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


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THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE FOURTH EGLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Philaret on willy calls
Last Line: If thou come next holy-day.
Subject(s): Brooke, Christopher (1570-1628); Browne, William (1591-1645); Country Life; Ferrar, William (17th Century); Prisons & Prisoners


The Argument.

Philaret on Willy calls,
To sing out his Pastorals:
Warrants Fame shall grace his Rimes,
Spight of Envy and the Times;
And shewes how in care he uses,
To take comfort from his Muses.

Philarete. Willie.

Philarete.

Prethee, Willy tell me this,
What new accident there is,
That thou (once the blythest Lad)
Art become so wondrous sad?
And so carelesse of thy quill,
As if thou had'st lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charme thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so chear'd me with thy Song,
That I have forgot my wrong.
Something hath thee surely crost,
That thy old want thou hast lost.
Tell me: Have I ought mis-said
That hath made thee ill-apaid?
Hath some Churle done thee a spight?
Dost thou misse a Lambe to night?
Frowns thy fairest Shepheards Lasse?
Or how comes this ill to passe?
Is there any discontent
Worse then this my banishment?

Willie.

Why, doth that so evill seeme
That thou nothing worst dost deeme?
Shepheards, there full many be,
That will change Contents with thee.
Those that choose their Walkes at will,
On the Valley or the Hill.
Or those pleasures boast of can,
Groves or Fields may yeeld to man:
Never come to know the rest,
Wherewithall thy minde is blest.
Many a one that oft resorts
To make up the troope at sports
And in company some while,
Happens to straine forth a smile,
Feeles more want, and outward smart,
And more inward griefe of hart
Then this place can bring to thee,
While thy mind remaineth free.
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth,
But what find'st thou in this earth,
Wherein ought may be beleev'd
Worth to make me Joy'd; or griev'd?
And yet feele I (naithelesse)
Part of both I must confesse.
Sometime, I of mirth doe borrow,
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;
But, my present state is such,
As, nor Joy, nor grieve I much.

Philarete.

Why, hath Willy then so long
Thus forborne his wonted Song?
Wherefore doth he now let fall,
His well-tuned Pastorall?
And my eares that musike barre,
Which I more long after farre,
Then the liberty I want.

Willy.

That, were very much to grant,
But, doth this hold alway lad,
Those that sing not, must be sad?
Did'st thou ever that Bird heare
Sing well, that sings all the yeare?
Tom the Piper doth not play
Till be weares his Pipe away:
There's a time to slacke the string,
And a time to leave to sing.

Philarete.

Yea; but no man now is still,
That can sing, or tune a quill.
Now to chant it, were but reason;
Song and Musicke are in season.
Now in this sweet jolly tide,
Is the earth in all her pride:
The faire Lady of the May
Trim'd up in her best array;
Hath invited all the Swaines,
With the Lasses of the Plaines,
To attend upon her sport
At the places of resort.
Coridon (with his bould Rout)
Hath alredy been about
For the elder Shepeards dole,
And fetch'd in the Summer-Pole:
Whil'st the rest have built a Bower,
To defend them from a shower;
Seil'd so close, with boughes all greene,
Tytan cannot pry betweene.
Now the Dayrie-Wenches dreame
Of their Strawberries and Creame:
And each doth her selfe advance
To be taken in, to dance:
Every one that knowes to sing,
Fits him for his Carrolling:
So do those that hope for meede,
Either by the Pipe or Reede:
And though I am kept away,
I doe heare (this very day)
Many learned Groomes doe wend,
For the Garlands to contend.
Which a Nimph that hight Desart,
(Long a stranger in this part)
With her own faire hand hath wrought
A rare worke (they say) past thought,
As appeareth by the name,
For she cals them Wreathes of Fame.
She hath set in their due place
Ev'ry flowre that may grace;
And among a thousand moe,
(Whereof some but serve for shew)
She hath wove in Daphnes tree,
That they may not blasted be.
Which with Time she edg'd about,
Least the worke should ravell out.
And that it might wither never,
I intermixt it with Live-ever.
These are to be shar'd among
Those that doe excell for song:
Or their passions can rehearse
In the smooth'st and sweetest verse.
Then, for those among the rest,
That can play and pipe the best,
There's a Kidling with the Damme,
A fat Weather, and a Lambe.
And for those that leapen far,
Wrastle, Runne, and throw the Barre,
There's appointed guerdons to.
He, that best, the first can doe,
Shall, for his reward, be paid,
With a Sheep-hooke, faire in-laid
With fine Bone, of a strange Beast
That men bring out of the West.
For the next, a Scrip of red,
Tassel'd with fine coloured Thred;
There's prepared for their meed,
That in running make most speede,
(Or the cunning Measures foote)
Cups of turned Maple-roote:
Whereupon the skilfull man
Hath ingrav'd the Loves of Pan:
And the last hath for his due,
A fine Napkin wrought with blew.
Then, my Willy, why art thou
Carelesse of thy merit now?
What dost thou heere, with a wight
That is shut up from delight,
In a solitary den,
As not fit to live with men?
Goe, my Willy, get thee gone,
Leave mee in exile alone.
Hye thee to that merry throng,
And amaze them with thy Song.
Thou art young, yet such a Lay
Never grac'd the month of May,
As (if they provoke thy skill)
Thou canst fit unto thy Quill.
I with wonder heard thee sing,
At our last yeeres Revelling.
Then I with the rest was free,
When unknowne I noted thee:
And perceiv'd the ruder Swaines,
Envy thy farre sweeter straines.
Yea, I saw the Lasses cling
Round about thee in a Ring:
As if each one jealous were,
Any but her selfe should heare.
And I know they yet do long
For the res'due of thy song.
Haste thee then to sing it forth;
Take the benefit of worth.
And Desert will sure bequeath
Fames faire Garland for thy wreath,
Hye thee, Willy, hye away.

