to the common wealth, and especially to all the herring fishermen of
England, only by those men of Colchester Water. For these men, from
Saint Andrew [_October 24_] until Candlemas [_February 2_], and
sometimes longer, do set forth Stale-boats, amongst the sands in the
Thames' mouth, for to take sprats, with great stale-nets, with a great
poke [_bag_]; and they standing in the Swinne or the King's Channel
on the back of the Gunfleet, they do there take instead of sprats,
infinite thousands of young herrings, smaller than sprats and not good
to be eaten, for one sprat is better worth than twenty of those Bleaks
or young herrings. But because they do fill the bushel at Billingsgate,
where they do sell them for sprats; the which, if that they were let
[a]live, would all be, at Midsummer, a fat Summer full Herring. And a
peck is sometimes there sold for twopence; which number of herrings
at Midsummer would make a barrel of summer herrings, worth twenty or
thirty shillings.

If that they could take sprats it were good, for they be good victuals
for the City; but for every cartload or bushel of sprats, they take
a hundred cartloads or bushels of these young herrings; which be the
very spawn of the shoals of the herrings that cometh from Shetland
every summer: and whereas they come into Yarmouth seas yearly about
Saint Luke's [day, _September 21_] and (sometimes before, if that it do
blow a hard easterly wind) do always at that season become roope-sick
and do spawn and become shotten [_empty_] betwixt Wintertonness and
Orfordness. And those fry of that spawn, those young little creatures,
by the wisdom of the great Creator, seeketh into the shore and shallow
places, there to be nourished, and also into the Thames' mouth into the
sweetest waters; for that the water nigh the shore and in the Thames'
mouth is not so briny salt as it is farther off in the deep water.
Where these Bleaks yearly seeking to be nourished, they be always at
that season taken and destroyed. But if that these men will needs use
their Stale-boats and nets, let them go where the good sprats be.
They must then stand at Orfordness and in Dunwich bay, where there be
excellent sprats: and for the good of all the herring fishermen of
England, I wish that they might be prohibited to sell that which is not
wholesome to be eaten; which is as much as to sell hemlock for parsnips.

The next to Colchester, is Harwich Water. A royal harbour and a proper
town, fit for the use of Busses (no place in all Holland comparable
to it, for there is both land and strand and dry beach enough for four
hundred Sail); but the chiefest trade of the inhabitants of this place
is with Caravels for Newcastle coals: but they have three or four ships
yearly that they do send to Iceland for Cod and Ling from March until
September; and some years they get, and some years they lose. But if
that they had but once the trade of Busses, this would soon be a fine
place: but those Caravels and Ships which they now have, be all their
chiefest wealth.

Six miles up Harwich water stands Ipswich; which is a gallant town and
rich. This Town is such a place for the Busses, as in all England and
Holland I know no place so convenient. First, it is the best place
in all England for the building of Busses; both for the plenty of
timber and plank, and excellent workmen for making of ships. There are
more there, than there are in six of the best towns in all England.
Secondly, it is a principal place for good housewives for spinning of
yarn, for the making of pouldavice [_canvas_]; for there is the best
that is made. Which town with the use of the making of twine, will soon
be the best place of all England for to provide nets for the Busses. It
is also a most convenient place for the wintering of the Busses, for
that all the shores of that river are altogether ooze and soft ground,
fit for them to lie on in winter.

[Sidenote: This Town is most fit and convenient place to make a Staple
Town for corn for all England, for the return and sale of the Busses'
herrings from Dantsic and Poland.]

Also the Ipswich men be the chiefest Merchant Adventurers of all
England, for all the East Lands [_Baltic Countries_], for the Suffolk
cloths: and they have their factors lying, all the year long, in all
those places where the Hollanders do vent their herrings, and where
the best price and sale is continually. And although that yet there be
no fishermen, yet have they store of seafaring men, and for Masters
for the Busses, they may have enough from Yarmouth and So[uth]w[o]ld
and the sea-coast towns [_villages_] down their river. From Nacton
and Chimton, Holbroke, Shotley, and Cowlness they may get men that
will soon be good fishermen with but little use. For understand
thus much! that there is a kind of emulation in Holland between the
fishermen that go to sea in Pinks and Line-boats, winter and summer;
and those fishermen that go in the Busses. For they in the Pinks make
a scorn of them in the Busses, and do call them _koe-milkens_ or
"cow-milkers": for indeed the most part of them be men of occupations
[_handicraftsmen_] in winter, or else countrymen; and do milk the cows
themselves and make all the Holland cheese, when they be at home.

This place is also most convenient for the erecting of salt-pans, for
the making of "Salt upon Salt." For that the harbour is so good that,
at all times, ships may come unto them with salt from Mayo, or Spanish
salt, to make brine or pickle; and also the Caravels from Newcastle
with coals for the boiling of it at the cheapest rates, at any time may
come thither.

To the north-east of this place, three or four leagues, is Orford
Haven; and in the towns of Orford and Aldborough especially be many
good fishermen. And there are belonging to those towns some forty
or fifty North Sea boats, that yearly go to sea, having seven men a
piece; and ten or twelve Iceland barks, which sometimes get something,
and sometimes little or nothing. If that these men's wealth were in
Busses and nets, and had but once the trade, they would put down
the Hollander! for they be great plyers of any voyage that they do
undertake.

[Sidenote: Dunwich in ancient times hath been the seat of the Kings of
the East Angles, but [is] now all ruined.]

About three leagues to the northward is So[uth]w[o]ld Haven, and in the
towns of So[uth]w[o]ld, Dunwich, and Walderswick be a very good breed
of fishermen; and there are belonging unto those three towns, of North
Sea boats some twenty sail; and of Iceland barks some fifty sail, which
yearly they send for Cod and Ling to Iceland.

[Sidenote: My father lived in this town until he was 98 years of age,
and gave these Composition Ling seventy years unto four Princes, viz.
King EDWARD, Queen MARY, Queen ELIZABETH, and until the sixth year
[1609] of the reign of our most gracious Sovereign. Which cometh to
much more than one thousand pounds, for one man of that town.]

This town of So[uth]w[o]ld, of a sea town, is the most beneficial unto
His Majesty, of all the towns in England; by reason all their trade is
unto Iceland for Ling, and His Majesty's Serjeant Caterer hath yearly
gratis out of every ship and bark, one hundred of the choicest and
fairest Lings, which be worth more than ten pound the hundred; and they
call them "Composition Fish." But these men of this place are greatly
hindered, and in a manner undone, by reason their haven is so bad, and
in a manner often stopped up with beach and shingle stone that the
wind and tide and the sea do beat thither, so that many time, in the
season, when they be ready to go to sea; they cannot get out when time
is to go to sea; neither can they get in when they return from sea,
but oftentimes do cast away their goods and themselves. This haven if
that it had but a south pier built of timber, would be a far better
haven than Yarmouth haven, with one quarter of the cost that hath been
bestowed on Yarmouth haven. They be now suitors unto His Majesty: GOD
grant that they may speed! For it is pitiful, the trouble and damage
that all the men of these three towns do daily sustain by their naughty
[_inadequate_] harbour.

To the northward of So[uth]w[o]ld Haven three leagues, are Kirkley and
Layestof [_Lowestoft_], decayed towns. They have six or seven North Sea
boats: but they of Lowestoft make benefit yearly of buying of herrings
of the Hollanders; for likewise these Hollanders be "hosted" with the
Lowestoft men, as they be with the Yarmouthians.

[Sidenote: In all His Majesty's kingdoms, not any town, comparable unto
it for brave buildings.]

To the northward, two leagues, is the town of Great Yarmouth, very
beautifully built upon a very pleasant and sandy plain of three miles
in length. This town is a place of great resort of all the herring
fishermen of England. For thither do resort all the fishermen of the
Cinque Ports and the rest of the West Country men of England, as far
as Burport [_Bridport_], and Lyme [Regis] in Dorsetshire: and those
herrings that they do take they do not barrel, because their boats be
but small things, but they sell all unto the Yarmouth herring-buyers
for ready money. And also the fishermen of the north countries, beyond
Scarborough and Robin Hood's Bay, and some as far as the Bishopric of
Durham do thither resort yearly, in poor little boats called "Five-Men
Cobbles"; and all the herrings that they do take they do sell fresh
unto the Yarmouth men, to make red herrings.

Also to Yarmouth, do daily come into the haven up to the quay, all or
the most part of the great Fleet of Hollanders, which before I made
relation of, that go in the Sword-Pinks, Holland-Toads, Crab-Skuits,
Walnut-Shells, and great and small Yevers; one hundred and two hundred
sail at one time together, and all their herrings that they do bring
in, they do sell them all, for ready money, to the Yarmouth men.

And also the Frenchmen of Picardy and Normandy, some hundred sail of
them at a time, do come thither; and all the herrings they catch, they
sell fresh unto these Herring-mongers of Yarmouth, for ready money. So
that it amounteth unto a great sum of money, that the Hollanders and
Frenchmen do carry away from Yarmouth yearly into Holland and France:
which money doth never come again into England.

This town is very well governed by wise and civil [_prudent_]
Magistrates, and good orders carefully observed for the maintenance of
their Haven and Corporation. And this town, by reason of the situation,
and the fresh rivers that belong to it, one [_the Wensum_] up to the
city of Norwich; and another [_the Wavency_] that runneth far up into
Suffolk, a butter and cheese country, about Bunga [_Bungay_] and
Betkels [_Beccles_]; and a third [_the Bure_] that runneth far up into
Flegg [_by Aylesham_] a corn country; by reason whereof this town of
Yarmouth is always well served with all kind of provision at good and
cheap rates: whereby they of the town do relieve the strangers, and
also do benefit themselves.

To this town belongeth some twenty Iceland barks, which yearly they
do send for Cod and Ling, and some hundred and fifty sail of North
Sea boats. They make a shift to live; but if that they had the use
of Busses and also barrelled fish, they would excel all England and
Holland. For they be the only fishermen for North seas, and also the
best for the handling of their fish that be in all this land.

The herring buyers of Yarmouth doth profit more than doth the fishermen
of Yarmouth, by reason of the resort of the Hollanders; for that they
are suffered to sell all their roope-sick herrings at Yarmouth to
the Merchants there. And also the barrelled fish that the Flemings
do bring in winter to London, Ipswich, Lynn, and Hull do also gale
[_gaul_] them: but for that [_seeing that_] our fishermen may, if they
please, make barrelled fish themselves; and therefore I will not moan
[_bemoan_] them!

[Sidenote: Yarmouth haven is the only refuge, in distress of weather,
for all the fishermen of the Cinque Ports and all others that do fish
in those seas: and it is built all of timber, against the violence of
the main sea. It is now in great danger to come to ruin; if they have
not help in time.]

The merchant herring buyer of Yarmouth that hath a stock of his own,
so long as he can make his gains so certain with buying of roope-sick
herrings of the Hollanders, will never lay out his money to build or
set forth Busses; and the fishermen be now so poor, by reason that
they only do bear the whole charge of that costly haven, the merchant
herring buyers being not at any charge thereof: but all that great
cost cometh out of the fishermen's labours for the maintenance of that
wooden haven [_pier_], which amounteth to some five hundred pounds
a year, and some years more. So that though they be willing, yet
their ability will not suffer them to do it; neither can they forbear
[_invest_] their money to adventure their herrings into the East
[_Baltic_] Countries, where the best sales always be.

To the northward of Yarmouth eight leagues, are the towns of Blackney
and Wells, good harbours and fit for Busses: and they have good store
of fishermen. And these towns have some twenty Sail of barks that they
do yearly send unto Iceland. But these towns be greatly decayed, to
that they have been in times past: the which places, if that they had
but twenty Busses belonging to them, would soon grow rich towns in
short time.

Then is there [King's] Lynn, a proper gallant town for seafaring men,
and for men for Iceland. This is a rich town, and they have some twenty
Sail of Iceland ships, that they yearly send for Cod and Ling: and I am
in hope to see them fall to the use of Busses as soon as any men.

To the northward is Boston, a proper town; and like unto Holland's
soil, for low ground and sands coming in: but yet there are but few
fishermen; but it is a most fit place for Busses. If that they had but
once the taste of them, they would soon find good liking.

Next to Boston, some twenty leagues to the northward, is the great
river of Humber, wherein there is Hull, a very proper town of sailors
and shipping: but there be but few fishermen. But it is a most
convenient place for to adventure Busses.

There are also Grimsby, Paul, and Patrington. In all these places
now there is great store of poor and idle people, that know not how
to live; and the most of all these places be decayed, and the best
of them all grow worse and worse: which with the use of Busses would
soon grow rich merchant towns, as is in Holland. For to these places
would be transported of the East lands all manner of commodities for
the use of Busses; and houses and work-yards erected for coopers, and
ropemakers, and great numbers of net-makers. And with the recourse of
the ships that shall bring salt and other commodities, and ships that
shall lade away their herrings and fish, these places shall soon become
populous; and money stirring plentifully in these places returned for
the procedue [_proceeds_] of fish and herrings: which places now be
exceeding poor and beggarly.

In all these fisher towns, that I have before named, as Colchester,
Harwich, Orford, Aldborough, Dunwich, Walderswick, So[uth]w[o]ld,
Yarmouth, Blackney, Wells, Lynn, Boston, and Hull--these be all the
chiefest towns; and all that useth the North seas in summer: and all
these towns, it is well known, be ruinated.

[Sidenote: I crave pardon, for that I omit the particular numbers and
total sum; which I could here set down if I were commanded.[7]]

In all these towns I know to be ---- Iceland barks, and ---- North Sea
boats; and all these fishermen having ---- men a piece amounteth to
the sum of ----. But admit that there are in all the West Country of
England of fisherboats, tag and rag, that bringeth home all fresh fish,
which seldom or never useth any salt; say, that they have other ----
men a piece which makes the sum of ---- in all England.

But in all these I have not reckoned the fishermen, mackerel-catchers,
nor the Cobble-men of the north country, which having ---- men a piece,
cometh to ---- men in all England.

But so many in all England, and I have truly showed before, that the
Hollander hath in one fleet of Busses, twenty thousand fishermen;
besides all them that goeth in the Sword-Pinks, Flat-Bottoms,
Crab-Skuits, Walnut-Shells, and Great Yevers, wherein there are not
less than twelve thousand more: and all these are only for to catch
herrings in the North seas. Besides all they that go in the Fly-boats
for Shetland Ling, and the Pinks for barrelled fish, and Trammel-boats:
which cometh unto five thousand more.

