Nicholas Breton (Николас Бретон)
Aglaia
A Pastoral Sylvan Muses, can ye sing Of the beauty of the Spring? Have ye seen on earth that sun That a heavenly course hath run? Have ye lived to see those eyes Where the pride of beauty lies? Have ye heard that heavenly voice That may make Love's heart rejoice? Have ye seen Aglaia, she Whom the world may joy to see? If ye have not seen all these, Then ye do but labour leese; While ye tune your pipes to play But an idle roundelay; And in sad Discomfort's den Everyone go bite her pen; That she cannot reach the skill How to climb that blessed hill Where Aglaia's fancies dwell, Where exceedings do excell, And in simple truth confess She is that fair shepherdess To whom fairest flocks a-field Do their service duly yield: On whom never Muse hath gazèd But in musing is amazèd; Where the honour is too much For their highest thoughts to touch; Thus confess, and get ye gone To your places every one; And in silence only speak When ye find your speech too weak. Blessèd be Aglaia yet, Though the Muses die for it; Come abroad, ye blessèd Muses, Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses, When she would command a creature In the honour of Love's nature, For the sweet Aglaia fair All to sweeten all the air, Is abroad this blessèd day; Haste ye, therefore, come away: And to kill Love's maladies Meet her with your melodies. Flora hath been all about, And hath brought her wardrobe out; With her fairest, sweetest flowers, All to trim up all your bowers. Bid the shepherds and their swains See the beauty of their plains; And command them with their flocks To do reverence on the rocks; Where they may so happy be As her shadow but to see: Bid the birds in every bush Not a bird to be at hush: But to sit, and chirp, and sing To the beauty of the Spring: Call the sylvan nymphs together, Bid them bring their musicks hither. Trees their barky silence break, Crack yet, though they cannot speak Bid the purest, whitest swan Of her feathers make her fan; Let the hound the hare go chase; Lambs and rabbits run at base; Flies be dancing in the sun, While the silk-worm's webs are spun; Hang a fish on every hook As she goes along the brook; So with all your sweetest powers Entertain her in your bowers; Where her ear may joy to hear How ye make your sweetest quire; And in all your sweetest vein Still Aglaia strike her strain; But when she her walk doth turn, Then begin as fast to mourn; All your flowers and garlands wither Put up all your pipes together; Never strike a pleasing strain Till she come abroad again.
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