Willy.

Phila, rather let mee stay,
And be desolate with thee,
Then at those their Revels bee.
Nought such is my skill I wis,
As indeed thou deem'st it is.
But what ere it be, I must
Be content, and shall I trust.
For a Song I doe not passe,
Mong'st my friends, but what (alas)
Should I have to doe with them
That my Musicke doe contemne?
Some there are, as well I wot,
That the same yet favour not:
Yet I cannot well avow,
They my Carrols disalow:
But such malice I have spid,
'Tis as much as if they did.
Philarete.

Willy, What may those men be,
Are so ill, to malice thee?

Willy.

Some are worthy-well esteem'd,
Some without worth are so deem'd.
Others of so base a spirit,
They have nor esteeme, nor merit.

Philarete.

What's the wrong?

Willy.

A slight offence,
Wherewithall I can dispence;
But hereafter for their sake
To my selfe I'le musicke make.

Philarete.

What, because some Clowne offends,
Wilt thou punish all thy friends?

Willy.

Do not, Phill, mis-understand mee,
Those that love mee may command mee,
But, thou know'st, I am but yong,
And the Pastorall I sung,
Is by some suppos'd to be,
(By a straine) too high for me:
So they kindly let me gaine,
Not my labour for my paine.
Trust me, I doe wonder why
They should me my owne deny.
Though I'me young, I scorne to flit
On the wings of borrowed wit.
I'le make my owne feathers reare me,
Whither others cannot beare me.
Yet I'le keepe my skill in store,
Till I've seene some Winters more.

Philarete.

But, in earnest, mean'st thou so?
Then thou art not wise, I trow:
Better shall advise thee Pan,
For thou dost not rightly than:
That's the ready way to blot
All the credit thou hast got.
Rather in thy Ages prime,
Get another start of Time:
And make those that so fond be,
(Spight of their owne dulnesse) see,
That the sacred Muses can
Make a childe in yeeres, a man.
It is knowne what thou canst doe,
For it is not long agoe,
When that Cuddy, Thou, and I,
Each the others skill to try,
At Saint Dunstanes charmed well,
(As some present there can tell)
Sang upon a sudden Theame,
Sitting by the Crimson streame,
Where, if thou didst well or no,
Yet remaines the Song to show.
Much experience more I've had,
Of thy skill (thou happy Lad)
And would make the world to know it;
But that time will further show it.
Envy makes their tongues now runne
More then doubt of what is done.
For that needs must be thy owne,
Or to be some others knowne:
But how then wil't suit unto
What thou shalt hereafter do?
Or I wonder where is hee,
Would with that song part to thee.
Nay, were there so mad a Swaine,
Could such glory sell for gaine,
Phoebus would not have combin'd,
That gift with so base a minde.
Never did the Nine impart
The sweet secrets of their Art,
Unto any that did scorne,
We should see their favours worne.
Therefore unto those that say,
Where they pleas'd to sing a Lay,
They could doo't, and will not tho;
This I speake, for this I know:
None ere drunke the Thespian spring,
And knew how, but he did sing.
For, that once infus'd in man,
Makes him shew't, doe what he can.
Nay, those that doe onely sip,
Or, but ev'n their fingers dip
In that sacred Fount (poore Elves)
Of that brood will shew themselves.
Yea, in hope to get them fame,
They will speake, though to their shame.
Let those then at thee repine,
That by their wits measure thine;
Needs those Songs must be thine owne,
And that one day will be knowne.
That poore imputation to,
I my selfe do undergoe:
But it will appeare ere long,
That 'twas Envy sought our wrong.
Who at twice-ten have sung more,
Then some will doe, at fourescore.
Cheere thee (honest Willy) then,
And begin thy Song agen.

Willy.

Faine I would, but I doe feare
When againe my Lines they heare,
If they yeeld they are my Rimes,
They will faine some other Crimes;
And 'tis no safe ventring-by
Where we see Detraction ly.
For doe what I can, I doubt,
She will picke some quarrell out;
And I oft have heard defended,
Little said, is soone amended.

Philarete.

