 THE FOREST, by Ben Johnson. Some act of love's bound to rehearse, I thought to bind him in my verse, Which when he felt away, quote he, Can poets hope to fatter me? It is enough they once did get, Mars and my mother, in their net. I wear not these wings in vain, Which, with he fled me, and again into my rhymes, Would ne'er begot by any art, Then wonder not that since my numbers are so cold, When love is fled, and I grow cold. 2. To Penzhurst. Thou art not Penzhurst, built to envious show of touch, or marble, Nor canst boast a row of polished pillars, Or a roof of gold. Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told, Or stair or quartz, but stanced an ancient pile, And these grudged at art reverenced the while. Thou joist in better marks of soil, Of air, of wood, of water. Therein thou art fair, Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport, Thy mount to which thy dryads do resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beach and the chestnut shade. That taller tree which of a nut was set at his great birth, where all the muses met, There in the writhed bark are cut the names of many a sylvan taken with his flames, And hence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fawns to reach thy lady's oak. Thy copes, too, named of gammage, Thou hast there. That never fails to serve the seasoned deer, When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land that to the river bends Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kind, and calves do feed. The middle ground thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield the conies, And the tops, fertile of wood, A shore and Sydney's copse, To crown thy open table doth provide The purple pheasant with the speckled side. The painted partridge lies in every field, And for thy mess is willing to be killed, And if the high swan medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish, Fat-aged carp that run into thy net, And pikes now weary of their own kind to eat, As loath the second draught or cast to stay Officiously at first themselves betray. Bright eels that emulate them, And leap on land before the fisher, Or into his hand, then hath thy orchard fruit Thy garden flowers, fresh as the air, And new as are the hours. The early cherry with the later plum, Thig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come, The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy wall, and that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan. There's none that dwell about them, Wish them down, but all come in, the farmer And the clown, and no one empty-handed To salute thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a cape on, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples, some that think they Make the better cheeses bring them, Or else send by their ripe daughters whom They would come in this way to husbands, And whose baskets bear an emblem of themselves In plum or pear. But what can this more than express Their love, and to thy free provisions far above The need of such? Whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know, Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat, Without his fear and of thy lord's own meat, Where the same beer and bread and self-same wine That is his lordship's shall be also mine? And I not feign to sit as some this day At great men's tables, and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups Nor standing by a waiter doth my gluttony envy, But gives me what I call, and lets me eat. He knows below, he shall find plenty of meat. Thy tables hoard not up for the next day, Nor when I take my lodging need I pray For fire or lights or livery, all is there, As if thou then were mine or I reigned here. There's nothing I can wish for which I stay. That found King James when hunting late this way, With his brave son the Prince, they Saw thy fires shine bright on every hearth, As the desires of thy penities had been Set on flame to entertain them, or the country came With all their zeal to warm their welcome Here. What great I will not say, but sudden cheer Did stout then make them, and what praise Was heaped on thy good lady then, Who therein reaped the just reward of her high Who swiftly, to have her linen plate And all things nigh, when she was far and Not a room but dressed, as if it had Expected such a guest. These pence-hurst are thy praise, And yet not all thy lady's noble, fruitful Chase with all. His children, thy great Lord, may call his own, A fortune in this age, but rarely known. They are, and have been taught Religion, Hence their gentler spirits have sucked innocence. Each more, and even, they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may every day Read in their virtuous parents noble parts The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts. Now pence-hurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see Those