A selection from the lyrical poems of Robert Herrick Part 5

THE SPEAKERS: MIRTILLO, AMINTAS, AND AMARILLIS

AMIN. Good day, Mirtillo. MIRT. And to you no less; And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.

AMAR. With all white luck to you. MIRT. But say, What news Stirs in our sheep-walk? AMIN. None, save that my ewes, My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well, Smooth, fair, and fat; none better I can tell: Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feast For his sheep-shearers. MIRT. True, these are the least.

But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis, Rest but a while here by this bank of lilies; And lend a gentle ear to one report The country has. AMIN. From whence? AMAR. From whence? MIRT. The Court.

Three days before the shutting-in of May, (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!) To all our joy, a sweet-faced child was born, More tender than the childhood of the morn.

CHORUS:--Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep!

MIRT. And that his birth should be more singular, At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch, which guided them To G.o.d's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels, some have told to me, Sung out his birth with heav'nly minstrelsy.

AMIN. O rare! But is't a trespa.s.s, if we three Should wend along his baby-s.h.i.+p to see?

MIRT. Not so, not so. CHOR. But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.

AMAR. But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told, Those learned men brought incense, myrrh, and gold, From countries far, with store of spices sweet, And laid them down for offerings at his feet.

MIRT. 'Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bring Unto our smiling and our blooming King, A neat, though not so great an offering.

AMAR. A garland for my gift shall be, Of flowers ne'er suck'd by th' thieving bee; And all most sweet, yet all less sweet than he.

AMIN. And I will bear along with you Leaves dropping down the honied dew, With oaten pipes, as sweet, as new.

MIRT. And I a sheep-hook will bestow To have his little King-s.h.i.+p know, As he is Prince, he's Shepherd too.

CHOR. Come, let's away, and quickly let's be drest, And quickly give:--the swiftest grace is best.

And when before him we have laid our treasures, We'll bless the babe:--then back to country pleasures.

35. A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HIMSELF AND MISTRESS ELIZA WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS

My dearest Love, since thou wilt go, And leave me here behind thee; For love or pity, let me know The place where I may find thee.

AMARIL. In country meadows, pearl'd with dew, And set about with lilies; There, filling maunds with cowslips, you May find your Amarillis.

HER. What have the meads to do with thee, Or with thy youthful hours?

Live thou at court, where thou mayst be The queen of men, not flowers.

Let country wenches make 'em fine With posies, since 'tis fitter For thee with richest gems to s.h.i.+ne, And like the stars to glitter.

AMARIL. You set too-high a rate upon A shepherdess so homely.

HER. Believe it, dearest, there's not one I' th' court that's half so comely.

I prithee stay. AMARIL. I must away; Let's kiss first, then we'll sever; AMBO And though we bid adieu to day, We shall not part for ever.

36. A BUCOLIC BETWIXT TWO; LACON AND THYRSIS

LACON. For a kiss or two, confess, What doth cause this pensiveness, Thou most lovely neat-herdess?

Why so lonely on the hill?

Why thy pipe by thee so still, That erewhile was heard so shrill?

Tell me, do thy kine now fail To fulfil the milking-pail?

Say, what is't that thou dost ail?

THYR. None of these; but out, alas!

A mischance is come to pa.s.s, And I'll tell thee what it was: See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.

LACON. Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.

THYR. I have lost my lovely steer, That to me was far more dear Than these kine which I milk here; Broad of forehead, large of eye, Party-colour'd like a pye, Smooth in each limb as a die; Clear of hoof, and clear of horn, Sharply pointed as a thorn; With a neck by yoke unworn, From the which hung down by strings, b.a.l.l.s of cowslips, daisy rings, Interplaced with ribbonings; Faultless every way for shape; Not a straw could him escape, Ever gamesome as an ape, But yet harmless as a sheep.

Pardon, Lacon, if I weep; Tears will spring where woes are deep.

Now, ai me! ai me! Last night Came a mad dog, and did bite, Ay, and kill'd my dear delight.

LACON Alack, for grief!

THYR. But I'll be brief.

Hence I must, for time doth call Me, and my sad playmates all, To his evening funeral.

Live long, Lacon; so adieu!

LACON Mournful maid, farewell to you; Earth afford ye flowers to strew!

37. A PASTORAL SUNG TO THE KING

MONTANO, SILVIO, AND MIRTILLO, SHEPHERDS

MON. Bad are the times. SIL. And worse than they are we.

MON. Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail. SIL. None crowns the cup Of wa.s.sail now, or sets the quintel up: And he, who used to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.

AMBO. Let's cheer him up. SIL. Behold him weeping-ripe.

MIRT. Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.

Dear Amarillis! MON. Hark! SIL. Mark! MIRT. This earth grew sweet Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.

AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT. And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.

This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.

SIL. Words sweet as love itself. MON. Hark!-- MIRT. This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent!

Like to a field of beans, when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown.

MON. A sweet sad pa.s.sion---- MIRT. In dewy mornings, when she came this way, Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.

Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell, The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.

But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither?

MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together.

MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs as these.

MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure.

MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep; And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep; And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.

MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day grows old; And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.

CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows our sorrow:-- But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep; And meet to weep To-morrow.

38. TO THE WILLOW-TREE

Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, Bedew'd with tears, are worn.

When with neglect, the lover's bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.