The Works of Michael Drayton :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now Phœbus from the equinoctiall Zone,
Had task'd his teame unto the higher spheare,
And from the brightnes of his glorious throne,
Sends forth his Beames to light the lower ayre,
The cheerfull welkin, comen this long look'd hower,
Distils adowne full many a silver shower.

Fayre Philomel night-musicke of the spring,
Sweetly recordes her tunefull harmony,
And with deepe sobbes, and dolefull sorrowing,
Before fayre Cinthya actes her Tragedy:
The Throstlecock, by breaking of the day,
Chants to his sweete, full many a lovely lay.

The crawling snake, against the morning sunne,
Now streaks him in his rayn-bow coloured cote:
The darkesome shades, as loathsome he doth shunne,
Inchanted with the Birds sweete silvan note:
The Buck forsakes the launds where he hath fed,
And scornes the hunt should view his velvet head.

Through all the partes, dispersed is the blood,
The lustie spring, in flower of all her pride,
Man, bird, and beast, and fish, in pleasant flood,
Rejoycing all in this most joyfull tide:
Save Rowland leaning on a Ranpick tree,
O'r growne with age, forlorne with woe was he.

Oh blessed Pan, thou shepheards god sayth he,
O thou Creator of the starrie light,
Whose wonderous workes shew thy divinitie,
Thou wise inventor of the day and night,
Refreshing nature with the lovely spring,
Quite blemisht erst, with stormy winters sting.

O thou strong builder of the firmament,
Who placedst Phœbus in his fierie Carre,
And by thy mighty Godhead didst invent,
The planets mansions that they should not jarre,
Ordeyning Phebe, mistresse of the night,
From Tytans flame to steale her forked light.

Even from the cleerest christall shining throne,
Under whose feete the heavens are low abased,
Commaunding in thy majestie alone,
Whereas the fiery Cherubines are placed:
Receive my vowes as incense unto thee,
My tribute due to thy eternitie.

O shepheards soveraigne, yea receive in gree,
The gushing teares, from never-resting eyes,
And let those prayers which I shall make to thee,
Be in thy sight perfumed sacrifice:
Let smokie sighes be pledges of contrition,
For follies past to make my soules submission.

Submission makes amends for all my misse,
Contrition a refined life begins,
Then sacred sighes, what thing more precious is?
And prayers be oblations for my sinnes,
Repentant teares, from heaven-beholding eyes,
Ascend the ayre, and penetrate the skies.

My sorowes waxe, my joyes are in the wayning,
My hope decayes, and my despayre is springing,
My love hath losse, and my disgrace hath gayning,
Wrong rules, desert with teares her hands sits wringing:
Sorrow, despayre, disgrace, and wrong, doe thwart
My Joy, my love, my hope, and my desert.

Devouring time shall swallow up my sorrowes,
And strong beliefe shall torture black despaire,
Death shall orewhelme disgrace, in deepest furrowes,
And Justice laie my wrongs upon the Beere:
Thus Justice, death, beleefe, and time, ere long,
Shall end my woes, despayre, disgrace, and wrong.

Yet time shall be expir'd and lose his date,
And full assurance cancell strongest trust,
Eternitie shall trample on deathes pate,
And Justice shall surcease when all be just:
Thus time, beleefe, death, Justice, shall surcease,
By date, assurance, eternity, and peace.

Thus breathing from the Center of his soule,
The tragick accents of his extasie,
His sun-set eyes gan here and there to roule,
Like one surprisde with sodaine lunacie:
And being rouzde out of melancholly,
Flye whirle-winde thoughts unto the heavens quoth he.

Now in the Ocean Tytan quencht his flame,
And summond Cinthya to set up her light,
The heavens with their glorious starry frame,
Preparde to crowne the sable-vayled night:
When Rowland from this time-consumed stock,
With stone-colde hart now stalketh towards his flock.

Quid queror? & toto facio convicia cœlo:
Di quoque habent oculos, di quoque pectus habent.

THE SECOND EGLOG. Wynken of mans frayle wayning age

Wynken of mans frayle wayning age
declares the simple truth,
And doth by Rowlands harmes reproove
Mottos unbrideled youth.

Motto.

Might my youths mirth delight thy aged yeeres,
My gentle shepheard father of us all,
Wherewith I whylome Joy'd my lovely feeres,
Chanting sweete straines of heavenly pastorall.

Now would I tune my miskins on this Greene,
And frame my muse those vertues to unfold,
Of that sole Phenix Bird, my lives sole Queene:
Whose locks done staine, the three times burnisht gold.

But melancholie grafted in thy Braine,
My Rimes seeme harsh, to thy unrelisht taste,
Thy droughthy wits, not long refresht with raigne,
Parched with heat, done wither now and waste.

Wynken.

Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorne,
My flowers decayd, with winter-withered frost,
My clowdy set eclips'd my cherefull morne,
That Jewell gone wherein I joyed most.

My dreadful thoughts been drawen upon my face,
In blotted lines with ages iron pen,
The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place,
Where beuties damaske daz'd the eies of men.

A cumber-world, yet in the world am left,
A fruitles plot, with brambles overgrowne,
Mislived man of my worlds joy bereft,
Hart-breaking cares the ofspring of my mone.

Those daintie straines of my well tuned reed,
Which manie a time have pleasd my wanton eares,
Nor sweet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed,
But tell the follies of my wandring yeares.

Those poysned pils been biding at my hart,
Those loathsome drugs of my youths vanitie,
Sweete seem'd they once, ful bitter now and tart,
Ay me consuming corosives they be.

Motto.

Even so I weene, for thy olde ages fever,
Deemes sweetest potions bitter as the gall,
And thy colde Pallat having lost her savour,
Receives no comfort in a cordiall.

Wynken.

As thou art now, was I a gamesome boy,
Though starv'd with wintred eld as thou do'st see,
And well I know thy swallow-winged joy,
Shalbe forgotten as it is in me.

When on the Arche of thine eclipsed eies,
Time hath ingrav'd deepe characters of death,
And sun-burnt age thy kindlie moisture dries,
Thy wearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,

Thy brawne-falne armes, thy camock-bended backe,
The time-plow'd furrowes in thy fairest field,
The Southsaiers of natures wofull wrack,
When blooming age must stoupe to starved eld,

When Lillie white is of a tawnie die,
Thy fragrant crimson turn'd ash-coloured pale,
Thy skin orecast with rough embroderie,
And cares rude pencell, quite disgrac'd thy sale,

When downe-beds heat must thawe thy frozen cold,
And luke-warme brothes recure Phlebotomie,
And when the bell is readie to be tol'd,
To call the wormes to thine Anatomie:
Remember then my boy, what once I said to thee.

Now I am like the knurrie-bulked Oke,
Whome wasting eld hath made a toombe of dust,
Whose wind-fallen branches feld by tempest stroke,
His barcke consumes with canker-wormed rust.

And though thou seemst like to the bragging bryer,
As gay as is the mornings Marygolde,
Yet shortly shall thy sap be drie and seere,
Thy gaudy Blossomes blemished with colde.

Even such a wanton, an unruly swayne,
Was little Rowland, when of yore as he,
Upon the Beechen tree on yonder playne,
Carved this rime of loves Idolatrie.

