THYRSIS

It shall afford no shade to any thing That hither used to come for its relief; But henceforth be for ever infamous: That when some gentle shepherd passes by, And sees this ground rend with the crooked plough, Here, he may say, here 'twas that Sylvia Was lost, and then shall turn another way. What has my present state To do with comfort? if you see the trees Widowed of leaves, the earth grown hard, and spoiled Of the green mantles which she wont to wear, You wonder not if winter then appear. And must I, When she is gone, whose Sunlike eyes did cherish And everlasting Summer in my life, Feel any spring of joy to comfort me? No father, grief with me is best in season. All as the shepherd is, such be his flocks, So pine and languish, they, as in despair He pines and languishes, their fleecy locks Let hang disordered, as their Master's hair, Since she is gone that deskt both him, and them. And now what beauty can there be to live When she is lost that did all beauty give? Let such base Peasants, as the Gods, do hate, Admire their wealth, and them, for what they have, Their bodies, and their souls material Alike, of drossy substance are compounded, And can contemplate nothing but the earth. No, Silvia, whom some better God (perhaps For the reward of my well tuned pipe) Sent down to me made up of air, and fire, Though since, because I knew not how to use With fair respect a gift so great as she, Has justly reft her from me, is so much, So great a partly of me, that in her absence, Amid my grief I feel some little joy, To see how much of me each minute wastes, And gives me hope that when I shall dissolve This earthly substance, and be pure as she (For sure the Gods have taken her undefiled) I may enjoy her looks, and though it be Profane to touch a hallowed thing Like her, I may adore her yet, and recompense With my religion the proud thoughts I had once to enjoy her. May they prove happy in each others love, And nothing please, but what each other do, For so lived Thyrsis and his Silvia, While Silvia was, and Thyrsis was her love, What ever Thyrsis piped pleased Silvia, Thyrsis admired what ever Sylvia sung And both their joys were equal, or but one, Well I can now remember (and it is Some comfort to remember what I moan) That when our loves began, how first I gazed On her,, and she was pleased that I should look Till greedily I had devoured the hook. Love gave me courage then to speak my thoughts, And gave her pity to receive my words, They linked our hearts together: from that time When ere she saw me strike the furious Boar, (Though then my case she rued, and sighed full oft) Yet was she pleased to see my victory, And I received my vigour from her eye. Then would she make me Chaplets of the best And choicest flowers to adorn my head: Which when I wore, methought I then did grasp The Empire of the world; but what of that? The more I then enjoyed of heavenly bliss, The more my present grief and passion is. That time must put a perjod to my life, Or else it never will unto my grief: Come Boy, and under this same hanging bow, The note which thou attemperst to my words, Sing, and be happier then thy Master, Boy. Enough: I'll sighs the rest out: Go my boy, Be careful of thy tender Lambs, while I Seek out some hidden place to pine and die. Not in this life, here joy would be untimely: The Gods reserve for me their comforts in the Elyzian fields, or else they mock my sorrows. O this discourse to a despairing lover, What comfort does it bring? for heavens sake leave it, And me; for I am best, I find, alone: Yet stay, there's something that I feign would ask you: You said this Circle here about my neck Has so continued from my infancy, When first you took me up. And may they not be read? My life is nothing but a Mystery; That which I was, and that which I shall be, Is equally unknown. Now, if you'll leave me Unto my thoughts, they'le keep me company. That you, Who know no end at all of wild desire, Must in your wandering fancy see this way Leads unto madness, when too late you find That nothing satisfies a boundless mind. Alas Mirtillus, I have broke my Pipe, My sighs are all the music which I now Can make, and how unfit I am t'attend So great and expectation, you may see. Yet give me leave to think on it, at night Perhaps I'll go with you. A heaviness Weighs down my head, and would invite me to Repose my self; I'll take the offer, here I'll rest awhile, for I have needs of it. Ah Sylvia, Preserve thy life, o let me die; Alas I do but dream; me thought I saw my self Condemned to die, and Sylvia to save me, Offered her self, and would needs die for me: 'Twas a sweet shadow, let me court this dream. Who envies me this small repose, indeed I do not often sleep; would, who are you? Do I dream still? what are you? Came you from heaven where my Sylvia is, And must I thither? whoso ere you are, And Angel, or a fiend, in such a name You come, as I'm conjurd to follow you: But I must die first: Here is to be with thee. You're habited Like those I've seen at Court, And courtisie they say is ever there, Yet mingled with deceit: if you do mean T'abuse me for your sport, this way will prove Too sad to raise mirth out of. There's no ill That I have done to you, or any else, Unless my constancy be here a sin. Why should I doubt, or fear to go with her? Ill does he call for physic, whom the Law Has doomed to die: There's no condition Can prove worse to me then my present one. Pray led me where you please, I'm sure of this, To one that's desperate, no way's amiss. Madam, for my poor self I do not fear, But when I think on you, and how your name, And state that is so eminent, must needs Receive a certain scandal, and foul blot, If we be seen together, blame me not, Though I do fear or doubt: What cruel fate Angry with men, that gave us hearts alike, And Fortune's so asunder; you're a Cedar, I a poor shrub, that may look up unto you With adoration, but never reach your height. It's true divinest Lady, that the souls Of