proud, ambitious heaps and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, But thy lord dwells. How blessed art thou, canst love The country wroth, whether by choice or fate Or both, and though so near the city And the court, art tame with neither vice Nor sport, that at great times Art no ambitious guest of sheriff's dinner Or mayors' feast. Nor comes to view the better cloth Of state, the richer hangings, or Crown plate, nor throngst when masking is To have a sight of the short Bravery of the night. To view the jewels, stuffs, the pains, the wit, They're wasted, some not paid For yet, but canst at home in thy secure rest Live with unbought provision Blast. Free from proud porches or their gilded roofs, Amongst blowing herds and solid hoofs, along the curled woods And painted meads, through which a serpent river leads To some cool, courteous shade which he calls his, And makes sleep softer than it is. Or if thou list the night in watch to break A bed canst hear the loud stag speak, in spring off roused For thy master's sport, who for it makes thy house his court, Or with thy friends the heart of all the year, divides upon the lesser deer, In autumn at the partridge makes a flight, and gives thy gladder guests the sight, And in the winter hunts the flying hare more for thy exercise than fair. While all that follow, their glad ears apply To the full greatness of the cry, or hawking at the river, or the bush, Or shooting at the greedy thrush, thou dost with some delight The day out where, although the coldest of the year. The wildest the several seasons thou hast seen Of flowery fields of copses green, the mowed meadows with the fleeced sheep, And feasts that either shewers keep, the ripened ears yet humble In their height and furrows laden with their weight, the apple harvest That doth longer last, the hog's returned home fat from mast. The trees cut out in log, and those boughs Made a fire now that lent a shade. Thus Pan and Sylvan, having had their rights, Comus puts in four nudy lights, and fills thy open hall With mirth and cheer, as if in Saturn's reign it were, Apollo's harp, and Herney's lyre resound, nor are the muses strangers found. The rout of rural folk come thronging In, their rudeness then is thought no sin, Thy noblest spouse affords them welcome grace, And the great heroes of her race Sit mixed with loss of state or reverence, Freedom doth with degree dispense. The jolly wassel walks the often round, And in their cups their cares are drowned, They think not then which side the cause shall Lease, nor how to get the lawyer's fees Such and no other was that age Of old which boast to have had the head of gold. And such, since thou canst make thine own content, Strive, Roth, to live long innocent, Let others watch in guilty arms and stand The fury of a rash command, Go enter breeches, meet the cannon's rage, That they may sleep with scars in age, And shoe their feathers shot in colors torn, And brag that they were therefore born. Let this man sweat and wrangle at the bar, For every price in every jar, And change possessions oftener with his breath Than either money, war, or death. Let him, then hardest sires more disinherit, And each were both stit as his merit, To blow up orphans, widows, and their states, And think his power doth equal fates. Let that go heap a mass of wretched wealth Purchased by rapine worse than stealth, And brooding o'er its sit with broadest eyes, Not doing good scarce when he dies. But thousands more go flatter vice And win by being organs to great sin, Get place and honor and be glad To keep the secrets that shall break their sleep, And so they ride in purple, eat in plate, Though poison thinketh a great fate. But thou, my Roth, if I can truth apply, Shall neither that nor this envi, thy peace Is made, and when man's state is well, Tis better if he there can dwell. God-wisheth none should rack on a strange shelf, To him man's dearer than to himself, And howsoever we may think thing sweet, He always gives what he knows meet, Which who can use is happy, such be thou, Thy mornings and thy evenings vow, Be thanks to him, an earnest prayer To find a body sound with sounder mind, To do thy country service, thy self-right, That neither want do thee a fright nor death, But when thy latest sand is spent, Thou mayest think life a thing but lent. Number 4 To the World A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, Virtuous and Noble Since thou hast brought that hour upon any morn of age, Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage. Do not once hope that thou canst tempt a spirit so resolved To tread upon thy throat, and live exempt From all the nets that thou canst spread. I know thy forms are studied arts, Thy subtle ways be narrow straits, Thy courtesy but sudden starts, And what thou callst thy gifts are bates. I know too, though thou strapped in