The Gods delight, the heavens hie spectacle,
Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.

Fortunes fayr'st mistresse, vertues surest guide,
Loves Governesse, and natures chiefest pride.

Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence,
Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.

Conceipts sole Riches, thoughts only treasure,
Desires true hope, Joyes sweetest pleasure.

Mercies due merite, valeurs just reward,
Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde.

Yea she alone, next that eternall he,
The expresse Image of eternitie.

Motto.

Oh divine love, which so aloft canst raise,
And lift the minde out of this earthly mire,
And do'st inspire the pen with so hie prayse,
As with the heavens doth equal mans desire.

Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesie,
Whose furie doth incense the swelling braines,
As drawes to thee by heaven-bred Sympathie,
The sweete delights of highest soaring vaines:

Who doth not helpe to deck thy holy Shrine,
With Mirtle, and triumphant Lawrell tree?
Who will not say that thou art most divine?
Or who doth not confesse thy deitie?

Wynken.

A, foolish boy, full ill is he repayed,
For now the wanton pines in endles paine,
And sore repents what he before missaide,
So may they be which can so lewdly faine.

Now hath this yonker torne his tressed lockes,
And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweete,
Forsaking his companions and their flocks,
And casts his gayest garland at his feete.

And being shrowded in a homely cote,
And full of sorrow as a man might be,
He tun'd his Rebeck with a mournfull note,
And thereto sang this dolefull elegie.

Tell me fayre flocke (if so you can conceave)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereave,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or ugly Saturne from his combust sent,
This fatall presage of deaths dreryment.

Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze upon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring might,
Goddes rejecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.

May purest heavens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores devotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
When loves Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.

Yet needes the earth must droupe with visage sad,
When silver dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,
The Cheerefull Welkin once in sables clad,
Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.
And yet for all to make amends for this,
The clouds sheed teares and weepen at my misse.

Motto.

Woe's me for him that pineth so in payne,
Alas poore Rowland, how it pities me,
So faire a baite should breed so foule a bayne,
Or humble shewes should cover crueltie.

Winken.

Beware by him thou foolish wanton swayne,
By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heede,
Beautie and wealth been fraught with hie disdaine,
Beleeve it as a Maxim of thy Creede.

Motto.

If that there be such woes and paines in love,
Woe be to him that list the same to prove.

Wynken.

Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir'st to prove,
There is no hell, unto the paines in love.

THE THIRD EGLOG. Rowland and Perkin both I feere

Rowland and Perkin both I feere,
in field upon a day,
With little Robin redbrests Round,
doe passe the time away.

Perkin.

Rowland for shame awake thy drowsie muse,
Time plaies the hunts-up to thy sleepie head,
Why li'st thou here as thou hadst long been dead,
foule idle swayne?

Who ever heard thy pipe and pleasing vaine,
And doth but heare this scurrill minstralcy,
These noninos of filthie ribauldry,
that doth not muse.

Then slumber not with foule Endymion,
But tune thy reede to dapper virelayes,
And sing a while of blessed Betas prayse,
faire Beta she:

In thy sweete song so blessed may'st thou bee,
For learned Collin laies his pipes to gage,
And is to fayrie gone a Pilgrimage:
the more our mone.

Rowland.

What Beta? shepheard, she is Pans belov'd,
Faire Betas praise beyond our straine doth stretch,
Her notes too hie for my poore pipe to reach,
poore oten reede:

So farre unfit to speake of worthies deede,
But set my stops unto a lower kay,
Whereas a horne-pipe I may safelie play,
yet unreproov'd.

With flatterie my muse could never fage,
Nor could affect such vaine scurrility,
To please lewd Lorrels, in their foolery,
too base and vile:

Nor but a note yet will I raise my stile,
My selfe above Will Piper to advance,
Which so bestirs him at the morris dance,
for pennie wage.

Perkin.

Rowland, so toyes oft times esteemed are,
And fashions ever changing with the time,
Then frolick it a while in lustie rime,
with mirth and glee:

And let me heare that Roundelay of thee,
Which once thou sangst to me in Janeveer,
When Robin-redbrest sitting on a breere,
the burthen bare.

Rowland.

Well needes I must yet with a heavie hart:
But were not Beta sure I would not sing,
Whose praise the ecchoes never cease to ring,
unto the skies.

Pirken.

Be blith good Rowland then, and cleere thine eyes:
And now sith Robin to his roost is gone,
Good Rowland then supplie the place alone,
and shew thy arte.

Rowland.

O thou fayre silver Thames: ô cleerest chrystall flood,
Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood,
The Queene of Virgins onely she:
And thou the Queene of floods shalt be:
Let all thy Nymphes be joyfull then to see this happy day,
Thy Beta now alone shalbe the subject of my laye.

With daintie and delightsome straines of sweetest virelayes:
Come lovely shepheards sit we down & chant our Betas prayse:
And let us sing so rare a verse,
Our Betas prayses to rehearse,
That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing,
And rivers backward bend their course, & flow unto the spring.

Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke,
And place them duely one by one, upon thy stately banck,
Then set together all agood,
Recording to the silver flood,
And crave the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay,
The Osel & the Throstlecocke, chiefe musick of our maye.

O see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands,
And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Olives in their hands.
How meryly the Muses sing,
That all the flowry Medowes ring,
And Beta sits upon the banck, in purple and in pall,
And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.

Trim up her Golden tresses with Apollos sacred tree,
ô happy sight unto all those that love and honor thee,
The Blessed Angels have prepar'd,
A glorious Crowne for thy reward,
Not such a golden Crowne as haughtie Cæsar weares,
But such a glittering starry Crowne as Ariadne beares.

Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine,
And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine:
Bedeck our Beta all with Lillies,
And the dayntie Daffadillies,
With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice,
With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloves of Paradice.

O thou fayre torch of heaven, the dayes most deerest light,
And thou bright-shyning Cinthya, the glory of the night:
You starres the eyes of heaven,
And thou the glyding leven,
And thou ô gorgeous Iris with all strange Colours dyed,
When she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,
And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy Beta to imbrace,
The Syrens sing sweete layes,
The Trytons sound her prayse,
Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast unto the Ocean sea,
And let thy billowes there proclaime thy Betas holy-day.

And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Olive tree,
With whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserved be,
Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours,
And mirtle for Loves Paramours:
That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preserv'd by peace,
And let the mournful Cipres die, now stormes & tempests cease.

Wee'l straw the shore with pearle where Beta walks alone,
And we wil pave her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,
Perfume the ayre and make it sweete,
For such a Goddesse it is meete,
For if her eyes for purity contend with Tytans light,
No marvaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight.

Sound out your trumpets then, from Londons stately towres,
To beat the stormie windes aback & calme the raging showres,
Set too the Cornet and the flute,
The Orpharyon and the Lute,
And tune the Taber and the pipe, to the sweet violons,
And move the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.

Beta long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice,
And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,
Thy shepheards watch by day and night,
Thy Mayds attend the holy light,
And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east unto the west,
And thou under thy feet mayst tread, that foule seven-headed beast.

Perken.

