long shade of the hils appeare,
Wee'le heare them sing: for though the one be young,
Never was any that more sweetly sung.





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