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

Phœbus full out his yeerely course had runne,
(The wofull Winter labouring to out-weare)
And though 't was long first, yet at length begunne,
To heave himselfe up to our Hemispheare,
For which pleas'd Heaven to see this happie houre,
O'rcome with Joy wept many a silver showre.

When Philomel, the augure of the Spring,
Whose Tunes expresse a Brothers trayt'rous Fact,
Whilst the fresh Groves with her complaints doe ring,
To Cinthia her sad Tragedie doth act.
The jocund Mirle perch'd on the highest spray,
Sings his love forth, to see the pleasant May.

The crawling Snake against the morning Sunne,
Like Iris shewes his sundrie coloured Coat,
The gloomie shades and enviously doth shunne,
Ravish'd to heare the warbling Birds to roat,
The Bucke forsakes the Lawn's where he hath fed,
Fearing the Hunt should view his Velvet head.

Through ev'ry part dispersed is the bloud,
The lustie Spring in fulnesse of her Pride:
Man, Bird, and Beast, each Tree, and every Floud,
Highly rejoycing in this goodly tyde:
Save Rowland, leaning on a

A tree with age beginning to decay at the top.

Ranpike Tree,
Wasted with age, forlorne with wo was he.

Great God, quoth he, (with hands rear'd to the Skye)
Thou wise Creatour of the Starrie light,
Whose wondrous workes thy Essence doe imply,
In the dividing of the Day and Night:
The Earth releeving with the teeming Spring,
Which the late Winter low before did bring.

520

O thou strong Builder of the Firmament,
Who placed'st Phœbus in his fiery Carre,
And for the Planets wisely didst invent,
Their sundry Mansions, that they should not jarre,
Appointing Phœbe Mistris of the Night,
From Titan's flames to fetch her forked light.

From that bright Palace where thou raign'st alone,
Whose floore with Stars is gloriously inchased;
Before the Footstoole of whose glittering Throne,
Those thy high Orders severally are placed,
Receive my Vowes, that may thy Court ascend,
Where thy cleere presence all the Powers attend.

Shepheards great Soveraigne, graciously receive,
Those thoughts to thee continually erected,
Nor let the World of Comfort me bereave,
Whilst I before it sadly lye dejected,
Whose sinnes, like fogs that over-cloud the Aire,
Darken those beames which promis'd me so faire.

My hopes are fruitlesse, and my faith is vaine,
And but meere shewes, disposed me to mocke,
Such are exalted basely that can faine,
And none regards just Rowland of the Rocke.
To those fat Pastures, which Flocks healthfull keepe,
Malice denyes me entrance with my Sheepe.

Yet nill I Nature enviously accuse,
Nor blame the Heavens thus haplesse me to make,
What they impose, but vainly we refuse,
When not our power their punishment can slake.
Fortune the World, that towzes to and fro,
Fickle to all, is constant in my wo.

This only rests, Time shall devoure my sorrow,
And to affliction minister reliefe,
When as there never shall succeed a morrow,
Whose labouring houres shall lengthen out my griefe,
Nor in my brest, Care sit againe so deepe:
Tyring the sad Night with distemp'red sleepe.

521

And when that Time expired hath the date,
What weares out all things, lastly perish must,
And that all-searching and impartiall Fate,
Shall take account of long-forgotten dust,
When every being, silently shall cease,
Lock'd in the armes of everlasting Peace.

Now in the Ocean, Titan quench'd his flame,
That summon'd Cinthia, to set up her light
And she the neer'st of the Celestiall frame,
Sat the most glorious on the brow of Night.
When the poore Swaine, with heavinesse opprest,
To the cold Earth sanke sadly downe to rest.

522

THE SECOND EGLOGUE. Might my youth's Mirth, become thy aged yeeres

Motto.

Might my youth's Mirth, become thy aged yeeres,
My gentle Shepheard, Father of us all,
Wherewith I wonted to delight my Pheeres,
When to their Sports they pleased me to call.

Now would I tune my

A little Bagpipe.

Miskins on this Greene,
And frame my Verse, the Vertues to unfold
Of that sole Phœnix Bird, my lives sole Queene,
Whose Lockes doe staine the three-times burnisht Gold.

But melancholy settled in thy spleene,
My Rimes seeme harsh to thy unrellish'd taste,
Thy Wits that long replenisht have not beene,
Wanting kind moysture, do unkindly waste.

Winken.

Well, Wanton, laugh not my old age to scorne,
Nor twit me so, my senses to have lost,
The time hath beene, when as my hopefull Morne
Promis'd as much as now thy youth can boast.

My direfull cares beene drawne upon my face,
In crooked lines with Ages Iron Pen,
The Morphew quite discoloured the place,
Which had the power t'attract the eyes of men.

What mock'd the Lilly, beares this Tawny Dye,
And this once Crimson, lookes thus deadly pale,
Sorrow hath set his foot upon mine Eye,
And hath for ever perished my sale.

A cumber-World, yet in the World am left,
A fruitlesse Plot with Brambles over-growne:
Of all those joyes, that pleas'd my Youth, bereft,
And now too late my Folly but bemone.

Those daintie straines of my well-tuned Reed,
Which many a time have pleas'd the curious Eares,
In me no more those pleasing thoughts doe breed,
But tell the errors of my wandring yeeres.

523

Those poys'ning Pills beene biding at my heart,
Those lothsome Drugs unseas'ned Youth did chaw,
Not once so sweet, but now they be as tart,
Not in the mouth, what they are in the maw.

Motto.

Even so I weene: for thy old Ages Fever
Deemes sweetest Potions, bitter as the Gall,
And thy cold Palate, having lost the savour,
Receives no comfort by a Cordiall.

Winkin.

As thou art, once was I a gamesome Boy,
Ill-wintred now, and aged as you see,
And well I know, thy Swallow-winged joy
Quickly shall vanish, as 't is fled from me.

When on the arch of thy eclipsed Eyes,
Time shall have deeply charactred thy Death,
And Sun-burnt Age, thy kindly moysture dryes,
Thy wasted lungs be Niggards of thy breath;

Thy brawn-falne armes, and thy declining backe,
To the sad burthen of thy yeeres shall yeeld,
And that thy legs their wonted force shall lacke,
Able no more thy wretched Trunke to weeld.

Now am I like the knottie aged Oake,
Whom wasting Time hath made a Tombe for dust,
That of his branches reft by Tempest stroke,
His Barke consumes with Canker-wormes and rust.

And though thou seem'st like to the bragging Bryer,
And spreadst thee like the Morn-lov'd Marigold,
Yet shall thy sap be shortly dry and seere,
Thy gawdy Blossomes blemished with cold.

Even such a Wanton and unruly Swaine,
Was little Rowland, when as lately he,
Upon the Verge of yonder neighb'ring plaine,
Carved this Rime upon a Beechen Tree.

524

Then this great Universe no lesse,
Can serve her prayses to expresse:
Betwixt her eyes, the Poles of Love,
The Host of Heavenly Beauties move,
Depainted in their proper Stories,
As well the fix'd as wandring Glories,
Which from their proper Orbes not goe,
Whether they gyre swift or slow:
Where from their Lips, when shee doth speake,
The Musike of those Spheares doe breake,
Which their harmonious Motion breedeth:
From whose cheerefull breath proceedeth
That Balmy sweetnesse, that gives birth
To every off-spring of the Earth:
The Structure of whose gen'rall Frame,
And state wherein shee mooves the same,
Is that Proportion, Heavens best Treasure,
Whereby it doth all poyze and measure,
So that alone her happy sight
Contaynes perfection and delight.

Motto.

O divine Love, which so aloft can rayse,
And lift the Mind out of this earthly Myre,
And dost inspire us with so glorious prayse,
As with the Heavens doth equall Mans desire:

Who doth not helpe to decke thy holy Shrine,
With Venus Mirtle and Apollo's Tree?
Who will not say that thou art most Divine,
At least, confesse a Deitie in thee?

Winken.

A foolish Boy, full ill is hee repayd:
For now the Wanton pynes in endlesse payne,
And sore repents what he before misse-said.
So may they be, which can so lewdly fayne.

