Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE THIRD EGLOGUE, by GEORGE WITHER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE THIRD EGLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Philarete with his three friends
Last Line: While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish.
Subject(s): Brooke, Christopher (1570-1628); Browne, William (1591-1645); Ferrar, William (17th Century); Prisons & Prisoners


The Argument.

Philarete with his three Friends,
Heare his hunting storie ends.
Kinde Alexis with much ruth,
Wailes the banish't Shepheards youth:
But he slighteth Fortunes stings,
And in spight of Thraldome sings.

Philarete. Cuddy. Alexis. Willy.

Philarete.

So, now I see y'are Shepheards of your word;
Thus were you wont to promise, and to doe.

Cuddy.

More then our promise is, we can afford;
We come our selves, and bring another to:
Alexis, whom thou know'st well is no foe:
Who loves thee much: and I doe know that he
Would faine a hearer of thy Hunting be.

Philarete.

Alexis you are welcome, for you know
You cannot be but welcome where I am;
You ever were a friend of mine in show,
And I have found you are indeed the same:
Upon my first restraint you hither came,
And proffered me more tokens of your love,
Then it were fit my small deserts should prove.

Alexis.

'Tis still your use to underprise your merit;
Be not so coy to take my proffered love,
'Twill neither unbeseeme your worth nor spirit.
To offer court'sie doth thy friend behove:
And which are so, this is a place to prove.
Then once againe I say, if cause there be.
First make a tryall, if thou please, of me.

Philarete.

Thankes good Alexis; sit downe by me heere,
I have a taske, these Shepheards know, to doe;
A Tale already told this Morne well neere,
With which I very faine would forward goe,
And am as willing thou should'st heare it to:
But thou canst never understand this last,
Till I have also told thee what is past.

Willy.

It shall not neede, for I so much presum'd,
I on your mutuall friendships, might be bold,
That I a freedome to my selfe assum'd,
To make him know, what is already told.
If I have done amisse, then you may scold.
But in my telling I prevised this,
He knew not whose, nor to what end it is.

Philarete.

Well, now he may, for heere my Tale goes on:
My eager Dogges and I to Wood are gon.
Where, beating through the Coverts, every Hound
A severall Game had in a moment found:
I rated them, but they pursu'd their pray,
And as it fell (by hap) tooke all one way.
Then I began with quicker speed to follow,
And teaz'd them on, with a more chearefull hallow:
That soone we passed many weary miles,
Tracing the subtile game through all their wiles.
These doubl'd, those re-doubled on the scent,
Still keeping in full chase where ere they went.
Up Hils, downe Cliffes, through Bogs, and over Plaines,
Stretching their Musicke to the highest straines.
That when some Thicket hid them from mine eye,
My eare was ravish'd with their melodie.
Nor crost we onely Ditches, Hedges, Furrowes,
But Hamlets, Tithings, Parishes, and Burrowes:
They followed where so ev'r the game did go,
Through Kitchin, Parlor, Hall, and Chamber to.
And, as they pass'd the City, and the Court,
My Prince look'd out, and daign'd to view my sport.
Which then (although I suffer for it now)
(If some say true) he liking did allow;
And so much (had I had but wit to stay)
I might my selfe (perhaps) have heard him say.
But I, that time, as much as any daring,
More for my pleasure then my safetie caring;
Seeing fresh game from every covert rise,
(Crossing by thousands still before their eyes)
Rush'd in, and then following close my Hounds,
Some beasts I found lie dead, some full of wounds,
Among the willows, scarce with strength to move,
One I found heere, another there, whom Love
Had grip'd to death: and, in the selfe-same state,
Lay one devour'd by Envy, one by Hate;
Lust had bit some, but I soone past beside them,
Their festr'd wounds so stuncke, none could abide them.
Choller hurt divers, but Revenge kild more:
Feare frighted all, behinde him and before.
Despaire drave on a huge and mighty heape,
Forcing some downe from Rocks and Hils to leape:
Some into water, some into the fire,
So on themselves he made them wreake his ire.
But I remember, as I pass'd that way,
Where the great King and Prince of Shepheards lay,
About the wals were hid, some (once more knowne)
That my fell Curre Ambition had o'rethrowne:
Many I heard, pursu'd by Pitty, cry;
And oft I saw my Bloud-Hound, Cruelty,
Eating her passage even to the hart,
Whither once gotten, she is loath to part.
All pli'd it well, and made so loud a cry,
'Twas heard beyond the Shores of Britany.
Some rated them, some storm'd, some lik'd the game,
Some thought me worthy praise, some worthy blame.
But I, not fearing th'one, mis-steeming t'other,
Both, in shrill hallowes and loud yernings smother.
Yea, the strong mettled, and my long-breath'd crew,
Seeing the game increasing in their view,
Grew the more frolicke, and the courses length
Gave better breath, and added to their strength.
Which Jove perceiving, for Jove heard their cries
Rumbling amongst the Spheares concavities:
Hee mark'd their course, and courages increase,
Saying, 'twere pitty such a chase should cease.
And therewith swore their mouthes should never wast,
But hunt as long's mortality did last.
Soone did they feele the power of his great gift,
And I began to finde their pace more swift:
I follow'd, and I rated, but in vaine
Striv'd to o'retake, or take them up againe.
They never stayed since, nor nights nor dayes,
But to and fro still run a thousand wayes:
Yea, often to this place where now I lie,
They'l wheele about to cheare me with their cry;
And one day in good time will vengeance take
On some offenders, for their Masters sake:
For know, my Friends, my freedome in this sort
For them I lose, and making my selfe sport.

