To our old Arden here, most fitly it belongs :
The stag for goodly shape, and stateliness of head,
Is fitt'st to hunt at force. For whom, when with his hounds
The labouring hunter tufts the thick unbarbed grounds,
Where harbour'd is the hart; there often from his feed
The dogs of him do find; or thorough skilful heed,
The huntsman by his slot, or breaking earth, perceives,
Or ent'ring of the thick by pressing of the greaves,
Where he had gone to lodge. Now when the hart doth hear
The often-bellowing hounds to vent his secret lair,
He rousing rusheth out, and through the brakes doth drive,
As though up by the roots the bushes he would rive.
And through the cumb'rous thicks, as fearfully he makes,
He with his branched head the tender saplings shakes,
That sprinkling their moist pearl do seem for him to weep;
When after goes the cry, with yellings loud and deep,
That all the forest rings, and every neighbouring place:
And there is not a hound but falleth to the chase.
Rechating with his horn, which then the hunter cheers,
Whilst still the lusty stag his high-palm'd head upbears,
His body showing state, with unbent knees upright,
Expressing from all beasts, his courage in his flight.
But when th' approaching foes still following he perceives,
That he his speed must trust, his usual walk he leaves:
And o'er the champain flies; which when the assembly find,
Each follows, as his horse were footed with the wind.
But being then imbost, the noble stately deer
When he hath gotten ground (the kennel cast arrear)
WHEN PHOEBUS LIFTS HIS HEAD."
Doth beat the brooks and ponds for sweet refreshing soil;
That serving not, then proves if he his scent can foil,
And makes amongst the herds, and flocks of shag-wool'd sheep,
Them frighting from the guard of those who had their keep.
But when as all his shifts his safety still denies,
Put quite out of his walk, the ways and fallows tries;
Whom when the ploughman meets, his team he letteth stand,
Tassail him with his goad: so with his hook in hand,
The shepherd him pursues, and to his dog doth hallow:
When, with tempestuous speed, the hounds and huntsmen follow;
Until the noble deer, through toil bereav'd of strength,
His long and sinewy legs then failing him at length,
The villages attempts, enraged, not giving way
To anything he meets now at his sad decay.
The cruel ravenous hounds and bloody hunters near,
This noblest beast of chase, that vainly doth but fear,
Some bank or quickset finds; to which his haunch opposed,
He turns upon his foes, that soon have him inclosed.
The churlish-throated hounds then holding him at bay,
And as their cruel fangs on his harsh skin they lay,
With his sharp-pointed head he dealeth deadly wounds.
The hunter, coming in to help his wearied hounds,
He desperately assails; until opprest by force,
He who the mourner is to his own dying corse,
Upon the ruthless earth his precious tears lets fall
To forests that belongs.
[SAMUEL DANIEL was born near Taunton in Somersetshire, in 1562; and was educated at Oxford, at the charge of the Countess of Pembroke, the sister of Sir Philip Sidney. He became Poet Laureate at the death of Spenser, but was soon superseded by Ben Jonson. In the reign of James I. he was made groom of the Privy Chamber to the Queen. Some years before his death he retired to a farm in Somersetshire, where he died in 1619.
Daniel was a good and amiable man: his diction is admirable, and his poems abound in beautiful passages.]
I MUST not grieve, my love, whose eyes would read
Lines must delight, whereon her youth might smile;
Flowers have time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, sweet maid, in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither;
And where the sweetest blossom first appears,
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither,
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise :
Pity and smiles do best become the fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sighed for such a one.
FAIR is my love, and cruel as she's fair;
Her brow shades frown, although her eyes are sunny; Her smiles are lightning, though her pride despair;
And her disdains are gall, her favours honey.
A modest maid, deck'd with a blush of honour,
Whose feet do tread green paths of youth and love;
The wonder of all eyes that look upon her:
Sacred on earth; design'd a saint above;
Chastity and Beauty, which are deadly foes,
Live reconciled friends within her brow;
And had she Pity to conjoin with those,
Then who had heard the plaints I utter now?
For had she not been fair, and thus unkind,
My muse had slept, and none had known my mind.
[GILES FLETCHER. The time and place of his birth are unknown; but it is recorded that he was educated at Cambridge, and that he became a clergyman. He died, most probably, about the year 1625.
Fletcher, himself no mean poet, was the son and brother of poets, and the cousin of the great dramatist. He wrote little more than "Christ's Victory and Triumph," but this has gained him immortality. His productions are not, however, without faults; thus he mixes up heathen mythology with the most venerable events and dogmas of Christianity. But his style is lofty and energetic; his verse is graceful and harmonious.]
LOVE is the blossome where there blowes
Every thing that lives or growes:
Love doth make the Heav'ns to move,
And the Sun doth burne in love:
Love the strong and weake doth yoke,
And makes the yvie climbe the oke;
Under whose shadowes lions wilde,
Soften'd by love, growe tame and mild:
Love no med'cine can appease,
He burnes the fishes in the seas;
Not all the skill his wounds can stench,
Not all the sea his fire can quench:
Love did make the bloody spear
Once a levie coat to wear,
While in his leaves there shrouded lay
Sweete birds, for love that sing and play :
And of all love's joyfull flame,
I the bud and blossome am.
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