paint, Yet art thou both shrunk up and old, That only fools make thee a saint, And all thy good is to be sold. I know thou whole are but a shop of toys and trifles, Traps and snares, To take the week or make them stop, Yet art thou falter than thy wares. And knowing this, should I yet stay, Like such as blow away their lives, And never will redeem a day Inamored of their golden jives? Or having escaped, shall I return, And thrust my neck into the noose From whence so lately I did burn, With all my powers myself too loose. What bird or beast is known so dull That fled his cage or broke his chain, And tasting air and freedom wool Render his head in there again? If these who have but sense can shun The engines that have them annoyed, Little for me had reason done, If I could not thy gins avoid? Yes, threaten do, Alas I fear as little as I hope from thee. I know thou canst nor shoo Nor bear more hatred than thou hast to me. My tender first and simple years Thou didst abuse and then betray, Since stirred up jealousies and fears When all the causes were away. Then in a soil hast planted me Where breathed the basest of thy fools, Where envious arts professed be, And pride and ignorance the schools. Where nothing is examined, weighed, But as tis rumored so believed, Where every freedom is betrayed, And every goodness taxed or grieved. But what we're born for, we must bear. Our frail condition it is such That what to all may happen here, If chance to me I must not grudge. Else I, my state, should much mistake To harbour a divided thought From all my kind, that for my sake There should a miracle be wrought. No, I do know, that I was born To age misfortune, sickness, rief. But I will bear these with that scorn And shall not need thy false relief. Nor for my peace will I go far, As wanderers do, that still do roam, But make my strength such as they are Here in my bosom and at home. 5. Song to Celia Come, my Celia, let us prove, While we may the sports of love, Time will not be ours for ever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not, then, his gifts in vain, Sons that set may rise again, But if once we lose this light, Tis with us perpetual night. Why should we defer our joys, Fame and rumour are but toys, Cannot we delude the eyes Of a few poor household spies, Or his easier ears beguile, So removed by our while? Tis no sin loves fruit to steal, But the sweet theft to reveal, To be taken to be seen, These have crimes accounted beam. 6. To the same Kiss me, sweet, The weary lover can your favours keep and cover, When the common courting jay All your bounties will betray. Kiss again, no creature comes, Kiss and score up wealthy sums, On my lips, thus hardly sundered, While you breathe, first give a hundred, Then a thousand, then another hundred, Then unto the other, add a thousand, And so more, till you equal with the store All the grass that from me yields, Or the sand in Chelsea fields, Or the drops in Silver Thames, Or the stars that gild his streams In the silent summer nights. When youths ply their stolen delights, That the curious may not know How to tell them as they flow, And the envious, when they find What their number is, be pined. 7. Song That women are but men's shadows, Follow a shadow, it still flies you, Mean to fly it, it will pursue, So court a mistress, she denies you, Let her alone, she will court you. 8. Say are not women truly then, Styled but shadows of us men? 9. At morn and even shades are longest, At noon they are or short or none, So men at weakest they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. 8. Say are not women truly then, Styled but the shadows of us men? 8. Song To sickness Why disease, dost thou molest, Ladies, and of them the best? Do not men in now of rights to thy altars By their nights spent in surfets, And their days, and nights too in worser ways? 8. Make heed, sickness, what you do, I shall fear you'll surf it too. Live not we, as all thy stalls, Spittles, pest-house, hospitals, Scarce will take our present store, And this age will build no more. Pray thee feed contented then, sickness, Only on us men. Or if it needs thy lust will taste, Women kind, devour the waste livers round about the town. 9. But forgive me, with thy crown they maintain the truest trade, And have more diseases made. Why should yet thy pallet please, Daintiness and softer ease, Sleek limbs and finest blood? If thy leanness loves such food, There are those that for thy sake do enough, And who would take any pains, yea, Think at price, to become thy sacrifice, But distill their husbands' land in decoctions, And are manned with ten empricks in their chamber, Lying for the spirit of amber, That for the oil of talc dare spend more than Citizens dare lend them, And all their officers. That to make all pleasure theirs Will by coach and water go every stew in town To know, dare entail their