So that it is most true, that as they have the sum of ---- fishermen
more than there is in all this land: and by reason of their Busses and
Pinks and fishermen that set their Merchant-ships on work [_a work_];
so have they ---- ships and ---- mariners more than we.

Now in our sum of ---- fishermen; let us see what vent [_sale_] have
we for our fish into other countries? and what commodities and coin
is brought into this kingdom? and what ships are set on work by them,
whereby mariners are bred or employed? Not one! It is pitiful!

For when our fishermen cometh home the first voyage [_i.e., in the
summer_] from the North Seas, they go either to London, Ipswich,
Yarmouth, Lynn, Hull, or Scarborough; and there they do sell, at good
rates, the first voyage. But the second voyage (because that they which
be now the fishermen, have not yet the right use of making of barrelled
fish, wherewith they might serve France, as do the Hollanders) they be
now constrained to sell in England. For that it is staple [_standard_]
fish; and not being barrelled, the French will not buy it.

But if that our fishermen had but once the use of Pinks and Line-boats
and barrelled fish; then they might serve France as well as the
Hollanders: which by this new trade of Busses being once erected, and
Pinks, and Line-boats after the Holland manner; there will be fishermen
enough to manage the Pinks for barrelled fish, from November unto
the beginning of May, only the most part of those men that shall be
maintained by the Busses. For that, when the Busses do leave work, in
the winter, their men shall have employment by the Pinks for barrelled
fish; which men now do little or nothing. For this last winter at
Yarmouth, there were three hundred idle men that could get nothing to
do, living very poor for lack of employment; which most gladly would
have gone to sea in Pinks, if there had been any for them to go in.

[Sidenote: No more English but two ships this year laded there.]

[Sidenote: Note here how the Hollanders employ themselves and their
Ships! First, in taking of the herrings quick [_alive_]; and yet are
not content! but catch them again, after they be dead! and do set both
their ships and mariners on work: and English ships lie up a rotting!]

And whereas I said before, that there was not one ship set on work by
our fishermen: there may be objected against me this. That there doth
every year commonly lade at Yarmouth four or five London ships for the
Straits [_of Gibraltar_], which is sometimes true. And the Yarmouth
men themselves do yearly send two or three ships to Bordeaux, and two
or three boats laden with herrings, to Rouen, or to Nantes, or Saint
Malo: whereby there are returned salt, wines, and Normandy canvas;
whereby the King hath some custom. But there is no _money_ returned
into England for these herrings, which cost the Yarmouthians _ready
gold_, before that they had them of the Hollanders and Frenchmen to
lade these ships: and therefore I may boldly say, Not one!

And this last year now the Hollanders themselves have also gotten
that trade, for there did lade twelve sail of Holland ships with red
herrings at Yarmouth for Civita Vecchia, Leghorn, Genoa, and Marseilles
and Toulon. Most of them being ladened by the English merchants. So
that if this be suffered, the English owners of ships shall have but
small employment for theirs.

Now to show truly, what the whole charge of a Buss will be, with all
her furniture, as masts, sails, anchors, cables, and with all her
fisher's implements and appurtenances, at the first provided all new.
It is a great charge, she being between thirty and forty Last [= _60 to
80 Tons_] and will cost some five hundred pounds [= _about £2,250 in
present value_].

By the grace of GOD, the Ship or Buss will continue twenty years, with
small cost and reparations: but the yearly slite [_fraying_] and wear
of her tackle and war-ropes and nets will cost some eighty pounds.

And the whole charge for the keeping of her at sea for the whole
summer, or three voyages; for the fitting of a hundred Last of caske or
barrels.

[Sidenote: If any will know all the particulars of Weys of Salt, or
Barrels of Beer, or Hundred[weight]s of Biscuits, I will willingly
resolve [_explain to_] him; but here is the whole charge, and with
the most [_at the outside_.]]

  100 Last of Barrels          £72
  For Salt, four months         88
  Beer, four months             42
  For Bread, four months        21
  Bacon and Butter              18
  For Pease, four months         3
  For Billet, four months        3
  For men's wages, four months  88
                              ----
                              £335

One hundred Last of herrings, filled and sold at £10 the Last, cometh
to one thousand pounds.

  Herrings                   £1000
  The whole charge             335
                              ----
  Gotten                      £665

   [See full particulars in the later work _Britain's Buss_ in Vol.
                             III. p. 621.]

Here plainly appeareth that there is gotten £665 in one summer,
whereout if that you do deduct £100 for the wear of the ship and the
reparations of her nets against the next summer; yet still there £565
remaining for clear gains, by one Buss in one year.

[Sidenote: And I have rated the Herrings, but at £10 the Last; which is
with the least. For they be commonly sold by the Hollanders at Dantsic
for £15 and £20 the Last.]

The Hollanders do make [_consider_] the profit of their Busses so
certain, that they do lay out their own children's money, given them by
their deceased friends, in adventuring in the Busses; and also there is
in Holland a Treasury for Orphans opened and laid out in adventuring in
the Busses.

[Sidenote: Ready money; or tallies, which are as Bills of Exchange, to
be paid at first sight.]

The Hollanders do make both a profitable and a pleasant trade of this
summer fishing. For there was one of them that having a gallant great
new Buss of his own, and he having a daughter married unto one that
was his Mate in the Buss: the Owner that was Master of this Buss did
take his wife with him aboard, and his Mate his wife; and so they
did set sail for the North seas, with the two women with them, the
mother and the daughter. Where, having a fair wind, and being fishing
in the North seas, they had soon filled their Buss with herrings;
and a Herring-Yager cometh unto them, and brings them gold and fresh
supplies, and copeth [_bargaineth_] with them, and taketh in their
herrings for ready money, and delivereth them more barrels and salt;
and away goeth the Yager for the first market into Sprucia [_Prussia_].
And still is the Buss fishing at sea, and soon after again was full
laden and boone [_bound_] home: but then another Yager cometh unto him
as did the former, and delivering them more provision of barrels, salt,
and ready money, and bids them farewell. And still the Buss lieth at
sea, with the mother and daughter, so long, and not very long before
they had again all their barrels full; and then they sailed home into
Holland, with the two women, and the buss laden with herrings, and a
thousand pounds of ready money.

If that any man should make question of the truth of this, it will be
very credibly approved by divers of good credit that be now in the city
of London.

Now to show the charge of a Pink of eighteen or twenty Last [= _36
to 40 tons_]. The Pink being built new, and all things new into her,
will not cost £260, with all her lines, hooks, and all her fisher
appurtenances.

And

  15 Last of barrels will cost             £10
  5 Weys of "Salt upon Salt"                15
  For Beer and Cask                          7
  For Bread                                  3
  For Butter                                 1
  For the Petty Tally                        1
  For men's wages for two months, Master
    and all together                        20
                                           ---
                                           £57

Fifteen Last of barrelled fish at £14 8s. the Last, which is but
twenty-four shillings the barrel, amounteth to £216; whereout if that
you do deduct £57 for the charge of setting her to sea, there is still
resting £159 clear gain by one Pink, with fifteen Last of fish, for two
months.

Wherefore, seeing the profit so plain; and, by the grace of GOD, so
certain; both by the Busses and Line-boats, whereby the Hollanders have
so long gained by: let all noble, worshipful, and wealthy subjects put
to their adventuring and helping hands, for the speedy launching and
floating forward of this great good common wealth business, for the
strengthening of His Majesty's dominions with two principal pillars,
which are, with plenty of coin brought in for Fish and herrings from
other nations, and also for the increasing of mariners against all
common invasions. And also for the bettering of trades and occupations,
and setting of thousands of poor and idle people on work, which now
know not how to live; which by this Trade of Busses shall be employed:
as daily we see is done, before our eyes, by the Hollanders. And, as
always it hath been seen, that those that be now the fishermen of
England have been always found to be sufficient to serve His Majesty's
ships in former time, when there has been employment: which fellows,
by this new trade of building and setting forth of Busses will be
greatly multiplied and increased in this land. Which fellows, as we
see the Hollanders, being well fed in fishing affairs, and strong[er]
and lustier than the sailors that use the long southern voyages that
sometimes are greatly surfeited and hunger-pined: but these courageous,
young, lusty, fed-strong younkers, that shall be bred in the Busses,
when His Majesty shall have occasion for their service in war against
the enemy, will be fellows for the nonce! and will put more strength
to an iron crow at a piece of great ordnance in traversing of a cannon
or culvering, with the direction of the experimented [_experienced_]
Master Gunner, than two or three of the forenamed surfeited sailors.
And in distress of wind-grown sea, and foul winter's weather, for
flying forward to their labour, for pulling in a topsail or a
spritsail, or shaking off a bonnet in a dark night! for wet and cold
cannot make them shrink, nor stain that the North seas and the Busses
and Pinks have dyed in the grain, for such purposes.

And whosoever shall go to sea for Captain to command in martial
affairs, or to take charge for Master in trade of merchandise (as in
times past I have done both) will make choice of these fellows: for I
have seen their resolution in the face of their enemy, when they have
been _legeramenta_ [Italian for _light-hearted_] and frolicsome, and as
forward as about their ordinary labours or business.

[Sidenote: It is not unknown, that last year [1613] there was a general
press along the coast of England, from Hull in Yorkshire unto St.
Michael's Mount in Cornwall, only for sailors to furnish but seven
ships, for the wafting over [_conveying_] of the Count Palantine and
his noble Princess but twenty-eight leagues.]

And when His Majesty shall have occasion and employment for the
furnishing of his Navy, there will be no want of Masters, Pilots,
Commanders, and sufficient directors of a course and keeping of
computation; but now there is a pitiful want of sufficient good men to
do the offices and labours before spoken of. All which, these men of
the Busses and Pinks will worthily supply.

And to the art of sailing they may happily attain. For hitherto it
hath been commonly seen, that those men that have been brought up in
their youth in fishery, have deserved as well as any in the land for
artificial [_scientific_] sailing: for at this time is practised all
the projections of circular and mathematical scales and arithmetical
sailing by divers of the young men of the sea-coast towns, even as
commonly amongst them, as amongst the Thamesers.

[Sidenote: Some of these be 60 and 80 tons, the burden.]

Besides all the Hollanders before spoken of, the Frenchmen of Picardy
have also a hundred sail of fishermen, only [_solely_] for herrings on
His Majesty's seas every year in the summer season; and they be almost
like unto the Busses: but they have not any Yagers that cometh unto
them, but they do lade themselves, and return home twice every year;
and find great profit by their making but two voyages every summer
season.

[Sidenote: The Hollanders do yearly take so many, as they do make more
than two millions of pounds sterling. And we, his Majesty's subjects,
do take no more than do bait our hooks!]

And it is much to be lamented that we, having such a plentiful country,
and such store of able and idle people, that not one of His Majesty's
subjects is there to be seen all the whole summer to fish or to take
one herring; but only the North Sea boats of the sea-coast towns that
go to take Cod, they do take so many as they do need to bait their
hooks and no more.

We are daily scorned by these Hollanders for being so negligent of our
profit, and careless of our fishing; and they do daily flout us that be
the poor fishermen of England, to our faces at sea, calling to us and
saying, _Ya English! ya zall, or oud scove dragien_, which in English
is this, "You English! we will make you glad for to wear our old shoes."

And likewise the Frenchmen, they say, "We are apish," for that we do
still imitate them in all needless and fantastical jags [_tatters_]
and fashions. As it is most true indeed. For that they have no fashion
amongst them in apparel nor lace, points, gloves, hilts, nor garters;
even from the spangled shoe-latchet unto the spangled hat and hatband
(be it never so idle and costly): but after that we do once get it, it
is far bettered by our nation.

[Sidenote: The sailor's proverb, The sea and the gallows refuse none!]

Wherefore, seeing that we can excel all other nations, wastefully
to spend money; let us in one thing learn of other nations! to get
thousands out of His Majesty's sea! and to make a general profit of
the benefits that Almighty GOD doth yearly send unto us, in far more
greater abundance than the fruit of our trees! which although they
[_the fishes_] be more changeable in the gathering together, yet is
the profit far more greater unto this kingdom and common wealth of
all His Majesty's subjects, increasing the wealth of the Adventurers;
as also for the enriching of Merchants, and maintaining of trades,
occupations, and employing of ships, and increasing of mariners which
now do but little or nothing; as also for the setting of poor and idle
people on work, which now know not how to live. And to teach many a
tall fellow to know the proper names of the ropes in a ship, and to
haul the bowline; that now for lack of employment many such, by the
inconvenience of idle living, are compelled to end their days with a
rope by an untimely death; which by the employment of the Busses might
be well avoided, and they in time become right honest, serviceable, and
trusty subjects.

Here since my book came to the press, I have been credibly certified
by men[8] of good worth (being Fishmongers) that since Christmas last,
unto this day; there hath been paid to the Hollanders, here in London,
only for barrels of fish and Holland Ling, the sum of Twelve thousand
pounds [= _about £50,000 in the present day_].

And last of all, if that there be any of worshipful Adventurers
that would have any directions for the building of these Busses or
fisherships, because I know that the ship carpenters of England be not
yet skilful in this matter; wherefore if that any shall be pleased
to repair to me, I will be willing to give them directions and plain
projections and geometrical demonstrations for the right building of
them, both for length, breadth, and depth, and also for their mould
under water, and also for the contriving of their rooms and the laying
of their gear,[9] according to the Hollanders' fashion. Any man shall
hear of me at Master NATHANIEL BUTTER's, a Stationer's shop at Saint
Austen's Gate in Paul's Churchyard. Farewell this 18th of February
[1614].

                                _FINIS._

                        The States Proclamation.
                       _Translated out of Dutch._

_The States General of the United Provinces of the Low Countries,
unto all those that shall see or hear these presents greeting.
We let you to wit, that whereas it is well known, that the great
fishing and catching of herrings is the chiefest trade and principal
Gold Mine of these United Countries, whereby many thousands of
households, families, handicrafts, trades, and occupations are set
on work, well maintained, and prosper; especially the sailing and
navigation, as well within as without these Countries, is kept in
great estimation: moreover, many returns of money, with the increase
of the means, convoys, customs, and revenues of these countries are
augmented thereby and prosper. And forasmuch as there are made, from
time to time, many good Orders concerning the catching, salting, and
beneficial uttering_ [disposal] _of the said herrings, to the end to
preserve and maintain the said Chief Trade in the United Provinces;
which trade, by divers encounters of some that seek their own gain,
is envied in respect of the great good it bringeth to the United
Countries; and We are informed that a device is put in practice to
the prejudice of the trade, to transport out of the United Countries
into other countries staves for herring-barrels made here, and half
herring-barrels put into other barrels, and nets; to cross the good
orders and policy here intended to them of these countries for
the catching, salting, and selling the herrings dressed in other
countries after the order of these countries, whereby this chief
trade should be decayed here, and the inhabitants of these countries
damnified_ [damaged] _if we make not provision in time against such
practices_.