525

Now hath this Yonker torne his tressed Locks,
And broke his Pipe which was of sound so sweet,
Forsaking his Companions and their Flocks,
And casts his Garland loosely at his Feet.

And being shrowded in a homely Cote,
And full of sorrow (I him sitting by,)
He tun'd his Rebecke to a mournefull Note,
And thereto sang this dolefull Elegie.

Upon a Banke with Roses set about,
Where Turtles oft, sit joyning Bill to Bill,
And gentle springs steale softly murm'ring out,
Washing the Foote of Pleasures sacred Hill:
There little Love sore wounded lyes,
His Bow and Arrowes broken,
Bedew'd with Teares from Venus Eyes,
Oh, grievous to be spoken!

Beare him my Heart, slaine with her scornefull Eye,
Where sticks the Arrow which that Heart did kill,
With whose sharpe Pile, request him ere he dye,
About the same to write his latest Will,
And bid him send it backe to mee,
At instant of his dying,
That cruell, cruell shee, may see
My Faith and her denying.

His Chappell be a mournefull Cypres Shade,
And for a Chantry Philomel's sweet lay,
Where Prayers shall continually be made
By Pilgrim Lovers passing by that way,
With Nymphs and Shepherds yeerely moane,
His timelesse death beweeping,
In telling that my Heart alone
Hath his last Will in keeping.

526

Motto.

Wo's me for him that pyneth so in payne,
Alas, poore Rowland, how for him I grieve!
That such a baite should breed so foule a bayne,
Yet shee not dayne his sorrow to relieve.

Winken.

Beware by him, thou foolish wanton Swayne,
By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heed:
Beautie and Wealth beene fraught with high disdayne,
The Night drawes on: Come, homeward let us speed.

527

THE THIRD EGLOGUE. Rowland, for shame awake thy drowsie Muse

Perkin.

Rowland, for shame awake thy drowsie Muse,
Time playes the Hunt's-Up to thy sleepy head;
Why lyest thou here, whil'st we are ill bestead,
Foule idle Swayne?

Who ever heard thy Pipe and pleasing vaine,
And now doth heare this scurvy Minstralsy,
Tending to nought, but beastly Ribauldry
That doth not Muse?

Then slumber not with dull Endymion,
But tune thy Reed to dapper Virelayes,
And sing awhile of blessed Beta's prayse,
Of none but Shee:

Above the rest so happy mayst thou bee,
For learned Colin layes his Pipes to gage,
And is to Fayrie gone a Pilgrimage,
The more our moane.

Rowland.

What, Beta, Shepheard? shee is Pans belov'd,
Faire Beta's prayse beyond our strayne doth stretch,
A note too high for my poore Pipe to reach,
An Oaten Reed.

The most unfit to speake of Worthies deed,
Ile set my Song unto a lower Kay,
Whereas a Horne-Pipe I may safely play,
And un-reproov'd.

528

With flattery my Muse could never fadge,
Nor could this vaine scurrility affect,
From looser Youth to winne a light respect,
Too base and vile.

Me that doth make, that I not care the while,
My selfe above Tom Piper to advance,
Which so bestirs him at the Morrice Dance,
For penny wage.

Perkin.

Rowland, so Toyes esteemed often are,
And fashions ever vary with the Time,
But since the Season doth require some Rime,
With lusty glee,

Let me then heare that Roundelay of thee,
Which once thou sangst to me in Janeveere,
When Robin Red-brest sitting on a Breere,
The burthen bare.

Rowland.

Well, needs I must, yet with a heavy Heart,
Yet were not Beta, sure, I would not sing,
Whose prayse the Eccho's cease not yet to ring,
Up to the Skyes.

Perkin.

Be blythe, good Rowland then, and cleere thine Eyes.
And since good Robin to his Roost is gone,
Supply his want, and put two parts in one,
To shew thy Arte.

529

Rowland.

Stay, Thames, to heare my Song, thou great and famous Flood,
Beta alone the Phœnix is of all thy watry Brood,
The Queene of Virgins onely Shee,
The King of Floods allotting Thee
Of all the rest, be joyfull then to see this happy Day,
Thy Beta now alone shall be the Subject of my Lay,

With daintie and delightsome straynes of dapper Verilayes:
Come lovely Shepheards, sit by me, to tell our Beta's prayse,
And let us sing so high a Verse,
Her soveraigne Vertues to rehearse:
That little Birds shall silent sit to heare us Shepheards sing,
Whilst Rivers backward bend their course, & flow up to their spring.

Range all thy Swans, faire Thames, together on a ranke,
And place them each in their degree upon thy winding Banke,
And let them set together all,
Time keeping with the Waters fall:
And crave the tunefull Nightingale to helpe them with her Lay,
The Woosell and the Throstle-Cocke, chiefe musike of our May.

See what a troupe of Nymphs, come leading Hand in Hand,
In such a number that well-neere they take up all the Strand:
And harke how merrily they sing,
That makes the Neigh'bring Meddowes ring,
And Beta comes before alone, clad in a purple Pall,
And as the Queene of all the rest doth weare a Coronall.

Trim up her golden Tresses with Apollo's sacred Tree,
Whose Tutage and especiall care I wish her still to bee,
That for his Darling hath prepar'd,
A glorious Crowne as her reward,
Not such a golden Crowne as haughtie Cæsar weares,
But such a glittering starry one as Ariadne beares.

Mayds, get the choycest Flowres, a Garland and entwine,
Nor Pinks, nor Pansies, let there want, be sure of Eglantine,
See that there be store of Lillyes,
(Call'd of Shepheards Daffadillyes)
With Roses Damaske, White, and Red, the dearest Flower-de-lice,
The Cowslip of Jerusalem, and Clove of Paradise.

530

O thou great Eye of Heaven, the Dayes most dearest Light,
With thy bright Sister Cynthia, the Glorie of the Night,
And those that make yee seven,
To us the neer'st of Heaven,
And thou, O gorgeous Iris, with all thy Colours dy'd,
When shee streames forth her Rayes, then dasht is all your pride.

In thee, whilst shee beholds (O Flood) her heavenly Face,
The Sea-Gods in their watry Armes would gladly her imbrace,
The intising Syrens in their layes,
And Tritons doe resound her prayse,
Hasting with all the speed they can unto the spacious Sea,
And through all Neptunes Court proclaim our Beta's holyday.

O evermore refresh the Roote of the fat Olive Tree,
In whose sweet shaddow ever may thy Banks preserved bee.
With Bayes that Poets doe adorne,
And Mirtle of chaste Lovers worne,
That faire may be the Fruit, the Boughes preserv'd by peace,
And let the mournefull Cypres die, and here for ever cease.

Weele strew the Shore with Pearle, where Beta walks alone,
And we will pave her Summer Bower with the rich Indian stone,
Perfume the Ayre and make it sweet,
For such a Goddesse as is meet,
For if her Eyes for purity contend with Titans Light,
No marvaile then although their Beames doe dazle humane sight.

Sound lowd your Trumpets then from Londons loftiest Towers,
To beate the stormie Tempests back, and calme the raging Showers,
Set the Cornet with the Flute,
The Orpharion to the Lute,
Tuning the Taber and the Pipe to the sweet Violons,
And mocke the Thunder in the Ayre with the lowd Clarions.

Beta, long may thine Altars smoke with yeerely Sacrifice,
And long thy sacred Temples may their high Dayes solemnize,
Thy Shepheards watch by Day and Night,
Thy Mayds attend thy holy Light,
And thy large Empire stretch her Armes from East in to the West,
And Albion on the Appenines advance her conquering Crest.

531

Perkin.

Thanks, gentle Rowland, for my Roundelay,
And as for Beta, burthen of thy Song,
The Shepheards Goddesse may shee flourish long,
And happy bee.

And not disdayne to be belov'd of thee:
Triumphing Albion, clap thy Hands for joy,
That hast so long not tasted of annoy,
Nor that thou may.

Rowland.

Shepheard, and when my milke-white Eaws have yean'd,
Beta shall have the firstling of the Fold,
Yea, though the Hornes were of the purest gold,
And the fine Fleece, the richest purple Graine.

Perkin.

