University of Virginia Library

An Ecloge: Spoken by Halon and Eudœmon

HALON.
The rageing wolfe, which made our flocks his Prey,
Hath bled his Last; Eudœmon, yesterday
Five iolly Swains, with dogs to that End bred,
Hunted him ore the Hills, with eager Speed;
Though Long, at last he fell; noe longer wee
Need feare our foldes should broke or frighted bee.

EUDŒMON.
Ill fitts that word the mouth of any Swaine;
Are wee secure because the wolfe is Slaine?
There may be moe; or were there none but Hee,
What Spell have wee from foxes to be free?
Are not our Lambs to Badgers yet a prey,
Perhaps were we but Absent halfe a day?
Noe, Halon, were these all removed, the Swaine
That loves his flocke doth still his care retaine.

HALON.
'Tis an vnnecessarie precept, wee
Derive from worne Leavs of Antiquitie;
But wiser Shepheards now have better Taught;
Danger removed, why should wee care for Naught?
Wee loose our Selves in a perpetuall Toyle,
And are made Slaves to what's not worth the while.

EUDŒMON,
Fye, Halon, doe not say soe; if you knew
The value of your Chardge, or had the true
Vsing of flockes, which everie Shepheard ought;
It were a Care, even worthy all your Thought.
But (ah) the Libertie of this leud Age
Spreads as a deluge, even to engage
All in the Gulph; and newer pleasures now
Shepheards enthrall, which Shepheards did not know.
The Simple Merrie-make of older Swains
Was Innocent, and rurall Entertains
Had noe ill-meanings. Halon, I have bene
In either Age, and both their Customes seene.

HALON.
Eudœmon, noe; your Age of lesse then mine
May speake, for time; and may my best Ramme pine,
If ere I knew it otherwise then now,
Good frolicke Sportings vsed; alas, I know
Our carefull Sires would tell a Time of old,
When all was good; such as Eudœmon would
Now fancie to himselfe; but, Swaine, I know
Thow think'st the times were ever as they're now.

EUDŒMON.
Indeed! I thinke our fancies doe gvild ore,
Somewhat, the face of Ages gon before;
But certaine, Halon, better then wee now
Live in to see, your selfe and I did know.

HALON.
To me, 'twas ever thus; but I not came
To talke of Times or Customes; they're the Same.
My errand was my first; tomorrow shall
A day of Mirth be kept. Eudœmon, All
Expect your Companie; the rest did make
Mee now their Messenger, to come and Speake.

EUDŒMON.
Though, Halon, noe man then my Selfe, more Ioyes
At others Happines, or in this prize,
The luckie Swains brought home; I must refuse
To meet, to-morrow: Carrie my Excuse.

HALON.
Excuse you! now I doubt ther's something more
Troubles Eudœmon, then I thought before.
Are wee not All Concern'd? You must appeare;
You will be thought on stranglie, if not there.

EUDŒMON.
Noe: they will pardon it.—

HALON.
Noe pardon can
Fall vnto such a Crime. Eudœmon, man,
Whither away! How art thou dully Lost
From thy once Selfe, and what thou lovedst most?
Not meet! Wee must be merry; Cups shall Crowne
Our Ioyes, and make the Conquest full our owne.
'Tis not a Life, our Dayes wee but vntwine;
Save Time a Labour, and our Genius pine
In Silent Musings, to noe good, which wee
Our Selves intend, or other Men can See.
Societie! the Best of All, our Boast;
Without which, Life it Selfe were not ill-Lost.
What need I more perswade? To Him who once
Could bring a Thousand motives to advance
Designes of Drinking; which, forsooth wee Name
Modestlie, meetings. Fye vpon this Shame!