_Therefore We, after mature judgement and deliberation, have
forbidden and interdicted, and by these presents do forbid and
interdict all and every one, as well home-born inhabitants as
strangers frequenting these parts, to take up any herring-barrels
or half ones prepared, or any kind of nets, in any ship, town, or
haven of the United Provinces, to be sent into other countries or
places; upon pain of confiscation of the same, and the ship also
wherein they shall be found, besides a penalty of one hundred of
Netherland Silver Royals, for the first time: and for the second
time, above confiscation of ship and goods, and four hundred of the
said Royals of Silver: and for the third time, above confiscation of
ship and goods and six hundred of the said Royals of Silver, corporal
punishment._

_All which confiscations and penalties shall be distributed one
third part to the profit of the plaintiff_ [informer--? including the
corporal punishment]; _one third part to the poor; and one third part
to the Officers, where the said confiscation shall be demanded_.

_And not only they shall incur this penalty, which after shall be
taken with the deed, but they also that within one year after the
deed shall be convicted; and that none may pretend ignorance, and
that this order may be in all places duly observed, and the offenders
punished according to justice, We will and require, our dear and
well beloved Estates, Governors, Deputies of the Council, and the
Estates of the respective Provinces of Guelderland, and the county
of Satfill in Holland, West Friesland, Zealand, Utrecht, Friesland,
Merizel, the town of Groningen, and the circumjacent places: and to
all Justices and Officers, that they cause to be published in all
places and proclaimed where the usual proclamation and publication
is made: We do charge also the Chancellors and Provincial Council,
and the Council of Admiralty, the Advocatistical, and the Procurer
General, and all other Officers, Judges, and Justices of these United
Provinces, and to all general colonies, Admirals and Vice-Admirals,
Captains, Officers, and Commanders, to perform and cause to be
performed this order and commandment, and to proceed and cause to be
proceeded against the offenders without grace, favour, dissimulation,
or composition: because we have found it necessary for the good and
benefit of the said United Provinces._

_Dated in Hague, this 19th of July._

                                 FINIS.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Our Author has however already specified the number to be, at
least, Iceland barks 126, and North Sea boats 237.

[8] Master WILLIAM SNELLING, Master STEPHEN TOPLEY, and divers others
of the Company of Fishmongers.

[9] And for providing of their Cordage and Nets, after the most neatest
and cheapest rates.

                             _FAIR VIRTUE,
                                  THE
                              +MISTRESS+
                                  OF
                             PHIL'ARETE._

                               Written by
                             GEO. WITHER.

                          CATUL. Carmen. XV.

                            _nihil veremur_
             _Istos, quid in platea, modo huc, modo illuc_
                   _In re pretereunt sua occupati._

                                LONDON.

                      Printed for John Grismand.
                              M.DC.XXII.

[It is singular that this truly astonishing Poem, a poetical _tour
de force_ as it is, should not hitherto have obtained a universal
acceptance and recognition. In it we see WITHER at his prime; and
cannot but admire as much the sterling integrity of his Character, as
the wonderful fertility of his poetical Invention.

His mastery herein over rhythm and rhyme, also amply vindicates the
opinion of Dryden: who, considering himself unmatched by any in
facility of versification, openly excepted WITHER, and F. QUARLES.

Well has our Poet said--

      _When other noble Dames,_
      _By greater men attended,_
      _Shall, with their lives and names,_
      _Have all their glories ended:_
    _With fairest Queens, shall She_
    _Sit, sharing equal glory;_
    _And Times to come shall be_
    _Delighted with our Story._

                                              First stanza on _p._ 386.]

                             THE STATIONER
                             TO THE READER.

This being one of the Author's first poems, was composed many
years agone; and (unknown to him) gotten out of his custody by an
acquaintance of his. And coming lately to my hands, without a name:
it was thought to have so much resemblance of the Maker, that many,
upon the first sight, undertook to guess who was the author of it; and
[were] persuaded that it was likely also, to become profitable both to
them and me.

Whereupon, I got it authorised, according to Order [_It was entered
at Stationers' Hall, on 31st January, 1622_]; intending to publish it
without further inquiry.

But attaining by chance, a more perfect knowledge, to whom it most
properly belonged; I thought it fitting to acquaint him therewithal.
And did so, desiring also both his good will to publish the same, and
leave to pass it under his name. Both [of] which, I found him very
unwilling to permit; least the seeming lightness of such a subject
might somewhat disparage the more serious studies, which he hath since
undertaken.

Yet doubting (this being got out of his custody) some more imperfect
copies might be scattered abroad, in writing; or be (unknown to him)
imprinted: he was pleased, upon my importunities, to condescend
[_agree_] that it might be published without his name.

And his words were these:

"When," said he, "I first composed it, I well liked thereof; and it
well enough became my years; but, now, I neither like nor dislike it.
That, therefore, it should be divulged, I desire not! and whether it
be; or whether, if it so happen, it be approved or not, I care not!
For this I am sure of, howsoever it is valued, it is worth as much as
I prize it at. Likely it is also, to be as beneficial to the world, as
the world hath been to me; and will be more than those who like it not,
ever deserved at my hands."

These were his speeches. And if you looked for a Prologue, thus much
he wished me to tell you, instead thereof, "because," as he said, "he
himself had somewhat else to do."

Yet, to acknowledge the truth, I was so earnest with him, that, busy
as he would seem to be, I got him to write this _Epistle_ for me. And
have thereunto set _my_ name: which he wished me to confess, partly,
to avoid the occasion of belying my invention; and partly, because he
thought some of you would suppose so much.

I entreated him to explain his meaning in certain obscure passages.
But he told me how "that were to take away the employment of his
interpreters [_critics_]: whereas he would, purposely, leave something
remaining doubtful, to see what Sir POLITIC WOULD-BE and his companions
would pick out of it."

I desired him also to set down, to what good purposes, this Poem would
serve. But his reply was how "that would be well enough found out in
the perusing, by all such as had honest understandings; and they who
are not so provided, he hopes will not read it."

More, I could not get from him.

Whether, therefore, the _Mistress of PHIL'ARETE_ be really a Woman,
shadowed under the name of _VIRTUE_; or Virtue only, whose loveliness
is represented by the beauty of an excellent Woman: or whether it mean
both together, I cannot tell you!

But thus much dare I promise for your money, that, here, you shall
find, familiarly expressed, both such beauties as young men are most
entangled withal; and the excellency also of such as are most worthy
their affection. That seeing both impartially set forth by him, that
was capable of both; they might the better settle their love on the
best.

Hereby, also, those women, who desire to be truly beloved, may know
what makes them so to be: and seek to acquire those accomplishments
of the Mind which may endear them, when the sweetest features of a
beautiful Face shall be converted into deformities.

And here is described that Loveliness of theirs, which is the principal
object of wanton affection, to no worse end, but that those (who would
never have looked on this Poem, if Virtue and Goodness had been therein
no otherwise represented, than as they are Objects of the Soul) might
(where they expected the satisfaction of their sensuality only) meet
with that also, which would insinuate into them an Apprehension of
more reasonable, and most excellent perfections. Yea, whereas the
common opinion of Youth hath been, that only old men, and such as are
unable, or past delighting in a bodily loveliness, are those who are
best capable of the Mind's perfections; and that they do, therefore, so
much prefer them before the other, because their age or stupidity hath
deprived them of being sensible what pleasures they yield: though this
be the vulgar error; yet, here, it shall appear, that he who is able to
conceive the most excellent Pleasingness which could be apprehended in
a corpor[e]al Beauty, found it (even when he was most enamoured with
it) far short of that inexpressible Sweetness, which he discovered in a
virtuous and well tempered Disposition.

And if this be not worth your money; keep it!

                                                           JOHN MARRIOT.

                              PHIL'ARETE.
                           _To his Mistress._

    Hail! thou Fairest of all Creatures,
    Upon whom the sun doth shine!
    Model of all rarest features,
    And perfections most divine!
        Thrice, All Hail! And blessed be,
        Those that love and honour thee!

    Of thy worth, this rural Story,
    Thy unworthy Swain hath penned;
    And to thy ne'er-ending glory,
    These plain Numbers doth commend:
        Which ensuing Times shall warble,
        When 'tis lost, that's writ in marble.

    Though thy praise, and high deservings,
    Cannot all, be here expressed;
    Yet my love and true observings
    Some way, ought to be professed!
        And where greatest love we see,
        Highest things attemptèd be.

    By thy Beauty, I have gainèd
    To behold the best perfections;
    By thy Love, I have obtainèd
    To enjoy the best affections.
        And my tongue to sing thy praise!
        Love and Beauty thus doth raise.

    What although in rustic shadows,
    I, a Shepherd's breeding had!
    And confinèd to these meadows,
    So in home-spun russet clad!
        Such as I, have, now and then,
        Dared as much as greater men.

    Though a stranger to the Muses,
    Young, obscurèd, and despised;
    Yet such Art, thy love infuses!
    That I, thus, have poetised.
        Read! and be content to see
        Thy admirèd power in me!

    And O grant, thou Sweetest Beauty!
    (Wherewith ever Earth was graced),
    That this Trophy of my duty
    May, with favour be embraced!
        And disdain not, in these rhymes,
        To be sung to after Times!

    Let those doters on Apollo,
    That adore the Muses so,
    (And, like geese, each other follow)
    See what Love alone can do!
        For in love lays, Grove and Field;
        Nor to Schools, nor Courts will yield!

    On this Glass of thy Perfection,
    If that any women pry;
    Let them, thereby, take direction
    To adorn themselves thereby!
        And if aught amiss they view;
        Let them dress themselves anew!

    Young men shall, by this, acquainted
    With the truest Beauties, grow;
    So the counterfeit, or painted,
    They may shun, when them they know.
        But the Way, all will not find;
        For some eyes have, yet are blind.

    Thee! entirely! I have loved:
    So thy Sweetness on me wrought.
    Yet thy Beauty never moved
    Ill temptations in my thought.
        But, still, did Beauty's ray
        Sun-like, drive those fogs away.

    Those, that Mistresses are named;
    And for that, suspected be:
    Shall not need to be ashamed,
    If they pattern take, by Thee!
        Neither shall their Servants fear,
        Favours, openly to wear.

    Thou, to no man favour deignest!
    But what's fitting to bestow.
    Neither Servants entertainest!
    That can ever wanton grow.
        For, the more they look on Thee,
        Their Desires still better be!

    This, thy Picture, therefore, show I
    Naked unto every eye:
    Yet no fear of rival know I,
    Neither touch of jealousy.
        For the more make love to Thee!
        I, the more shall pleased be.

    I am no Italian lover
    That will mew thee in a gaol;
    But thy Beauty I discover,
    English-like, without a veil.
        If thou mayest be won away:
        Win and wear thee, he that may!

    Yet in this, Thou may'st believe me!
    (So indifferent, though I seem):
    Death with tortures would not grieve me
    More, than loss of thy esteem!
        For if VIRTUE me forsake!
        All a scorn of me will make.

    Then, as I, on Thee relying,
    Do no changing fear in Thee!
    So, by my defects supplying;
    From all changing, keep thou me!
        That unmatched we may prove:
        Thou, for Beauty! I, for Love!

    Then, while their loves are forgotten,
    Who to Pride and Lust were slaves;
    And their Mistresses, quite rotten,
    Lie, unthought on, in their graves:
        King and Queens, in their despite,
        Shall, to mind us, take delight.

                             FAIR VIRTUE,

                                  OR
                      THE MISTRESS OF PHIL'ARETE.

    _Two pretty rills do meet; and meeting, make_
    _Within one valley, a large silver lake:_
    _About whose banks, the fertile mountains stood_
    _In ages passèd, bravely crowned with wood;_
    _Which lending cold-sweet shadows, gave it grace_
    _To be accounted CYNTHIA's bathing-place._
    _And from her father NEPTUNE's brackish Court,_
    _Fair THETIS thither, often, would resort;_
    _Attended by the fishes of the sea,_
    _Which, in these sweeter waters came to play._
    _There, would the Daughter of the Sea God dive:_
    _And thither came the Land Nymphs, every eve,_
    _To wait upon her; bringing for her brows,_
    _Rich garlands of sweet flowers, and beechy boughs._
      _For pleasant was that Pool;[10] and near it, then,_
    _Was neither rotten marsh, nor boggy fen._
    _It was not overgrown with boisterous sedge,_
    _Nor grew there rudely, then, along the edge_
    _A bending willow, nor a prickly bush,_
    _Nor broad-leafed flag, nor reed, nor knotty rush:_
    _But here, well ordered, was a grove with bowers;_
    _There, grassy plots set round about with flowers._
    _Here, you might, through the water, see the land_
    _Appear, strewed o'er with white or yellow sand._
    _Yon, deeper was it; and the wind, by whiffs,_
    _Would make it rise, and wash the little cliffs;_
    _On which, oft pluming, sate, unfrighted then,_
    _The gagling wild goose, and the snow-white swan,_
    _With all those flocks of fowls, which, to this day,_
    _Upon those quiet waters breed and play._
      _For, though those excellences wanting be_
    _Which once it had, it is the same that we,_
    _By transposition, name the Ford of Arle:[11]_
    _And out of which, along a chalky marl,_
    _That river trills, whose waters wash the fort_
    _In which brave ARTHUR kept his royal Court._[12]