See'st thou not in clearest dayes,
Oft thicke fogs cloud Heav'ns rayes.
And that vapours which doe breath
From the earths grosse wombe beneath,
Seeme not to us with black steames,
To pollute the Sunnes bright beames,
And yet vanish into ayre,
Leaving it (unblemisht) faire?
So (my Willy) shall it bee
With Detractions breath on thee.
It shall never rise so hie,
As to staine thy Poesie.
As that Sunne doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten Vale;
Poesie so sometime draines,
Grosse conceits from muddy braines;
Mists of Envy, fogs of spight,
Twixt mens judgements and her light:
But so much her power may do,
That shee can dissolve them to.
If thy Verse doe bravely tower,
As shee makes wing, she gets power:
Yet the higher she doth sore,
Shee's affronted still the more:
Till shee to the high'st hath past,
Then she rests with fame at last,
Let nought therefore, thee affright:
But make forward in thy flight:
For if I could match thy Rime,
To the very Starres I'de clime.
There begin again, and flye,
Till I reach'd AEternity.
But (alasse) my Muse is slow:
For thy place shee flags too low:
Yea, the more's her haplesse fate,
Her short wings were clipt of late.
And poore I, her fortune ruing,
Am my selfe put up a muing.
But if I my Cage can rid,
I'le flye where I never did.
And though for her sake I'me crost,
Though my best hopes I have lost,
And knew she would make my trouble
Ten times more then ten times double:
I should love and keepe her to,
Spight of all the world could doe.
For though banish't from my flockes,
And confin'd within these rockes,
Here I waste away the light,
And consume the sullen Night;
She doth for my comfort stay,
And keepes many cares away.
Though I misse the flowry Fields,
With those sweets the Spring-tyde yeelds,
Though I may not see those Groves,
Where the Shepheards chant their Loves,
(And the Lasses more excell,
Then the sweet voyc'd Philomel)
Though of all those pleasures past,
Nothing now remaines at last,
But Remembrance (poore reliefe)
That more makes, then mends my griefe:
Shee's my mindes companion still,
Maugre Envies evill will.
(Whence she should be driven to,
Wer't in mortals power to do.)
She doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow:
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace;
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former dayes of blisse,
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw,
I could some invention draw:
And raise pleasure to her height,
Through the meanest objects sight.
By the murmure of a spring,
Or the least boughes rusteling.
By a Dazie whose leaves spred,
Shut when Tytan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in mee,
Then all Natures beauties can,
In some other wiser man.
By her helpe I also now,
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladnes,
In the very gall of sadnes.
The dull loannesse, the blacke shade,
That these hanging vaults have made,
The strange Musicke of the waves,
Beating on these hollow Caves,
This blacke Den which Rocks embosse
Over-growne with eldest Mosse.
The rude Portals that give light,
More to Terror then Delight.
This my Chamber of Neglect,
Wall'd about with Disrespect,
From all these and this dull ayre,
A fit object for Despaire,
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore thou best earthly blisse,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesie; thou sweetest content
That e're Heav'n to mortals lent:
Though they as a trifle leave thee
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,
Though thou be to them a scorne,
That to nought but earth are borne:
Let my life no longer be
Then I am in love with thee.
Though our wise ones call thee madnesse
Let me never taste of gladnesse
If I love not thy mad'st fits,
More then all their greatest wits.
And though some too seeming holy,
Doe account thy raptures folly:
Thou dost teach me to contemne,
What make Knaves and Fooles of them.
Oh high power! that oft doth carry
Men above.

Willie.

Good Philarete tarry,
I doe feare thou wilt be gon,
Quite above my reach anon.
The kinde flames of Poesie
Have now borne thy thoughts so high,
That they up in Heaven be,
And have quite forgotten me.
Call thy selfe to minde againe,
Are these Raptures for a Swaine,
That attends on lowly Sheepe,
And with simple heards doth keepe?

Philarete.

Thankes my Willie; I had runne
Till that Time had lodg'd the Sunne,
If thou had'st not made me stay;
But thy pardon here I pray.
Lov'd Apolo's sacred fire
Had rais'd up my spirits higher
Through the love of Poesie,
Then indeed they use to flye.
But as I said, I say still,
If that I had Willi's skill,
Envie nor Detractions tongue,
Should ere make me leave my song:
But I'de sing it every day
Till they pin'd themselves away.
Be thou then advis'd in this,
Which both just and fitting is:
Finish what thou hast begun,
Or at least still forward run.
Haile and Thunder ill hee'l beare
That a blast of winde doth feare:
And if words will thus afray thee,
Prethee how will deeds dismay thee?
Doe not thinke so rathe a Song
Can passe through the vulgar throng,
And escape without a touch,
Or that they can hurt it much:
Frosts we see doe nip that thing
Which is forward'st in the Spring:
Yet at last for all such lets
Somewhat of the rest it gets,
And I'me sure that so maist thou.
Therefore my kind Willie now,
Since thy folding time drawes on
And I see thou must be gon,
Thee I earnestly beseech
To remember this my speech
And some little counsell take,
For Philarete his sake:
And I more of this will say,
If thou come next Holy-day.





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