EUDŒMON.
Why, Halon, thou art almost rapt to thinke
Of this great meeting. Let them goe to drinke,
Whose Last night's Surfet call fresh Cups, t' allay
The Stomacke-Stretchings of the former Day;
I am resolved: for, Halon, I have seene
Enough of Madnes; and too often bene
A franticke Actor in the foolish rites
Of bloat-fac'd Bacchus; now noe more delights
But Tortures to my Thought; to see how deepe
My better part was shrunke into the heape
Of follie and forgetfullnes.—

HALON.
—And now
A Satire feirce! How long? I prithee, how
Many, or dayes or howres? For weekes! who can
(That has a Throat,) one Single weeke abstaine?
How long hast thou pin'd in this dolefull plight
Of Sobernes? Or how long shall wee see't
Continue? Dearest, tell me, some fond vow!
And limited, I warrent! Faith say how.

EUDŒMON.
Noe vow it is, nor yet a vulgar Tye,
Made ore a Posset, for the Maladie
Of many Cups; nor a Conversion, made
From Crop-Sicke Qvalms or Giddines of Head;
But a well-made Resolve; which Dayes nor Howers,
(But Time alone when Hee my Selfe devours)
Shall ever forfeit. Prithee, Halon, tell
The ioy thou takest (for thou lovest Drinking well)
In the strange Swilling of vnnumbred Cups?
By whole-Sale Flaggons, or retailing Supps!
What is the End to which your proiects drive?
To make you Longer, Merrier, Better Live?
For one or All of these I cannot see
(Soe sordid now doth it appeare to me,)
What any man can Say; I have forgot
What 't was my Selfe would Say, when I, a Sott,
Durst vindicate my ill-spent howers; or please
My fancy in such franticke mirths as these.

HALON.
Holla, Eudœmon! Yet I hope to see
Your reconversion for Cup-Libertie;
Which I prefer as Conscience; and had rather
Then seale vp Lips, they'd Sowe my Soule together.
I recke not what they make of forme or faith;
Nor would I be a Martir, vnles death
Were to be drunke; in that, let Law be free,
And make Religion what they list, for mee.

EUDŒMON.
Indeed, such expectations, such desires
May fitlie suite; how happie are the fires
Which Sober Fancie kindles in ye Mind!
How strange these Fumes appeare! of wine and wind!

HALON.
Yet, let my little Reason,—for in troth
I doe not boast of much; I should be loath
To vse it, if I had, as words, ill Spent
T' enforce this All-convincing Argument:
Let me, (I say) perswade a little; once
Pledge a full Glasse; suppose it may advance
The Health of him wee honour; to denie
Such a Request were want of Loyaltie;
To morrow, This the widest Goblet swells;
Such as refuse it, meerlie Infidells,
Can hardlie hope Salvation; not vnlesse
They fill three bigger, and their Zeale expresse
To Mirabella; or, with bended knee,
Swoope of a vessel bigger then all three.
To our bright Hopes, the riseing Shepheard's Starre,
What Loyall Heart can drinking these forbeare?
And here the frolicke seems but to begin;
Our Mistresses are call'd, and they come in;
Number the letters in her name, by Boules;
Old Martial lives againe; Wee have our rules,
And keepe a due Decorum; firéd thus,
Each Brain becomes his proper Pegasus.

EUDŒMON.
Poor Halon, how I pitty thee; and then,
Your reeling God is Chariot-drawne, by Men
Transform'd to Tigers, and to Panthers; bruit,
As ounce, or Pard'; and well the Chariot Suit.
The Women in the house, (for women must
Still close the Draught; wine ever ends in Lust,)
Like yauling Mœnades, their Iooes send
To the full-fraught, lest drinking there should End.
There my once sung Nicotiana keeps
Still the hearth warme, till panch-swolne Bromius sleeps;
And her Health-giveing odours madlie wasts,
To scalded palats, who have lost their tasts.
Iocosa there, the light-heel'd giddie Dame,
Must be another, or your mirth were Lame.
Poore drenched, drowned Soules; hardly to hope
That Eye (drinke-closéd still) can ever ope.
Have you said All, Halon? or you intend
Another Panegyricke? I attend;
For Since I was my selfe, I dare let out
My Ears to any thinge, yet keepe my Thought.