Thanks gentle Rowland for my Roundelay,
And bless'd be Beta burthen of thy song,
The shepheards Goddesse may she florish long,
ô happie she.

Her yeares and dayes thrice doubled may they bee:
Triumphing Albion clap thy hands for joy,
And pray the heavens may shield her from anoy,
so will I pray.

Rowland.

So doe, and when my milk-white eawes have yeande,
Beta shall have the firstling of the foulde,
I'le burnish all his hornes with finest gould,
and paynt his fleece with purple grayne.

Perkin.

Beleeve me as I am true shepheards swayne,
Then for thy love all other I forsake,
And unto thee my selfe I will betake,
with fayth unfayn'd.

Ipse ego thura dabo, fumosis candidus aris:
Ipse feram ante tuos munera vota pedes.

THE FOURTH EGLOG. Wynken bewayleth Elphins losse

Wynken bewayleth Elphins losse,
the God of Poesie,
With Rowlands rime ecleepd the tears
of the greene Hawthorne tree.

Gorbo.

Well met good Wynken, whither doest thou wend?
How hast thou far'd sweet shepherd many a yeer?
May Wynken thus his daies in darkenes spend?
Who I have knowne for piping had no peere?

Where been those fayre flocks thou wert wont to guide?
What? been they dead? or hap'd on some mischance,
Or mischiefe hath their master else betide,
Or Lordly Love hath cast thee in a trance.

What man? lets still be merie whilst we may,
And take a truce with sorrow for a time,
And let us passe this wearie winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making rime.

Wynken.

Ah woe's me Gorbo, mirth is farre away,
Mirth may not sojourne with black malcontent,
The lowring aspect of this dismall day,
The winter of my sorrow doth augment.

My song is now a swanne-like dying song,
And my conceipts, the deepe conceipts of death,
My heart becom'n a very hell of wrong,
My breast the irksome prison of my breath.

I loth my life, I loth the dearest light,
Com'n is my night, when once appeeres the day,
The blessed sunne seemes odious in my sight,
No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.

Gorbo.

What mayst thou be, that old Wynkin de word,
Whose thred-bare wits o'rworne with melancholly,
Once so delightsome at the shepheards boord,
But now forlorne with thy selves self-wild folly.

I think thou dot'st in thy gray-bearded age,
Or brusd with sinne, for thy youths sin art sory,
And vow'st for thy? a solemne pilgrimage,
To holy Hayles or Patricks Purgatory.

Come sit we downe under this Hawthorne tree.
The morrowes light shall lend us daie enough,
And tell a tale of Gawen or Sir Guy,
Of Robin Hood, or of good Clem a Clough.

Or else some Romant unto us areed,
Which good olde Godfrey taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy love, or of thy lasses truth.

Winken.

Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care,
A new mishap my wonted joyes hath crost:
Then mervaile not although my musicke jarre,
When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,

Elphin is dead, and in his grave is laid,
Our lives delight whilst lovely Elphin lived,
What cruell fate hath so the time betraid,
The widow world of all her joyes deprived.

O cursed death, Lives fearfull enemie,
Times poysned sickle: Tyrants revenging pride:
Thou blood-sucker, Thou childe of infamie:
Devouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide:
Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.

Naught hast thou got, the earth hath wonne the most,
Nature is payd the interest of her due,
Pan hath receav'd, what him so dearly cost,
O heavens his vertues doe belong to you.

A heavenly clowded in a humaine shape,
Rare substance, in so rough a barcke Iclad,
Of Pastorall, the lively springing sappe,
Though mortall thou, thy fame immortall made.

Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-divining seer,
ô heavenly musicke of the highest spheare,
Sweet sounding trump, soule-ravishing desire,
Thou stealer of mans heart, inchanter of the eare.

God of Invention, Joves deere Mercury,
Joy of our Lawrell, pride of all our joy:
The essence of all Poets divinitie,
Spirit of Orpheus: Pallas lovely boy.

But all my words shalbe dissolv'd to teares,
And my tears fountaines shall to rivers grow:
These Rivers to the floods of my dispaires,
And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.

His rare desarts, shall kindle my desire,
With burning zeale, the brands of mine unrest,
My sighes in adding sulphure to this fire,
Shall frame another Ætna in my breast.

Planets reserve your playnts till dismall day,
The ruthles rockes but newly have begonne,
And when in drops they be dissolv'd away,
Let heavens begin to weepe when earth hath done.

Then tune thy pipe and I will sing a laye,
Upon his death by Rowland of the rocke,
Sitting with me this other stormy day,
In yon fayre field attending on our flock.

Gorbo.

This shall content me Wynken wondrous well,
And in this mistie wether keepe us waking,
To heare of him, who whylome did excell,
In such a song of learned Rowlands making.

Winken.

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song unto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
with weeping verse,
attend his hearse,
Whose blessed soule the heavens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
Warble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fatall obsequie,
with Cypres bowes,
maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our joye, the even,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,
unto our endles mone,
from us why art thou gone,
To fill up that sweete Angels quier in heaven.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest love,
When with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee,
Immortall mirror of all Poesie:
the Muses treasure,
the Graces pleasure,
Reigning with Angels now in heaven above.

Our mirth is now depriv'd of all her glory,
Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd.
Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound,
our melodie is mar'd
and we of joyes debard,
Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.

O dismall day, bereaver of delight,
O stormy winter sourse of all our sorrow,
ô most untimely and eclipsed morrow,
to rob us quite
of all delight,
Darkening that starre which ever shone so bright:

Oh Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone,
In spight of death yet shalt thou live for aye,
Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye:
and still shall blaze
thy lasting prayse:
Whose losse poore shepherds ever shall bemone.

Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his grave,
With damaske Roses and the hyacynt:
Come with sweete Williams, Marjoram and Mynt,
with precious Balmes,
with hymnes and psalmes,
His funerall deserves no lesse at all to have.

But see where Elphin sits in fayre Elizia,
Feeding his flocke on yonder heavenly playne,
Come and behold, yon lovely shepheards swayne,
piping his fill,
on yonder hill,
Tasting sweete Nectar, and Ambrosia.

Gorbo.

Oh how thy plaints (sweete friend) renew my payne,
In listning thus to thy lamenting cries:
That from the tempest of my troubled brayne,
See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.

And being now a full tide of our teares,
It is full time to stop the streame of griefe,
Lest drowning in the floods of our despaires,
We want our lives, wanting our soules reliefe.

But now the sunne beginneth to decline,
And whilest our woes been in repeating here,
Yon little elvish moping Lamb of mine,
Is all betangled in yon crawling Brier.

Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur avaris:
Implentur numeris deteriora suis.

THE FIFTH EGLOG. This lustie swayne his lowly quill

This lustie swayne his lowly quill,
to higher notes doth rayse,
And in Ideas person paynts,
his lovely lasses prayse.

Motto.

Come frolick it a while my lustie swayne,
Let's see if time have yet revi'd in thee,
Or if there be remayning but a grayne,
Of the olde stocke of famous poesie,
Or but one slip yet left of this same sacred tree.