      _North-east, not far from this great Pool, there lies_
    _A tract of beechy mountains, that arise,_
    _With leisurely ascending, to such height_
    _As from their tops, the warlike Isle of Wight_
    _You, in the Ocean's bosom, may espy:_
    _Though near two hundred furlongs thence it lie._
    _The pleasant way, as up those hills you climb,_
    _Is strewed o'er with marjoram and thyme,_
    _Which grow unset. The hedgerows do not want_
    _The cowslip, violet, primrose; nor a plant_
    _That freshly scents: as birch, both green and tall;_
    _Low sallows, on whose bloomings, bees do fall;_
    _Fair woodbines which, about the hedges twine;_
    _Smooth privet, and the sharp-sweet eglantine;_
    _With many more, whose leaves and blossoms fair,_
    _The Earth adorn, and oft perfume the Air._
      _When you, unto the highest do attain;_
    _An intermixture both of wood and plain,_
    _You shall behold! which, though aloft it lie,_
    _Hath downs for sheep, and fields for husbandry:_
    _So much, at least, as little, needeth more;_
    _If not enough to merchandise their store._
      _In every row, hath Nature planted there;_
    _Some banquet for the hungry passenger._
    _For here, the hasle-nut and filbird grows;_
    _There, bulloes; and little further, sloes._
    _On this hand, standeth a fair wielding-tree;_
    _On that, large thickets of black cherries be._
    _The shrubby fields are raspice orchards, there;_
    _The new felled woods, like strawberry gardens are._
    _And had the King of Rivers blest those hills,_
    _With some small number of such pretty rills_
    _As flow elsewhere, Arcadia had not seen_
    _A sweeter plot of earth than this had been._
      _For what offence, this place was scanted so_
    _Of springing waters, no record doth show;_
    _Nor have they old tradition left, that tells;_
    _But till this day, at fifty-fathom wells,_
    _The Shepherds drink. And strange it was, to hear_
    _Of any Swain that ever livèd there,_
    _Who, either in a Pastoral Ode had skill,_
    _Or knew to set his fingers to a quill:_
    _For rude they were, who there inhabited,_
    _And to a dull contentment being bred,_
    _They no such Art esteemed; nor took much heed_
    _Of anything the world without them, did._
      _Ev'n there, and in the least frequented place_
    _Of all these mountains, is a little space_
    _Of pleasant ground hemmed in with dropping trees,_
    _And those so thick, that PHOEBUS scarcely sees_
    _The earth they grow on, once in all the year;_
    _Nor what is done among the shadows there:_
      _Along those lovely paths, (where never came_
    _Report of PAN's, or of APOLLO's name;_
    _Nor rumour of the Muses, till of late)_
    _Some Nymphs were wandering, and, by chance or fate,_
    _Upon a laund[13] arrived, where they met_
    _The little flock of Pastor PHILARET._
      _They were a troop of Beauties known well nigh_
    _Through all the plains of happy Brittany._
      _A Shepherd's Lad was He, obscure and young,_
    _Who, being first that ever there had sung,_
    _In homely verse, expressèd country loves,_
    _And only told them to the beechy groves;_
    _As if to sound his name, he never meant,_
    _Beyond the compass that his sheepwalk went._
      _They saw him not, nor them perceivèd he;_
    _For in the branches of a maple tree,_
    _He shrouded sate: and taught the hollow hill_
    _To echo forth the music of his quill;_
    _Whose tattling voice redoubled so the sound,_
    _That where he was concealed, they quickly found._
    _And there, they heard him sing a Madrigal_
    _That soon betrayed his cunning to them all._
      _Full rude it was, no doubt, but such a Song,_
    _Those rustic and obscurèd shades among,_
    _Was never heard, they say, by any ear,_
    _Until his Muses had inspired him there._
    _Though mean and plain, his country habit seemed,_
    _Yet by his Song, the Ladies rightly deemed_
    _That either he had travellèd abroad,_
    _Where Swains of better knowledge make abode;_
    _Or else, that some brave Nymph who used that grove,_
    _Had deignèd to enrich him with her love._
      _Approaching nearer, therefore, to this Swain,_
    _Them, him saluted; and he, them again,_
    _In such good fashion, as well seemed to be_
    _According to their state, and his degree._
    _Which greetings being passed, and much chat_
    _Concerning him, the place, with this and that;_
    _He, to an arbour doth those Beauties bring,_
    _Where he, them prays to sit; they, him to sing,_
    _And to express that untaught Country Art,_
    _In setting forth the Mistress of his heart;_
    _Which they o'erheard him practice, when unseen,_
    _He thought no ear had witness of it been._
      _At first, as much unable, he refused,_
    _And seemèd willing to have been excused_
    _From such a task, "For trust me, Nymphs!" quoth he,_
    _"I would not purposely uncivil be,_
    _Nor churlish in denying what you crave!_
    _But, as I hope great PAN my flock will save!_
    _I rather wish that I might, heard of none,_
    _Enjoy my music by myself alone;_
    _Or that the murmurs of some little flood,_
    _Joined with the friendly echoes of the wood,_
    _Might be the impartial umpires of my wit;_
    _Than vent it where the world might hear of it._
    _And doubtless, I had sung less loud while-ere,_
    _Had I but thought of any such so near._
    _Not that I either wish obscurified_
    _Her matchless Beauty, or desire to hide_
    _Her sweet Perfections. For, by LOVE I swear!_
    _The utmost happiness I aim at here_
    _Is but to compass Worth enough to raise_
    _A high built Trophy equal to her praise._
      _Which, fairest Ladies! I shall hope in vain,_
    _For I was meanly bred on yonder plain!_
    _And though I can well prove my blood to be_
    _Derived from no ignoble Stems, to me:_
    _Yet Fate and Time them so obscured and crosst_
    _That with their fortunes, their esteem is lost;_
    _And whatsoe'er repute I strive to win,_
    _Now from myself alone, it must begin._
    _For I have no estate, nor friends, nor fame,_
    _To purchase either credit to my name,_
    _Or gain a good opinion; though I do_
    _Ascend the height I shall aspire unto._
      _If any of those virtues yet I have_
    _Which honour to my predecessors gave;_
    _There's all, that's left me! And though some contemn_
    _Such needy jewels: yet it was for them,_
    _My Fair One did my humble suit affect;_
    _And deignèd my adventurous love, respect:_
    _And by their help, I passage hope to make,_
    _Through such poor things as I dare undertake._
      _But, you may say, 'What goodly thing, alas,_
    _Can my despisèd meanness bring to pass?_
    _Or what great Monument of Honour raise_
    _To VIRTUE, in these vice abounding days?_
    _In which, a thousand times, more honour finds,_
    _Ignoble gotten Means, than noble Minds.'_
    _Indeed, the world affordeth small reward_
    _For honest minds, and therefore her regard_
    _I seek not after; neither do I care,_
    _If I have bliss, how others think I fare!_
    _For, so my thoughts have rest; it irks not me,_
    _Though none, but I, do know how blest they be._
      _Here, therefore, in these groves and hidden plains,_
    _I pleasèd, sit alone, and many strains_
    _I carol to myself, these hills among,_
    _Where no man comes to interrupt my song._
    _Whereas, if my rude Lays, make known I should,_
    _Beyond their home; perhaps, some carpers would_
    _(Because they have not heard from whence we be)_
    _Traduce, abuse, and scoff both them and me._
    _For if our great and learned Shepherds (who_
    _Are graced with Wit, and Fame, and Favours too)_
    _With much ado, escape uncensured may;_
    _What hopes have I to pass unscorched, I pray!_
    _Who yet unto the Muses am unknown,_
    _And live unhonoured, here, among mine own?_
      _A gadding humour seldom taketh me,_
    _To range out further than yon mountains be;_
    _Nor hath applausive Rumour borne my name_
    _Upon the spreading wings of sounding Fame:_
    _Nor can I think, fair Nymphs! that you resort_
    _For other purpose, than to make a sport_
    _At that simplicity, which shall appear_
    _Among the rude untutored Shepherds here._
      _I know, that you, my noble Mistress ween,_
    _At best, a homely milkmaid on the green,_
    _Or some such country lass as taskèd stays_
    _At servile labour until holidays._
    _For poor men's virtues so neglected grow,_
    _And are now prizèd at a rate so low;_
    _As, 'tis impossible, you should be brought_
    _To let it with belief possess your thought,_
    _That any Nymph, whose love might worthy be,_
    _Would deign to cast respective eyes on me._
      _You see I live, possessing none of those_
    _Gay things, with which the world enamoured grows._
    _To woo a Courtly Beauty, I have neither_
    _Rings, bracelets, jewels; nor a scarf, nor feather._
    _I use no double-dyèd cloth to wear;_
    _No scrip embroidered richly, do I bear:_
    _No silken belt, nor sheephook laid with pearls,_
    _To win me favour from the shepherds' girls._
    _No Place of Office or Command I keep,_
    _But this my little flock of homely sheep._
    _And, in a word; the sum of all my pelf_
    _Is this_, I am the Master of myself!
      _No doubt, in Courts of Princes you have been!_
    _And all the pleasures of the Palace seen!_
    _There, you beheld brave Courtly passages_
    _Between Heroes and their Mistresses._
    _You, there, perhaps, in presence of the King,_
    _Have heard his learned Bards and Poets sing!_
    _And what contentment, then, can wood or field,_
    _To please your curious understandings yield?_
    _I know you walkèd hither, but to prove_
    _What silly Shepherds do conceive of love?_
    _Or to make trial how our simpleness,_
    _Can Passions' force, or Beauty's power express?_
    _And when you are departed, you will joy_
    _To laugh, or descant on the Shepherd's Boy!_
      _But yet, I vow! if all the Art I had_
    _Could any more esteem or glory add_
    _To her unmatchèd worth; I would not weigh_
    _What you intended," "Prithee, Lad!" quoth they,_
    _"Distrustful of our courtesy do not seem!_
    _Her nobleness can never want esteem,_
    _Nor thy concealèd Measures be disgraced;_
    _Though in a meaner person they were placed._
    _If thy too modestly reservèd quill_
    _But reach that height, which we suppose it will;_
    _Thy meanness or obscureness cannot wrong_
    _The Nymph thou shalt eternize in thy Song._
    _For, as it higher rears thy glory, that_
    _A noble Mistress thou hast aimèd at;_
    _So, more unto her honour it will prove_
    _That (whilst deceiving shadows others move)_
    _Her constant eyes could pass unmovèd by_
    _The subtle Time's bewitching bravery;_
    _And those obscurèd virtues love in thee,_
    _That with despisèd meanness clouded be._
      _Now then, for Her sweet sake! whose beauteous eye_
    _Hath filled thy Soul with heavenly Poesy;_
    _Sing in her praise some new inspirèd Strain!_
    _And if, within our power, there shall remain_
    _A favour to be done to pleasure thee;_
    _Ask and obtain it, whatsoe'er it be!"_
      _"Fair Ladies!" quoth the Lad, "such words as those,_
    _Compel me can": and therewithal he rose,_
    _Returned them thanks, obeisance made; and then_
    _Down sate again, and thus to sing began._

                           [_The Prologue._]

    You that, at a blush, can tell
    Where the best perfections dwell!
    And the substance can conjecture,
    By a shadow or a picture!
    Come and try, if you, by this,
    Know my Mistress, who she is?
    For, though I am far unable
    Here to match APELLES' table;
    Or draw ZEUXES' cunning lines
    (Who so painted BACCHUS' vines
    That the hungry birds did muster
    Round the counterfeited cluster);
    Though I vaunt not to inherit
    PETRARCH's yet unequalled spirit;
    Nor to quaff the sacred well
    Half so deep as _ASTROPHEL_;
    Though the much-commended _CELIA_,
    Lovely _LAURA_, _STELLA_, _DELIA_,
    (Who, in former times, excelled)
    Live in lines unparalleled,
    Making us believe, 'twere much
    Earth should yield another such:
      Yet, assisted but by Nature,
    I assay to paint a Creature,
    Whose rare worth, in future years,
    Shall be praised as much as theirs.

      Nor let any think amiss
    That I have presumèd this;
    For a gentle Nymph is She,
    And hath often honoured me.
    She's a noble spark of light
    In each part so exquisite;
    Had she, in times passèd been,
    They had made her, Beauty's Queen.
      Then, shall coward Despair
    Let the most unblemished Fair,
    (For default of some poor Art,
    Which her favour may impart)
    And the sweetest Beauty fade
    That was ever born or made?
    Shall, of all the fair ones, She,
    Only so unhappy be,
    As to live in such a Time,
    In so rude, so dull a clime;
    Where no spirit can ascend
    High enough, to apprehend
    Her unprizèd excellence,
    Which lies hid from common sense?
      Never shall a stain so vile
    Blemish this, our Poets' Isle!
    I myself will rather run
    And seek out for Helicon!
    I will wash, and make me clean
    In the waves of Hippocrene!
    And, in spite of Fortune's bars,
    Climb the Hill that braves the stars!
    Where, if I can get no Muse,
    That will any skill infuse,
    Or my just attempt prefer;
    I will make a Muse of Her!
    Whose kind heat shall soon distil
    Art into my ruder quill.
    By her favour, I will gain
    Help to reach so rare a Strain;
    That the Learned Hills shall wonder
    How the Untaught Valleys under,
    Met with raptures so divine;
    Without the knowledge of the Nine.
      I, that am a Shepherd's Swain
    Piping on the lowly plain,
    And no other music can
    Than what learned I have of PAN;
    I, who never sang the Lays,
    That deserve APOLLO's bays;
    Hope, not only here to frame
    Measures which shall keep Her name
    From the spite of wasting Times:
    But (enshrined in sacred rhymes)
    Place her, where her form divine
    Shall, to after ages, shine;
    And, without respect of odds,
    Vie renown with Demi-Gods.

      Then, whilst of her praise I sing;
    Harken Valley! Grove! and Spring!
    Listen to me, sacred Fountains!
    Solitary Rocks! and Mountains!
    Satyrs! and you wanton Elves
    That do nightly sport yourselves!
    Shepherds! you that, on the reed,
    Whistle, while your lambs do feed!
    Agèd Woods and Floods! that know
    What hath been, long times, ago!
    Your more serious notes among,
    Hear, how I can, in my Song,
    Set a Nymph's perfection forth!
    And, when you have heard her worth,
    Say, if such another Lass
    Ever known to mortal was!
      Listen Lordlings! you that most
    Of your outward honours boast!
    And you Gallants! (that think scorn,
    We, to lowly fortunes born,
    Should attain to any graces,
    Where you look for sweet embraces)
    See! if all those vanities
    Whereon your affection lies;
    Or the titles, or the powers,
    (By your fathers' virtues, yours)
    Can your Mistresses enshrine
    In such State, as I will mine!
    Who am forced to importune
    Favours, in despite of Fortune.
      Beauties, listen! chiefly you
    That yet know not Virtue's due!
    You, that think there are no sports,
    Nor no honours, but in Courts!
    (Though of thousands, there live not
    Two, but die and are forgot).
    See, if any Palace yields
    Ought more glorious than the Fields!
    And consider well, if we
    May not, as high-flying be
    In our thoughts, as you that sing
    In the chambers of a King!
    See! if our contented minds,
    Whom Ambition never blinds,
    (We, that, clad in homespun gray,
    On our own sweet meadows play)
    Cannot honour, if we please,
    Where we list, as well as these!
    Or, as well, of worth approve!
    Or, with equal Passions, love!
    See, if beauties may not touch
    Our soon-loving hearts as much!
    Or our services effect
    Favours, with as true respect,
    In your good conceits to rise,
    As our painted butterflies!
      And you, Fairest! give her room,
    When your Sex's Pride doth come!

