A Pastorall

O Happie golden Age,
Not for that Riuers ranne
With streames of milke, and hunny dropt from trees,
Not that the earth did gage
Vnto the husband-man
Her voluntary frutes, free without fees:
Not for no cold did freeze,
Nor any cloud beguile,
Th'eternall flowring Spring
Wherein liu'd euery thing,
And whereon th'heauens perpetually did smile,
Not for no ship had brought
From forraine shores, or warres or wares ill sought.

But onely for that name,
That Idle name of winde:
That Idoll of deceit, that emptie sound
Call'd Honor, which became
The tyran of the minde:
And so torments our Nature without ground,
Was not yet vainly found:
Nor yet sad griefes imparts
Amidst the sweet delights
Of ioyfull amorous wights.
Nor were his hard lawes knowne to free-borne harts.
But golden lawes like these
Which Nature wrote. That's lawfull which doth please.

Then amongst flowres and springs
Making delightfull sport,
Sate Louers without conflict, without flame:
And Nimphs and shepheards sing
Mixing in wanton sort
Whisp'rings with Songs, then kisses with the same
Which from affection came:
The naked virgin then
Her Roses fresh reueales,
Which now her vayle conceales.
The tender Apples in her bosome seene,
And oft in Riuers cleere
The Louers with their Loues consorting were.

HONOR, thou first didst close
The spring of all delight:
Denying water to the amorous thirst
Thou taught'st faire eyes to lose
The glory of their light.
Restrain'd from men, and on themselues reuerst.
Thou in a Lawne didst first
These golden haires incase,
Late spred vnto the winde:
Thou mad'st loose grace vnkinde,
Gau'st bridle to their words, art to their pace.
O Honour it is thou
That mak'st that stealth, which loue doth free allow.

It is thy worke that brings
Our griefes, and torments thus:
But thou fierce Lord of Nature and of Loue,
The quallifier of Kings,
What doest thou here with vs
That are below thy power, shut from aboue?
Goe and from vs remoue,
Trouble the mighties sleepe,
Let vs neglected, base,
Liue still without thy grace,
And th'vse of th'auncient happie ages keepe,
Let's loue, this life of ours
Can make no truce with time that all deuours.

Let's loue, the sun doth set, and rise againe,
But when as our short light
Comes once to set, it makes eternall night.