« PreviousContinue »
There dyed this gallant quean,
Such was her greatest gains : For murder in Polonia,
Was Barnwell hang'd in chains.
Lo! here's the end of youth,
That after harlots haunt; Who in the spoil of other men,
About the streets do flaunt.
THE STEDFAST SHEPHERD.
These beautiful stanzas were written by GEORGE WITHER, of whom some account was given in the former part of this Volume : see the Song intitled The Shepherds RESOLUTION, Book II. Song XXI. In the first Edition of this work only a small fragment of this Sonnet was inserted. It was afterwards rendered more complete and entire by the addition of five Stanzas more, extracted from Wither's pastoral poem, intitled, “ The Mistress of Philarete," of which this Song makes a part. It is now given still more correct and perfect by comparing it with another copy, printed by the author in his improved edition of “ The Shepherd's Hunting," 1620, Svo.
Hence away, thou Syren, leave me,
Pish! unclaspe these wanton armes ;
Fie, fie, forbeare ;
No common snare
Thy painted baits,
And poore deceits,
I'me no slave to such, as you be;
Neither shall that snowy brest, Rowling eye, and lip of ruby
Ever robb me of my rest :
Goe, goe, display
Thy beautie's ray
Those common wiles
Of sighs and smiles
I have elsewhere vowed a dutie;
Turne away thy tempting eye: Shew not me a painted beautie;
These impostures I defie :
My spirit lothes
Where gawdy clothes
I love her so,
Whose looke sweares No; That all
labours will be vaine.
Can he prize the tainted posies,
Which on every brest are worne ; That may plucke the virgin roses
From their never-tuuched thorne ?
I can goe rest
On her sweet brest,
Then stay thy tongue;
Thy mermaid song
Hee's a foole, that basely dallies,
Where each peasant mates with him : Shall I haunt the thronged vallies,
Whilst ther's noble hils to climbe?
No, no, though clownes
Are scar'd with frownes,
I doe scorne to vow a dutie,
Where each lustfull lad may wode : Give me her, whose sun-like beautie
Buzzards dare not soare unto :
Shee, shee it is
Afoords that blisse
But such as you,
Fond fooles, adieu ;
Leave me then, you Syrens, leave me;
Seeke no more to worke my harmes :