Beleeve me, as I am true Shepheards Swaine,
Then for thy love all other I forsake,
And unto thee my selfe I doe betake,
With Faith unfayn'd.

532

THE FOURTH EGLOGUE. Shepheard, why creepe we in this lowly vaine

Motto.

Shepheard, why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
As though our store no better us affords?
And in this season when the stirring Swaine
Makes the wide fields sound with great thundring words?

Not as 'twas wont, now rurall be our Rimes,
Shepheards of late are waxed wondrous neate.
Though they were richer in the former Times,
We be inraged with more kindly heate.

The with'red Laurell freshly growes againe,
Which simply shaddow'd the Pierian Spring,
Which oft invites the solitary Swaine,
Thither, to heare those sacred Virgins sing:

Then if thy Muse have spent her wonted zeale,
With with'red twists thy fore-head shall be bound:
But if with these shee dare advance her Saile,
Amongst the best then may shee bee renown'd.

Gorbo.

Shepheard, these Men at mightie things doe ayme,
And therefore presse into the learned Troope,
With filed Phraze to dignifie their Name,
Else with the World shut in this shamefull Coope.

But such a Subject ill beseemeth me,
For I must Pipe amongst the lowly sort,
Those silly Heard-groomes who have laught to see,
When I by Moone-shine made the Fayries sport.

Who of the toyles of Hercules will treat,
And put his Hand to an eternall Pen,
In such high Labours it behooves he sweat,
To soare beyond the usuall pitch of Men:

533

Such Monster-tamers who would take in Hand,
As have tyde up the Triple-headed Hound,
Or of those Gyants which 'gainst Heaven durst stand,
Whose strength the Gods it troubled to confound:

Who listeth with so mightie things to mell,
And dares a taske so great to undertake,
Should rayse the blacke inhabitants of Hell,
And stirre a Tempest on the Stygian Lake.

He that to Worlds Pyramides will Build
On those great Heroes got by heavenly Powers,
Should have a Pen most plentifully fill'd
In the full Streames of Learned Maro's Showres.

Who will foretell Mutations, and of Men,
Of Future things and wisely will inquire,
Before should slumber in that Shadie Den,
That often did with prophesie inspire.

South-saying Sybils sleepen long agone,
We have their Reed, but few have cond their Art,
And the

Merlin.

Welsh Wisard cleaveth to a Stone,
No Oracles more Wonders shall impart.

When him this Round that neerest over-ran,
His labouring Mother to this light did bring,

Alexander the Great.

The sweat that then from Orpheus Statue ran,
Foretold the Prophets had whereon to sing.

When Vertue had allotted her a Prize,
The Oaken Garland, and the Lawrell Crowne,
Fame then resum'd her lofty wings to rise,
And Plumes were honour'd with the purple Gowne.

When first Religion with a golden Chayne,
Men unto fayre Civilitie did draw,
Who sent from Heaven, brought Justice forth againe,
To Keepe the Good, the viler sort to awe.

534

That simple Age as simply sung of Love,
Till thirst of Empire and of Earthly swayes,
Drew the good Shepheard from his Lasses Glove,
To sing of slaughter, and tumultuous frayes.

Then Joves Love-theft was privily descry'd,
How he plaid false play in Amphitrio's Bed,
And young Apolio in the Mount of Ide,
Gave OEnon Physicke for her Mayden-head:

The tender Grasse was then the softest Bed:
The pleasant'st Shades esteem'd the statelyest Halls,
No Belly-Churle with Bacchus banqueted,
Nor painted Rags then covered rotten Walls:

Then simple Love, by simple Vertue way'd,
Flowres the favours, which true Faith revealed,
Kindnesse againe with kindnesse was repayd,
And with sweet Kisses, Covenants were sealed.

And Beauties selfe by her selfe beautified,
Scorn'd Paintings Pergit, and the borrowed Haire,
Nor monstrous Formes deformities did hide,
The Foule to varnish with compounded Faire.

The purest Fleece then covered the pure Skin:
For pride as then with Lucifer remayn'd;
Ill-favoured Fashions then were to begin,
Nor wholesome Cloathes with poysoned Liquor stayn'd.

But when the Bowels of the Earth were sought,
Whose golden Entrailes Mortalls did espie,
Into the World all mischiefe then was brought,
This fram'd the Mint, that coyn'd our miserie.

The loftie Pines were presently hew'd downe,
And Men, Sea-Monsters, swam the bracky Flood,
In Wainscote Tubs to seeke out Worlds unknowne,
For certayne Ill, to leave assured Good.

535

The Steed was tamde and fitted to the Field,
That serves a Subject to the Riders Lawes,
He that before ranne in the Pastures wyld,
Felt the stiffe curbe controule his angrie Jawes.

The Cyclops then stood sweating to the Fire,
The use thereof in softning Metals found,
That did streight Limbs in stubborne Steele attire,
Forging sharpe Tooles the tender flesh to wound.

The Citie-builder, then intrencht his Towres,
And laid his Wealth within the walled Towne,
Which afterward in rough and stormie Stowres,
Kindled the fire that burnt his Bulwarkes downe.

This was the sad beginning of our woe,
That was from Hell on wretched mortals hurl'd,
And from this Fount did all those Mischiefes flow,
Whose inundation drowneth all the World.

Motto.

Well, Shepheard, well, the golden Age is gone,
Wishes no way revoke that which is past:
Small wit there were to make two griefes of one;
And our complaints we vainly should but waste.

Listen to me then, lovely Shepheards Lad,
And thou shalt heare, attentive if thou be,
A prettie Tale I of my Grandame had,
One Winters Night when there were none but we.

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

536

Motto.
Farre in the Countrey of Arden,
There won'd a Knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent,
In Battaile and in Tournament,
As was the good Sir Topas.
He had as antike Stories tell,
A Daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A Mayden faire and free.
And for she was her Fathers Heire,
Full well she was ycond the leire,
Of mickle courtesie.
The Silke well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine March-pine,
And with the Needle-worke:
And she couth helpe the Priest to say
His Mattens on a Holy-day,
And sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a Frock of frollick Greene,
Might well become a Mayden Queene,
Which seemly was to see;
A Hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the Columbine,
I wrought full featuously.
Her features all as fresh above,
As is the Grasse that growes by Dove,
nd lythe as Lasse of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster Wooll,
As white as Snow, on Peakish Hull,
Or Swan that swims in Trent.
This Mayden in a Morne betime,
Went forth when May was in the prime,
To get sweet Setywall,
The Honey-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly, and the Lady-smocke,
To decke her Summer Hall.

537

Thus as she wandred here and there,
And picked of the bloomie Bryer,
She chanced to espy
A Shepheard sitting on a Banke,
Like Chanti-cleere he crowed cranke,
And pip'd full merrily.
He learn'd his Sheep, as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round.
Whilst he full many a Carroll sang,
Untill the Fields and Medowes rang,
And that the Woods did sound.
In favour this same Shepheard Swaine,
Was like the Bedlam Tamberlaine,
Which held proud Kings in awe.
But meeke as any Lambe mought bee,
And innocent of ill as 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 Bauzons skin,
His Cockers were of Cordiwin,
His Hood of Miniveere.
His Aule and Lingell in a Thong,
His Tar-box on his broad Belt hung,
His Breech of Cointree Blue.
Full crispe and curled were his Lockes,
His Browes as white as Albion Rockes,
So like a Lover true,
And piping still he spent the day,
So merry as the Popinjay,
Which liked Dowsabell.
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This Lad would never from her thought,
She in love-longing fell.

538

At length she tucked up her Frocke,
White as the Lilly was her Smocke,
She drew the Shepheard nie:
But then the Shepheard pip'd a good,
That all his Sheepe forsooke their food,
To heare his Melodie.
Thy Sheepe, quoth shee, cannot be leane,
That have a jolly Shepheards Swaine,
The which can pipe so well:
Yea but (saith he) their Shepheard may,
If piping 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 faire Dowsabell
Come forth to gather May.
With that she 'gan to vaile her head,
Her Cheekes were like the Roses red,
But not a word she said,
With that the Shepheard 'gan to frowne,
He threw his prettie Pipes adowne,
And on the ground him laid.
Saith she, I may not stay till Night,
And leave my Summer Hall undight,
And all for love of thee.
My Coat, saith he, nor yet my Fold,
Shall neither Sheepe nor Shepheard hold,
Except thou favour mee.
Saith she, Yet lever I were dead,
Then I should lose my Maiden-head,
And all for love of men.
Sai'th he, Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot find,
To love us now and then.

