Nicholas Breton

Nicholas Breton was an English poet and novelist. He became notable in his time for his wide range of works, from pastoral poetry to satire. Over the years, Breton developed a distinctive style marked by its versatility and lyrical beauty. Some of his more famous works include 'The Pilgrimage to Paradise' and 'A Floorish Upon Fancie.' His contribution to the literary landscape of his era remains impactful.

January 1, 1545

January 1, 1626

English

Nicholas Breton

A Pastoral of Phyllis and Corydon

On a hill there grows a flower,
    Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower,
    Where the heavenly Muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair,
    Fringèd all about with gold,
Where doth sit the fairest fair
    That did ever eye behold.

It is Phyllis, fair and bright,
    She that is the shepherds' joy,
She that Venus did despite,
    And did blind her little boy.

This is she, the wise, the rich,
    That the world desires to see:
This is ipsa quæ, the which
    There is none but only she.

Who would not this face admire?
    Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire,
    Though he thought to see no more?

O, fair eyes, yet let me see,
    One good look, a...

Nicholas Breton

A Quarrel with Love

Oh that I could write a story
    Of love's dealing with affection!
How he makes the spirit sorry
    That is touch'd with his infection.

But he doth so closely wind him,
    In the plaits of will ill-pleased,
That the heart can never find him
    Till it be too much diseased.

'Tis a subtle kind or spirit
    Of a venom-kind of nature,
That can, like a coney-ferret,
    Creep unawares upon a creature.

Never eye that can behold it,
    Though it worketh first by seeing;
Nor conceit that can unfold it,
    Though in thoughts be all its being.

Oh! it maketh old men witty,
    Young men wanton, women idle,
While that patience weeps, for pity
    Reason bite not nature's bridle.

What it is, in conjecture;
    S...

Nicholas Breton

A Report Song in a Dream

A Report Song in a Dream, between a shepherd and his nymph

Shall we go dance the hay?        The hay?
Never pipe could ever play
    Better shepherd's roundelay.

Shall we go sing the song?        The song?
Never Love did ever wrong.
    Fair maids, hold hands all along.

Shall we go learn to woo?        To woo?
Never thought came ever to[o](?)
    Better deed could better do.

Shall we go learn to kiss?        To kiss?
Never heart could ever miss
    Comfort where true meaning is.

Thus at base they run,                They run,
When the sport was scarce begun;
    But I waked, and all was done.

Nicholas Breton

A Shepherd's Dream

A silly shepherd lately sat
    Among a flock of sheep;
Where musing long on this and that,
    At last he fell asleep.
And in the slumber as he lay,
    He gave a piteous groan;
He thought his sheep were run away,
    And he was left alone.
He whoop'd, he whistled, and he call'd,
    But not a sheep came near him;
Which made the shepherd sore appall'd
    To see that none would hear him.
But as the swain amazèd stood,
    In this most solemn vein,
Came Phyllida forth of the wood,
    And stood before the swain.
Whom when the shepherd did behold
    He straight began to weep,
And at the heart he grew a-cold,
    To think upon his sheep.
For well he knew, where came the queen,
    The shepherd durst not stay:
And where that he durs...

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Contention between Love, his Mistress, and Beauty

Love and my mistress were at strife
    Who had the greatest power on me:
Betwixt them both, oh, what a life!
    Nay, what a death is this to be!

She said, she did it with her eye;
    He said, he did it with his dart;
Betwixt them both (a silly wretch!)
    'Tis I that have the wounded heart.

She said, she only spake the word
    That did enchant my peering sense;
He said, he only gave the sound
    That enter'd heart without defence.

She said, her beauty was the mark
    That did amaze the highest mind;
He said, he only made the mist
    Whereby the senses grew so blind.

She said, that only for her sake,
    The best would venture life and limb:
He said, she was too much deceiv'd;
    They honour'd her because of him.<...

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Lullaby

Come, little babe, come, silly soul,
Thy father's shame, thy mother's grief,
Born as I doubt to all our dole,
And to thyself unhappy chief:
        Sing lullaby and lap it warm,
        Poor soul that thinks no creature harm.

Thou little thinkst, and less dost know
The cause of this thy mother's moan;
Thou want'st the wit to wail her woe,
And I myself am all alone;
        Why dost thou weep? why dost thou wail,
        And know'st not yet what thou dost ail?

Come, little wretch! Ah! silly heart,
Mine only joy, what can I more?
If there be any wrong thy smart,
That may the destinies implore,
        'Twas I, I say, against my will -
        I wail the time, but be thou still.

And dost thou smile? O thy sweet face!
Would God Him...

Nicholas Breton

A Sweet Pastoral

Good Muse, rock me asleep
    With some sweet harmony:
The weary eye is not to keep
    Thy wary company.

Sweet Love, begone awhile,
    Thou knowest my heaviness:
Beauty is born but to beguile
    My heart of happiness.

See how my little flock,
    That loved to feed on high,
Do headlong tumble down the rock,
    And in the valley die.

The bushes and the trees
    That were so fresh and green,
Do all their dainty colour leese,
    And not a leaf is seen.

The blackbird and the thrush,
    That made the woods to ring,
With all the rest, are now at hush,
    And not a note they sing.

Sweet Philomel, the bird
    That hath the heavenly throat,
Doth now alas! not once afford
    Recording of a note.<...