HALON.
Eudœmon, you mistake; the frantick rites
Of Bacchus were soe kept, in the dull nights
Of Ignorance; but drinking now, emproved,
Is growne an Art: and orgies, which behoov'd
A Thing soe necessarie, added are;
The old Abolisht and the new made cleare.
Fitt Ceremonies vsed, of Cap & knee,
That drinking now devotion seems to be;
Whilst (a new rite) Nicotiana's bound,
From purgéd Censers, to throw incense round;
Spreading her roabes, like many-folded Skyes,
Whilst all men busie are to sacrifize
Vnto the Ivie-crown'd; and wishes breath
Vpon his Altars, to bring Life or Death;
Courage and Witt, inspir'd by hidden means,
From his bright Flame, the Head and Heart attains.
Nothing soe difficult, or soe abstruse
Can be to Man, but easie is to vs;
And all the Subtle Knotts, which crabbéd Heads
Have twist, fall loose before vs into threds;
The Heavens make all things hard to thirsty Soules,
And only wine, encroaching Care controules.

EUDŒMON.
Soe the mad Roman, who to make more fine
His Platan Trees, drencht them in Shewers of wine;
Or as the late-past Summer, whose excesse
Of wett ruin'd those fruits calme deawes refresh;
You soake your soules, and by too large a flood,
Thistles and weeds grow, where the corne had Stood.
I will not say but wine may sometimes adde
Vnto the Genius of a Sober Head,
In Cups not lavish, by the well-made vse
Of Creatures, to that End, bestowed on vs;
Yet would you say? for I dare safely heare
All you can Adde of frenzy to this Eare;
Vnmoved, I sitt happie now, to see
My freedome to my fore-past vanitie;
Now, now I move; as whilome, in the bud
Of Innocence; and glide vpon the Flood
Of Life, with Pleasure; noe rude Stormes affright
My new-rigg'd vessel; noe distemper'd night
Now tears my brains; noe morning penitence
Belches the folly of my last offence;
But when the morning Spreads her dewey wings,
My Larke dare rise, to pay her offerings;
For now I live, to vse my selfe, and find
My Constitution to Health inclin'd;
A constant Temper dwells within my blood,
And I am all my owne, beyond the woo'd
Temptations you can bring; I now, possest
With calme Thoughts, boldly open all my brest:
What hinders Sober man to speake his heart?
And even the Secrets of his Soule, impart?
But drunkards, certaine none dare impious be;
They fatt themselves in their impietie,
And dare with horrid Arrogance pronounce
The glorie of their Sin; not wicked once,
But leudlie boasting it from time to time,
Make even theire Many, one-continued Crime.
I have bene gviltye, and he lives not free,
Who sold to his owne Lust and Infamie,
Dare goe a little further; even from thence
Cups come to Custome; Custome, Impudence.
Let me abhorre the Stupor of this Sin;
Which were enough, if nothing else came in,
To make it hated to a Soule that loves
Its owne felicitie, a mind that moves,
Worthy of its Creation, in the Light
Of Sober Reason, not bruit Appetite.

HALON.
These two, to me are one, or interchang'd,
Either is other; by the fancie rang'd
To the proportion and worth they seeme
To carry, in our varied esteeme.
What you in me call Appetite, Desire,
Is all my Reason; I see nothing higher;
That I submit to as my gviding Light,
And call it Reason, you call Appetite.
Whether shall wee appeale? the Iudgment binds
But from the Selfe-Tribunall of our Minds.

EUDŒMON.
Such Taverne-teachings please the wine-sprung mind
And giddie fancie roves about, to find
Excuses and evasions, to secure
Our dearling faults, though never soe impure.
What profuse wast and profane wishes rend
Immortall Ears! and sober minds offend
In lavish Cups! noe memorie retaining
Of what wee are; or ought of man remaining;
The Soule surpris'd in all its faculties;
Iudgment is Error; Witt, Velleities;
The vnderstanding, nothing but a Thin
Shadow of what wee once were happie in;
All the prærogative which Nature gave
Is swallowed in a Hogshead, now the grave
Of that immortall fire, which might be knowne
A Light to all the world, if kept our owne.