539

And I to thee will be as kind,
As Colin was to Rosalind,
Of courtesie the flowre.
Then will I be as true, quoth she,
As ever Maiden yet might be
Unto her Paramour.
With that she bent her Snow-white knee,
Downe by the Shepheard kneeled shee,
And him she sweetly kist.
With that the Shepheard whoop'd for joy,
Quoth he, there's never Shepheards Boy,
That ever was so blist.

Gorbo.

Now by my Sheephooke, here's a Tale alone,
Learne me the same, and I will give thee hire,
This were as good as Curds for our Jone,
When at a Night we sitten by the fire.

Motto.

Why gentle Gorbo, ile not sticke for that,
When we shall meet upon some merrie day:
But see, whilst we have set us downe to chat,
Yon Tykes of mine begin to steale away.

And if thou please to come unto our Greene,
On Lammas day, when as we have our Feast,
Thou shalt sit next unto the Shepheards Queene,
And there shalt be the only welcome Ghest.

540

THE FIFT EGLOGUE. Come, let us frollike merrily, my Swaine

Motto.

Come, let us frollike merrily, my Swaine,
Let's see what Spirit there quickens yet in thee,
If there so much be left but as a Graine,
Of the great stock of antike Poesie,
Or living but one slip of Phœbus sacred Tree.

Or if reserv'd from Times devouring rage,
With his sad Ruines scorning once to fall,
Any Memoriall left thee as a gage:
Or the delight of simple Pastorall,
May thee revive, whom care seemes to appall.

To Fortunes Orphanes Nature hath bequeath'd,
What mightiest Monarchs seldome have possest,
From highest Heaven this influence is breath'd,
The most Divine Impression of the brest,
And whom th'one pines, the other oft doth feast.

Nor doth 't affect this fond Gentilitie,
Whereon the Foole World open-mouthed gazes,
Thinking it selfe of great abilitie,
That it a great great Grandsires Glorie blazes,
And paints out Fictions in untimely Phrases.

Idlely we thinke that Honour can inflame
These moving Pictures, made but for the Street,
(We daily find) that overlive their name,
And blacke Oblivion is their winding sheet,
Their Glorie trodden under vulgar feet.

Envie discharging all her poys'ned Darts,
The valiant minde is temp'red with that fire,
At her fierce loose that weakly never starts,
But in despight, doth force her to retyre,
With carelesse feet and spurnes her in the myre.

541

Rowland.

I may not sing of such as fall nor clime,
Nor chaunt of Armes, and of Heroike Deeds,
It fitteth not a Shepheards rurall Rime,
Nor is agreeing with my Oaten Reeds:
Nor from my Song, grosse Flatt'rie proceeds.

On the Worlds Idols I doe hate to smile,
Nor shall their Names e'r in my Page appeare,
To bolster Basenesse I account it vile,
'Tis not their Lookes, nor Greatnesse that I feare,
Nor shall 't be knowne by me, that such there were.

No fatall Dreads, nor fruitlesse vaine Desires,
Low Caps and Court'sies to a painted Wall,
Nor heaping rotten sticks on needlesse fires,
Ambitious waies to climbe, nor feares to fall,
Nor things so base doe I affect at all.

Motto.

If these, nor these may like thy varying Quill,
As of too high, or of too low a straine,
That doe not aptly paralell thy skill,
Nor well agreeing with a Shepheards vaine,
Subjects (suppos'd) ill to beseeme a Swaine.

Then tune thy Pipe to thy Idea's praise,
And teach the Woods to wonder at her name,
Thy lowly Notes so maist thou lightly raise,
And thereby others happily inflame:
Yet thou the whilst, stand farthest off from blame.

Thy Temples then with Lawrell shall be dight,
When as thy Muse got hie upon her wing,
With nimble Pineons shall direct her flight,
To th'place from whence all Harmonies doe spring,
To rape the Fields with touches of her string.

542

Rowland.

Shepheard, since thou so strongly do'st perswade,
And her just worth so amply us affoords,
O sacred Furie, all my Powers invade,
All fulnesse flowes from thy abundant hoords,
Her prayse requires the excellentest words.

Shall I then first sing of her heavenly eye,
To it attracting every other sight?
May a poore Shepheards praise aspire so hye,
Which if the Sunne should give us up to Night,
The Stars from it should fetch a purer Light.

Or that faire brow, where Beautie keepes her state,
There still residing as her proper Spheare,
Which when the World she meaneth to amate,
Wonder invites to stand before her there,
Throughout the World the praise thereof to beare.

Or touch her cheeke, deare Natures Treasurie,
Whereas she stores th'abundance of her Blisse,
Where of her selfe, she'xacts such usurie,
That she's else needie by inwealthying this,
And like a Miser her rich chest doth kisse.

Or those pure hands in whose delicious Palmes,
Love takes delight the Palmester to play,
Whose christall fingers dealing heavenly Almes,
Give the whole wealth of all the World away.
O, who of these sufficiently can say!

Or th'Ivorie Columnes, which this Fane upbeare,
Where Dian's Nuns their Goddesse doe adore,
Before her, ever sacrificing there,
Her hallowed Altars kneeling still before,
Where more they doe performe, their Zeale the more:

Unconning Shepheard of these praise I none,
Although surpassing, yet let I them passe,
Nor in this kind her Excellence is showne,
To sing of these, not my intent it was,
Our Muse must undergoe a waightier masse,

543

And be directed by a straighter line,
Which me must unto higher Regions guide,
That I her Vertues rightly may define,
From me my selfe that's able to divide,
Unlesse by them my weaknesse be supplide.

That be the end whereat I only ayme,
Which to performe, I faithfully must strive,
Faire as I can to build this goodly frame,
And every part so aptly to contrive,
That time from this Example may derive.

In whom, as on some wel-prepared Stage,
Each morall Vertue acts a Princely part,
Where every Scene pronounced by a Sage,
Hath the true fulnesse both of Wit and Art,
And wisely stealeth the Spectators heart,

That every censure worthily doth brooke,
And unto it a great attention drawes,
In t'which when Wisdome doth severely looke,
Often therewith she forced is to pause,
To yeeld a free and generall applause.

Who unto goodnesse can she not excite,
And in the same not teacheth to be wise,
And deeply seene in each obsequious rite,
Wherein of that some mystery there lyes,
Which her sole studie is, and only exercise?

But the great'st Volume, nor exactest Comment,
Wherein art ever absolutest shined,
Nor the small'st Letter filling up the Margent,
Yet every space with matter interlined,
In the high'st Knowledge, rightly her defined.

O! if but sense effectually could see,
What is in her t'be worthily admired,
How infinite her Excellencies bee,
The date of which can never be expired,
From her high praise, the World could not be hired.

544

But since that Heaven must onely be the Mirror,
Wherein the World can her perfections view,
And Fame is strooken silent with the terror,
Wanting wherewith to pay what is her due,
Colours can give her nothing that is new.

Then since there wants abilitie in colours,
Nor Pensill yet sufficiently can blaze her,
For her Ile make a Mirror of my dolours,
And in my teares sheest' looke her selfe and prayse her:
Happy were I, if such a Glasse might please her.

Goe, gentle winds, and whisper in her Eare,
And tell Idea, how much I adore her,
And you, my Flocks, report yee to my Faire,
How farre she passeth all that went before her,
And as their Goddesse all the Plaines adore her.

And thou, cleere Brooke, by whose pure silver streame
Grow those tall Okes, where I have carv'd her name,
Convay her prayse to Neptunes watry Realme,
And bid the Tritons to sound forth her Fame,
Untill wide Neptune scarce containe the same.

Motto.