Willy.

Why? was there any harme at all in this?

Philarete.

No, Willy, and I hope yet none there is.

Willy.

How comes it then?

Philarete.

Note, and I'le tell thee how.
Thou know'st that Truth and Innocency now,
If plac'd with meannesse, suffers more despight
Then Villainies, accompan'ed with might.
But thus it fell, while that my Hounds pursu'd
Their noysome prey, and every field laid strew'd
With Monsters, hurt and slaine; upon a beast,
More subtile, and more noysome then the rest,
My leane-flanckt Bitch, cald Envy, hapt to light:
And, as her wont is, did so surely bite,
That, though shee left behinde small outward smart,
The wounds were deepe, and rankled to the hart.
This, joyning to some other, that of late,
Were very eagerly pursu'd by Hate,
(To fit their purpose having taken leasure)
Did thus conspire to worke me a displeasure.
For imitation, farre surpassing Apes,
They laide aside their Foxe and Wolvish shapes,
And shrowded in the skinnes of harmlesse Sheepe
Into by-wayes, and open paths did creepe;
Where, they (as hardly drawing breath) did ly,
Shewing their wounds to every passer by;
To make them thinke that they were sheepe so foyl'd,
And by my Dogges, in their late hunting, spoyl'd.
Beside, some other that envy'd my game,
And, for their pastime, kept such Monsters tame:
As, you doe know, there's many for their pleasure
Keepe Foxes, Beares, & Wolves, as some great treasure:
Yea, many get their living by them to,
And so did store of these, I speake of, do.
Who, seeing that my Kennell had affrighted,
Or hurt some Vermine wherein they delighted;
And finding their owne power by much to weake,
Their Malice on my Innocence to wreake,
Swolne with the deepest rancour of despight,
Some of our greatest Shepheards Folds by night
They closely entred; and there having stain'd
Their hands in villany, of mee they plain'd,
Affirming, (without shame, or honesty,)
I, and my Dogges, had done it purposely.
Whereat they storm'd, and cald mee to a tryall,
Where Innocence prevailes not, nor denyall:
But for that cause, heere in this place I lie,
Where none so merry as my dogges, and I.

Cuddy.

Beleeve it, heere's a Tale will suten well,
For Shepheards in another Age to tell.

Willy.

And thou shalt be remembred with delight,
By this, hereafter, many a Winters night.
For, of this sport another Age will ring;
Yea, Nymphes that are unborne thereof shall sing,
And not a Beauty on our Greenes shall play,
That hath not heard of this thy hunting day.

Philarete.

It may be so, for if that gentle Swaine,
Who wonnes by Tavy, on the Westerne plaine,
Would make the Song, such life his Verse can give,
Then I doe know my Name might ever live.

Alexis.

But tell me; are our Plaines and Nymphs forgot,
And canst thou frolicke in thy trouble be?

Philarete.

Can I, Alexis, sayst thou? Can I not,
That am resolv'd to scorne more misery?

Alexis.

Oh, but that youth's yet greene, and young bloud hot,
And liberty must needs be sweet to thee.
But, now most sweet whil'st every bushy Vale,
And Grove, and Hill, rings of the Nightingale.

Me thinkes, when thou remembrest those sweet layes
Which thou would'st leade thy Shepheardesse to heare,
Each Evening tyde among the Leavy sprayes,
The thought of that should make thy freedome deare:
For now, whil'st every Nymph on Holy-dayes
Sports with some jolly Lad, and maketh cheere,
Thine sighes for thee, and mew'd up from resort,
Will neither play her selfe, nor see their sport.