    For that subject of my Song,
    I invoke these groves among
    To be witness of the Lays
    Which I carol in her praise.
    And because she soon will see
    If my Measures faulty be,
    Whilst I chant them, let each rhyme
    Keep a well-proportioned time;
    And with Strains, that are divine,
    Meet her thoughts in every line!
    Let each accent there, present
    To her soul, a new content!
    And, with ravishings, so seize her,
    She may feel the height of pleasure!
      You enchanting Spells, that lie
    Lurking in sweet Poesy!
    (And to none else will appear,
    But to those, that worthy are)
    Make Her know! there is a power
    Ruling in these charms of yours;
    That transcends, a thousand heights,
    Ordinary men's delights;
    And can leave within her breast
    Pleasures not to be exprest!
    Let her linger on each Strain
    As if She would hear't again!
    And were loath to part from thence
    Till She had the quintessence
    Out of each conceit, she meets!
    And had stored her, with those sweets!
      Make Her, by your Art to see!
    I, that am her Swain, was he
    Unto whom all beauties here,
    Were alike and equal dear:
    That I could of freedom boast,
    And of favours with the most;
    Yet, now, nothing more affecting,
    Sing of Her! the rest neglecting.
      Make her heart, with full compassion,
    Judge the merit of True Passion!
    And, as much my love prefer,
    As I strive to honour Her!
      Lastly, you that will, I know,
    Hear me, whe'er you should or no!
    You, that seek to turn all flowers,
    By your breath's infectious powers,
    Into such rank loathsome weeds,
    As your dunghill nature breeds!
    Let your hearts be chaste! or here
    Come not, till you purge them clear!
    Mark! and mark then, what is worst!
    For whate'er it seem at first,
    If you bring a modest mind,
    You shall nought immodest find!
      But if any, too severe,
    Hap to lend a partial ear,
    Or, out of his blindness, yawn
    Such a word as, _O profane_!
    Let him know thus much from me,
    If here's ought profane, 'tis he
    Who applies these excellences
    Only to the touch of Senses;
    And, dim sighted, cannot see
    Where the Soul of this may be!
      Yet, that no offence may grow;
    'Tis their choice, to stay or go!
      Or if any for despite
    Rather comes, than for delight;
    For his presence, I'll not pray,
    Nor his absence. Come he may!
    Critics shall admitted be,
    Though I know they'll carp at me:
    For I neither fear nor care
    What in this, their censures are.
      If the Verse here used, be
    Their dislike. It liketh me!
    If my Method they deride,
    Let them know _Love is not tied,_
    _In his free discourse, to choose_
    _Such strict Rules as Arts-men use_.
    These may prate of LOVE, but they
    Know him not! For he will play
    From the matter, now and then!
    Off and on! and off again!
      If this Prologue, tedious seem,
    Or the rest too long they deem;
    Let them know my love they win,
    Though they go, ere they begin:
    Just as if they should attend me
    Till the last; and, there, commend me.
    For I will, for no man's pleasure,
    Change a Syllable or Measure;
    Neither for their praises add
    Ought to mend what they think bad.
    Since it never was my fashion
    To make Work of Recreation.
      Pedants shall not tie my strains
    To our antique Poets' veins;
    As if we, in latter days,
    Knew to love, but not to praise.
    Being born as free as these,
    I will Sing, as I shall please!
    Who, as well new paths may run,
    As the best before have done.
    I disdain to make my Song,
    For their pleasures, short or long;
    If I please, I'll end it here!
    If I list, I'll sing this year!
    And, though none regard of it,
    By myself, I pleased can sit;
    And, with that contentment, cheer me,
    As if half the world did hear me.
      But because I am assured
    All are either so conjured,
    As they will my Song attend,
    With the patience of a friend;
    Or, at least, take note that I
    Care not much. Now willingly,
    I, these goodly colours lay,
    Wind, nor rain shall wear away;
    But retain their purest glass,
    When the statues made of brass,
    For some Prince's more renown,
    Shall be wholly overthrown;
    Or consumed with cankered rust,
    Lie neglected in the dust.

      And my Reason gives direction
    When I sing of such Perfection,
    First, _those beauties_ to declare,
    _Which_ (though hers) _without her are_.
      To advance her fame, I find,
    Those are of a triple kind.
    _Privileges_ she hath store
    _At her birth_, _since_, and _before_.
    From before her birth, the fame,
    She of high descents may claim,
    Whose well-gotten honours may
    Her deserving more display,
    For, from heavenly race she springs,
    And from high and mighty Kings.
      At her birth, She was, by Fate,
    In those Parents fortunate,
    Whose estate and virtues stood
    Answerable to their blood.
      Then the Nation, Time, and Place
    To the rest, may add some grace.
    For the People, with the Clime,
    And the fashions of the Time;
    (In all which, she hath been blest,
    By enjoying them at best)
    Do not only mend the features,
    But, oft times, make better natures:
    Whereas, those who hap not so,
    Both deformed, and ruder grow.
      In these climes, and latter days,
    To deserve sweet Beauty's praise,
    (Where so many females dwell,
    That each seemeth to excel)
    In more glory twenty-fold
    Than it was in days of old:
    When our ordinary fair ones
    Might have been esteemèd rare ones;
    And have made a subject fit,
    For their bravest Poet's wit.
    Little rushlights, or a spark
    Sheweth fairly in the dark;
    And to him occasion gives,
    That from sight of greater, lives,
    To adore it. Yet the ray
    Of one torch will take away
    All the light of twenty more
    That shined very well before.
    So, those petty Beauties which
    Made the Times before us, rich;
    Though but sparkles, seemed a flame
    Which hath been increased by Fame,
    And their true affections, who,
    Better, never lived to know:
    Whereas, Her, if they had seen
    She had, sure, adorèd been!
    And taught Ages past, to sing
    Sweeter in the Sonneting.
      Such a Ray, so clear! so bright!
    Hath outshinèd all the light
    Of a thousand, such as theirs
    Who were then esteemèd Stars;
    And would have enlightened near
    Half the world's wide hemisphere.

      She is fairest, that may pass
    For a fair one, where the Lass
    Trips it on the country green;
    That may equal Sparta's Queen.
    Where, in every street, you see
    Throngs of Nymphs and Ladies be,
    That are fair enough to move
    Angels, and enamour JOVE.
    She must matchless features bring
    That now moves a Muse to sing:
    When as one small Province may
    Shew more beauties in one day,
    Than the half of Europe could
    Breed them, in an age of old.
    Such is She! and such a lot
    Hath her rare perfection got!

    _Since her birth_ (to make the colour
    Of so true a Beauty fuller;
    And to give a better grace
    To that sweetness in the face)
    She hath all the furtherance had,
    Noble educations add.
    And not only knoweth all,
    Which our Ladies, Courtship call;
    With those knowledges that do
    Grace her sex, and suit thereto:
    But She hath attained to find
    (What is rare with Womankind)
    Excellences, whereby She
    May in Soul delighted be;
    And reap more contentment than
    One of twenty thousand can.
      By this means, hath bettered been
    All without her, and within;
    For it hath, by adding Arts,
    To adorn her native parts,
    Raised to a noble flame,
    (Which shall lighten forth her fame)
    Those dear sparks of sacred fire,
    Which the Muses did inspire
    At her birth: that She, complete,
    Might, with them befit a seat.
      But, perhaps, I do amiss,
    To insist so long on this.
    These are superficial things;
    And but slender shadowings
    To the work I have in hand.
    Neither can you understand
    What Her excellence may be,
    Till Herself described you see!
      Nor can mine or any pen
    Paint her half so lovely, than
    As She is indeed. For, here,
    Might those deities appear,
    Which young PARIS viewed at will,
    Naked, upon Ida hill!
    That I, from those Three might take
    All their beauties, One to make;
    (Those, no question! well compact,
    Would have made up one exact)
    Something, yet, we miss, of might
    To express her Sweetness right.
    JUNO's majesty would fit;
    VENUS' beauty, PALLAS' wit
    Might have brought to pattern hers
    In some shewed particulars;
    But they never can express
    Her whole frame or worthiness
    With those excellences, which
    Make both Soul and Body rich.
      PALLAS, sometimes, was untoward,
    VENUS wanton, JUNO froward:
    Yea all three, infected were
    With such faults as women are;
    And, though falsely deified,
    Frailties had, which She'll deride.
      By Her Self, must therefore She;
    Or by nothing patterned be!
    And I hope to paint her so,
    By Her Self, that you shall know
    I have served no common Dame,
    Of mean worth, or vulgar fame!
    But a Nymph, that's fairer than
    Pen or pencil, portrait can!

    And to-morrow, if you stray
    Back again this uncouth way,
    I, my simple Art will show:
    But the time prevents me now.
    For, except at yonder glade,
    All the laund is under shade;
    That, before these ewes be told;
    Those my wethers, in the fold;
    Ten young weanlings driven down
    To the well beneath the town;
    And my lambkins changèd from
    Brome leaze, to the mead at home;
    'Twill be far in night: and so,
    I shall make my father woe
    For my stay; and be in fear
    Somewhat is mischancèd here.

    On your way, I'll, therefore, bring you!
    And a Song or two I'll sing you!
    Such as I, half in despair,
    Made when first I wooed my Fair:
    Whereunto, my boy shall play;
    That my voice assist, it may!

                                   I.

    _Come, my Muse! If thou disdain!_
      _All my comforts are bereft me!_
    _No delight doth now remain;_
      _I, nor friend, nor flock have left me._
    _They are scattered on the plain._

    _Men, alas, are too severe,_
      _And make scoffs at lovers' fortunes._
    _Women, hearted like the bear;_
      _That regards not who importunes,_
    _But doth all in pieces tear._

    _If I should my sorrows shew_
      _Unto rivers, springs, or fountains;_
    _They are senseless to my woe:_
      _So are groves, and rocks, and mountains._
    _Then, O, whither shall I go?_

    _Means of harbour, me to shield_
      _From despair; ah, know you any?_
    _For no city, grange, nor field,_
      _Though they lend content to many,_
    _Unto me, can comfort yield._

    _I have kept, and sighèd too,_
      _For Compassion to make trial;_
    _Yea, done all that words can do,_
      _Yet have nothing but denial._
    _What way is there, then, to woo?_

    _Shall I swear, protest, and vow?_
      _So have I done, most extremely!_
    _Should I die? I know not how!_
      _For from all attempts unseemly,_
    _Love and Virtue keep me now._

    _I have heard that Time prevails;_
      _But I fear me, 'tis a fable._
    _Time, and all Endeavour fails!_
      _To bear more, my heart's unable;_
    _Yet none careth what it ails!_

    _Lines to some, have op'ed the door_
      _And got entrance for Affection._
    _Words well spoken, much implore,_
      _By the Gestures' good direction:_
    _But a Look doth ten times more!_

    _'Tis the Eye that only reads_
      _To the heart, Love's deepest Lectures!_
    _By a moving Look, it pleads_
      _More than common Sense conjectures,_
    _And a way to Pity leads._

    _This I knowing, did observe;_
      _Both by Words and Looks complaining:_
    _Yet, for Pity I may starve!_
      _There's no hope of my obtaining,_
    _Till I better can deserve._

    _Yea, and he that thinks to win_
      _By Desert, may be deceivèd!_
    _For they who have worthiest bin,_
      _Of their right, have been bereavèd;_
    _And a groom admitted in._

    _Wherefore, Muse! to thee I call!_
      _Thou, since nothing else avails me,_
    _Must redeem me from my thrall!_
      _If thy sweet enchantment fails me;_
    _Then, adieu Love, Life, and all!_

                                  II.

    _Tell me, my heart! What thoughts, these pantings move?_
                              _My thoughts of Love!_
    _What flames are these, that set thee so on fire?_
                                  _Flames of Desire!_
    _What means hast thou, contentment's flower to crop?_
                                  _No means but Hope!_
    _Yet let us feed on Hope, and hope the best!_
    _For they, amid their griefs, are something blest,_
    _Whose thoughts, and flames, and means have such free scope,_
    _They may, at once, both Love, Desire, and Hope._

    _But say! What fruit will love at last obtain?_
                                    _Fruitless Disdain!_
    _What will those hopes prove, which yet seem so fair?_
                                    _Hopeless Despair!_
    _What end shall run those Passions, out of breath?_
                                    _An endless Death!_
    _O can there be such cruelty in love?_
    _And doth my fortune so ungentle prove,_
    _She will no fruit, nor hope, nor end bequeath,_
    _But cruelest Disdain, Despair, and Death?_

    _Then what new study shall I now apply?_
                                        _Study to Die!_
    _How might I end my care, and die content?_
                                      _Care to Repent!_
    _And what good thoughts may make my end more holy?_
                                  _Think on thy Folly!_
    _Yes, so I will! and since my fate can give_
    _No hope, but ever without hope to live,_
    _My studies, cares, and thoughts, I'll all apply_
    _To weigh my Folly well! Repent! and Die!_

                                  III.

