Classic Poem

Look as a maiden sitting in the shade
Of some close arbour by the woodbind made,
Withdrawn alone where undescri'd she may
By her most curious needle give assay
Unto some purse (if so her fancy move)
Or other token for her truest love;
Variety of silk about her pap,
Or in a box she takes upon her lap,
Whose pleasing colours wooing her quick eye,
Now this she thinks the ground would beautify,
And that, to flourish with, she deemeth best;
When spying others, she is straight possess'd
Those fittest are; yet from that choice doth fall,
And she resolves at last to use them all:
So Walla, which to gather long time stood,
Whether those of the field, or of the wood,
Or those that 'mong the springs and marish lay;
But then the blossoms which enrich'd each spray
Allur'd her look; whose many-colour'd graces
Did in her garland challenge no mean places:
And therefore she (not to be poor in plenty)
From meadows, springs, woods, sprays, culls some one dainty,
Which in a scarf she put, and onwards set
To find a place to dress her coronet.
A little grove is seated on the marge
Of Tavy's stream, not over-thick nor large,
Where every morn a choir of sylvans sung,
And leaves to chatt'ring winds serv'd as a tongue,
By whom the water turns in many a ring,
As if it fain would stay to hear them sing;
And on the top a thousand young birds fly,
To be instructed in their harmony.
Near to the end of this all-joysome grove
A dainty circled plot seem'd as it strove
To keep all briars and bushes from invading
Her pleasing compass by their needless shading,
Since it was not so large, but that the store
Of trees around could shade her breast and more.
In midst thereof a little swelling hill,
Gently disburden'd of a crystal rill
Which from the greenside of the flow'ry bank
Ate down a channel; here the wood-nymphs drank,
And great Diana having slain the deer,
Did often use to come and bathe her here.
Here talk'd they of their chase, and where next day
They meant to hunt; here did the shepherds play,
And many a gaudy nymph was often seen
Embracing shepherds' boys upon this green.
From hence the spring hastes down to Tavy's brim,
And pays a tribute of his drops to him.
Here Walla rests the rising mount upon,
That seem'd to swell more since she sat thereon,
And from her scarf upon the grass shook down
The smelling flowers that should her river crown:
The scarf (in shaking it) she brushed oft,
Whereon were flowers so fresh and lively wrought,
That her own cunning was her own deceit,
Thinking those true which were but counterfeit.
Under an alder on his sandy marge
Was Tavy set to view his nimble charge,
And there his love he long time had expected:
While many a rose-cheek'd nymph no wile neglected
To woo him to embraces; which he scorn'd,
As valuing more the beauties which adorn'd
His fairest Walla, than all Nature's pride
Spent on the cheeks of all her sex beside.
Now would they tempt him with their open breasts,
And swear their lips were love's assured tests:
That Walla sure would give him the denial
Till she had known him true by such a trial.
Then comes another, and her hand bereaves
The soon slipp'd alder of two clammy leaves,
And clapping them together, bids him see
And learn of love the hidden mystery.
Brave flood (quoth she) that hold'st us in suspense,
And show'st a godlike power in abstinence,
At this thy coldness we do nothing wonder,
These leaves did so, when once they grew asunder;
But since the one did taste the other's bliss,
And felt his partner's kind partake with his,
Behold how close they join; and had they power
To speak their now content, as we can our,
They would on Nature lay a heinous crime
For keeping close such sweets until this time.
Is there to such men ought of merit due,
That do abstain from what they never knew?
No: then as well we may account him wise
For speaking nought, who wants those faculties.
Taste thou our sweets; come here and freely sip
Divinest nectar from my melting lip;
Gaze on mine eyes, whose life-infusing beams
Have power to melt the icy northern streams,
And so inflame the gods of those bound seas
They should unchain their virgin passages,
And teach our mariners from day to day
To bring us jewels by a nearer way.
Twine thy long fingers in my shining hair,
And think it no disgrace to hide them there;
For I could tell thee how the Paphian queen
Met me one day upon yond pleasant green,
And did entreat a slip (though I was coy)
Wherewith to fetter her lascivious boy.
Play with my teats that swell to have impression;
And if thou please from thence to make digression,
Pass thou that milky way where great Apollo
And higher powers than he would gladly follow.
When to the full of these thou shalt attain,
It were some mast'ry for thee to refrain;
But since thou know'st not what such pleasures be
The world will not commend but laugh at thee.
But thou wilt say, thy Walla yields such store
Of joys, that no one love can raise thee more;
Admit it so, as who but thinks it strange?
Yet shalt thou find a pleasure more, in change.
If that thou lik'st not, gentle flood, but hear:
To prove that state the best I never fear.
Tell me wherein the state and glory is
Of thee, of Avon, or brave Thamesis?
In your own springs? or by the flowing head
Of some such river only seconded?
Or is it through the multitude that do
Send down their waters to attend on you?
Your mixture with less brooks adds to your fames,
So long as they in you do lose their names:
And coming to the ocean, thou dost see,
It takes in other floods as well as thee;
It were no sport to us that hunting love
If we were still confin'd to one large grove.
The water which in one pool hath abiding
Is not so sweet as rillets ever gliding.
Nor would the brackish waves in whom you meet
Contain that state it doth, but be less sweet,
And with contagious streams all mortals smother,
But that it moves from this shore to the other.
There's no one season such delight can bring,
As summer, autumn, winter, and the spring.
Nor the best flower that doth on earth appear
Could by itself content us all the year.
The salmons, and some more as well as they,
Now love the freshet, and then love the sea.
The flitting fowls not in one coast do tarry,
But with the year their habitation vary.
What music is there in a shepherd's quill
(Play'd on by him that hath the greatest skill)
If but a stop or two thereon we spy?
Music is best in her variety.
So is discourse, so joys; and why not then
As well the lives and loves of gods as men?