loves on any, Bald or blind or near so many, And for thee at common game play away Health, wealth, and fame. These disease will thee deserve, And will long ere thou should starve On their beds most prostitute move it As their humblest suit. In thy justice to molest none but them And leave the rest. Number nine, song, Tucilia, drink to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with wine, Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine, The thirst that from the soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine, But my tie of joe's nectar sup I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee as giving it a hope That there it could not wither'd be, But thou thereon didst only breathe And sensed it back to me, Since when it grows and smells I swear Not of itself but thee. Number ten, Preludium And must I sing? Which subject shall I choose? Or whose great name in poets' heaven use? For the more countenance to my active news. Hercules, alas, his bones are yet sore With his old earthly labours, T exact more of his dull Godhead were sin. I'll implore Phoebus, No, tend thy cart still, On thee a stay shall not give out That I have made thee stay, And foundered thy hot team To tune my lay. Nor will I beg of thee, Lord of the vine, To raise my spirits, With thy conjuring wine, In the green circle of thy ivy twine. Hallis, nor thee I call on, Mankind made, That at thy birth maids the poor smith Afraid, Who with his axe thy father's midwife played. Go cramp, dull Mars, Light Venus, when he snorts, Or with thy tri-bade trine Invent new sports. Thou, nor thy looseness, With my making sorts. Let the old boy, your son, Ply his old task, Turn the stale prologue To some painted mask. His absence in my verse is all I ask. Hermes, the cheater, Shall not mix with us, Though he would steal his sister's Pegasus, And rifle him or pawn his Pétisus. The phoenix analyzed. Now, after all, let no man Receive it for a fable If a bird so amiable Do turn into a woman. Or buy our turtles augur That nature's fairest creature Prove of his mistress's feature But a bare type and figure. Nor all the ladies of the Thespian Lake, Though they were crushed into one form, Could make a beauty of that merit That should take. Ode, enthusiastique, Splendour, o' more than mortal For other forms come short all Of her illustrious brightness As far as sins from lightness, Her wit as quick and sprightful as fire And more delightful Than stolen sports of lovers When night their meeting covers, Judgment adorned with learning Doth shine in her discerning clear As a naked vessel Closed in an orb of crystal, Her breath for sweet exceeding The phoenix place of breeding But mixed with sound transcending All nature of commending. Alas, then with her way-dye In thought to praise this lady, When seeking in her renowning Myself, am so near drowning. Retire and say her graces Are deeper than their faces Yet she's not nice to show them Nor takes she pride to know them. My muse, up by commission, No, I bring my own true fire. Now my thought takes wing, And now an epode to deep ears I sing. Number eleven, epode, Not to know vice at all, And keep true state is virtue and not fate. Next to that virtue is to know vice well And her black spite expel, Which to effect, since no breast Is so sure or safe, But she'll procure some way of entrance. We must plant a guard of thoughts To watch and ward at the eye and ear The ports unto the mind That no strange or unkind object arrive there. But the heart, our spy, Give knowledge instantly To wakeful reason our affections king, Who, in the examining, Will quickly taste the treason And commit close the close cause of it. It is the securest policy we have To make our sense our slave. But this true course Is not embraced by many, By many scarce by any. For either our affections do rebel, Or else the sentinel that should Ring lauram to the heart doth sleep, Or some great thought doth keep Back the intelligence and falsely swears They are base and idle fears Whereof the loyal conscience so complains, Thus, by these subtle trains, Do several passions invade the mind, And strike our reason blind Of which usurping rank, Some have thought love the first As prone to move, Most frequent tumult's horrors and unrests, In our inflamed breasts. But this doth from the cloud of error grow Which thus we overblow, The thing they here call love is blind desire, Armed with bow, shafts, and fire, In constant, like the sea, Of whenced his born, rough swelling, Like a storm, with whom who sails Brides on the surge of fear, And boils, as if he were in a continual tempest. Now true love, no such effects, doth prove. Love is in essence far more gentle, Fine, pure, perfect, nay divine. It is a golden chain let down from heaven Whose links are bright and even, That falls like sleep on lovers and combines The soft and sweetest