        _Sad Eyes! What do you ail,_
        _To be thus ill disposed?_
        _Why doth your sleeping fail,_
        _Now all men's else are closed?_
    _Was't I, that ne'er did bow_
    _In any servile duty!_
    _And will you make me, now,_
    _A slave to Love and Beauty?_

        _What though my Mistress smile,_
        _And in her love affects thee!_
        _Let not her eye beguile;_
        _I fear she disrespects thee!_
    _Do not, poor Heart! depend_
    _On those vain thoughts that fill thee!_
    _They'll fail thee, in the end!_
    _So must thy Passions kill thee!_

        _What hopes have I, that She_
        _Will hold her favours ever;_
        _When so few women be_
        _That constant can persèver?_
    _Whate'er She do protest!_
    _When fortunes do deceive me,_
    _Then She, with all the rest,_
    _I fear, alas, will leave me!_

        _Whil'st Youth, and Strength remains,_
        _With Art that may commend her;_
        _Perhaps, She nought disdains_
        _Her Servant should attend her._
    _But it is one to ten,_
    _If crosses overtake me,_
    _She will not know me, then;_
    _But scorn, and so forsake me!_

        _Shall then, in earnest truth,_
        _My careful eyes observe her?_
        _Shall I consume my youth;_
        _And short' my time to serve her?_
    _Shall I, beyond my strength,_
    _Let Passions' torments prove me?_
    _To hear her say, at length_,
    Away! I cannot love thee!

        _O, rather let me die_
        _Whil'st I, thus gentle find her!_
        _'Twere worse than death, if I_
        _Should find She proves unkinder!_
    _One frown, though but in jest,_
    _Or one unkindness feignèd,_
    _Would rob me of more rest_
    _Than e'er could be regainèd._

        _But in her eyes, I find_
        _Such signs of pity moving;_
        _She cannot be unkind,_
        _Nor err, nor fail in loving:_
    _And on her forehead, this_
    _Seems written to relieve me_,
    My heart, no joy shall miss
    That Love, or She can give me!

        _Which if I find, I vow_
        _My service shall persèver!_
        _The same that I am now;_
        _I will continue ever!_
    _No others' high degree,_
    _No beauteous look shall change me!_
    _My love shall constant be,_
    _And no estate estrange me!_

        _When other noble Dames,_
        _By greater men attended,_
        _Shall, with their lives and names,_
        _Have all their glories ended:_
    _With fairest Queens, shall She_
    _Sit, sharing equal glory;_
    _And Times to come shall be_
    _Delighted with our Story._

        _In spite of others' hates,_
        _More honour I will do her!_
        _Than those that with estates_
        _And help of fortune woo her:_
    _Yea, that True Worth I spy;_
    _Though monarchs strove to grace it,_
    _They should not reach more high_
    _Than I dare hope to place it!_

        _And though I never vaunt_
        _What favours are possessed;_
        _Much less content I want_
        _Than if they were expressed:_
    _Let others make their mirth,_
    _To blab each kiss or toying!_
    _I know no bliss on earth_
    _Like secret love enjoying._

        _And this shall be the worst_
        _Of all that can betide me._
        _If I (like some accurst)_
        _Should find my hopes deride me;_
    _My cares will not be long;_
    _I know which way to mend them!_
    _I'll think, "Who did the wrong!"_
    _Sigh! break my heart! and end them!_

                    [_The Picture of Fair VIRTUE._]

    Hail, fair Beauties! and again,
    Hail to all your goodly train!

    What I promised yesterday,
    If it please you, hear ye may!
    For now, once begun have I,
    Sing I will, though none were by;
      And though freely on I run
    Yet confused paths to shun.
    First, that part shall be disclosed,
    That's of Elements composed.

      There the two unequal pair,
    Water, Fire; Earth and Air
    (Each one suiting a complexion)
    Have so cunning a commixtion,
    As they, in proportion sweet,
    With the rarest temper meet!
    Either, in as much as needeth;
    So as neither, ought exceedeth.
      This pure substance is the same
    Which the Body we do name.
    Were that of immortal stuff,
    'Tis refined and pure enough
    To be called a Soul! for, sure,
    Many souls are not so pure.
      I, that with a serious look
    Note of this rare Model took,
    Find that Nature in their places
    So well couchèd all the Graces,
    As the curious'st eyes that be
    Cannot blot, nor blemish see.

      Like a pine it groweth straight,
    Reaching an approvèd height,
    And hath all the choice perfections
    That inflame her best affections.
    In the motions of each part,
    Nature seems to strive with Art;
    Which her gestures most shall bless,
    With the gifts of Pleasingness.

      When She sits, methinks I see
    How all virtues fixèd be
    In a frame, whose constant mould
    Will the same unchangèd hold.

      If you note her, when She moves:
    CYTHEREA, drawn with doves,
    May come learn such winning notions
    As will gain to love's devotions,
    More than all her painted wiles;
    Such as tears, or sighs, or smiles.

      Some, whose bodies want true graces,
    Have sweet features in their faces:
    Others (that do miss them there),
    Lovely are, some other where,
    And to our desires, do fit
    In behaviour, or in wit;
    Or some inward worth appearing
    To the soul, the soul endearing.
    But in Her, your eye may find
    All that's good in Womankind.
    What in others, we prefer,
    Are but sundry parts of Her;
    Who, most perfect, doth present
    What might One and All content.
    Yea, he that, in love still ranges,
    And, each day, or hourly changes;
    (Had he judgement but to know
    What perfections in her grow)
    There, would find the spring of store,
    Swear a faith, and change no more.
    Neither, in the total Frame,
    Is She only void of blame;
    But each part, surveyed asunder
    Might beget both love and wonder.
    If you dare to look so high
    Or behold such majesty;
    Lift your wondering eyes, and see
    Whether ought can bettered be!
      There's her Hair, with which LOVE angles,
    And beholders' eyes entangles!
    For in those fair curlèd snares,
    They are hampered unawares;
    And compelled to swear a duty
    To her sweet enthralling beauty.
    In my mind, 'tis the most fair
    That was ever callèd hair:
    Somewhat brighter than a brown;
    And her tresses waving down
    At full length, and, so dispread,
    Mantles her, from foot to head.
      If you saw her archèd Brow;
    Tell me, pray! how Art knows how
    To have made it in a line
    More exact, or more divine!
    Beauty, there, may be descried
    In the height of all her pride.
      'Tis a meanly rising plain,
    Whose pure white hath many a vein
    Interlacing, like the springs
    In the earth's enamellings.
    If the tale be not a toy,
    Of the little wingèd Boy:
    When he means to strike a heart,
    Thence! he throws the fatal dart,
    Which, of wounds still makes a pair;
    One of Love, one of Despair.
      Round, her Visage; or so near
    To a roundness, doth appear,
    That no more of length it takes,
    Than what best proportion makes.
      Short her Chin is; and yet so
    As it is just long enow.
    Loveliness doth seem to glory
    In that circling promontory,
    Pretty moving features skip
    'Twixt that hillock and the lip,
    If you note her, but the while
    She is pleased to speak, or smile.
      And her Lips, that shew no dulness,
    Full are, in the meanest fulness.
    Those, the leaves be, whose unfolding
    Brings sweet pleasures to beholding:
    For such pearls they do disclose;
    Both the Indies match not those!
    Yet are so in order placed,
    As their whiteness is more graced.
    Each part is so well disposed
    And her dainty mouth composed,
    So as, there, is no distortion
    Misbeseems that sweet proportion.
      When her ivory Teeth she buries
    'Twixt her two enticing cherries,
    There appears such pleasures hidden,
    As might tempt what were forbidden.
    If you look again the whiles,
    She doth part those lips in smiles;
    'Tis as when a flash of light
    Breaks from heaven to glad the night.
      Other parts, my pencil crave;
    But those lips I cannot leave!
    For, methinks, [if] I should go
    And forsake those cherries so;
    There's a kind of excellence
    Holds me from departing hence.
    I would tell you, what it were;
    But my cunning fails me there.
    They are like, in their discloses,
    To the morning's dewy roses;
    That, besides the name of "fair,"
    Cast perfumes that sweet the air.
    Melting soft her kisses be!
    And had I, now, two or three,
    More inspirèd by their touch,
    I had praised them twice as much!
      But, sweet Muses! mark ye how
    Her fair Eyes do check me now!
    That I seemed to pass them so,
    And their praises overgo:
    And yet, blame me not that I
    Would so fain have passed them by!
    For I fearèd to have seen them,
    Least there were some danger in them!
    Yet such gentle looks they lend,
    As might make her foe, a friend;
    And by their allurings move
    All beholders unto love.
    Such a power is also there,
    As will keep those thoughts in fear;
    And Command enough I saw,
    To hold impudence in awe.
    There, may he that knows to love,
    Read contents which are above
    Their ignoble aims, who know
    Nothing that so high doth grow.
    Whilst She, me beholding is,
    My heart dares not think amiss!
    For her sight, most piercing clear,
    Seems to see what's written there.
      Those bright Eyes (that, with their light,
    Oftentimes have blest my sight;
    And in turning thence their shining,
    Left me, in sad darkness, pining)
    Are the rarest, lovliest gray;
    And do cast forth such a ray
    As the man that black prefers,
    More would like, this gray of hers.
      When their matchless beams she shrouds;
    'Tis like CYNTHIA hid in clouds!
    If again she shew them light,
    'Tis like morning after night!
    And 'tis worthy well beholding
    With how many a pretty folding,
    Her sweet Eyelids grace that Fair,
    Meanly fringed with beaming hair,
    Whereby, neatly overspread,
    Those bright lamps are shadowèd.
      'Twixt the eyes, no hollow place,
    Wrinkle, nor undecent space
    Disproportions Her in ought;
    Though by Envy, faults were sought!
      On those Eyebrows never yet,
    Did disdainful scowling sit.
    Love and Goodness gotten thither,
    Sit, on equal thrones together;
    And do throw just scorn on them,
    That their Government contemn.
      Then, almost obscured, appears
    Those her jewel-gracing Ears!
    Whose own beauties more adorn,
    Than the richest pearl that's worn
    By the proudest Persian dames,
    Or the best that Nature frames.
    There, the voice, in love's meanders,
    Through their pretty circlings, wanders!
    Whose rare turnings will admit
    No rude speech to enter it.
      Stretching from Mount Forehead lies
    Beauty's Cape, betwixt her eyes:
    Which two crystal-passing lakes,
    Love's delightful Isthmus makes!
    Neither more nor less extending
    Than most meriteth commending.
    Those in whom that part hath been
    Best deserving praises seen;
    Or, surveyed without affection,
    Came the nearest to perfection;
    Would scarce handsome ones appear
    If with Her, compared they were:
    For it is so much excelling,
    That it passeth means of telling!
      On the either side of this,
    Love's most lovely Prospect is!
    Those, her smiling Cheeks, whose colour
    Comprehends True Beauty fuller
    Than the curious'st mixtures can,
    That are made by Art of man.
    It is Beauty's Garden-knot,
    Where, as in a true-love-knot,
    So, the snowy Lily grows,
    Mixèd with the crimson Rose.
    That as friends they joinèd be.
    Yet they seem to disagree,
    Whether of the two shall reign?
    And the lilies oft obtain
    Greatest sway, unless a blush
    Help the roses at a push.
      Hollow fallings none there are!
    There's no wrinkle! there's no scar!
    Only there's a little Mole,
    Which from VENUS' cheek was stole.
      If it were a thing in Nature
    Possible, that any creature
    Might decaying life repair,
    Only by the help of air;
    There were no such salve for death,
    As the balm of her sweet Breath!
    Or, if any human power
    Might detain the soul an hour
    From the flesh, to dust bequeathing,
    It would linger on her breathing!
    And be half in mind, that there
    More than mortal pleasures were.
    And whose fortune were so fair
    As to draw so sweet an air,
    Would, no doubt, let slighted be
    The perfumes of Araby.
    For the English Eglantine
    Doth, through envy of Her, pine.
    Violets and Roses too
    Fear that She will them undo:
    And it seems that in her Breast
    Is composed the Phoenix's nest.
      But, descend a while, mine eye!
    See, if polished ivory,
    Or the finest fleecèd flocks,
    Or the whitest Albion rocks,
    For comparisons may stand,
    To express that snowy Hand!
    When She draws it from her glove
    It hath virtue to remove,
    Or disperse, if there be ought
    Cloudeth the beholder's thought.
    If that palm but toucheth yours,
    You shall feel a secret power
    Cheer your heart, and glad it more!
    Though it drooped with grief before.
      Through the Veins disposèd true
    Crimson, yields a sapphire hue,
    Which adds grace and more delight
    By embracing with the white.
    Smooth, and moist, and soft, and tender
    Are her Palms! the Fingers, slender,
    Tipt with mollifièd pearl!
    And if that transformèd girl,
    Whose much cunning made her dare
    With JOVE's daughter to compare,
    Had that hand worn, maugre spite,
    She had shamed the goddess quite!
    For, there is, in every part,
    Nature perfecter than Art.
      These were joinèd to those Arms,
    That were never made for harms!
    But possess the sweetest graces
    That may apt them for embraces.
    Like the silver streams they be,
    Which, from some high hill, we see
    Clipping-in a goodly vale,
    That grows proud of such a thrall.
      Neither alabaster rocks,
    Pearl-strewed shores, nor Cotswold flocks,
    Nor the mountains tipt with snow,
    Nor the milk-white swans of Po,
    Can appear so fair to me,
    As her spotless Shoulders be!
    They are like some work of state,
    Covered with the richest plate,
    And a presence have that strike
    With devotions, goddess-like.
      'Twixt those shoulders, meanly spread
    To support that globe-like head,
    Riseth up her Neck! wherein
    Beauty seemeth to begin
    To disclose itself in more
    Tempting manner than before.
    How therein she doth excel,
    Though I would, I cannot tell!
    For I nought on earth espy
    That I may express it by.
      There, should lovers (as in duty)
    Hang rich Trophies up to Beauty!
    'Tis proportioned to a height
    That is even with Delight.
    Yet is a great deal higher
    Than to answer base Desire.
      Where the neck hath end, begins
    That smooth path, where LOVE's close gins
    Are thick placèd, to enthrall
    Such as, that way straggle shall.
    There, a pleasing passage lies
    Far beyond the sight of eyes;
    And much more delight contains
    Than the old Elizian fields.
      Whatsoever others say
    There's alone the Milky Way!
    That to Beauty's Walks doth go;
    Which, if others came to know,
    In possessing their delight,
    They should never reach the height
    Of the pleasures, which I share:
    Whilst that those debarrèd are.
      Yet unspoken of, there rests
    Her two twin-like lovely Breasts!
    Whose round-rising, pretty panting
    I would tell, but Art is wanting!
    Words can never well declare
    Her fair sweet perfections there;
    For, would Measures give me leave
    To express what I conceive,
    I do know I should go near
    Half to ravish all that hear.
    And but that I learn to season
    What I apprehend with Reason,
    It had made my Passions' weight
    Sink me, through my own conceit.
    There, I find so large a measure
    Of an unexpressèd pleasure,
    That my heart, through strong surmise,
    In a pleasing fainting lies.
    He that there may rest to prove
    Softer finds those beds of love,
    That the cotton ripest grown;
    Or fine pillows of such down
    As, in time of moulting, fans
    From the breasts of silver swans.
      Those two sisters are a pair,
    Smooth alike, like soft, like fair,
    If together they be viewed:
    Yet if they apart be shewed;
    That you touch or see, seems smoother,
    Softer, fairer than the other.
      That the colour may delight;
    So much red as makes the white
    Purer seem, is shed among:
    And then, here and there, along
    Runs a sapphire-mine, whose blue
    Shadowed, makes so brave a show
    On those lily mounts, as though
    Beauty's simples there did grow.
      In the vale, 'twixt either hill,
    Lies Desire in ambush still,
    And surpriseth every eye
    Which doth that way dare to pry.
      There is, sure, the twi-top hill,
    Where the Poets learn their skill!
    That's Parnassus, where the Muses
    Chaste, and wise MINERVA uses!
      Her two Cherrilets are those
    Whence the pleasant'st nectar flows;
    And no fruits e'er equalled these,
    Fetched from the Hesperides.
      Once, as CYNTHIA's games she chased,
    And, for air, left half unlaced
    Her light summer robe of green
    (Beauty's safe, but slender screen!)
    Unawares, I partly spied,
    That fair lily-field unhid
    Which you may her Belly name!
    Yet, nor She, nor I to blame.
    For it was, but what mine eye
    Might behold with modesty.
      'Tis a fair and matchless plain
    Where unknown delights remain!
    'Tis the store-house wherein Pleasure
    Hides the richest of her treasure!
    Which, True Modesty, in ward,
    Keeps, with a continual guard
    Of such Virtues, as she's sure,
    No corruption can allure.
      There, they say, (for, mind it well!
    I do this, by hearsay tell)
    Grows her Navel, which doth seem
    Like some jewel of esteem:
    With so wondrous cunning wrought
    That an injury, 'tis thought,
    Such a beauty, with the rest,
    Should (unknown) be unexprest.
      Somewhat else there is, that's hidden
    Which to name I am forbidden;
    Neither have I ever pried
    After that should be unspied.
    Never shall my maiden Muse
    So herself, and me abuse
    As to sing what I may fear
    Will offend the choicest ear!
    Though I know, if none be by,
    But true friends to modesty;
    I might name each part at will,
    And yet no man's thought be ill.
      Yet, for fear loose hearers may
    Judge amiss, if more I say;
    I descend, to shun all blame,
    To the Pillars of the Frame.
    Where though I ne'er aimed so high
    As her dainty youthful Thigh;
    Whose rare softness, smoothness, fulness
    Being known, would teach my dulness
    Such a Strain as might befit
    Some brave Tuscan Poet's wit.
      Once a saucy bush, I spied
    Pluck her silken skirts aside,
    So discovered unto me
    All those beauties to the Knee:
    And before the thorns' entanglings
    Had let go the silver spanglings,
    I perceive the curious knitting
    Of those joints was well befiting
    Such a noble piece of work:
    'Mongst whose turnings seem to lurk
    Much to entertain the sight
    With new objects of delight.
      Then the Leg, for shape as rare,
    Will admit of no compare!
    Straight it is; the Ankle lean!
    Full the Calf, but in the mean!
    And the slender Foot doth fit
    So, each way, to suit with it;
    As She nothing less excels
    Therein, than in all things else.
      Yea, from head to foot, her feature
    Shews her an Unblemished Creature,
    In whom, Love with Reason might
    Find so matchless a Delight,
    That more cannot be acquired;
    Nor a greater bliss desired.

