Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.

About this Item

Title: Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony.
Publication: London :: Printed [by Thomas Snodham] for Richard More, and are to be sould at his shop in S. Dunstanes Church-yard,; 1614.
Rights/Permissions: This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this text, in whole or in part. Please contact project staff at eebotcp-info@umich.edu for further information or permissions.
Subject terms: Pastoral poetry, English.
Link to this Item: http://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16274.0001.001
Cite this Item: "Englands Helicon. Or The Muses harmony." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A16274.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed June 16, 2024.

GOod Muse rocke me a sleepe
with some sweet Harmonie:
This weary eye is not to keepe
thy wary companie.

Sweet Loue be gone a while,
thou knowest my heauines:
Beautie is borne but to beguile
my hart of happines.

See how my little flocke
that lou'd to feede on hie:
Doe headlong tumble downe the Rocke,
and in the Vallie die.

The bushes and the trees
that were so fresh and greene:
Doe all their daintie colour leese,
and not a leafe is seene.

The Blacke-bird and the Thrush,
that made the woods to ring:
With all the rest, are now at hush,
and not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomele the bird,
that hath the heauenly throat,
Doth now alas not once affoord
recording of a noate.

The flowers haue had a frost
each hearbe hath lost her fauour:
And Phillida the faire hath lost
the comfort of her fauour.

Now all these carefull sights,
so kill me in conceit:
That how to hope vpon delights
it is but meere deceite.

And therefore my sweet Muse
that knowest what helpe is best:
Doe now thy heauenly cunning vse,
to set my heart at rest.

And in a dreame bewray
what fate shall be my friend:
Whether my life shall still decay,
or when my sorrow end.

FINIS

N. Breton.