minds in equal knots. This bears no brands, no darts, To murder different hearts, But in a calm and godlike unity Preserves, community. Oh, who is he that in this peace Enjoys the elixir of all joys, A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers, And lasting as her flowers, Richer than time and as time's virtue rare, Sober as saddest care. A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance, Who, blessed with such high chance, Would, at suggestion of a steep desire, Cast himself from the spire of all his happiness? But soft, I hear some vicious fool draw near, That cries we dream and swears there Is no such thing as this chaste love, we say. Peace, luxury, thou art like one of those Who, being at sea, Suppose because they move the continent doth so. No, vice, we let thee know. Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows' wings do fly, Turtles can chastely die, and yet, In this to express ourselves more clear, We do not number here such spirits As our only continent, Those lusts' means are spent, Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame, And for their place and name Cannot so safely sin, Their chastity is mere necessity. Nor mean we those whom vows and conscience Have filled with abstinence. Though we acknowledge, who can so abstain, Makes a most blessed gain, He that for love of goodness hath ill Is more crownworthy still than he, Which for sins penalty for bears, His heart sins, though he fears. But we propose a person like our dove, Graced with a phoenix's love. A beauty of that clear and sparkling light Would make a day of night, And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys, Whose odorous breath destroys all taste of bitterness, And makes the air as sweet as she is fair. A body so harmoniously composed, As if nature disclosed all her best symmetry In that one feature. O so divine a creature, Who could be false too chiefly, When he knows how only she bestows The wealthy treasure of her love on him. Making his fortune swim in the full flood Of her admired perfection? What savage, brute affection Would not be fearful to offend a dame Of this excelling fain? Much more a noble and right generous mind To virtuous moods inclined That knows the weight of guilt, He will refrain from thoughts of such a strain, According to his sense-object this sentence ever. Men may securely sin, But safely never. NUMBER 12 EPISODE TO ELIZABETH COUNTIS OF RUTLAND Madam, whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, And almost every vice, almighty gold, That which to boot with hell is thought worth heaven, And for it life, conscience, Today souls are given, Toils by grave custom up and down the court, To every squire or groom that will report well or ill, Only all the following year Just to the weight there this day's presence bear. While it makes ushers serviceable men, And some one apteth to be trusted then, Though never after, whilst it gains the voice of some grand peer Whose heir doth make rejoice the fool that gave it, Who will want and weep when his proud patrons' favours are asleep, While thus it buys great grace and hunts poor fame, Runs between man and man, between dame and dame, Sodders' cracked friendship makes love last a day or perhaps less, Whilst gold bears all this sway, I that have none to send you, Send you verse, a present which, if elder rits rehearse, The truth of times was once of more esteem Than this our guilt nor golden age can deem. When gold was made no weapon to cut throats, Or put to flight astria when her ingots Were yet unfound, and better placed in earth than here, To give pride, fame, and peasants' birth, But lest this dross carry what price it will, With noble ignorance and let them still Turn upon scorned verse their quarter face, With you I know, my offering will find grace. For what a sin against your great father's spirit were it to think that you should Not inherit his love unto the muses, When his skill almost you have or may have When you will, wherein wise nature you a dowry gave, Worth an estate treble to that you have. Beauty I know is good, and blood is more, Riches thought most, but madam, Think what store the world hath seen, Which all these had in trust. And now lie lost in their forgotten dust. It is the muse alone can raise to heaven, And at her strong arms end hold up, And even the souls she loves. Those other glorious notes inscribed In touch or marble or the coats painted, Or carved upon our great men's tombs, Or in their windows do but prove the wounds That bred them graves. When they were born they died, That had no muse to make their fame abide. How many equal with the Argyve Queen Have beauty known yet none so famous seen! Achilles was not first, that valiant was, Or in an army's head that locked in brass Gave killing strokes. There were brave men before Ajax, or Idemen, Or all the store that Homer brought