HALON.
Eudœmon, still you measure by the Square
Of your owne fancie, and in Small-beer ayre
Flutter with feeble wings; for who will thinke
You can be witty, that have left to drinke?
Bacchus, the great inspirer of our Soules
Has thus decreed All Water-Drinkers fooles.
'Tis wine, the Ioy of Life, the Strength of witt,
The fire of fancie, Edge of all Conceipt;
And Hypocrene it Selfe is but a Tale
To countenance dull Soules who drinke not Ale;
Our Brittish Bacchus; the true fountaine which
The Muses Love, and makes the fancie rich,
The Horse-hoofe never rais'd; but humane heeles
Make spring, when full-Swolne grapes their burthen feele;
Here will I sip, and to the Sacred Hest
Of Bacchus, offer with a gratefull brest,
The Tribute due; for All I have or know,
Or can desire, from his bright fountains flow.

EUDŒMON.
Dulnes it selfe might now ashaméd sitt,
To vtter such a follie; and is witt
Then drawne from Spiggots? or the Sacred flame
Of Rapture, set a Candle, to the Steame
Of drinke-washt tables. Let me rather pine
Witles and water-drinking, then love wine,
To make me seeme what I know I am lest,
A Witt. Oh, heaven! how happie doe I rest,
Free from the Clamour or Applause of such,
Who cannot praise Witt, and yet praise too much.
What things passe there for Witt! Scurrilitie
Runs there; the Mirth and Iest, Impietie;
Such heats I envie not. My water still
Affords me Health, and gives a readie Qvill
To vtter my free thoughts; though meanly clad,
My Genius suits; to which wine cannot Adde.

HALON.
Eudœmon, these faint pleasures cannot fire,
My Sangvine inclinations to desire
The happines you speake on. I almost
Misknow my selfe, to see how thou art lost.
May not a Beard appeare but still to preach?
I Apprehend it now, thou hopest to hatch
The goodlie Egge of Temperance, within
The full growne feathers of thy Cheekes and Chin;
And it may prove a Chicke worth all thy Care.
Keepe thy selfe warme with holines and Haire;
I know a fitter raiment to my backe;
The Misterie of all-Sufficing Sacke.

EUDŒMON.
Soe please thy follie-drenchéd Soule, to sitt
In drinke still warme, and never-wanting witt;
Nurse there a Sacke-sprung Basiliske, to slay
The foole which foster'd it, another day;
Then, all too late, the Ideot sees, his owne
Glorie, his Shame; his Ioy, destruction.
But trulie, Halon, if a Serious heart
Be worthy to advise, in time depart
From the bewitching Sottishnes of Sin.
That Follie, of the rest, if words might win
I could perswade; or if example might
Informe another, I have done thee right.

HALON.
Dost hope I may be recreant to my first
Dear principle of Drinking? I was nurst,
I thinke, begot, with wine; on Nisa bred,
And with the noble Bacchus fosteréd;
Shall I then be Apostata to all
My Education? Or the naturall
Instincts still pressing? 'Tis a good dull way
The posture you are in; but never may
I live to tread it. 'Twas an ill begun
Discourse of ours; for neither yet has won
Vpon the other; though I am afraid
Were not tomorrow next, thy words have made
Some fond Impression. Deare Eudœmon, see,
The Sun growes low; let not my coming be
Meerlie in vaine; to morrow you will meet;
And then thy Power, oh Bacchus! Let me see 't.

EUDŒMON.
Say to the Swains, Eudœmon is become
Himselfe againe; and means to stay at home;
Not Envie to the glorie of the preye,
But stricter Resolutions make him Stay;
For Hee, who such full meetings doth frequent;
Though he be free, can scarce be Innocent.

HALON.
Morall Philosophie! Come, let vs goe
Homeward apace; the night begins to grow
Vpon that Hill, and spreads an Eager arme
To involve vs all, by necessarie Charme.
Yet let vs not walke Silent; give your Song,
Eudœmon now, (or else you doe me wrong)
To vindicate your absence; whilst I bring
My verse to Bacchus; and his praises sing.

EUDŒMON.
Halon, if that be all, I dare excuse
Retirement, with a warrantable Muse;
Then lead wee out our flocks, and homeward wend,
Whilst the refracted West some Lights yet lend.