Or if reserv'd from elds devouring rage,
Recordes of vertue, Aye memoriall,
Left to the world as learnings lasting gage,
Or if the prayse of worthy pastorall,
May tempt thee now, or moove thee once at all.

To Fortunes Orphanes Nature hath bequeath'd,
That mighty Monarchs seldome have possest,
From highest Heaven, this influence is breath'd,
A most divine impression in the breast,
And those whom Fortune pines doth Nature often feast.

Ti's not the troupes of paynted Imagerie,
Nor these worlds Idols, our worlds Idiots gazes,
Our forgers of suppos'd Gentillitie,
When he his great, great Grand-sires glory blases,
And paints out fictions in base coyned Phrases.

For honour naught regards, nor followeth fame,
These silken pictures shewed in every streete:
Of Idlenes comes evill, of pride ensueth shame,
And blacke oblivion is their winding sheete,
And all their glory troden under feete.

Though Envie shute her seven-times poysned dartes,
Yet purest golde is seven times try'd in fier,
True valeur lodgeth in the lowlest harts,
Vertue is in the minde, not in th'attyre,
Nor stares at starres; nor stoups at filthy myre.

Rowland.

I may not sing of such as fall, nor clyme,
Nor chaunt of armes, nor of heroique deedes,
It fitteth not poore shepheards rurall rime,
Nor is agreeing with my oaten reedes,
Nor from my quill, grosse flatterie proceedes.

Unsitting tearmes, nor false dissembling smiles,
Shall in my lines, nor in my stile appeare,
Worlds fawning fraud, nor like deceitfull guiles,
No, no, my muse, none such shall sojourne here,
Nor any bragges of hope nor signes of base despaire,

No fatall dreades nor fruitles vaine desires,
Nor caps, nor curtsies to a paynted wall,
Nor heaping rotten sticks on needles fires,
Ambitious thoughts to clime nor feares to fall,
A minde voyd of mistrust, and free from servile thral.

Foule slander thou suspitions Bastard Child,
Selfe-eating Impe from vipers poysned wombe,
Foule swelling toade with lothly spots defil'd,
Vile Aspis bred within the ruinde tombe,
Eternall death for ever be thy doombe.

Still be thou shrouded in blacke pitchie night,
Luld with the horror of night-ravens song,
Let foggie mistes, clowd and eclipse thy light,
Thy woolvish teeth chew out thy venomd tongue,
With Snakes and adders be thy body stong.

Motto.

Nor these, nor these, may like thy lowlie quill,
As of too hie, or of too base a straine,
Unfitting thee, and sdeyned of thy skill,
Nor yet according with a shepheards vayne,
Nor no such subject may beseeme a swayne.

Then tune thy reede unto Ideas prayse:
And teach the woods to wonder at her name:
Thy lowlie notes here mayst thou learne to rayse,
And make the ecchoes blazen out her name,
The lasting trumpe of Phebes lasting fame.

Thy Temples then shall with greene bayes be dight,
Thy Egle-soring muse upon her wing,
With her fayre silver wings shall take her flight,
To that hie welked tower where Angels sing,
From thence to fetch the tutch of her sweete string.

Rowland.

Oh hie inthronized Jove, in thy Olympicke raigne,
Oh battel-waging Marte, oh sage-saw'd Mercury,
Oh Golden shrined Sol, Venus loves soveraigne,
Oh dreadfull Saturne, flaming aye with furie,
Moyst-humord Cinthya, Author of Lunacie,
Conjoyne helpe to erect our faire Ideas trophie.

Oh Tresses of faire Phœbus stremed die,
Oh blessed load-starre lending purest light,
Oh Paradice of heavenly tapistrie,
Angels sweete musick, ô my soules delight,
O fayrest Phebe passing every other light.

Whose presence joyes the earths decayed state,
Whose counsels are registred in the sphere,
Whose sweete reflecting clearenes doth amate,
The starrie lights, and makes the Sunne more fayre,
Whose breathing sweete perfumeth all the ayre.

Thy snowish necke, fayre Natures tresurie,
Thy swannish breast, the haven of lasting blisse,
Thy cheekes the bancks of Beauties usurie,
Thy heart the myne, where goodnes gotten is,
Thy lips those lips which Cupid joyes to kisse.

And those fayre hands within whose lovely palmes,
Fortune divineth happie Augurie,
Those straightest fingers dealing heavenly almes,
Pointed with pur'st of Natures Alcumie,
Where love sits looking in loves palmistrie.

And those fayre Ivorie columnes which upreare,
That Temple built by heavens Geometrie,
And holiest Flamynes sacrifizen theare,
Unto that heavenly Queene of Chastitie,
Where vertues burning lamps can never quenched be.

Thence see the fairest light that ever shone,
That cleare which doth worlds cleerenes quite surpasse,
Brave Phœbus chayred in his golden throane,
Beholding him, in this pure Christall glasse,
See here the fayrest fayre that ever was.

Delicious fountaine, liquid christalline,
Mornings vermilion, verdant spring-times pride,
Purest of purest, most refined fine,
With crimson tincture curiously Idy'd,
Mother of Muses, great Apollos bride.

Earths heaven, worlds wonder, hiest house of fame,
Reviver of the dead, eye-killer of the live,
Belov'd of Angels, Vertues greatest name,
Favors rar'st feature, beauties prospective,
Oh that my verse thy vertues could contrive.

That stately Theater on whose fayre stage,
Each morall vertue actes a princely part,
Where every scene pronounced by a Sage,
Eternizeth divinest Poets Arte,
Joyes the beholders eyes, and glads the hearers hart.

The worlds memorials, that sententious booke,
Where every Comma, points a curious phrase,
Upon whose method, Angels joye to looke:
At every Colon, Wisdomes selfe doth pause,
And every Period hath his hie applause.

Read in her eyes a Romant of delights,
Read in her words the proverbs of the wise,
Read in her life the holy vestall rites,
Which love and vertue sweetly moralize:
And she the Academ of vertues exercise.

But on thy volumes who is there may comment,
When as thy selfe hath Arts selfe undermined:
Or undertake to coate thy learned margent,
When learnings lines are ever enterlined,
And purest words, are in thy mouth refined.

Knewest thou thy vertues, oh thou fayr'st of fayrest,
Thou earths sole Phenix, of the world admired,
Vertue in thee repurify'd and rarest,
Whose endles fame by time is not expired,
Then of thy selfe would thy selfe be admired.

But arte wants arte to frame so pure a Myrror,
Where humaine eyes may view thy vertues beautie,
When fame is so surprised with the terror,
Wanting to pay the tribute of her duetie,
With colours who can paint out vertues beautie.

But since unperfect are the perfects colours,
And skill is so unskilfull how to blaze thee:
Now will I make a myrror of my dolours,
And in my teares then looke thy selfe and prayse thee,
Oh happy I, if such a glasse might please thee.

Goe gentle windes and whisper in her eare,
And tell Idea how much I adore her,
And thou my flock, reporte unto my fayre,
How she excelleth all that went before her,
Tell her the very foules in ayre adore her.

And thou cleare Brooke by whose fayre silver streame,
Grow those tall Okes where I have carv'd her name,
Convay her praise to Neptunes watery Realme,
Refresh the rootes of her still growing fame,
And teach the Dolphins to resound her name.