Stay there, good Rowland, whither art thou rapt,
Beyond the Moone that strivest thus to straine?
Into what phrensie lately art thou hapt,
That in this sort intoxicates thy Braine,
Much disagreeing from a Shepheards vaine?

Rowland.

Motto, why me so strangely shouldst thou tempt,
Above my strength with th'Magick of her stile?
The scope of which from limits is exempt,
As be all they that of it doe compile,
Able to raise the spirit that is most vile.

545

Didst thou me first unto her prayses stirre,
And now at last, dost thou againe refuse me?
What if perhaps with too much love I erre,
And that therein the forward Muse abuse me?
The cause thou gav'st is able to excuse me.

Motto.

Rowland then cease, reserve thy plenteous Muse,
Till future time, thy simple oaten Reed
Shall with a farre more glorious rage infuse,
To sing the glory of some Worthies deed:
For this I thinke, but little shall thee steed.

Rowland.

Shepheard, farewell, the Skyes begin to lowre,
Yon pitchy Cloud, that hangeth in the West,
Shewes us, ere long, that we shall have a showre:
Come, let us home, for I so thinke it best,
For to their Cotes our Flocks are gone to rest.

Motto.

Content, and if thoul't come to my poore Cote,
Although, God knowes, my cheere be very small,
For wealth with me was never yet a-flote:
Yet take in gree what ever doe befall,
Wee'll sit and turne a Crab, and tune a Madrigall.

546

THE SIXT EGLOGUE. Well met, good Winken, whither dost thou wend?

Gorbo.

Well met, good Winken, whither dost thou wend?
How hast thou far'd, old Shepheard, many a yeere?
His dayes in darknesse, thus can Winken spend,
Who I have knowne for piping had no Peere?

Where be those faire Flocks thou wert wont to guide?
What, be they dead, or hapt on some mischance?
Or mischiefe thee their Master doth betyde?
Or Lordly Love hath cast thee in a trance?

What Man, let's still be merry while we may,
And take a Truce with Sorrow for a time,
The whil'st we passe this weary Winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making Rime.

Winken.

A wo's me, Gorbo, mirth is farre away,
Nor may it sojourne with sad discontent,
O! blame me not (to see this dismall Day)
Then, though my poore Heart it in pieces rent.

My tune is turn'd into a Swanlike song,
That best becomes me drawing to my death,
Till which, me thinks, that every houre is long,
My brest become a Prison to my Breath.

Nothing more lothsome then the cheerefull Light,
Com'n is my Night, when once appeares the Day:
The blessed Sunne is odious to my sight,
Nor sound me liketh, but the Shreech-Owles Lay.

Gorbo.

What, mayst thou be that old Winken De Word,
That of all Shepheards wert the Man alone,
Which once with laughter shook'st the Shepheards Boord,
With thine owne madnesse lastly overthrowne?

547

I thinke, thou dot'st in thy declining Age,
Or for the loosenesse of thy Youth art sorry,
And therefore vow'st some solemne Pilgrimage,
To holy

An ancient Pilgrimage in Glostershire, called the Holy Rood of Hayles.

Hayles, or

That famous Cave of Ireland.

Patricks Purgatorie.

Come, sit we downe under this Hawthorne Tree,
The Morrowes Light shall lend us Day enough,
And let us tell of Gawen, or Sir Guy.
Of Robin-Hood, or of old Clem a Clough.

Or else some Romant unto us areede,
By former Shepheards taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy Love, or of thy Lasses truth.

Winken.

Shepheard, no, no, that World with me is past,
Merry was it, when we those Toyes might tell:
But 'tis not now as when thou saw'st me last,
A great mischance me since that time befell.

Elphin is dead, and in his Grave is laid,
O! to report it, how my Heart it grieveth!
Cruell, that Fate, that so the Time betraid,
And of our Joyes untimely us depriveth.

Gorbo.

Is it for him thy tender Heart doth bleed?
For him that living was the Shepheards pride:
Never did Death so mercilesse a deed,
Ill hath he done, and ill may him betyde:

Nought hath he got, nor of much more can boast,
Nature is paid the utmost of her due,
Pan hath receiv'd so dearly that him cost.
O Heavens, his Vertues did belong to you.

Doe not thou then uncessantly complaine,
Best doth the meane befit the Wise in mourning:
And to recall that, labour not in vaine,
Which is by Fate prohibited returning.

548

Winken.

Wer't for the best this present World affords,
Shepheard, our sorrowes might be easly cast,
But, oh, his losse requireth more then Words,
Nor it so slightly can be over-past.

When his fayre Flocks he fed upon the Downes,
The poorest Shepheard suffered not annoy:
Now are we subject to those beastly Clownes,
That all our mirth would utterly destroy.

Long after he was shrowded in the Earth,
The Birds for sorrow did forbeare to sing,
Shepheards forwent their wonted Summers mirth,
Winter therewith outwore a double Spring.

That, had not Nature lastly call'd to mind,
The neere approching of her owne decay,
Things should have gone contrary unto kind,
And to the Chaos all was like to sway.

The Nymphs forbare in silver Springs to looke,
With sundry Flowers to brayd their yellow Haire,
And to the Desarts sadly them betooke,
So much opprest, and over-come with care.

And for his sake the early wanton Lambs,
That 'mongst the Hillocks wont to skip and play,
Sadly ran bleating from their carefull Dams,
Nor would their soft Lips to the Udders lay.

The Groves, the Mountaynes, and the pleasant Heath,
That wonted were with Roundelayes to ring,
Are blasted now with the cold Northerne breath,
That not a Shepheard takes delight to sing.

Who would not die when Elphin now is gone?
Living, that was the Shepheards true delight.
With whose blest Spirit (attending him alone)
Vertue to Heaven directly tooke her flight.

549

Onely from Fooles he from the World did flie,
Knowing the Time strange Monsters forth should bring,
That should his lasting Poesie denie,
His Worth and Honour rashly censuring:

Whil'st he aloft with glorious Wings is borne,
Singing with Angels in the gorgeous Skie,
Laughing even Kings and their delights to scorne,
And all those Sots that them doe Deifie.

And learned Shepheard, thou to time shalt live,
When their false Names are utterly forgotten,
And Fame to thee Eternitie shall give,
When with their Bones their Sepulchers are rotten.

Nor mournefull Cypres, nor sad Widdowing Yeaw,
About thy Tombe to prosper shall be seene,
But Bay and Mirtle which be ever new,
In spight of Winter flourishing and greene.

Summers long'st Day shall Shepheards not suffice,
To sit and tell full Stories of thy prayse,
Nor shall the longest Winters Night comprize
Their sighes for him, the subject of their Layes.

And, gentle Shepheards (as sure some there bee)
That living yet, his Vertues doe inherit,
Men from base envy and detraction free,
Of upright Hearts, and of as humble Spirit:

Thou, that downe from the goodly Westerne waste,
To drinke at Avon driv'st thy Sunned Sheepe,
Good Melibeus, that so wisely hast
Guided the Flocks delivered thee to keepe.

Forget not Elphin, and thou gentle Swayne,
That dost thy Pipe by silver Doven sound,
Alexis that dost with thy Flocks remayne,
Farre off within the Calydonian Ground,

550

Be mindfull of that Shepheard that is dead,
And thou too long that I to Pipe have taught,
Unhappy Rowland that from me art fled:
And sett'st old Winken and his words at nought:

And like a gracelesse and untutor'd Lad,
Art now departed from my aged sight,
And needsly to the Southerne Fields wilt gad,
Where thou dost live in thriftlesse vaine delight.

Thou wanton Boy, as thou canst pipe aswell,
As any he, a Bag-pipe that doth beare,
Still let thy Rounds of that good Shepheard tell,
To whom thou hast beene evermore so deare.

Many, you seeming, to excell in Fame,
And say as they, that none can pipe so hie,
Scorning well-neere a Shepheards simple Name,
So puff'd and blowne with Worldly vanitie:

These, if an aged Man may Umpire bee,
Whose Pipes are well-neere worne out of his Hand,
The highest skill, that in their Songs I see,
Scarce reach the Base whereon his prayses stand.

And all those Toyes that vainely you allure,
Shall in the end no other guerdon have,
But living shall you mickle wo procure,
And lastly bring you to an unknowne Grave.