to Troy. Yet none so live because they lacked the sacred pen Could give like life unto them. Who'd heaved Hercules unto the stars, Or the Tindarides, who placed Jason's Argo in the sky, Or set Ariadne's crown so high? Who made a lamp of Berenice's hair Or lifted Cassiopeia in her chair, But only poets, Wrapped with rage divine? And such, or my hopes fail, Shall make you shine! You and that other star, that purest light Of all Luciana's train, Lucy the Bright, Then which a nobler heaven itself knows not, Who, though she hath a better Versorgot or poet in the court-account than I? And who doth me, though I not him and by? Yet for the timely favors she hath done To my less sanguine muse wherein she hath Won my grateful soul the subject of her powers I have already used some happy hours To her remembrance, which when time shall bring To curious light, to notes, I then Shall sing, will prove old Orpheus's act no tale to be, For I shall move stocks, stones, no less than he. Then all that have but done my muse least grace Shall thronging come, and boast The happy place they hold in my strange poems, Which, as yet, had not their form Touched by an English wit. There like a rich and golden pyramid Born up by statues shall I rear your head Above your under-carved ornaments And shoe how to the life my soul presents Your form impressed there, Not with tickling rhymes or common places Filched that take these times, But high and noble matter, such as Flies from brains entranced And filled with ecstasies, moods which the God-like Sidney oft did prove, And your brave friend and mine so well did love, Who where so ere he be? The rest is lost. 13. Epistle to Catherine, Lady Albany It has grown almost a danger to speak true Of any good mind now there are so few. The bad by number are so fortified As what they have lost to expect they dare deride. So both the praised and praisers suffer, Yet, for others ill ought none their good forget. I, therefore, who profess myself in love With every virtue where so ere it move And how so ere, as I am at feud with sin and vice, Though with a throne endued, And in this name am given out Dangerous by arts and practice of the vicious, Such as suspect themselves And think it fit for their own capital crimes To indict my wit, I that have suffered this, And though forsook a fortune have Not altered yet my look, Or so myself abandoned as because men are not just, Or keep no holy laws of nature And society I should faint, or fear to draw True lines cause others paint. I, madam, and become your praiser, Where, if it may stand with your soft Blush to hear yourself, But told unto yourself and see in my character What your features be, You will not from the paper slightly pass, No lady, but at some time Loves her glass, and this shall be no false one, But as much removed as you from need To have it such. Look then, and see yourself I will not say your beauty, For you see that every day, And so do many more, all which can call it Perfect, proper, pure, and natural, Not taken up by the doctors, but as well as I Can say and see it doth excel, That asks but to be censured by the eyes, And in those outward forms All fools are wise. Nor that your beauty Wanted not a dower, do I reflect. Some alderman has power Or cozening farmer of the customs, So to advance his doubtful issue And or flow a prince's fortune. These are gifts of chance, And raise not virtue. They may vice-enhance, My mirror is more subtle, clear, refined, And takes and gives the beauties of the mind. Though it reject not those of fortune, Such as blood and match, Wherein how more than much Are you engaged to your happy fate, For such a lot that mixed you with a state Of so great title-birth but virtue most, Without which all the rest were sounds or lost? Tis only that can time and chance defeat, For he that once is good is ever great. Wherewith, then, madam, Can you better pay This blessing of your stars Than by that way of virtue which you tread? But if alone without companions, Tis safe to have none. In single paths dangers with ease are watched, Contagion in the press is soonest catched. This makes that wisely you decline your life Far from the maze of custom, error, strife. And keep an even and unaltered gate Not looking by or back like those that wait Times and occasions to start forth and seem. Which though the turning world may dis-esteem, Because that studies spectacles and shows, And after varied, as fresh objects goes, Giddy with change and therefore cannot see right, the right way, Yet must your comfort be your conscience, And not wonder if none asks for truth's complexion, Where they all wear masks. Yet who will follow fashion and attires, Maintain their leaders forth for foreign wires, Melt down their husband's land to pour away On the clothes, room, and page, On New Year's Day, and almost all days after while they live, They