Motto.

Cease shepheard cease, reserve thy Muses store,
Till after time shall teach thy Oaten reede,
Aloft in ayre with Egles wings to sore,
And sing in honor of some worthies deede,
To serve Idea in some better steede.

She sees not shepheard, no she will not see,
Her rarest vertues blazond by thy quill,
Nor knowes the effect the same hath wrought in thee,
The very tuch and anvile of thy skill,
And this is that which bodeth all thy ill.

Yet if her vertues glorie shall decay,
Or if her beauties flower shall hap to fall,
Or any cloud eclipse her sun-shine day,
Then looke (Idea) in thy pastorall,
And thou thy vertues unto minde shalt call.

Rowland.

Shepheard farewell, the skies begin to lowre,
Yon pitchie clowd which hangeth in the West,
I feare me doth presage some sodaine showre,
Come let us home, for so I think it best,
For all our flocks been laid them downe to rest.

Motto.

And if thou list to come unto my Coate,
Although (God knowes) my cheere be to too small,
And wealth with me was never yet afloate,
Yet take in gree what ever doe befall,
And wee will sit, and sing a mery madrigall.

Rowland.
Per superos iuro testes, pompamque Deorum,
Te Dominam nobis tempus in omne fore.

Motto.
Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem,
Iunctàque semper erunt nomina nostra tuis.

THE SIXT EGLOG. Good Gorbo cals to mind the fame

Good Gorbo cals to mind the fame,
of our old Ancestrie:
And Perkin sings Pandoras prayse,
The Muse of Britanye.

Perkin.

All haile good Gorbo, yet return'd at last,
What tell me man? how goes the world with thee?
What is it worse then it was wont to be?
Or been thy youthfull dayes already past?
Have patience man, for wealth will come and goe,
And to the end the world shall ebbe and flowe.

The valiant man, whose thoughts on hie been placed,
And sees sometime how fortune list to rage,
With wisdome still his actions so doth gage,
As with her frownes he no whit is disgraced,
And when she fawnes, and turnes her squinting eye,
Bethinks him then, of her inconstancie.

When as the Cullian, and the viler Clowne,
Who with the swine, on draffe sets his desire,
And thinks no life to wallowing in the myre,
In stormie tempest, dying layes him downe,
Yet tasting weale, the asse begins to bray,
And feeling woe, the beast consumes away.

Gorbo.

So said the Sage in his Philosophie,
The Lordly hart inspir'd with noblesse,
With courage doth his crosses still suppresse,
His patience doth his passions mortifie,
When other folke this paine cannot endure,
Because they want this med'cine for their cure.

Perkin.

And yet oft times the world I doe admire,
When as the wise and vertuous men I see,
Be hard beset with neede and povertie,
And lewdest fooles to highest things aspire,
What should I say? that fortune is to blame?
Or unto whome should I impute this shame.

Gorbo.

Vertue and Fortune never could agree,
Foule Fortune ever was faire vertues foe,
Blinde Fortune blindly doth her gifts bestowe,
But vertue wise, and wisely doth foresee,
They fall which trust to fortunes fickle wheele,
But staied by vertue, men shall never reele.

Perkin.

If so, why should she not be more regarded,
Why should men cherish vice and villanie,
And maintaine sinne and basest rogerie,
And vertue thus so slightly be rewarded,
This shewes that we full deepe dissemblers be,
And all we doe, but meere hypocrisie.

Gorbo.

Where been those Nobles, Perkin, where been they?
Where been those worthies, Perkin, which of yore,
This gentle Ladie did so much adore?
And for her Impes did with such care purvey,
They been yswadled in their winding sheete,
And she (I thinke) is buried at their feete.

Oh worthy world, wherein those worthies lived,
Unworthy world, of such men so unworthy,
Unworthy age, of all the most unworthy,
Which art of these so worthy men deprived,
And inwardly in us is nothing lesse,
Than outwardly that, which we most professe.

Perkin.

Nay stay good Gorbo, Vertue is not dead,
Nor all her friends be gone which wonned here,
She lives with one who ever held her deere,
And to her lappe for succour she is fled,
In her sweete bosome, she hath built her nest,
And from the world, even there she lives at rest.

Unto this sacred Ladie she was left,
(To be an heire-loome) by her ancestrie,
And so bequeathed by their legacie,
When on their death-bed, life was them bereft:
And as on earth together they remayne,
Together so in heaven they both shall raigne.

Oh thou Pandora, through the world renoun'd,
The glorious light, and load-starre of our West,
With all the vertues of the heavens possest,
With mighty groves of holy Lawrell cround,
Erecting learnings long decayed fame,
Heryed and hallowed be thy sacred name.

The flood of Helicon, forspent and drie,
Her sourse decayd with foule oblivion,
The fountaine flowes againe in thee alone,
Where Muses now their thirst may satisfie,
And old Apollo, from Pernassus hill,
May in this spring refresh his droughty quill.

The Graces twisting garlands for thy head,
Thy Ivorie temples deckt with rarest flowers,
Their rootes refreshed with divinest showers,
Thy browes with mirtle all inveloped,
Shepheards erecting trophies to thy praise,
Lauding thy name in songs and heavenly laies.

Sapphos sweete vaine in thy rare quill is seene,
Minerva was a figure of thy worth,
Mnemosine, who brought the Muses forth,
Wonder of Britaine, learnings famous Queene,
Apollo was thy Syer, Pallas her selfe thy mother,
Pandora thou, our Phœbus was thy brother.

Delicious Larke, sweete musick of the morrow,
Cleere bell of Rhetoricke, ringing peales of love,
Joy of the Angels, sent us from above,
Enchanting Syren, charmer of all sorrow,
The loftie subject of a heavenly tale,
Thames fairest Swanne, our summers Nightingale.

Arabian Phenix, wonder of thy sexe,
Lovely, chaste, holy, Myracle admired,
With spirit from the highest heaven inspired,
Oh thou alone, whome fame alone respects,
Natures chiefe glory, learnings richest prize,
Hie Joves Empresa, vertues Paradize.

Oh glorie of thy nation, beauty of thy name,
Joy of thy countrey, blesser of thy birth,
Thou blazing Comet, Angel of the earth,
Oh Poets Goddesse, sun-beame of their fame:
Whome time through many worlds hath sought to find,
Thou peerles Paragon of woman kinde.

Thy glorious Image, gilded with the sunne,
Thy lockes adorn'd with an immortall crowne,
Mounted aloft, upon a Chrystal throne,
When by thy death, thy life shalbe begun:
The blessed Angels tuning to the spheares,
With Gods sweete musick, charme thy sacred eares.

From Fayrie Ile, devided from the mayne,
To utmost Thuly fame transports thy name,
To Garamant shall thence convey the same,
Where taking wing, and mounting up againe,
From parched banckes on sun-burnt Affricks shore,
Shall flie as farre as erst she came of yore.

And gentle Zephire from his pleasant bower,
Whistling sweete musick to the shepheards rime,
The Ocean billowes duely keeping time,
Playing upon Neptunus brazen tower:
Lovers of learning shouting out their cries,
Shaking the Center with th'applaudities.