Then, gentle Shepheards, wheresoere you rest,
In Hill or Dale, however that you bee,
Whether with Love or Worldly care opprest,
Or be you Bond, or happily bee Free:

The closing Evening 'ginning to be darke,
When as the small Birds sing the Sunne to sleepe,
You fold your Lambs; or, with the earely Larke,
Into the faire Fields drive your harmelesse Sheepe:

551

Still let your Pipes be busied in his prayse,
Untill your Flocks be learnt his losse to know,
And tattling Eccho many sundrie wayes,
Be taught by you to warble forth our wo.

Gorbo.

Cease, Shepheard, cease, from further plaints refrayne,
See but of one, how many doe arise,
That by the Tempest of my troubled Brayne,
The Floud's alreadie swelling up mine Eyes.

And now the Sunne beginneth to decline:
Whil'st we in woes the time away doe weare
See where yon little moping Lambe of mine,
It selfe hath tangled in a crawling Breere.

552

THE SEVENTH EGLOGUE. Borril, why sitt'st thou musing in thy Cote

Batte.

Borril, why sitt'st thou musing in thy Cote,
Like dreaming Merlin in his drowsie Cell?
With too much Learning doth the Shepheard dote?
Or art inchanted with some Magike spell?
A Hermits life, or mean'st thou to professe?
Or to thy Beades, fall like an Anchoresse?

See how faire Flora decks our Fields with Flowres,
And clothes our Groves in gawdy Summers greene,
And wanton Ver distils her selfe in Showres,
To hasten Ceres, Harvests hallowed Queene,
Neere-hand that in her yellow Robe appeares,
Crowning full Summer with her ripened Eares.

Now, Shepheards lay their Winter Weeds away,
And in neate Jackets minsen on the Playnes,
And at the Rivers fishen Day by day,
Now who so frollicke as the Shepheards Swaynes?
Why lig'st thou here then in thy lothsome Cave,
Like as a Man put quicke into his Grave?

Borril.

Batte, my Cote from Tempest standeth free,
When stately Towres beene often shak'd with Wind:
And wilt thou, Batte, come and sit with mee,
The happy Life here shalt thou onely find,
Free from the Worlds vile and inconstant qualmes,
And herry Pan with Orizons and Almes,

And scorne the Crow'd of such as cog for pence,
And waste their wealth in sinfull braverie,
Whose gayne is losse, whose thrift is lewd expence,
Content to live in golden slaverie,
Wond'ring at Toyes, as foolish Worldlings doone,
Like to the Dog that barketh at the Moone.

553

Here mayst thou range the goodly pleasant Field,
And search out simples to procure thy heale,
What sundry Vertues, sundry Herbs doe yeeld,
'Gainst griefe which may thy Sheepe or thee assaile:
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmelesse Hare,
Or laugh t'intrap false Raynard in a snare.

Or if thee please in antique Romants Reed,
Of gentle Lords and Ladies that of yore,
In forraine Lands did many a famous deed,
And beene renown'd from East to Westerne Shore,
Or Shepheards skill i'th' course of Heaven to know,
When this Starre falls, when that it selfe doth show.

Batte.

Shepheard, these things beene all to coy for mee,
Whose youth is spent in jollity and mirth,
Syke hidden Arts beene better fitting thee,
Whose dayes are fast declining to the Earth:
Mayst thou suppose that I shall ere endure,
To follow that no pleasure can procure?

These beene for such them Votarie doe make,
And doe accept the Mantle and the Ring,
And the long Night continually doe wake,
Musing, themselves how they to Heaven may bring,
That whisper still of sorrow in their Bed,
And doe despise both Love and Lusty-head.

Like to the Curre with anger well-neere wood,
Who makes his Kennell in the Oxes stall,
And snarleth when he seeth him take his food,
And yet his Chaps can chew no Hay at all:
Borril, even so it with thy state doth fare,
And with all those that such like Wisards are.

554

Borril.

Sharpe is the Thorne, soone I perceive by thee,
Bitter the Blossome when the Fruit is sowre,
And earely crook'd that will a Camocke bee;
Lowd is the Wind before a stormy Showre:
Pity thy Wit should be so much misse-led,
And thus ill guided by a giddy Head.

Ah, foolish Elfe, I at thy madnesse grieve,
That art abus'd by thy lewd braine-sicke Will,
Those hidden baits that canst not yet perceive,
Nor find the cause that breedeth all thy ill,
Thou think'st all gold, that hath a golden show,
But art deceiv'd, and that I truely know.

Such one art thou, as is the little Fly,
Who is so Crowse and Gamesome with the flame,
Till with her bus'nesse and her nicitie,
Her nimble Wings are scortched with the same:
Then falls shee downe with pitious buzzing note,
And in the Fire doth sindge her mourning Coate.

Batte.

Alas, good Man, thou now beginst to rave,
Thy Wits doe erre and misse the Cushion quite,
Because thy Head is gray, and Words be grave,
Thou think'st thereby to draw me from delight;
Tush, I am young, nor sadly can I sit,
But must doe all that Youth and Love befit.

Thy backe is crook'd, thy Knees doe bend for Age,
Whil'st I am swift and nimble as the Roe,
Thou, like a Bird, art shut up in a Cage,
And in the Fields I wander to and fro;
Thou must doe penance for thy old misdeeds,
On the Worlds joyes, the whil'st my fancy feeds.

555

Say what thou canst, yet me it shall not let:
For why, my fancy strayneth me so sore,
That Day and Night my mind is wholly set,
How to enjoy, and please my Paramore:
Onely on Love, I set my whole delight,
The Summers Day, and all the Winters Night.

That pretty Cupid, little God of Love,
Whose imped Wings with speckled Plumes are dight,
Who woundeth Men below, and Gods above,
Roving at randon with his fethered flight:
Whilst lovely Venus stands to give the ayme,
Smiling to see her wanton Bantlings game.

Upon my Staffe his Statue will I carve,
His Bow and Quiver on his winged Backe;
His forked heads for such as them deserve,
And not of his one implement shall lacke,
And in her Coach faire Cypria set above,
Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Dove.

And under them Thisbe of Babylon,
With Cleopatra Egypts chiefe renowne,
Phillis that dy'd for love of Demophon,
And lovely Dido, Queene of Carthage Towne:
Who ever held God Cupids Lawes so deare,
To whom we offer Sacrifice each yeere.

Borril.

A wilfull Boy, thy folly now I find,
And it is hard a Fooles talke to endure,
Thou art as deafe, as thy poore God is blind,
Such as the Saint, such is the Serviture.
Then of this Love, wilt please thee heare a Song,
That's to the purpose, though it be not long?

556

Batte.

Borril, sing on, I pray thee, let us heare,
That I may laugh to see thee shake thy Beard,
But take heed, Shepheard, that thy voyce be cleere,
Or (by my Hood) thou'lt make us all afeard,
Or 'tis a doubt that thou wilt fright our Flocks,
When they shall heare thee barke so like a Fox.

Borril.
Now, fie upon thee, wayward Love,
Wo to Venus which did nurse thee,
Heaven and Earth thy plagues doe prove,
Gods and Men have cause to curse thee.
What art thou but th'extremest madnesse,
Natures first and only errour,
That consum'st our dayes in sadnesse,
By the minds continuall terrour:
Walking in Cymerian blindnesse,
In thy courses voyd of Reason,
Sharpe reproofe thy only kindnesse,
In thy trust the highest Treason?
Both the Nymph and ruder Swaine,
Vexing with continuall anguish,
Which dost make the old complaine,
And the young to pine and languish:
Who thee keepes his care doth nurse,
That seducest all to folly,
Blessing, bitterly doest curse,
Tending to destruction wholly:
Thus of thee as I began,
So againe, I make an end,
Neither God, neither Man,
Neither Faiery, neither Fiend.

557

Batte.

Now surely, Shepheard, here's a goodly Song,
Upon my word, I never heard a worse;
Away, old Foole, and learne to rule thy tongue,
I would thy Clap were shut up in my Purse,
It is thy life, if thou mayst scold and brawle,
Though in thy words there be no wit at all.