      Yet, if you will rest an hour
    Under yonder shady bower!
    I, anon, my Muse will raise
    To a higher pitch of praise!
    But a while with raspice-berries,
    Strawberries, ripe pears, and cherries,
    (Such as these our groves do bear)
    We will cool our palates there.
    And, those homely cates among
    Now and then, a Pastoral Song,
    Shall my lad, here, sing and play!
    Such as you had yesterday.

                                  _I._

    _A lad, whose faith will constant prove,_
      _And never know an end;_
    _Late, by an oversight in love,_
      _Displeased his dearest Friend:_
    _For which incensed, she did retake_
      _The favours which he wore;_
    _And said, "He never, for her sake,_
      _Should wear, or see them more!"_

    _The grief whereof, how near it went,_
      _And how unkindly took,_
    _Was figured by the discontent_
      _Appearing in his look._
    _At first, he could not silence break,_
      _So heavy sorrow lay;_
    _But when his sighs gave way to speak,_
      _Thus, sadly, did he say._

    _"My only Dear!" and with that speech,_
      _Not able to sustain_
    _The floods of grief at sorrow's breach,_
      _He paused awhile again._
    _At length, nigh fainting, did express_
      _These words, with much ado,_
    _"O Dear! Let not my love's excess,_
      _Me, and my love undo!"_

    _She, little movèd with his pain,_
      _His much distraction eyed;_
    _And changing love into disdain,_
      _Thus, still unkind, replied._
    _"Forbear to urge one kindness more!_
      _Unless you long to see_
    _The good respect you had before,_
      _At once, all lost in me!"_

    _With that dismayed, his suit he ceased,_
      _And down his head he hung;_
    _And as his Reason's strength decreased,_
      _His Passion grew more strong._
    _But seeing she did slight his moan;_
      _With willow garlands wreathed,_
    _He sate him down, and all alone,_
      _This sad complaint he breathed._

    _"O Heavens!" quoth he, "Why do we spend_
      _Endeavours thus in vain?_
    _Since what the Fates do fore-intend_
      _They never change again._
    _Nor Faith, nor Love, nor true Desert,_
      _Nor all that man can do,_
    _Can win him place within her heart,_
      _That is not born thereto!"_

    "_Why do I fondly waste my youth_
      _In secret sighs and tears?_
    _Why to preserve a spotless truth,_
      _Taste I, so many cares?_
    _For women that no worth respect,_
      _Do so ungentle prove;_
    _That some shall win by their neglect,_
      _What others lose with love._"

    "_Those that have set the best at naught,_
      _And no man could enjoy;_
    _At last, by some base gull are caught,_
      _And gotten with a toy._
    _Yea, they that spend an Age's light,_
      _Their favours to obtain;_
    _For one unwilling oversight,_
      _May lose them all again!_"

    "_How glad, and fain, alas, would I,_
      _For her, have underwent_
    _The greatest care, ere she should try_
      _The smallest discontent?_
    _Yet She, that may my life command,_
      _And doth those Passions know!_
    _Denieth me a poor demand,_
      _In height of all my woe._"

    "_O, if the Noblest of her time,_
      _And best beloved of me:_
    _Could for so poor, so slight a crime_
      _So void of pity be!_
    _Sure, had it been some common one,_
      _Whose patience I had tried;_
    _No wonder I had been undone,_
      _Or unforgiven, died!_"

    "_A thousand lives I would have laid!_
      _(So well I once believed)_
    _She would have deigned to lend me aid_
      _If she had seen me grieved._
    _But now, I live to see the day,_
      _When I presumèd so,_
    _I neither dare for pity pray,_
      _Nor tell her of my woe!_"

    "_Yet, let not, poor despised heart!_
      _Her worth ought questioned be!_
    _Hadst thou not failèd in desert_
      _She had not failèd thee!_
    _But lest, perhaps, they flout thy moan,_
      _That should esteem thee dear;_
    _Go, make it by thyself alone,_
      _Where none may come to hear!_

    "_Still keep thy forehead crowned with smiles!_
      _What Passion e'er thou try;_
    _That none may laugh at thee, the whiles_
      _Thou discontented lie!_
    _And let no wrong, by change distain_
      _A love so truly fair;_
    _But rather, never hope again!_
      _And thou shall ne'er despair!_"

                                 _II._

    _O'ertired by cruel Passions that oppress me,_
    _With heart nigh broken, Time, no hope would give me;_
    _Upon my bed: I laid me down to rest me:_
    _And gentle Sleep, I wooèd to relieve me._
        _But O, alas! I found that, on the morrow,_
        _My sleeping Joys brought forth my waking Sorrow._

    _For, lo, a dream I had, so full of pleasure,_
    _That to possess, what to embrace I seemed,_
    _Could not effect my joy in higher measure,_
    _Than now it grieves me, that I have but dreamed._
        _O let my dreams be Sighs and Tears hereafter!_
        _So I (that sleeping, weep) may wake in laughter._

    _Fain would I tell how much that Shadow pleased me,_
    _But tongue and pen want words, and art in telling;_
    _Yet this I'll say, to shew what horror seized me_
    _(When I was robbed of bliss, so much excelling),_
        _Might all my dreams be such; O, let me never_
        _Awake again! but sleep, and dream for ever!_

    _For when I waking, saw myself deceivèd,_
    _And what an inward hell it had procurèd:_
    _To find myself of all my hopes bereavèd_
    _It brought on Passions not to be endurèd._
        _And, knew I, next night had such dreams in keeping;_
        _I'd make my eyes foreswear, for ever, sleeping!_

                                 _III._

    _You woody Hills! you Dales! you Groves!_
      _You Floods! and every Spring!_
    _You creatures come, whom nothing moves,_
      _And hear a Shepherd sing!_
    _For to Heroès, Nymphs, and Swains,_
      _I, long, have made my moan;_
    _Yet what my mournful Verse contains_
      _Is understood of none._

    _In song, APOLLO gave me skill;_
      _Their love, his Sisters deign:_
    _With those that haunt Parnassus' hill,_
      _I friendship entertain._
    _Yet this is all in vain to me,_
      _So haplessly I fare!_
    _As those things which my glory be,_
      _My cause of ruin are._

    _For Love hath kindled in my breast,_
      _His never quenchèd fire:_
    _And I! who often have exprest_
      _What other men desire,_
    _(Because I could so dive into_
      _The depth of others' moan);_
    _Now, I, my own afflictions shew,_
      _I heeded am of none!_

    _Oft have the Nymphs of greatest worth,_
      _Made suit, my Songs to hear;_
    _As oft (when I have sighèd forth,_
      _Such notes as saddest were):_
    _"Alas," said they, "poor gentle heart!_
      _Whoe'er that Shepherd be!"_
    _But none of them suspects my smart,_
      _Nor thinks, it meaneth Me!_

    _When I have reached so high a Strain_
      _Of Passion in my Song,_
    _That they have seen the tears to rain_
      _And trill, my cheek along;_
    _Instead of sigh, or weeping eye_
      _To sympathise with Me!_
    _"O were he once in love!" they cry,_
      _"How moving would he be?"_

    _O pity me, you Powers above!_
      _And take my skill away!_
    _Or let my hearers think I love_
      _And feign not what I say!_
    _For if I could disclose the snare_
      _Which I, unknown, do bear;_
    _Each line would make them sighs impart,_
      _And every word, a tear._

    _Had I a Mistress, some do think_
      _She should revealèd be;_
    _And I would favours wear, or drink_
      _Her health, upon my knee._
    _Alas, poor fools! they aim awry!_
      _Their fancy flags too low!_
    _Could they, my love's rare course espy,_
      _They would amazèd grow._

    _But let nor Nymph, nor Swain conceive_
      _My tongue shall ever tell_
    _Who, of this rest doth me bereave;_
      _Or where I am not well._
    _But if you, sighing me espy_
      _Where rarest features be;_
    _Mark where I fix a weeping eye,_
      _And swear you! "There is She!"_

    _Yet, ere, my eyes betray me shall,_
      _I'll swell, and burst with pain!_
    _And for each drop they would let fall,_
      _My heart shall bleed me twain!_
    _For since my soul more sorrow bears_
      _Than common lovers know;_
    _I scorn my Passions should, like theirs,_
      _A common humour shew._

    _Ear never heard of, heretofore,_
      _Of any love like mine;_
    _Nor shall there be, for evermore,_
      _Affection so divine!_
    _And that to fain it, none may try,_
      _When I dissolved must be;_
    _The first I am, it livèd by!_
      _And die it shall, with me!_

                    [_Fair VIRTUE's sweet Graces._]

    Boy! ha' done! For now my brain
    Is inspirèd fresh again;
    And new raptures pressing are,
    To be sung in praise of Her,
    Whose fair Picture lieth nigh,
    Quite unveiled to every eye.
      No small favour hath it been,
    That such Beauty might be seen;
    Therefore, ever may they rue it,
    Who, with evil eyes shall view it!
    Yea, what ancient stories tell
    Once to rude ACTEON fell
    (When, with evil thoughts, he stood
    Eying CYNTHIA in the flood);
    May that fatal hornèd curse
    Light upon them, or a worse!
      But, whatever others be,
    Lest some fault be found in me,
    If imperfect this remain;
    I will over-trim't again!
    Therefore, turn where we begun!

