And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell, The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.
But she is gone. SIL. Mirtillo, tell us whither?
MIRT. Where she and I shall never meet together.
MON. Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please To give an end... MIRT. To what? SIL. Such griefs as these.
MIRT. Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
MON. Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills And dales again. MIRT. No, I will languish still;
And all the while my part shall be to weep;
And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep;
And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
MON. Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL. The day grows old;
And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
CHOR. The shades grow great; but greater grows our sorrow:--
But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep;
And meet to weep To-morrow.
*38*
TO THE WILLOW-TREE
Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest And left of love, are crown'd.
When once the lover's rose is dead Or laid aside forlorn, Then willow-garlands, 'bout the head, Bedew'd with tears, are worn.
When with neglect, the lover's bane, Poor maids rewarded be, For their love lost their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.
And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth, and love-sick maid, Come to weep out the night.
*39*
THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL
DEDICATED TO MR JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR AT LAW
RARE TEMPLES THOU HAST SEEN, I KNOW, AND RICH FOR IN AND OUTWARD SHOW;
SURVEY THIS CHAPEL BUILT, ALONE, WITHOUT OR LIME, OR WOOD, OR STONE.
THEN SAY, IF ONE THOU'ST SEEN MORE FINE
THAN THIS, THE FAIRIES' ONCE, NOW THINE.
THE TEMPLE
A way enchaced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads;
Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest;
Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry;
Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more.
His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls.
First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set;
Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly;
Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is.
Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides.
So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery.
Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion:
And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical.
If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted.
Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is.
Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS.
Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly;--
Neither those other saint-ships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite;
Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar.
First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, 'Favour your tongues, who enter here.
'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.'
A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!'
Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put;
A little brush of squirrels' hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family.
Near to the altar stands the priest, There offering up the holy-grist;
Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do't him) reverence.
The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular;
Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone;
Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall.
Whose linen-drapery is a thin, Subtile, and ductile codling's skin;
Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked.
The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow.
Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar)
Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings.
Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read:
And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do;
Ay, and their book of canons too.
And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles;
And if that Fairy knight not lies They have their book of homilies;
And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline.
The bason stands the board upon To take the free-oblation;
A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold;
Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any.
Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a tall small bent Burns for the altar's ornament.
For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery.
They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms;
Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister.
Their ush'ring vergers here likewise, Their canons and their chaunteries;
Of cloister-monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too:--
And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy;
And since the last is dead, there's hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope.
They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences, Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax-
Candles, forsooth, and other knacks;
Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little.