And for the wrong that thou to Love hast done,
I will revenge it, and deferre no time,
And in this manner as thou hast begun,
I will recite thee a substantiall Rime,
That to thy teeth sufficiently shall prove,
There is no power to be compar'd to Love.

Borril.
Come on, good Boy, I pray thee let us heare,
Much will be said, and nev'r a whit the neere.

Batte.
What is Love, but the desire
Of that thing the fancy pleaseth?
A holy and resistlesse fire,
Weake and strong, alike that ceaseth,
Which not Heaven hath power to let,
Nor wise Nature cannot smother.
Whereby Phœbus doth beget
On the universall Mother,
That the everlasting Chaine,
Which together all things tyed,
And unmov'd doth them retayne,
And by which they shall abide:
That concent we cleerly find,
Which doth things together draw,
And so strong in every kind,
Subjects them to Natures Law,

558

Whose high Vertue number teaches,
In which every thing doth moove,
From the lowest depth that reaches,
To the height of Heaven above:
Harmony that wisely found,
When the cunning hand doth strike,
Whereas every amorous sound,
Sweetly marries with the like.
The tender Cattell scarcely take,
From their Damm's the Fields to prove,
But each seeketh out a Make,
Nothing lives that doth not love:
Not so much as but the Plant,
As Nature every thing doth paire,
By it if the Male doe want,
Doth dislike and will not beare:
Nothing then is like to Love,
In the which all Creatures be,
From it ne'r let me remove,
Nor let it remove from me.

Borril.

Remove from thee? Alas, poore silly Lad,
To soone shalt thou be weary of thy Ghest:
For where he rules, no Reason can be had,
That is an open enemie to rest:
I grieve to thinke, e'r many yeeres be spent,
How much thou shalt thy time in love repent.

Batte.

Gramercie, Borril, for thy companie,
For all thy Jests, and all thy merrie Bourds,
Upon thy judgement much I shall relie,
Because I find such Wisdome in thy words:
Would I might watch, when ever thou dost ward,
So much thy love and Friendship I regard.

559

THE EIGHTH EGLOGUE. It joyes me, Gorbo, yet we meet at last

Perkin.

It joyes me, Gorbo, yet we meet at last,
'Tis many a Mon'th since I the Shepheard saw,
Me thinkes thou look'st as thou wert much agast,
What is't so much that should thy courage awe?
What, man? Have Patience, Wealth will come and go,
And to the end the World shall ebbe and flow.

The valiant man, whose thoughts be firmly placed,
And sees sometime how Fortune list to rage,
That by her frownes he would not be disgraced,
By Wisdome his straight Actions so doth gage,
That when she fawnes, and turnes her squinting eye,
He laughes to scorne her loose Inconstancie.

When as the Cullian, and the viler Clowne,
That like the Swine on Draffe sets his desire,
Feeling the tempest, sadly layes him downe,
Whilst that blind Strumpet treads him in the mire:
Yet tasting Weale, the Beast will quickly bray,
But feeling wo, as soone consumes away.

Gorbo.

Perkin, I thy Philosophie approve,
And know who well hath learn'd her sacred wayes,
The stormes of Fortune not so easly move,
With her high Precepts arm'd at all assayes,
When other folke her force may not indure,
Because they want that Med'cine for their cure.

Yet altogether blam'd let me not passe,
Though often I, and worthily admire,
Wisemen disgraced, and the barbarous Asse
Unto high place and dignitie aspire:
What should I say, that Fortune is to blame?
Or unto what should I impute the shame?

560

Perkin.

Why, she is Queene here of this World below,
That at her pleasure all things doth dispose,
And blind, her gifts as blindly doth bestow,
Yet where she raises, still she overthrowes:
Therefore her Embleme is a turning Wheele,
From whose high top the high soon'st downward reele.

Gave she her gifts to vertuous men and wise,
Shee should confirme this worldly state so sure,
That very Babes her Godhead would despise,
Nor longer here her Government endure:
Best she may give from whom she ever takes,
Fooles she may marre, for Fooles she ever makes.

For her owne sake we Wisdome must esteeme,
And not how other basely her regard:
For howsoe'r disgraced she doth seeme,
Yet she her owne is able to reward,
And none are so essentially hie,
As those that on her bountie doe relie.

Gorbo.
O but, good Shepheard, tell me where beene they,
That as a God did Vertue so adore?
And for her Impes did with such care purvey?
Ah, but in vaine, their want we doe deplore,
Long time since swaddled in their winding Sheet:
And she I thinke is buried at their feet.

Perkin.

Nay, stay, good Gorbo, Vertue is not dead,
Nor beene her friends gone all that wonned here,
But to a Nymph, for succour she is fled,
Which her doth cherish, and most holdeth deare,
In her sweet bosome she hath built her Nest,
And from the World, there doth she live at rest.

561

This is that Nymph, on that great Westerne Waste
Her Flocks far whither then the driven Snow,
Faire Shepherdesse, cleere

A River running by Wilton, neere to the Plaine of Salisburie.

Willies bankes that grac'd,
Yet she them both for purenesse doth out-goe:
To whom all Shepheards dedicate their Layes,
And on her Altars offer up their Bayes.

Sister, sometime she to that Shepheard was,
That yet for piping never had his Peere,
Elphin, that did all other Swaines surpasse,
To whom she was of living things most deare,
And on his Death-bed by his latest Will,
To her bequeth'd the Secrets of his Skill.

Gorbo.

May we yet hope then in their weaker kind,
That there be some, poore Shepheards that respect:
The World else universally inclin'd,
To such an inconsiderate neglect,
And the rude times their ord'rous matter fling,
Into the sacred and once hallowed Spring.

Women be weake, and subject most to change,
Nor long to any can they stedfast bee,
And as their Eyes, their Minds doe ever range,
With every object varying that they see:
Think'st thou in them that possibly can live,
Which Nature most denyeth them to give?

No other is the stedfastnesse of those,
On whom even Nature will us to rely,
Fraile is it that the Elements compose,
Such is the state of all mortalitie,
That as the humour in the bloud doth move,
Lastly doe hate, what lately they did love.

So did great Olcon, which a Phœbus seem'd,
Whom all good Shepheards gladly flock'd about,
And as a God of Rowland was esteem'd,
Which to his prayse drew all the rurall Rout:
For, after Rowland, as it had beene Pan,
Onely to Olcon every Shepheard ran.

562

But he forsakes the Heard-groome and his Flocks,
Nor of his Bag-pipes takes at all no keepe,
But to the sterne Wolfe and deceitfull Fox,
Leaves the poore Shepheard and his harmelesse Sheepe,
And all those Rimes that he of Olcon sung,
The Swayne disgrac'd, participate his wrong.

Perkin.

Then since the Worlds distemp'rature is such,
And Man made blind by her deceitfull show,
Small Vertue in their weaker Sexe is much,
And to it in them much the Muses owe,
And praysing some may happily inflame,
Others in time with liking of the same.

As those two Sisters most discreetly wise,
That Vertues hests religiously obey,
Whose prayse my skill is wanting to comprize,
Th'eld'st of which is that good Panape,
In shadie Arden her deare Flocke that keepes,
Where mournefull Ankor

A River in the Confines of Warwick and Lestershire, in some parts deviding the Shires.

for her sicknesse weepes.

The yonger then, her Sister not lesse good,
Bred where the other lastly doth abide,
Modest Idea, flowre of Womanhood,
That Rowland hath so highly Deifide:
Whom Phœbus Daughters worthily prefer,
And give their gifts aboundantly to her.

Driving her Flocks up to the fruitfull

A Mountaine neer Cotswold.

Meene,
Which daily lookes upon the lovely Stowre,
Neere to that

The Vale of Evsham.

Vale, which of all Vales is Queene,
Lastly, forsaking of her former Bowre:
And of all places holdeth Cotswold deere,
Which now is proud, because shee lives it neere.

563

Then is deere Sylvia one the best alive,
That once in

A part of Staffordshire, famous for breeding Cattell.

Moreland by the silver Trent,
Her harmelesse Flockes as harmelesly did drive,
But now allured to the Fields of Kent:
The faithfull'st Nymph where ever that shee wonne,
That at this day, doth live under the Sunne.