Whilst that great engine, on her axeltree,
Doth role about the vaultie circled Globe,
Whilst morning mantleth, in her purple Robe,
Or Tytan poste his sea Queenes bower to see,
Whilst Phœbus crowne, adornes the starrie skie,
Pandoras fame so long shall never die.

When all our silver swans shall cease to sing,
And when our groves shall want their Nightingales,
When hils shall heare no more our shepheards tales,
Nor ecchoes with our Roundelayes shall ring,
The little birdes long listning to thy fame,
Shall teach their ofspring to record thy name.

Ages shall tell such wonders of thy name,
And thou in death thy due desert shalt have,
That thou shalt be immortall in thy grave,
Thy vertues adding force unto thy fame,
So that vertue with thy fames wings shall flie,
And by thy fame shall vertue never die.

Upon thy toombe shall spring a Lawrell tree,
Whose sacred shade shall serve thee for an hearse,
Upon whose leaves (in golde) ingrav'd this verse,
Dying she lives, whose like shall never be,
A spring of Nectar flowing from this tree,
The fountayne of eternall memorie.

To adorne the triumph of eternitie,
Drawne with the steedes which dragge the golden sunne,
Thy wagon through the milken way shall runne,
Millions of Angels still attending thee,
Millions of Saints shall thy lives prayses sing,
Pend with the quill of an Archangels wing.

Gorbo.

Long may Pandora weare the Lawrell crowne,
The ancient glory of her noble Peers,
And as the Egle: Lord renew her yeeres,
Long to upholde the proppe of our renowne,
Long may she be as she hath ever beene,
The lowly handmaide of the Fayrie Queene.

Non mihi mille placent: non sum desertor Amoris:
Tu mihi (si qua fides) cura perennis eris.

THE SEVENTH EGLOG. Borrill an aged shepheard swaine

Borrill an aged shepheard swaine,
with reasons doth reproove,
Batte a foolish wanton boy,
but lately falne in love.

Batte.

Borrill, why sit'st thou musing in thy coate?
like dreaming Merlyn in his drowsie Cell,
What may it be with learning thou doest doate,
or art inchanted with some Magick spell?
Or wilt thou now an Hermites life professe?
And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?

See how faire Flora decks our fields with flowers,
and clothes our groves in gaudie summers greene,
And wanton Ver distils rose-water showers,
to welcome Ceres, harvests hallowed Queene,
Who layes abroad her lovely sun-shine haires,
Crown'd with great garlands of her golden eares.

Now shepheards layne their blankets all awaie,
and in their Jackets minsen on the plaines,
And at the rivers fishen daie by daie,
now none so frolicke as the shepheards swaines,
Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome cave,
As though a man were buried quicke in grave.

Borrill.

Batte, my coate from tempest standeth free,
when stately towers been often shakt with wind,
And wilt thou Batte, come and sit with me?
contented life here shalt thou onely finde,
Here mai'st thou caroll Hymnes, and sacred Psalmes,
And hery Pan, with orizons and almes.

And scorne the crowde of such as cogge for pence,
and waste their wealth in sinfull braverie,
Whose gaine is losse, whose thrift is lewd expence,
and liven still in golden slavery:
Wondring at toyes, as foolish worldlings doone,
Like to the dogge which barked at the moone.

Here maist thou range the goodly pleasant field,
and search out simples to procure thy heale,
What sundry vertues hearbs and flowres doe yeeld,
gainst griefe which may thy sheepe or thee assaile:
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmeles Hare,
Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.

Or if thou wilt in antique Romants reede,
of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore,
In forraine lands atchiev'd their noble deede,
and been renownd from East to Westerne shore:
Or learne the shepheards nice astrolobie,
To know the Planets mooving in the skie.

Batte.

Shepheard these things been all too coy for mee,
whose lustie dayes should still be spent in mirth,
These mister artes been better fitting thee,
whose drouping dayes are drawing towards the earth:
What thinkest thou? my jolly peacocks trayne,
Shall be acoyd and brooke so foule a stayne?

These been for such as make them votarie,
and take them to the mantle and the ring,
And spenden day and night in dotarie,
hammering their heads, musing on heavenly thing,
And whisper still of sorrow in their bed,
And done despise all love and lustie head:

Like to the curre, with anger well neere woode,
who makes his kennel in the Oxes stall,
And snarleth when he seeth him take his foode,
and yet his chaps can chew no hay at all.
Borrill, even so it fareth now with thee,
And with these wisards of thy mysterie.

Borrill.

Sharpe is the thorne, full soone I see by thee,
bitter the blossome, when the fruite is sower,
And early crook'd, that will a Camock bee,
rough is the winde before a sodayne shower:
Pittie thy wit should be so wrong mislead,
And thus be guyded by a giddie head.

Ah foolish elfe, I inly pittie thee,
misgoverned by thy lewd brainsick will:
The hidden baytes, ah fond thou do'st not see,
nor find'st the cause which breedeth all thy ill:
Thou think'st all golde, that hath a golden shew,
And art deceiv'd, for it is nothing soe.

Such one art thou as is the little flie,
who is so crowse and gamesome with the flame,
Till with her busines and her nicetie,
her nimble wings are scorched with the same,
Then fals she downe with pitteous buzzing note,
And in the fier doth sindge her mourning cote.

Batte.

Alas good man I see thou ginst to rave,
thy wits done erre, and misse the cushen quite,
Because thy head is gray and wordes been grave,
thou think'st thereby to draw me from delight:
What I am young, a goodly Batcheler,
And must live like the lustie limmeter.

Thy legges been crook'd, thy knees done bend for age,
and I am swift and nimble as the Roe,
Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage,
and in the field I wander too and froe,
Thou must doe penance for thy olde misdeedes,
And make amends, with Avies and with creedes.

For al that thou canst say, I will not let,
for why my fancie strayneth me so sore,
That day and night, my minde is wholy set
on jollie Love, and jollie Paramore:
Only on love I set my whole delight,
The summers day, and all the winters night.

That pretie Cupid, little god of love,
whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight,
Who striketh men below, and Gods above,
roving at randon with his feathered flight,
When lovely Venus sits and gives the ayme,
And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.

Upon my staffe his statue will I carve,
his bowe and quiver on his winged backe,
His forked heads, for such as them deserve,
and not of his, an implement shall lacke,
And Venus in her Litter all of love,
Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Dove.

And under him Thesby of Babylon,
and Cleopatra somtime of renowne:
Phillis that died for love of Demophôon,
then lovely Dido Queen of Carthage towne,
Which ever held god Cupids lawes so deare,
And been canoniz'd in Loves Calendere.

Borrill.

Ah wilfull boy, thy follie now I finde,
and hard it is a fooles talke to endure,

Thou art as deafe even as thy god is blinde,
sike as the Saint, sike is the serviture:
But wilt thou heare a good olde Minstrels song,
A medicine for such as been with love ystong.

Batte.

Borrill, sing on I pray thee let us heare,
that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard,
But take heede Borrill that thy voyce be cleare,
or by my hood thou'lt make us all afeard,
Or els I doubt that thou wilt fright our flockes,
When they shall heare thee barke so like a foxe.

