Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry Part 5

Now kings and queens poor sheep-cotes have, And mate with everybody; The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play at noddy.

Some youths will now a mumming go, Some others play at rowland-hoe, And twenty other gameboys moe; Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days Should we, I pray, be duller?

No, let us sing some roundelays To make our mirth the fuller.

And whilst we thus inspired sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods, and hills, and everything Bear witness we are merry.

A Rocking Hymn

Sweet baby, sleep! what ails my dear, What ails my darling thus to cry?

Be still, my child, and lend thine ear To hear me sing thy lullaby.

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear?

What thing to thee can mischief do?

Thy G.o.d is now thy father dear, His holy Spouse, thy mother too.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had; And, though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep,

While thus thy lullaby I sing, For thee great blessings ripening be; Thine eldest brother is a King, And hath a kingdom bought for thee.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Sweet baby, sleep and nothing fear, For whosoever thee offends, By thy protector threat'ned are, And G.o.d and angels are thy friends.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

When G.o.d with us was dwelling here, In little babes he took delight; Such innocents as thou, my dear, Are ever precious in His sight.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

A little infant once was He, And, strength in weakness, then was laid Upon His virgin-mother's knee, That power to thee might be conveyed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

In this, thy frailty and thy need, He friends and helpers doth prepare, Which thee shall cherish, clothe and feed; For of thy weal they tender are.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The King of kings, when he was born, Had not so much for outward ease; By Him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling-clothes as these.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Within a manger lodged thy Lord Where oxen lay and a.s.ses fed; Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed.

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The wants that He did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee; And by His torments and His pain Thy rest and ease secured be.

My baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

Thou hast (yet more) to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not; Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep.

The Marigold

When with a serious musing I behold The grateful and obsequious marigold, How duly every morning she displays Her open breast, when t.i.tan spreads his rays; How she observes him in his daily walk, Still bending towards him her small slender stalk; How when he down declines, she droops and mourns, Bedewed, as 'twere with tears, till he returns; And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, As if she scorned to be looked on By an inferior eye; or did contemn To wait upon a meaner light than him.

When this I meditate, methinks the flowers Have spirits far more generous than ours, And give us fair examples to despise The servile fawnings and idolatries, Wherewith we court these earthly things below, Which merit not the service we bestow....

Sonnet: On the Death of Prince Henry

Methought his royal person did foretell A kingly stateliness, from all pride clear; His look majestic seemed to compel All men to love him, rather than to fear.

And yet though he were every good man's joy, And the alonely comfort of his own, His very name with terror did annoy His foreign foes so far as he was known.

h.e.l.l drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale; Spain trembled; and the most tempestuous sea, (Where Behemoth, the Babylonish whale, Keeps all his b.l.o.o.d.y and imperious plea) Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide Of her o'er-daring and insulting pride.

From a Satire written to King James I

Did I not know a great man's power and might In spite of innocence can smother right, Colour his villainies to get esteem, And make the honest man the villain seem?

I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true, Yet I protest if such a man I knew, That might my country prejudice or thee Were he the greatest or the proudest he, That breathes this day; if so it might be found That any good to either might redound, I unappalled, dare in such a case Rip up his foulest crimes before his face, Though for my labour I were sure to drop Into the mouth of ruin without hope.

William Browne

To England

Hail, thou my native soil! thou blessed plot Whose equal all the world affordeth not!

Show me who can so many crystal rills, Such sweet-clothed valleys or aspiring hills; Such wood-ground, pastures, quarries, wealthy mines; Such rocks in whom the diamond fairly s.h.i.+nes; And if the earth can show the like again, Yet will she fail in her sea-ruling men.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

The Seasons

The year hath first his jocund spring, Wherein the leaves, to birds' sweet carolling, Dance with the wind; then sees the summer's day Perfect the embryon blossom of each spray; Next cometh autumn, when the threshed sheaf Loseth his grain, and every tree his leaf; Lastly, cold winter's rage, with many a storm, Threats the proud pines which Ida's top adorn, And makes the sap leave succourless the shoot, Shrinking to comfort his decaying root.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

May Day Customs

I have seen the Lady of the May Set in an arbour, on a holiday, Built by the May-pole, where the jocund swains Dance with the maidens to the bagpipe's strains, When envious night commands them to be gone Call for the merry youngsters one by one, And for their well performance soon disposes: To this a garland interwove with roses, To that a carved hook or well-wrought scrip, Gracing another with her cherry lip; To one her garter, to another then A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again; And none returneth empty that hath spent His pains to fill their rural merriment.

From _Britannia's Pastorals_.

Birds in May

As (woo'd by May's delights) I have been borne To take the kind air of a wistful morn Near Tavy's voiceful stream (to whom I owe More strains than from my pipe can ever flow), Here have I heard a sweet bird never lin To chide the river for his clam'rous din; There seem'd another in his song to tell, That what the fair stream did he liked well; And going further heard another too, All varying still in what the others do; A little thence, a fourth with little pain Conn'd all their lessons, and them sung again; So numberless the songsters are that sing In the sweet groves of the too-careless spring, That I no sooner could the hearing lose Of one of them, but straight another rose, And perching deftly on a quaking spray, Nigh tir'd herself to make her hearer stay.