Nicholas Breton

Aglaia: a Pastoral

Sylvan Muses, can ye sing
Of the beauty of the Spring?
Have ye seen on earth that sun
That a heavenly course hath run?
Have ye lived to see those eyes
Where the pride of beauty lies?
Have ye heard that heavenly voice
That may make Love's heart rejoice?
Have ye seen Aglaia, she
Whom 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 play
But an idle roundelay;
And in sad Discomfort's den
Everyone go bite her pen;
That she cannot reach the skill
How to climb that blessed hill
Where Aglaia's fancies dwell,
Where exceedings do excell,
And in simple truth confess
She is that fair shepherdess
To whom fairest flocks a-field
Do their service duly yield:
On whom never...

Nicholas Breton

Another of the Same (A Report Song in a Dream)

Say that I should say I love ye,
    Would you say 'tis but a saying?
But if Love in prayers move ye,
    Will ye not be moved with praying?

Think I think that Love should know ye,
    Will you think 'tis but a thinking?
But if Love the thought do show ye,
    Will ye loose your eyes with winking?

Write that I do write you blessed,
    Will you write 'tis but a writing?
But if Truth and Love confess it,
    Will ye doubt the true inditing?

No, I say, and think, and write it,
    Write, and think, and say your pleasure;
Love, and truth, and I indite it,
    You are blessèd out of measure.

Nicholas Breton

Astrophel's Song of Phyllida and Corydon

Fair in a morn (O fairest morn!),
    Was never morn so fair,
There shone a sun, though not the sun
    That shineth in the air.
For the earth, and from the earth,
    (Was never such a creature!)
Did come this face (was never face
    That carried such a feature).
Upon a hill (O blessèd hill!
    Was never hill so blessèd),
There stood a man (was never man
    For woman so distressed):
This man beheld a heavenly view,
    Which did such virtue give
As clears the blind, and helps the lame,
    And makes the dead man live.
This man had hap (O happy man!
    More happy none than he);
For he had hap to see the hap
    That none had hap to see.
This silly swain (and silly swains
    Are men of meanest grace):
Had yet the grace (O grac...

Nicholas Breton

Corydon's Supplication to Phyllis

Sweet Phyllis, if a silly swain
    May sue to thee for grace,
See not thy loving shepherd slain
    With looking on thy face;
But think what power thou hast got
    Upon my flock and me;
Thou seest they now regard me not,
    But all do follow thee.
And if I have so far presumed,
    With prying in thine eyes,
Yet let not comfort be consumed
    That in thy pity lies;
But as thou art that Phyllis fair,
    That fortune favour gives,
So let not love die in despair
    That in thy favour lives.
The deer do browse upon the briar,
    The birds do pick the cherries;
And will not Beauty grant Desire
    One handful of her berries?
If it be so that thou hast sworn
    That none shall look on thee,
Yet let me know thou dost not scorn

Nicholas Breton

Love

Foolish love is only folly;
Wanton love is too unholy;
Greedy love is covetous;
Idle love is frivolous;
But the gracious love is it
That doth prove the work of it.

Beauty but deceives the eye;
Flattery leads the ear awry;
Wealth doth but enchant the wit;
Want, the overthrow of it;
While in Wisdom's worthy grace,
Virtue sees the sweetest face.

There hath Love found out his life,
Peace without all thought of strife;
Kindness in Discretion's care;
Truth, that clearly doth declare
Faith doth in true fancy prove,
Lust the excrements of Love.

Then in faith may fancy see
How my love may constru'd be;
How it grows and what it seeks;
How it lives and what it likes;
So in highest grace regard it,
Or in lowest scorn di...

Nicholas Breton

Phyllida And Corydon

In the merry month of May,
In a morn by break of day,
With a troop of damsels playing
Forth I rode, forsooth, a-maying,
When anon by a woodside,
Where as May was in his pride,
I espied, all alone,
Phyllida and Corydon.

Much ado there was, God wot!
He would love, and she would not:
She said, never man was true;
He says, none was false to you.
He said, he had loved her long:
She says, Love should have no wrong.

Corydon would kiss her then,
She says, maids must kiss no men,
Till they do for good and all.
Then she made the shepherd call
All the heavens to witness, truth
Never loved a truer youth.
Thus with many a pretty oath,
Yea, and nay, and faith and troth! -
Such as silly shepherds use
When they will not love abus...

Nicholas Breton

Sonnet

The worldly prince doth in his sceptre hold
A kind of heaven in his authorities;
The wealthy miser, in his mass of gold,
Makes to his soul a kind of Paradise;
The epicure that eats and drinks all day,
Accounts no heaven, but in his hellish routs;
And she, whose beauty seems a sunny day,
Makes up her heaven but in her baby's clouts.
But, my sweet God, I seek no prince's power,
No miser's wealth, nor beauty's fading gloss,
Which pamper sin, whose sweets are inward sour,
And sorry gains that breed the spirit's loss:
No, my dear Lord, let my Heaven only be
In my Love's service, but to live to thee.

Nicholas Breton

The Passionate Shepherd.

Those eyes that hold the hand of every heart,
    That hand that holds the heart of every eye,
That wit that goes beyond all Nature's art,
    The sense too deep for Wisdom to descry;
That eye, that hand, that wit, that heavenly sense
Doth show my only mistress' excellence.

O eyes that pierce into the purest heart!
    O hands that hold the highest thoughts in thrall!
O wit that weighs the depth of all desert!
    O sense that shews the secret sweet of all!
The heaven of heavens with heavenly power preserve thee,
Love but thyself, and give me leave to serve thee.

To serve, to live to look upon those eyes,
    To look, to live to kiss that heavenly hand,
To sound that wit that doth amaze the mind,
    To know that sense, no sense can understand,
To ...

Nicholas Breton