Borrill.
Oh spightfull wayward wretched love,
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heavens and earth thy plagues do prove,
Gods and men have cause to curse thee.
Thoughts griefe, hearts woe,
Hopes paine, bodies languish,
Envies rage, sleepes foe,
Fancies fraud, soules anguish,
Desires dread, mindes madnes,
Secrets bewrayer, natures error,
Sights deceit, sullens sadnes,
Speeches expence, Cupids terror,
Malcontents melancholly,
Lives slaughter, deaths nurse,
Cares slave, dotards folly,
Fortunes bayte, worlds curse,
Lookes theft, eyes blindnes,
Selfes will, tongues treason,
Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes,
Furies frensie, follies reason:
With cursing thee as I began,
Cursing thee I make an end,
Neither God, neither man,
Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.

Batte.

Ah worthy Borrill, here's a goodly song,
now by my belt I never heard a worse:
Olde doting foole, for shame hold thou thy tongue,
I would thy clap were shut up in my purse.
It is thy life, if thou mayst scolde and braule:
Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.

And for that wrong which thou to love hast done,
I will aveng me at this present time,
And in such sorte as now thou hast begonne,
I will repeat a carowlet in rime,
Where, Borrill, I unto thy teeth will prove,
That all my good consisteth in my love.

Borrill.
Come on good Batte, I pray thee let us heare?
Much will be sayd, and never a whit the near.

Batte.

Love is the heavens fayre aspect,
love is the glorie of the earth,
Love only doth our lives direct,
love is our guyder from our birth,

Love taught my thoughts at first to flie,
love taught mine eyes the way to love,
Love raysed my conceit so hie,
love framd my hand his arte to prove.

Love taught my Muse her perfect skill,
love gave me first to Poesie:
Love is the Soveraigne of my will,
love bound me first to loyalty.

Love was the first that fram'd my speech,
love was the first that gave me grace:
Love is my life and fortunes leech,
love made the vertuous give me place.

Love is the end of my desire,
love is the loadstarre of my love,
Love makes my selfe, my selfe admire,
love seated my delights above.

Love placed honor in my brest,
love made me learnings favoret,
Love made me liked of the best,
love first my minde on vertue set.

Love is my life, life is my love,
love is my whole felicity,
Love is my sweete, sweete is my love,
I am in love, and love in me.

Borrill.

Is love in thee? alas poore sillie lad,
thou never couldst have lodg'd a worser guest,
For where he rules no reason can be had,
so is he still sworne enemie to rest:
It pitties me to thinke thy springing yeares,
Should still be spent with woes, with sighes, with teares.

Batte.

Gramercy Borrill for thy company,
for all thy jestes and all thy merrie Bourds,
I still shall long untill I be with thee,
because I find some wisdome in thy words,
But I will watch the next time thou doost ward,
And sing thee such a lay of love as never shepheard heard.

THE EIGHTH EGLOG. Good Gorbo of the golden world

Good Gorbo of the golden world,
and Saturns raigne doth tell,
And afterward doth make reporte,
of bonnie Dowsabell.

Motto.

Shepheard why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.

See how these yonkers rave it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.

Those mirtle Groves decay'd, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade invites the homely swayne,
to sit him downe and heare the Muses sing.

Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Ivie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse up top-gallant sayle,
amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.

Gorbo.

My boy, these yonkers reachen after fame,
and so done presse into the learned troupe,
With filed quill to glorifie their name,
which otherwise were pend in shamefull coupe.

But this hie object hath abjected me,
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sorte,
Those little heard-groomes who admir'd to see,
when I by Moone-shine made the fayries sporte.

Who dares describe the toyles of Hercules,
and puts his hand to fames eternall penne,
Must invocate the soule of Hercules,
attended with the troupes of conquered men.

Who writes of thrice renowmed Theseus,
a monster-tamers rare description,
Trophies the jawes of uglie Cerberus,
and paynts out Styx, and fiery Acheron.

My Muse may not affect night-charming spels,
whose force effects th'Olympicke vault to quake,
Nor call those grysly Goblins from their Cels,
the ever-damned frye of Limbo lake.

And who erects the brave Pyramides,
of Monarches or renowned warriours,
Neede bath his quill for such attempts as these,
in flowing streames of learned Maros showres.

For when the great worlds conquerer began,
to prove his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the Poets-God Orpheus ran,
foretold his Prophets had to play upon.

When Pens and Launces sawe the Olympiad prize,
those chariot triumphes with the Lawrell crowne,
Then gan the worthies glorie first to rise,
and plumes were vayled to the purple gowne.

The gravest Censor, sagest Senator,
with wings of Justice and Religion,
Mounted the top of Nimrods statelie Tower,
soring unto that hie celestiall throne:

Where blessed Angels in their heavenly queares,
chaunt Anthemes with shrill Syren harmonie,
Tun'd to the sound of those aye-crouding sphears,
which herien their makers eternitie.

Those who foretell the times of unborne men,
and future things in foretime augured,
Have slumbred in that spell-gods darkest den,
which first inspir'd his prophesiyng head.

Sooth-saying Sibels sleepen long agone,
we have their reede, but few have cond their Arte,
Welch-wisard Merlyn, cleveth to a stone,
no Oracle more wonders may impart.

The Infant age could deftly caroll love,
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honor,
Drew Poets pen, from his sweete lasses glove,
to chaunt of slaughtering broiles & bloody horror.

Then Joves love-theft was privily discri'd,
how he playd false play in Amphitrios bed,
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide,
gave Oenon phisick for her maydenhead.

The tender grasse was then the softest bed,
the pleasant'st shades were deem'd the statelyest hals,
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,
nor paynted ragges then covered rotten wals.

Then simple love with simple vertue way'd,
flowers the favours which true fayth revayled,
Kindnes with kindnes was againe repay'd,
with sweetest kisses covenants were sealed.

Then beauties selfe with her selfe beautified,
scornd payntings pergit, and the borrowed hayre,
Nor monstrous formes deformities did hide,
nor foule was vernisht with compounded fayre.

The purest fleece then covered purest skin,
for pride as then with Lucifer remaynd:
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
nor clothes were yet with poysned liquor staynd.

But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
and men her golden intrayles did espie,
This mischiefe then into the world was brought,
this fram'd the mint which coynd our miserie.

Then lofty Pines were by ambition hewne,
and men sea-monsters swamme the brackish flood,
In waynscot tubs, to seeke out worlds unknowne,
for certain ill to leave assured good.

The starteling steede is manag'd from the field,
and serves a subject to the riders lawes,
He whom the churlish bit did never weeld,
now feels the courb controll his angrie jawes.

The hammering Vulcane spent his wasting fire,
till he the use of tempred mettals found,
His anvile wrought the steeled cotes attire,
and forged tooles to carve the foe-mans wound.

The Citie builder then intrencht his towres,
and wald his wealth within the fenced towne,
Which afterward in bloudy stormy stours,
kindled that flame which burnt his Bulwarks downe.

And thus began th'Exordium of our woes,
the fatall dumbe shewe of our miserie:
Here sprang the tree on which our mischiefe growes,
the drery subject of worlds tragedie.

