Aglaia: A Pastoral
Sylvan Muses, can ye singOf the beauty of the Spring?Have ye seen on earth that sunThat a heavenly course hath run?Have ye lived to see those eyesWhere the pride of beauty lies?Have ye heard that heavenly voiceThat may make Love's heart rejoice?Have ye seen Aglaia, sheWhom 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 playBut an idle roundelay;And in sad Discomfort's denEveryone go bite her pen;That she cannot reach the skillHow to climb that blessed hillWhere Aglaia's fancies dwell,Where exceedings do excell,And in simple truth confessShe is that fair shepherdessTo whom fairest flocks a-fieldDo their service duly yield:On whom never Muse hath gazedBut in musing is amazed;Where the honour is too muchFor their highest thoughts to touch;Thus confess, and get ye goneTo your places every one;And in silence only speakWhen ye find your speech too weak.Blessed be Aglaia yet,Though the Muses die for it;Come abroad, ye blessed Muses,Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses,When she would command a creatureIn the honour of Love's nature,For the sweet Aglaia fairAll to sweeten all the air,Is abroad this blessed day;Haste ye, therefore, come away:And to kill Love's maladiesMeet 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 swainsSee the beauty of their plains;And command them with their flocksTo do reverence on the rocks;Where they may so happy beAs her shadow but to see:Bid the birds in every bushNot a bird to be at hush:But to sit, and chirp, and singTo 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 speakBid the purest, whitest swanOf 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 hookAs she goes along the brook;So with all your sweetest powersEntertain her in your bowers;Where her ear may joy to hearHow ye make your sweetest quire;And in all your sweetest veinStill Aglaia strike her strain;But when she her walk doth turn,Then begin as fast to mourn;All your flowers and garlands witherPut up all your pipes together;Never strike a pleasing strainTill she come abroad again.
Words in this poem
- leese v. t.
- To hurt. B. Jonson. [Cf. f. léser, L.laesus, p. p. of laedere.]
- everyone n.
- Everybody; -- commonly separated, every one. [OE. everychon.]
- dwell v. i.
- To delay; to linger. [OE. dwellen, dwelien, to err, linger, AS. dwellan to deceive, hinder, delay, dwelian to err; akin to Icel. dvelja to delay, tarry, Sw. dväljas to dwell, Dan. dv]
- excell v. t.
- To go beyond or surpass in good qualities or laudable deeds; to outdo or outgo, in a good sense. [L. excellere, excelsum; ex out + a root found in culmen height, top; cf. F. exceller. See Culminate, Column.]
- shepherdess n.
- A woman who tends sheep; hence, a rural lass.
- honour n.
- Esteem due or paid to worth; high estimation; respect; consideration; reverence; veneration; manifestation of respect or reverence. [OE. honor, honour, onour, onur, OF. honor, onor, honur, onur, honour, onour, F. honneur, fr. L. honor, honos.]
- pallas n.
- Pallas Athene, the Grecian goddess of wisdom, called also Athene, and identified, at a later period, with the Roman Minerva.
- flora n.
- The goddess of flowers and spring. [L., the goddess of flowers, from flos, floris, flower. See Flower.]
- wardrobe n.
- A room or apartment where clothes are kept, or wearing apparel is stored; a portable closet for hanging up clothes. [OE. warderobe, OF. warderobe, F. garderobe; of German origin. See Ward, v. t., and Robe.]
- barky a.
- Covered with, or containing, bark.
- quire v. i.
- To sing in concert.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Aglaia: A Pastoral is in the public domain. This text is taken from Pastoral Poems by Nicholas Breton, Selected Poetry by George Wither, and Pastoral Poetry by William Browne (of Tavistock), Project Gutenberg ebook #22001; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Nicholas Breton, Aglaia: A Pastoral, in Pastoral Poems and Selected Poetry (1597–1604), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #22001, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/breton-poems/aglaia-a-pastoral.html, id L08828.
