Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden
William Browne (c. 1590c. 1645)Extracts from Britannias Pastorals: The Song of Celadyne
M
As Philomela on a thorn,
Turned out of nature’s livery,
Mirthless, alone, and all forlorn:
Only she sings not, while my sorrows can
Breathe forth such notes as suit a dying swan.
At the departure of the sun;
So from the honey-suckle sheaves
The bee goes when the day is done;
So sits the turtle when she is but one,
And so all woe, as I, since she is gone.
Made all the summer as one day;
Which once enjoy’d, cold winter’s wrath,
As night, they sleeping pass away.
Those happy creatures are, they know not yet
The pain to be deprived, or to forget.
Some, that with confidence profess
The helpful Art of Memory;
But could they teach forgetfulness,
I ’d learn, and try what further art could do
To make me love her and forget her too.
Men from themselves, to think they be
Headless, or other body’s shades,
Hath long and bootless dwelt with me.
For could I think she some idea were
I still might love, forget, and have her here.
For twice as many torments more,
As her bereaved company
Hath brought to those I felt before;
For then no future time might hap to know
That she deserv’d, or I did love her so.
Though so I shall be sooner old,
Till I those lovely graces see,
Which, but in her, can none behold.
Then be an age! that we may never try
More grief in parting, but grow old and die.