Motto.

Well, shepheard well, the golden age is gone,
wishes may not revoke that which is past:
It were no wit to make two griefes of one,
our proverb sayth, Nothing can alwayes last.

Listen to me my lovely shepheards joye,
and thou shalt heare with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie Tale, which when I was a boy,
my toothles Grandame oft hath tolde to me.

Gorbo.
Shepheard say on, so may we passe the time,
There is no doubt it is some worthy ryme.

Motto.

Farre in the countrey of Arden,
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
as bolde as Isenbras:

Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
as was the good sir Topas.

He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
a mayden fayre and free:

And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
of mickle curtesie.

The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
and with the needle werke,

And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
and sing a Psalme in Kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden Queene,
which seemly was to see.

A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
ywrought full featuously.

Her feature all as fresh above,
As is the grasse that growes by Dove,
as lyth as lasse of Kent:

Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on peakish hull,
or Swanne that swims in Trent.

This mayden in a morne betime,
Went forth when May was in her prime,
to get sweete Cetywall,

The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,
to deck her summer hall.

Thus as she wandred here and there,
Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,
she chanced to espie

A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like Chanteclere he crowed crancke,
and pip'd with merrie glee:

He leard his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
to feede about him round:

Whilst he full many a caroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
and that the woods did sound:

In favour this same shepheards swayne,
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,
which helde prowd Kings in awe:

But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,
Ylike that gentle Abel he,
whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke,
that could be cut with sheere,

His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of Cordiwin,
his hood of Meniveere.

His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
his breech of Coyntrie blew:

Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks,
so like a lover true.

And pyping still he spent the day,
So mery as the Popingay:
which liked Dowsabell,

That would she ought or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought:
she in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as the Lilly was her smocke,
she drew the shepheard nie,

But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
to heare his melodie.

Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,
That have a jolly shepheards swayne,
the which can pipe so well.

Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
in love of Dowsabell.

Of love fond boy take thou no keepe,
Quoth she, looke well unto thy sheepe,
lest they should hap to stray.

Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seene fayre Dowsabell,
come forth to gather Maye.

With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheekes were like the Roses red,
but not a word she sayd.

With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
and on the ground him layd.

Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
and all for long of thee.

My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
except thou favour me.

Sayth she yet lever I were dead,
Then I should lose my maydenhead,
and all for love of men:

Sayth he yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde,
to love us now and then:

And I to thee will be as kinde,
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
of curtesie the flower:

Then will I be as true quoth she,
As ever mayden yet might be,
unto her Paramour:

With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,
and him she sweetely kist.

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, ther's never shepheards boy,
that ever was so blist.

Gorbo.

Now by my sheep-hooke here's a tale alone,
Learne me the same and I will give thee hier,
This were as good as curds for our Jone,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.

Motto.

Why gentle hodge I will not sticke for that,
When we two meeten here another day,
But see whilst we have set us downe to chat,
Yon tikes of mine begin to steale away.

And if thou wilt but come unto our greene,
On Lammas day when as we have our feast,
Thou shalt sit next unto our summer Queene,
And thou shalt be the onely welcome guest.

THE NINTH EGLOG. When cole-blacke night with sable vaile

When cole-blacke night with sable vaile
eclipsd the gladsome light,
Rowland in darkesome shade alone,
bemoanes his wofull plight.

What time the wetherbeaten flockes,
forsooke the fields to shrowd them in the folde,
The groves dispoyl'd of their fayre summer lockes,
the leaveles branches nipt with frostie colde,
The drouping trees their gaynesse all agone,
In mossie mantles doe expresse their moane.

When Phœbus from his Lemmans lovely bower,
throughout the sphere had jerckt his angry Jades,
His Carre now pass'd the heavens hie welked Tower,
gan dragge adowne the occidentall slades,
In silent shade of desart all alone,
Thus to the night, Rowland bewrayes his moane.

Oh blessed starres which lend the darknes light,
the glorious paynting of that circled throane,
You eyes of heaven, you lanthornes of the night,
to you bright starres, to you I make my moane,
Or end my dayes, or ease me of my griefe,
The earth is frayle, and yeelds me no reliefe.

And thou fayre Phebe, cleerer to my sight,
then Tytan is when brightest he hath shone,
Why shouldst thou now shut up thy blessed light,
and sdayne to looke on thy Endymion?
Perhaps the heavens me thus despight have done,
Because I durst compare thee with their sunne.

If drery sighes the tempests of my brest,
or streames of teares from floods of weeping eyes,
If downe-cast lookes with darksome cloudes opprest,
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,
If these, nor her, nor you, to pittie move,
There's neither helpe in you, nor hope in love.

Oh fayr'st that lives, yet most unkindest mayd,
ô whilome thou the joy of all my flocke,
Why have thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayd,
unto thy hart more hard then flintie rocke,
And lastly thus depriv'd me of their sight,
From whome my love derives both life and light.

Those dapper ditties pend unto her prayse,
and those sweete straynes of tunefull pastorall,
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish layes,
and recketh as the rustick madrigall,
Her lippes prophane Ideas sacred name,
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.

Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,
wherewith I crown'd her tresses in the prime,
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,
made to disport her in the summer time:
She hates the sports and pastimes I invent,
And as the toade, flies all my meriment.

With holy verses heryed I her glove,
and dew'd her cheekes with fountaines of my teares,
And carold her full many a lay of love,
twisting sweete Roses in her golden hayres.
Her wandring sheepe full safely have I kept,
And watch'd her flocke full oft when she hath slept.

Oenon never upon Ida hill,
so oft hath cald on Alexanders name,
As hath poore Rowland with an Angels quill,
erected trophies of Ideas fame:
Yet that false shepheard Oenon fled from thee,
I follow her that ever flies from me.

Ther's not a grove that wonders not my woe,
there's not a river weepes not at my tale:
I heare the ecchoes (wandring too and froe)
resound my griefe in every hill and dale,
The beasts in field, with many a wofull groane,
The birds in ayre help to expresse my moane.

Where been those lines? the heraulds of my heart,
my plaints, my tears, my vowes, my sighes, my prayers?
O what avayleth fayth, or what my Artes?
ô love, ô hope, quite turn'd into despayres:
She stops her eares as Adder to the charmes,
And lets me lye and languish in my harmes.

All is agone, such is my endles griefe,
and my mishaps amended naught with moane,
I see the heavens will yeeld me no reliefe:
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,
And teares I see, doe me avayle no good,
But as great showres increase the rising flood.

With folded armes, thus hanging downe his head,
he gave a groane as though his heart had broke,
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,
he fetch'd a sigh, but never a word he spoke:
For now his heart wax'd cold as any stone,
Was never man alive so woe begone.

With that fayre Cinthya stoups her glittering vayle,
and dives adowne into the Ocean flood,
The easterne brow which erst was wan and pale,
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:
The whistling Larke ymounted on her wings,
To the gray morrow, her good morrow sings.

When this poore shepheard Rowland of the Rocke,
whose faynting legges his body scarse upheld,
Each shepheard now returning to his flocke,
alone poore Rowland fled the pleasant field,
And in his Coate got to a vechie bed:
Was never man alive so hard bested.