    And, now all is overrun.
    Mark, if everything exprest
    Suit not so unto the rest,
    As if Nature would prefer
    All perfections unto her!
      Wherefore seems it strange to any
    That they daily see so many,
    Who were, else, most perfect creatures,
    In some one part, want true features;
    Since from all the fair'st that live,
    Nature took the best, to give
    Her, perfection in each part?
    I, alone except her heart;
    For, among all Womankind,
    Such as hers is hard to find!
      If you truly note her Face,
    You shall find it hath a grace,
    Neither wanton, nor o'er serious,
    Nor too yielding, nor imperious;
    But, with such a feature blest,
    It is that which pleaseth best,
    And delights each several eye
    That affects with modesty.
    Lowliness hath, in her look,
    Equal place with Greatness took:
    And if Beauty, anywhere,
    Claims prerogatives, 'tis there!
    For, at once, thus much 'twill do;
    Threat! command! persuade! and woo!
      In her Speech, there is not found
    Any harsh, unpleasing sound;
    But a well beseeming power,
    Neither higher, neither lower,
    Than will suit with her perfection.
    'Tis the Loadstone of Affection!
    And that man, whose judging eyes,
    Could well sound such mysteries,
    Would in love, make her his choice,
    Though he did but hear her voice!
    For such accents breathe not, whence
    Beauty keeps non-residence.
    Never word of hers I hear,
    But 'tis music to mine ear,
    And much more contentment brings
    Than the sweetly-touchèd strings
    Of the pleasing Lute, whose strains
    Ravish hearers, when it 'plains.
      Raised by her Discourse, I fly
    In contented thoughts so high
    That I pass the common measures
    Of the dullèd senses' pleasures;
    And leave far below my sight
    Vulgar pitches of delight.
      If She smile, and merry be;
    All about her are as She!
    For each looker on takes part
    Of the joy that's in her heart.
      If She grieve, or you but spy
    Sadness peeping through her eye;
    Such a grace it seems to borrow
    That you'll fall in love with Sorrow;
    And abhor the name of Mirth,
    As the hateful'st thing on earth.
      Should I see her shed a tear,
    My poor eyes would melt, I fear:
    For much more in Hers appears,
    Than in other women's tears;
    And her look did never feign
    Sorrow, where there was no pain.
      Seldom hath She been espied,
    So impatient as to chide!
    For if any see her so,
    They'll in love with Anger grow.
      Sigh, or speak, or smile, or talk,
    Sing, or weep, or sit, or walk;
    Every thing that She doth do,
    Decent is, and lovely too.
    Each part that you shall behold
    Hath within itself enrolled
    What you could desire to see,
    Or your heart conceive to be:
    Yet, if from that part, your eye
    Moving, shall another spy,
    There, you see as much or more
    Than you thought to praise before.
      While the eye surveys it! you
    Will imagine that her Brow
    Hath all beauty: when her Cheek
    You behold! it is as like
    To be deemèd fairest too;
    So much there, can Beauty do.
    Look but thence, upon her Eye!
    And you wonder, by-and-by,
    How there may be anywhere,
    So much worthy praise as there.
    Yet, if you survey her Breast,
    Then, as freely, you'll protest
    That in them, perfection is!
    Though, I know, that one poor kiss
    From her tempting Lips, would then
    Make all that, foresworn again!
    For the selfsame moving grace
    Is, at once, in every place.
      She, her beauty never foils
    With your ointments, waters, oils!
    Nor no loathsome _fucus_ settles,
    Mixed with Jewish fasting spetles!
    Fair by Nature being born,
    She doth, borrowed beauty scorn!
    Whoso kisses her, needs fear
    No unwholesome varnish there.
    For from thence, he only sips
    The pure nectar of her lips,
    And, at once, with these he closes,
    Melting rubies, cherries, roses.
      Then, in her Behaviour, She
    Striveth but Herself to be:
    Keeping such a decent state,
    As, indeed, she seems to hate
    Precious leisure should be spent
    In abusèd compliment.
    Though she knows what others do,
    (And can all their Courtship too)
    She is not in so ill case,
    As to need their borrowed grace.
      Her Discourses sweetened are,
    With a kind of artless care
    That expresseth greater Art,
    Than affected words impart.
    So, her Gestures (being none
    But that freeness, which alone
    Suits the braveness of her mind)
    Make her, of herself, to find
    Postures more becoming far
    Than the mere acquired are.
      If you mark, when, for her pleasure,
    She vouchsafes to foot a measure.
    Though, with others' skill, She pace;
    There's a sweet delightful grace
    In herself, which doth prefer
    Art beyond that Art, in her.
      Neither needs She beat her wit
    To devise what dressings fit!
    Her complexion, and her feature
    So beholding are to Nature,
    If She, in the fashions go,
    All the reason She doth so,
    Is, because She would not err
    In appearing singular;
    Doubtless, not for any thought,
    That 'twill perfect her in ought.
      Many a dainty-seeming Dame
    Is, in native beauties lame.
    Some are gracèd by their tires,
    As their quoifs, their hats, their wires.
    One, a ruff doth best become;
    Falling-bands much altereth some.
    And their favours, oft, we see
    Changèd as their dressings be.
    Which her beauty never fears,
    For it graceth all She wears.
    If ye note her tire to-day;
    "That doth suit her best!" you'll say.
    Mark, what She, next morn, doth wear!
    "That becomes her best!" you'll swear.
    Yea, as oft as Her you see,
    Such new graces still there be.
    As She ever seemeth graced
    Most by that she weareth last;
    Though it be the same She wore
    But the very day before.
      When she takes her tires about her,
    (Never half so rich without her!)
    At the putting on of them,
    You may liken every gem
    To those lamps, which, at a Play,
    Are set up to light the day:
    For their lustre adds no more
    To what TITAN gave before;
    Neither doth their pretty gleamings
    Hinder ought, his greater beamings.
    And yet (which is strange to me)
    When those costly deckings be
    Laid away; there seems descried
    Beauties, which those veils did hide;
    And She looks, as doth the Moon,
    Past some cloud, through which she shone:
    Or some jewel Watch, whose case,
    Set with diamonds, seems to grace
    What it doth contain within,
    Till the curious work be seen;
    Then, 'tis found, that costly Shrining
    Did but hinder t'others' shining.
      If you chance to be in place
    Where her Mantle, She doth grace;
    You would presently protest
    "Irish dressings were the best!"
    If again, She lay it down,
    While you view her in a Gown,
    And how those her dainty limbs
    That close-bodied garment trims:
    You would swear, and swear again,
    "She appeared loveliest then!"
      But if She, so truly fair,
    Should untie her shining hair
    And, at length, that treasure shed;
    JOVE's endurèd GANYMEDE,
    Neither CYTHEREA's joy,
    Nor the sweet self-loving Boy
    Who in beauty did surpass,
    Nor the fair'st that ever was,
    Could, to take your prisoner, bring
    Looks so sweetly conquering.
      She excels her, whom APOLLO
    Once, with weeping eyes, did follow;
    Or that Nymph, who, shut in towers,
    Was beguiled with golden showers;
    Yea, and she, whose Love was wont
    To swim o'er the Hellespont
    For her sake (though in attire
    Fittest to enflame desire)
    Seemed not half so fair to be
    Nor so lovely as is She.
    For the man, whose happy eye
    Views her in full majesty,
    Knows She hath a power that moves
    More than doth the Queen of Loves,
    When she useth all her power
    To inflame her paramour.

      And, sometimes, I do admire
    All men burn not with Desire!
    Nay, I muse her Servants are not
    Pleading love: but O, they dare not!
    And I, therefore, wonder why
    They do not grow sick, and die.
      Sure, they would do so, but that,
    By the Ordinance of Fate,
    There is some concealèd thing
    So each gazer limiting,
    He can see no more of merit
    Than beseems his worth and spirit.
    For, in her, a Grace there shines
    That o'erdaring thoughts confines,
    Making worthless men despair
    To be loved of one so fair.
      Yea, the Destinies agree
    Some good judgements blind should be;
    And not gain the power of knowing
    Those rare beauties, in her growing.
    Reason doth as much imply,
    For, if every judging eye
    Which beholdeth her, should there
    Find what excellences are;
    All, o'ercome by those perfections,
    Would be captive to affections.
    So (in happiness, unblest)
    She, for lovers, should not rest.
      This, well heeding, think upon!
    And, if there be any one
    Who alloweth not the worth
    Which my Muse hath painted forth;
    Hold it no defect in Her!
    But that he's ordained to err.
    Or if any female wight
    Should detract from this I write;
    She, I yield, may shew her wit,
    But disparage Her no whit:
    For, on earth few women be,
    That from envy's touch are free;
    And whoever, Envy, knew,
    Yield those honours that were due?

      Though, sometimes, my Song I raise
    To unusèd heights of praise,
    And break forth, as I shall please,
    Into strange hyperboles,
    'Tis to shew, Conceit hath found
    Worth beyond Expression's bound.
    Though her Breath I do compare
    To the sweet'st perfumes that are;
    Or her Eyes, that are so bright,
    To the morning's cheerful light:
    Yet I do it not so much
    To infer that she is such,
    As to shew that, being blest
    With what merits name of Best,
    She appears more fair to me,
    Than all creatures else that be.
      Her true beauty leaves behind
    Apprehensions in my mind,
    Of more sweetness than all Art
    Or Inventions can impart:
    Thoughts too deep to be expressed,
    And too strong to be suppressed.
    Which, oft, raiseth my conceits
    To so unbelievèd heights
    That, I fear, some shallow brain
    Thinks my Muses do but feign.
    Sure, he wrongs them, if he do!
    For, could I have reachèd to
    So like Strains, as these you see;
    Had there been no such as She?
    Is it possible that I
    Who scarce heard of Poesy
    Should a mere _Idea_ raise
    To as true a pitch of praise,
    As the learned Poets could,
    (Now, or in the times of old)
    All those real Beauties bring,
    Honoured by the Sonneting?
    Having Arts, and favours too,
    More t' encourage what they do?
    No! If I had never seen
    Such a Beauty, I had been
    Piping in the country shades
    To the homely dairy maids,
    For a country fidler's fees,
    "Clouted cream, and bread and cheese."
      I, no skill in Numbers had,
    More than every Shepherd's Lad,
    Till She taught me Strains that were
    Pleasing to her gentle ear.
    Her fair splendour and her worth;
    From obscureness, drew me forth;
    And because I had no Muse,
    She herself deigned to infuse
    All the skill by which I climb
    To these praises in my rhyme.
      Which if she had pleased to add
    To that, Art, sweet DRAYTON had;
    Or that happy Swain, that shall
    Sing _Britannia's Pastoral_;
    Or to theirs, whose verse set forth
    ROSALYND's and STELLA's worth;
    They had doubled all their skill
    Gainèd on APOLLO's hill:
    And as much more set Her forth,
    As I'm short of them in worth:
    They had, unto heights aspired,
    Might have justly been admired,
    And, in such brave Strains had moved,
    As, of all, had been approved.
      I must praise Her, as I may!
    Which I do, mine own rude way,
    Sometimes setting forth her glories
    By unheard-of allegories.

      Think not, though, my Muse now sings
    Mere absurd or feignèd things!
    If to gold, I like her hair;
    Or to stars, her eyes so fair:
    Though I praise her skin by snow;
    Or, by pearls, her double-row;
    'Tis that you might gather thence
    Her unmatchèd excellence.
      Eyes as fair (for eyes) hath She
    As stars fair, for Stars may be.
    And each part as fair doth show
    In its kind, as white in Snow.
    'Tis no grace to her, at all;
    If her hair, I, Sunbeams call.
    For, were there power in Art,
    So to portrait every part,
    All men might those beauties see
    As they do appear to me:
    I would scorn to make compare
    With the glorious'st things that are,
      Nought I e'er saw, fair enow
    But the Hair, the hair to show:
    Yet some think him over bold
    That compares it but to gold.
    He, from Reason seems to err,
    Who, commending of his Dear,
    Gives her lips, the rubies' hue;
    Or by pearls, her teeth doth shew:
    But what pearls, what rubies can
    Seem so lovely fair to man,
    As her lips, whom he doth love,
    When in sweet discourse they move?
    Or her lovelier teeth, the while
    She doth bless him with a smile?
      Stars, indeed, fair creatures be!
    Yet, amongst us, where is he
    Joys not more, the while he lies
    Sunning in his mistress' eyes,
    Than in all the glimmering light
    Of a starry winter's night?
      Him, to flatter, most suppose,
    That prefers before the rose,
    Or the lilies while they grow,
    Or the flakes of new-fall'n snow,
    Her complexion, whom he loveth:
    And yet this, my Muse approveth.
    For in such a beauty, meets
    Unexpressèd moving sweets,
    That, the like unto them, no man
    Ever saw but in a Woman.
      Look on moon! on stars! or sun!
    All GOD's creatures overrun!
    See, if all of them presents
    To your mind, such sweet contents;
    Or if you, from them can take,
    Ought that may a beauty make,
    Shall, one half, so pleasing prove
    As is hers, whom you do love!
      For, indeed, if there had been
    Other mortal beauties seen,
    Objects for the love of man;
    Vain was their Creation then!
    Yea, if this could well be granted,
    ADAM might, his EVE have wanted!
    But a Woman is the creature,
    Whose proportion with our nature
    Best agrees; and whose perfections
    Sympathise with our affections:
    And, not only find our Senses
    Pleasure in their excellences;
    But our Reason also knows
    Sweetness in them, that outgoes
    Human wit to comprehend!
    Much more, truly to commend!
      Note the beauty of any Eye!
    And, if ought you praise it by,
    Leave such Passion in your mind:
    Let my Reason's Eye be blind!
      Mark if ever red or white,
    Anywhere, gave such delight,
    As when they have taken place
    In a worthy woman's face!
    He that so much hath not noted,
    Will not! or is grown besotted.
      Such as lovers are, conceive
    What impressions beauty leaves!
    And those hearts that fire have took
    By a love-inflaming look:
    Those believe, what here I say!
    And suppose not that I stray
    In a word, by setting forth
    Any praise beyond true worth!
      And yet, wherefore should I care
    What another's censures are?
    Since I know Her to be such
    As no praise can be too much.
    All that see Her, will agree
    In the self-same mind with me;
    If their Wit be worth the having
    Or their Judgement merit craving.
    And the man that kens Her not,
    Speaks, at best, he knows not what;
    So his envy, or goodwill,
    Neither doth her good, nor ill.
      Then, fools' cavils I disdain!
    And call back my Muse again,
    To decipher out the rest,
    For I have too long digressed.

      This is She, in whom there meets
    All variety of sweets!
    An Epitome of all
    That on earth, we, Fair may call.
    Nay, yet more, I dare aver.
    He that is possessed of Her,
    Shall, at once, all pleasure find,
    That is reaped from Womankind.
      O, what man would further range,
    That in one, might find such change?
    What dull eye, such worth can see,
    And not sworn a lover be?
    Or, from whence was he, could prove
    Such a monster in his love,
    As, in thought, to use amiss
    Such unequalled worth as this?
      Pity 'twere, that such a creature
    Phoenix-like, for matchless feature,
    Should so suffer, or be blamed
    With what, now, the Times are shamed.
    Beauty (unto me, Divine!)
    Makes my honest thoughts incline
    Unto better things than that
    Which the vulgar aimeth at.
    And, I vow! I grieve to see
    Any fair, and false to be;
    Or when I, sweet pleasures find
    Matched with a defilèd mind.
      But, above all others, Her
    So much doth my soul prefer,
    That to him, whose ill desire
    Should so nurse a lawless fire,
    As to 'tempt to that which might
    Dim her sacred virtue's light;
    I could wish that he might die
    Ere he did it! though 'twere I!
      For, if She should hap to stray,
    All this beauty would away!
    And not her alone undo,
    But kill him that praised her too!
    But I know her Maker will