THE SONG OF HESPERUS.1
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb nas made
Heaven to clear when day did close :
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright!
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever :
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEft us.
To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;
While I confess thy writings to be such
As neither man nor Muse can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise :
For silliest ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance
The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,
And think to ruin where it seemed to raise...
But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,
Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.
I, therefore, will begin :-Soul of the age!
The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!
My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee room :
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive still, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read and praise to give.
That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses,-
I mean with great, but disproportioned, muses;
For, if I thought my judgment were of years,
I should commit thee surely with thy peers;
And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,
Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line;
And, though thou had'st small Latin and less Greek,
From thence to honour thee I will not seek
For names: but call forth thundering Æschylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles, to us,
Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,
And shake a stage: or, when thy socks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison
Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.
Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show,
To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time:
And all the Muses still were in their prime
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.
Nature herself was proud of his designs,
And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines;
Which were so richly spun and woven so fit
As twice she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.
For, though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion: and that he1
Who casts to write a living line must sweat
Such as thine are, and strike the second heat
Upon the Muse's anvil, turn the same,
And himself with it that he thinks to frame :
Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn.
For a good poet's made as well as born.
And such wert thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue: even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well turnèd and true filèd lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of Ignorance.
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames
That so did take Eliza and our James !
But stay! I see thee in the hemisphere
Advanced, and made a constellation there.
Shine forth, thou star of poets! and, with rage
Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,
And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show
Of touch or marble, nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told,
Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which thy dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made
Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade:
That taller Tree,2 which of a nut was set
At his great birth where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names
Of many a sylvan taken with his flames;
And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke
The lighter fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak.
Thy copse, too, named of Gamage,3 thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer
When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
1 Formerly Pencester, in Kent: the ancient seat of the Sidneys.
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doth feed;
The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed;
Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops
Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's Copse,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant with the speckled side.
The painted partridge lies in every field,
And for thy mess is willing to be killed.
And, if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish,—
Fat aged carps that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loth the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray;
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy Orchard fruit, thy Garden flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come;
The blushing apricot and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.
And, though thy walls be of the country stone,
They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown,
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some, that think they make
The better cheeses, bring them, or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.
But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know!
MY PICTURE, LEFT IN SCOTLAND (1619). I now think Love is rather deaf than blind; For, else, it could not be
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest he
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
O, but my conscious fears,
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundreds of grey hairs,
Told seven and forty years,
Read so much waist as she cannot embrace,
My mountain belly, and my rocky face ;-
And all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
INVITING A FRIEND TO SUPper.
To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and I
Do equally desire your company:
Not that we think us worthy such a guest,
But that your worth will dignify our feast
With those that come; whose grace may inake that seem Something which else would hope for no esteem.
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates
The entertainment perfect, not the cates.
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,
An olive, capers, or some better salad,
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,
If we can get her full of eggs, and then
Lemons and wine for sauce; to these, a coney1
Is not to be despaired of for our money;
And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks,2
The sky not falling, think we may have larks.
I'll tell you of more (and lie, so you will come),
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some
May yet be there, and god-wit if we can ;
Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe'er, my man
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livy, or of some better book, to us,
Of which we'll speak our minds amidst our meat:
And I'll profess no verses to repeat.
To this if aught appear which Î not know of,
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.
Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be;
But that which most doth take my muse and me
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