Play I could once; but, gentle friend, you see My harp hung up here on the willow tree. Sing I could once; and bravely, too, inspire With luscious numbers my melodious lyre. Draw I could once, although not stocks or stones, Amphion-like, men made of flesh and bones, Whither I would; but ah! I know not how, I feel in me this transmutation now. Grief, my dear friend, has first my harp unstrung, Wither'd my hand, and palsy-struck my tongue. 211. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR. Only a little more I have to write, Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night. 'Tis but a flying minute That I must stay, Or linger in it; And then I must away. O time that cut'st down all And scarce leav'st here Memorial Of any men that were. How many lie forgot In vaults beneath? And piecemeal rot Without a fame in death? Behold this living stone I rear for me, Ne'er to be thrown Down, envious Time, by thee. Pillars let some set up If so they please: Here is my hope And my Pyramides. 212. SAFETY ON THE SHORE. What though the sea be calm? Trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd where late they danc'd before. 213. A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES. PRESENTED TO THE KING, AND SET BY MR. NIC. LANIERE. _The Speakers_, Mirtillo, Amintas _and_ Amarillis. _Amin._ Good-day, Mirtillo. _Mirt._ And to you no less, And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess. _Amar._ With all white luck to you. _Mirt._ But say, what news Stirs in our sheep-walk? _Amin._ None, save that my ewes, My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well, Smooth, fair and fat! none better I can tell: Or that this day Menalcas keeps a feast For his sheep-shearers. _Mirt._ True, these are the least; But, dear Amintas and sweet Amarillis, Rest but a while here, by this bank of lilies, And lend a gentle ear to one report The country has. _Amin._ From whence? _Amar._ From whence? _Mirt._ The Court. Three days before the shutting in of May (With whitest wool be ever crown'd that day!) To all our joy a sweet-fac'd child was born, More tender than the childhood of the morn. _Chor._ Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs and sheep Let lullaby the pretty prince asleep! _Mirt._ And that his birth should be more singular At noon of day was seen a silver star, Bright as the wise men's torch which guided them To God's sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem; While golden angels (some have told to me) Sung out his birth with heavenly minstrelsy. _Amin._ O rare! But is't a trespass if we three Should wend along his babyship to see? _Mirt._ Not so, not so. _Chor._ But if it chance to prove At most a fault, 'tis but a fault of love.