all men are alike, of the same substance By the same maker into all infused, But yet the several matters which they work on, How different they are I need not tell you: And as these outward Organs give our souls Or more, or less room, as they are contrived, To show their lustre; so again comes fortune, And darkens them, to whom the Gods have given A soul divine, and body capable Of that divinity, and excellence: But it's the order of the Fates, whose causes We must not look into: But you deer Madam, Nature, and fortune have conspired to make The happiest alive. Yet some do reckon it the greatest ill, A passion of the mind, formed in the fancy, And bred to be the worst disease of reason. Love is divine, for if religion Binds us to love, the Gods who never yet Revealed themselves in any thing to us But their bright Images, the fairest creatures, Who are our daily objects; loving them, We exercise religion: let us not Be scrupulous, or fear; the Gods have care Of us, and of our piety. No Sylvia, (Pardon me deer, if still I call you so) Enjoy your Fortune's, think how much your honour Must suffer in this act: For me I find, It is enough that I have ever loved you: Now let me at the light of your bright eye, Burn Like the bird whose fires renew her nest, I shall leave you behind me to the world, The Phoenix of true love and constancy: Nor is that bird more glorious in her flames, Then I shall be in mine, though they consume me. What then shall we do? Shall we resolve to live thus, till we gaze Our eyes out first, and then loose all our senses In their succession? shall we strive to leave Our souls breathed forth upon each others lips? Come let us practice: this our envious Fates Cannot deny us. Cleander enters. If you do this, Yowl make me happy, it was this I looked for, My trivial acts of life, this of my death Will recompense with glory; I shall die To save my Princess, and whats more, to save The life of her life, her unspotted honour. Blessed Lady, though you are as innocent And chaste as purest Virgins, that have yet Seen nothing in a dream to warm their blood, Yet the malicious world, the censuring people, That haste to cast dirt on the fairest things, Will hardly spare you, if it once be known That we were here together: As for me, My life is nothing but variety Of grief and troubles, which with constancy I have born yet: 'tis time that now I die, Before I do accuse the Gods that have Brought me to this, and so pull on my death A punishment. Will you be merciful, And end me quickly? Sir, you are noble, I do see you are, You loved this Lady once: by that dear love (With me it was a conjuration To draw my soul out, while I was so happy) I do beseech you spare her noble life, Her death will fit full heavy on your soul, And in your height of Kingly dignities Disturb that head, which crowns will give no rest to. To take my life is justice. Be not so cruel madam to your self And me, to envy me a death so noble. Sir, as you hope your love shall ever prosper, Your great designs, your fights, (what ere they are) As you do hope for peace in your last hour, And that the earth may lightly cloth your ashes, Dispatch me quickly, send me to my death. Down stubborn heart, Wilt thou not break yet? In my death I find Nothing that's terrible, but this Farewell Presents my soul with all the pains of hell. Sir, I have herd that by your piety, My infant life was saved: now by the goodness Derived from you, unto your son, I have Not only found my life, but my content, The sum of all my Hope's, this Lady here, Without whose love my life had been a torment. Sir, the shepherd, hom I call father, stays without; Montanus S name is, by whose gentle hands, (as he as often told me) I was rescued first om cold and death, since under his kind roof osterd, and bred as his. My old companions shall be welcome all, S you are now; I never shall forget our courtesy, nor theirs. Thanks good Mirtillus, this indeed was proper Unto your subject. My royal father, (for I am instructed To call you so) If I have done amiss In hasting to this match, I ask your pardon. This is the shepherd Sir, Who took me up first, whom till now I called Father, and he deserved it for his care. Sir, these shepherd's Are come to entertain your Majesty, With their devices, as their custom is, In which sometime, until my fortune changed, I boar apart. They are, but Father, (so I still must call you) When in the sadness of my soul I asked Before the Altar of our great Apollo, What should become of me, or where my love Bright Silvia was, whither alive or dead, Why should the Oracle reply, Go home, Thou shalt enjoy thy Silvia? I, but when greedily I asked the time, the answer was, That day Thou art not Thyrsis, nor she Silvia. Then in this life I'm sure it must not be, For I was Thyrsis ever called, and she Known by no other name then Sylvia. Why? what said he? Does it concern me ought? True Mirtillus. And yet I do not envy thee the pleasure, Thou hast in thy dispersed affections. Sure, a true lover is more rational Then you, that love at random every where. Why? all men's actions have some proper end, Whereto their means and strict endeavours tend: Else there would be nought but perplexity In humane life, and all uncertainty. No. Not in another, one is the only Centre The line of love is drawn to, must have all Perfections in her, all that's good and fair, Or else her Lover must believe her so. Well, be it so; and yet this fair Idea Which I have framed unto my self, does argue Virtue in me; so that if she be lost, Or dead, (ay me! the sad remembrance of My Sylvia causes this) yet I must love, Because the Character is indelible, Writ in my heart, and heaven is witness to it. Why? dost thou think I ever shall forget her? Or that where ere I set my careful foot, As in this place, will it not tell me, that Here Sylvia and I walked hand in hand, And here she plucked a flower, and anon She gave it me; and then we kissed, and here We mutually did vow each others love?