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Philarete. NOW that my body, dead aliue, | |
| Bereau’d of comfort, lies in thrall, | |
| Doe thou, my soul, begin to thriue, | |
| And vnto honie turne this gall; | |
| So shall we both, through outward wo, | 5 |
| The way to inward comfort know. | |
| |
| For as that foode my flesh I giue | |
| Doth keepe in me this mortall breath; | |
| So souls on meditations liue, | |
| And shunne thereby immortall death: | 10 |
| Nor art thou euer neerer rest | |
| Than when thou find’st me most opprest. | |
| |
| First thinke, my soule, if I haue foes | |
| That take a pleasure in my care, | |
| And to procure these outward woes, | 15 |
| Haue thus enwrapt me vnaware, | |
| Thou should’st by much more carefull bee, | |
| Since greater foes lay waite for thee. | |
| |
| Then when mew’d vp in grates of steele, | |
| Minding those ioyes mine eyes do misse, | 20 |
| Thou find’st no torment thou dost feele | |
| So grieuous as privation is; | |
| Muse how the damn’d in flames that glow | |
| Pine in the loss of bliss they know. | |
| |
| Thou seest there’s giuen so great might | 25 |
| To some that are but clay as I, | |
| Their very anger can affright; | |
| Which if in any thou espie, | |
| Thus thinke: if mortal’s frownes strike feare, | |
| How dreadfull will God’s wrath appeare! | 30 |
| |
| By my late hopes, than none are crost, | |
| Consider those that firmer bee; | |
| And make the freedome I have lost | |
| A meanes that may remember thee; | |
| Had Christ not thy redeemer bin, | 35 |
| What horrid thrall thou hadst been in! | |
| |
| These iron chaines, the bolts of steele, | |
| Which other poore offenders griend, | |
| The wants and cares which they do feele | |
| May bring some greater thing to mind; | 40 |
| For by their griefe thou shalt doe well | |
| To thinke upon the paines of hell. | |
| |
| Or when through me thou seest a man | |
| Condemned vnto a mortall death, | |
| How sad he lookes, how pale, how wan, | 45 |
| Drawing with fear his panting breath; | |
| Thinke if in that such griefe thou see, | |
| How sad will, Go, yee cursed! bee. | |
| |
| Againe, when he that fear’d to dye, | |
| Past hope, doth see his pardon brought, | 50 |
| Reade but the joy that’s in his eye, | |
| And then conuey it to thy thought; | |
| There thinke betwixt my heart and thee | |
| How sweet will, Come, yee blessed! bee. | |
| |
| Thus if thou doe, though closed here, | 55 |
| My bondage I shall deem the lesse; | |
| I neither shall have cause to feare, | |
| Nor yet bewaile my sad distresse: | |
| For whether liue, or pine, or dye, | |
| We shall haue blisse eternally. | 60 |
| |
Willy. Trust me! I see the cage doth some birds good; | |
| And if they do not suffer too much wrong, | |
| Will teach them sweeter descants than the wood. | |
| Beleeu’t! I like the subiect of thy song, | |
| It showes thou art in no distempered mood; | 65 |
| But cause to heare the residue I long, | |
| My sheep to-morrow I will nearer bring, | |
| And spend the day to heare thee talk and sing. | |
| |
| Yet ere we part, Roget to, areed | |
| Of whom thou learn’dst to make such songs as these; | 70 |
| I neuer yet heard any shepheard’s reede | |
| Tune in mishap a straine that more could please. | |
| Surely thou dost inuoke at this thy need | |
| Some power that we neglect in other layes: | |
| For here’s a name and words that but few swaines | 75 |
| Haue mentioned at their meeting on the plaines. | |
| |
Roget. Indeed ’tis true; and they are sore to blame | |
| That doe so much neglect it in their songs; | |
| For thence proceedeth such a worthy fame | |
| As is not subject vnto enue’s wrongs; | 80 |
| That is the most to be respected name | |
| Of our true Pan, whose worth sits on all tongues, | |
| And what the ancient shepheards vse to prayse | |
| In sacred anthems sung on holy dayes. | |
| |
| Hee that first taught his musike such a straine, | 85 |
| Was that sweet shepheard 1 who, vntill a king, | |
| Kept sheepe upon the hony, milky plaine, | |
| That is inricht by Jordan’s watering: | |
| He in his troubles eased the bodie’s paines | |
| By measures raised to the soule’s rauishing; | 90 |
| And his sweet numbers onely, most diuine, | |
| Gaue first the being to this song of mine. | |
| |
Willy. Let his good spirit euer with thee dwell, | |
| That I might hear such musicke every day. | |
| |
Philarete. Thankes! but would now it pleased thee to play. | 95 |
| Yet sure ’tis late, thy weather rings his bell, | |
| And swaines to fold or homeward drive away. | |
| |
Willy. And yon goes Cuddy, therefore fare thou well! | |
| I’le make his sheepe for me a little stay; | |
| And if thou thinke it fit I’ll bring him too | 100 |
| Next morning hither. * * * | |
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Philarete. * * * Prithee, Willy! do. | |