find it both so witty and safe to give, Let them on powders, oils, and paintings To spend till that no user, nor his bods, Dare lend them or their officers, And no man know whether it be a face they wear or know. Let them waste body and state, And after all, when their own parasites laugh At their fall, may they have nothing left, Whereof they can boast, But how oft they have gone wrong to man, And call it their brave sin. For such there be that do sin only for the infamy, And never think how vice doth every hour eat on her clients, And some one devour. You, madam, young, have learned to shun these shelves, Whereon most of mankind wreck themselves, And keeping a just course have early put into your harbor, And all passage shut against storms or pirates that might charge your peace, For which you, worthy are the glad increase of your blessed womb, Made fruitful from above to pay your lord the pledges of chaste love, And raise a noble stem to give the fame to Clifton's blood that is denied their name. Grow, grow, fair tree, And as thy branches shoot, Hear what the muses sing about thy root. By me, their priest, if they can ought divine Before the moons have filled their triple trine, To crown the burden which you go with all, It shall a ripe and timely issue fall, To expect the honors of great Albany And greater rights yet writ in mystery. But which the fates forbid me to reveal, Only thus much out of a ravaged zeal unto Your name and goodness of your life they speak, Since you are truly that rare wife Other great wives may blush at when they see What your tried manners are, what theirs should be, How you love one, and him you should, How still you are depending on his word and will, Not fashioned for the court or stranger's eyes, But to please him, who is the dearer prize unto himself, By being so dear to you. This makes that your affections still be new, And that your souls conspire as they were gone each into other, And had now made one live that one still, And as long years do pass, madam, Be bold to use this truest glass, Where in your form you still the same shall find, Because nor it can change nor such a mind. CHAPTER XIV ODE TO Sir William Sidney on his birthday. Now that the hearth is crowned with smiling fire, And some do drink and some do dance, Some ring, some sing, And all do strive to advance the gladness higher, Wherefore should I stand silent by, Who not the least both love, the cause, And authors of the feast? Give me my cup. But from the thespian well, That I may tell to Sidney what this day doth say, And he may think on that which I do tell, When all the noise of these forced joys Are fled and gone, And he with his best genius left alone. This day says, then, The number of glad years are justly summed That make you man, Your vow must now strive all right ways it Can, toutstrip your peers, Since he doth lack of going back little Whose will doth urge him to run wrong Or to stand still. Nor can a little of the common store Of noble's virtues shoe in you your blood, So good, and great must seek for new And study more, not weary, rest, On what's deceased, for they that swell With dust of ancestors in graves but dwell. It will be exacted of your name, Whose son, whose nephew, whose grandchild you are, And men will then say you have followed far, When well begun which must be now they teach you how, And he that stays to live until tomorrow Have lost two days. So may you live in honor as in name, If with this truth you be inspired, So may, this day, be more and long desired, And with the flame of love be bright as with the light of bonfires, Then the birthday shines when logs not burn, But men. Number 15. To Heaven Good and great God, can I not think of thee, But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease That laden with my sins I seek for ease? O be thou witness, that the brains dost know And hearts of all, if I be sad for show, And judge me after if I dare pretend To ought but grace or aim at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to me, First, midst, and last, And in this state my judge, my witness, and my advocate, Where have I been this while exiled From thee, and wither-wrapped now thou, But stooped to me? Dwell, dwell here still, O being everywhere, How can I doubt to find thee ever here? I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, Conceived in sin and unto labor, but scorn, Conceived in sin and unto labor, borne, Standing with fear and must with horror fall And destined unto judgment after all. I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh to inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain or wish for death? With holy Paul lest it be thought the breath of discontent, For that these prayers be for weariness of life, Not love of thee. Thine. End of The Forest by Ben Johnson, Recording by Sheldon Greaves, San Jose, California.