Form and metre
Aglaia: A Pastoral is 82 lines in a single stanza. It is in rhyming couplets, 68% of the lines: octosyllabic couplets. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 85%). 98% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.1 syllables. 16 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 39% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in octosyllabic couplets, other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AABBCCDDEE--FFGGHHIIJJKKLLMM--NN--OO--PPQQ--RRSSTTUUVV--WW------XXYYZZaa--bb------ singA · springA · sunB · runB · eyesC · liesC · voiceD · rejoiceD · sheE · seeE · these · leese · playF · roundelayF · denG · penG · skillH · hillH · dwellI · excellI · confessJ · shepherdessJ · fieldK · yieldK · gazedL · amazedL · muchM · touchM · gone · one · speakN · weakN · yet · it · musesO · choosesO · creature · nature · fairP · airP · dayQ · awayQ · maladies · melodies · aboutR · outR · flowersS · bowersS · swainsT · plainsT · flocksU · rocksU · beV · seeV · bush · hush · singW · springW · together · hither · break · speak · swan · fan · chaseX · baseX · sunY · spunY · hookZ · brookZ · powersa · bowersa · hear · quire · veinb · strainb · turn · mourn · wither · together · strain · again
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| Sylvan Muses, can ye sing | 7 | /˘/˘··· |
| Of the beauty of the Spring? | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Have ye seen on earth that sun | 7 | ······· |
| That a heavenly course hath run? | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Have ye lived to see those eyes | 7 | ······· |
| Where the pride of beauty lies? | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Have ye heard that heavenly voice | 7 | ····/˘· |
| That may make Love's heart rejoice? | 7 | ·····˘/ |
| Have ye seen Aglaia, she | 6 | ······ |
| Whom the world may joy to see? | 7 | ······· |
| If ye have not seen all these, | 7 | ······· |
| Then ye do but labour leese; | 7 | ····/·· |
| While ye tune your pipes to play | 7 | ······· |
| But an idle roundelay; | 7 | ··/˘/˘˘ |
| And in sad Discomfort's den | 7 | ···˘/˘· |
| Everyone go bite her pen; | 7 | /˘····· |
| That she cannot reach the skill | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| How to climb that blessed hill | 7 | ·····˘· |
| Where Aglaia's fancies dwell, | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Where exceedings do excell, | 7 | ·˘/˘·˘/ |
| And in simple truth confess | 7 | ··/˘·˘/ |
| She is that fair shepherdess | 7 | ····/˘˘ |
| To whom fairest flocks a-field | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Do their service duly yield: | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| On whom never Muse hath gazed | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| But in musing is amazed; | 7 | ··/˘·˘/ |
| Where the honour is too much | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| For their highest thoughts to touch; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Thus confess, and get ye gone | 7 | ·˘/···· |
| To your places every one; | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| And in silence only speak | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| When ye find your speech too weak. | 7 | ······· |
| Blessed be Aglaia yet, | 6 | ·˘···· |
| Though the Muses die for it; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Come abroad, ye blessed Muses, | 7 | ·˘/··/˘ |
| Ye that Pallas chiefly chooses, | 8 | ····/˘/˘ |
| When she would command a creature | 8 | ···˘/·/˘ |
| In the honour of Love's nature, | 8 | ··/˘··/˘ |
| For the sweet Aglaia fair | 6 | ······ |
| All to sweeten all the air, | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Is abroad this blessed day; | 7 | ·˘/··˘· |
| Haste ye, therefore, come away: | 7 | ·····˘/ |
| And to kill Love's maladies | 7 | ····/˘˘ |
| Meet her with your melodies. | 7 | ····/˘˘ |
| Flora hath been all about, | 7 | /˘····· |
| And hath brought her wardrobe out; | 7 | ····/·· |
| With her fairest, sweetest flowers, | 8 | ··/˘/˘/˘ |
| All to trim up all your bowers. | 8 | ······/˘ |
| Bid the shepherds and their swains | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| See the beauty of their plains; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| And command them with their flocks | 7 | ·˘/···· |
| To do reverence on the rocks; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Where they may so happy be | 7 | ····/˘· |
| As her shadow but to see: | 7 | ··/···· |
| Bid the birds in every bush | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Not a bird to be at hush: | 7 | ······· |
| But to sit, and chirp, and sing | 7 | ······· |
| To the beauty of the Spring: | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Call the sylvan nymphs together, | 8 | ··/˘·˘/˘ |
| Bid them bring their musicks hither. | 8 | ····/˘/˘ |
| Trees their barky silence break, | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| Crack yet, though they cannot speak | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Bid the purest, whitest swan | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| Of her feathers make her fan; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Let the hound the hare go chase; | 7 | ······· |
| Lambs and rabbits run at base; | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| Flies be dancing in the sun, | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| While the silk-worm's webs are spun; | 7 | ······· |
| Hang a fish on every hook | 7 | ····/˘· |
| As she goes along the brook; | 7 | ···˘/·· |
| So with all your sweetest powers | 8 | ····/˘/˘ |
| Entertain her in your bowers; | 8 | ·˘/···/˘ |
| Where her ear may joy to hear | 7 | ······· |
| How ye make your sweetest quire; | 7 | ····/˘· |
| And in all your sweetest vein | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Still Aglaia strike her strain; | 6 | ······ |
| But when she her walk doth turn, | 7 | ······· |
| Then begin as fast to mourn; | 7 | ·˘/···· |
| All your flowers and garlands wither | 8 | ··/·/˘/˘ |
| Put up all your pipes together; | 8 | ·····˘/˘ |
| Never strike a pleasing strain | 7 | /˘··/˘· |
| Till she come abroad again. | 7 | ···˘/˘/ |
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