Those Shepheards that were many a Morning wont,
Unto their Boyes to leave the tender Heard
And beare thee company when thou didst hunt;
Me thinkes the sport thou hast so gladly shar'd
Among those Swaynes should make thee thinke upon't,
For't seemes all vaine, now, that was once indear'd.
It cannot be: since I could make relation,
How for lesse cause thou hast beene deepe in passion.

Philarete.

'Tis true: my tender heart was ever yet
Too capable of such conceits as these;
I never saw that Object, but from it,
The Passions of my Love I could encrease.
Those things which move not other men a whit,
I can, and doe make use of, if I please:
When I am sad, to sadnesse I apply
Each Bird, and Tree, and Flowre that I passe by.

So, when I will be merry, I aswell
Something for mirth from every thing can draw,
From Miserie, from Prisons, nay from Hell:
And as when to my minde, griefe gives a flaw,
Best comforts doe but make my woes more fell:
So when I'me bent to Mirth, from mischiefes paw,
(Though ceas'd upon me) I would something cull,
That spight of care, should make my joyes more full.

I feele those wants, Alexis, thou doest name,
Which spight of youths affections I sustaine;
Or else, for what is't I have gotten Fame,
And am more knowne then many an elder Swaine?
If such desires I had not learn'd to tame,
(Since many pipe much better on this Plaine:)
But tune your Reedes, and I will in a Song,
Expresse my Care, and how I take this Wrong.

SONNET.

I that ere'st-while the worlds sweet Ayre did draw,
(Grac'd by the fairest ever Mortall saw;)
Now closely pent, with walles of Ruth-lesse stone,
Consume my Dayes, and Nights and all alone.

When I was wont to sing of Shepheards loves,
My walkes were Fields, and Downes, and Hils, and Groves:
But now (alas) so strict is my hard doome,
Fields, Downes, Hils, Groves, and al's but one poore roome.

Each Morne, as soone as Day-light did appeare,
With Natures Musicke Birds would charme mine eare:
Which now (instead) of their melodious straines,
Heare, ratling Shackles, Gyves, and Boults, and Chaines.

But, though that all the world's delight forsake me,
I have a Muse, and she shall Musicke make me:
Whose ayrie Notes, in spight of closest cages,
Shall give content to me, and after ages.

Nor doe I passe for all this outward ill,
My hearts the same, and undejected still;
And which is more then some in freedome winne,
I have true rest, and peace, and joy within.

And then my Mind, that spight of prison's free,
When ere she pleases any where can be;
Shee's in an houre, in France, Rome, Turky, Spaine,
In Earth, in Hell, in Heaven, and here againe.

Yet there's another comfort in my woe,
My cause is spread, and all the world may know,
My fault's no more, but speaking truth, and Reason;
No Debt, nor Theft, nor Murther, Rape, or Treason.

Nor shall my foes with all their Might and Power
Wipe out their shame, nor yet this fame of our:
Which when they finde, they shall my fate envie,
Till they grow leane, and sicke, and mad, and die.

Then though my Body here in Prison rot,
And my wrong'd Satyres seeme a while forgot:
Yet, when both Fame, and life hath left those men,
My Verse and I'le revive, and live agen.

So thus enclos'd, I beare afflictions load,
But with more true content then some abroad;
For whilst their thoughts doe feele my Scourges sting,
In bands I'le leape, and dance, and laugh, and sing.

* * *

Alexis.

Why now I see thou droup'st not with thy care,
Neither exclaim'st thou on thy hunting day;
But dost with unchang'd resolution beare
The heavy burthen of exile away.
All that did truely know thee, did conceave,
Thy actions with thy spirit still agree'd;
Their good conceit thou doest no whit bereave,
But shewest that thou art still thy selfe indeed.
If that thy mind to basenesse now descends,
Thou'lt injure Vertue, and deceive thy friends.

Willie.

Alexis, he will injure Vertue much,
But more his friends, and most of all himselfe,
If on that common barre his minde but touch,
It wrackes his fame upon disgraces shelfe.
Whereas if thou steere on that happy course,
Which in thy just adventure is begun,
No thwarting Tide, nor adverse blast shall force
Thy Barke without the Channels bounds to run.
Thou art the same thou wert, for ought I see,
When thou didst freely on the Mountaines hunt,
In nothing changed yet, unlesse it be
More merrily dispos'd then thou wert wont.
Still keepe thee thus, so other men shall know,
Vertue can give content in midst of woe.
And see (though mightines with frownes doth threat)
That, to be Innocent, is to be great,
Thrive and farewell.

Alexis.

In this thy trouble flourish.

Cuddy.

While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish.





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