Neere

A River falling at Dertford, into the Thames.

Ravensburne in Cotage low shee lyes,
There now content her calme repose to take,
The perfect cleerenesse of whose lovely eyes,
Hath oft inforc'd the Shepheards to forsake
Their Flocks, and Folds, and on her set their keepe,
Yet her chaste thoughts still settled on her Sheepe.

Then that deare Nymph that in the Muses joyes,
That in wild

A Forrest in Lestershire.

Charnwood with her Flocks doth goe,
Mirtilla, Sister to those hopefull Boyes,
My loved Thirsis, and sweet Palmeo:
That oft to

A River under the same Forrest.

Soar the Southerne Shepheards bring,
Of whose cleere waters they divinely sing.

So good shee is, so good likewise they bee,
As none to her might brother be but they,
Nor none a Sister unto them, but shee,
To them for wit few like, I dare well say:
In them as nature truely meant to show,
How neere the first, shee in the last could goe.

Gorbo.
Shepheard, their prayse thou dost so cleerely sing,
That even when Groves their Nightingales shall want,
Nor Valleyes heard with rurall notes to ring:
And every-where when Shepheards shall be scant:
Their names shall live from memorie unrazed,
Of many a Nymph and gentle Shepheards praised.

564

THE NINTH EGLOGUE. Late 'twas in June, the Fleece when fully growne

Late 'twas in June, the Fleece when fully growne,
In the full compasse of the passed yeere,
The Season well by skilfull Shepheards knowne,
That them provide immediately to sheere.

Their Lambes late wax't so lusty and so strong,
That time did them their Mothers Teats forbid,
And in the fields the common flocks among,
Eate of the same Grasse that the greater did.

When not a Shepheard any thing that could,
But greaz'd his start-ups blacke as Autumns Sloe,
And for the better credit of the Wold,
In their fresh Russets every one doth goe.

Who now a Posie pins not in his Cap?
And not a Garland Baldricke-wise doth weare?
Some, of such Flowers as to his hand doth hap,
Others, such as a secret meaning beare:

He from his Lasse him Lavander hath sent,
Shewing her Love, and doth requitall crave,
Him Rosemary his Sweet-heart, whose intent,
Is that, he her should in remembrance have.

Roses, his youth and strong desire expresse,
Her Sage, doth shew his soverainty in all,
The July-Flowre declares his gentlenesse,
Time, Truth, the Pansie, Harts-ease Maydens call:

In Cotes such simples, simply in request,
Wherewith proud Courts in greatnesse scorne to mell,
For Countrey toyes become the Countrey best,
And please poore Shepheards, and become them well.

When the new-wash'd flocke from the rivers side,
Comming as white as Januaries Snow,
The Ram with Nose-gaies beares his Hornes in pride,
And no lesse brave, the Bell-wether doth goe.

565

After their faire flocks in a lusty rowt,
Came the gay Swaynes with Bag-pipes strongly blowne,
And busied, though this solemne sport about,
Yet had each one an eye unto his owne.

And by the ancient Statutes of the Field,
He that his Flocks the earlyest Lambe should bring,
(As it fell out then, Rowlands charge to yeeld)
Alwayes for that yeere was the Shepheards King.

And soone preparing for the Shepheards Boord,
Upon a Greene that curiously was squar'd,
With Country Cates be'ng plentifully stor'd:
And 'gainst their comming handsomely prepar'd:

New Whig, with Water from the cleerest streame,
Greene Plummes, and Wildings, Cherries chiefe of Feast,
Fresh Cheese, and Dowsets, Curds and clowted Creame,
Spic'd Syllibubs, and Sider of the best:

And to the same downe solemnely they sit,
In the fresh shaddow of their Summer Bowres,
With sundrie sweets them every way to fit,
The Neighb'ring Vale dispoyled of her Flowres.

And whil'st together merry thus they make,
The Sunne to West a little 'gan to leane,
Which the late fervour, soone againe did slake,
When as the Nymphs came forth upon the Plaine,

Here might you many a Shepheardesse have seene,
Of which no place, as Cotswold, such doth yeeld,
Some of it native, some for love I weene,
Thither were come from many a fertill Field.

There was the Widdowes Daughter of the Glen,
Deare Rosalynd, that scarsly brook'd compare,
The Moreland-Mayden, so admir'd of Men,
Bright Goldy-Locks, and Phillida the faire.

566

Lettice and Parnel, pretty lovely Peates,
Cusse of the Fold, the Virgin of the Well,
Faire Ambry with the Alablaster Teates,
And more, whose Names were here to long to tell.

Which now came forward following their Sheepe,
Their batning Flocks on grassy Leaes to hold,
Thereby from skathe, and perill them to keepe,
Till Evening come that it were time to fold.

When now, at last, as lik'd the Shepheards King,
(At whose command they all obedient were)
Was pointed, who the Roundelay should sing,
And who againe the under-Song should beare:

The first whereof he Batte doth bequeath,
A wittier Wag on all the Wold's not found,
Gorbo, the Man, that him should sing beneath,
Which his lowd Bag-pipe skilfully could sound.

Who amongst all the Nymphs that were in sight,
Batte his daintie Daffadil there mist,
Which, to enquire of, doing all his might,
Him his Companion kindly doth assist.

Batte.

Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way,
By yonder little Hill,
Or, as thou, through the Fields didst stray,
Saw'st thou my Daffadil?

Shee's in a Frocke of Lincolne greene,
Which colour likes her sight,
And never hath her beautie seene,
But through a vale of white.

Then Roses richer to behold,
That trim up Lovers Bowres,
The Pansie and the Marigold,
Tho Phœbus Paramours.

567

Gorbo.

Thou well describ'st the Daffadill,
It is not full an houre,
Since, by the Spring, neere yonder Hill,
I saw that lovely Flowre.

Batte.

Yet my faire Flowre thou didst not meet,
Nor newes of her didst bring,
And yet my Daffadil's more sweet,
Then that by yonder Spring.

Gorbo.

I saw a Shepheard that doth keepe,
In yonder Field of Lillies,
Was making (as he fed his Sheepe)
A Wreathe of Daffadillies.

Batte.

Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still,
My Flowre thou didst not see,
For, know, my pretty Daffadil
Is worne of none but mee.

To shew it selfe but neere her seate,
No Lilly is so bold,
Except to shade her from the heate,
Or keepe her from the cold.

Gorbo.

Through yonder Vale as I did pass,
Descending from the Hill,
I met a smerking bonny Lasse,
They call her Daffadil:

Whose presence, as along shee went,
The pretty Flowres did greet,
As though their Heads they downeward bent,
With homage to her feet.

And all the Shepheards that were nie,
From top of every Hill,
Unto the Valleyes lowd did crie,
There goes sweet Daffadil.

Batte.

I, gentle Shepheard, now with joy
Thou all my Flocks dost fill,
That's shee alone, kind Shepheards Boy,
Let us to Daffadil.

568

The easie turnes and queyntnesse of the Song,
And slight occasion whereupon 'twas rays'd,
Not one this jolly company among,
(As most could well judge) highly that not prays'd.

When Motto next with Perkin pay their debt,
The Moreland Mayden Sylvia that espy'd,
From th'other Nymphes a little that was set,
In a neere Valley by a Rivers side.

Whose soveraigne Flowres her sweetnesse well expres'd,
And honour'd sight a little them not moved:
To whom their Song they reverently addres'd,
Both as her loving, both of her beloved.

Motto.

Tell me, thou skilfull Shepheards Swayne,
Who's yonder in the Valley set?

Perkin.

O, it is shee, whose sweets doe stayne
The Lilly, Rose, the Violet.

Motto.

Why doth the Sunne against his kind,
Stay his bright Chariot in the Skies?

Perkin.

He pawseth, almost strooken blind,
With gazing on her heavenly Eyes.

Motto.

Why doe thy Flocks forbeare their food,
Which sometime was their chiefe delight?

Perkin.

Because they neede no other good,
That live in presence of her sight.

Motto.

How come those Flowres to flourish still,
Not withering with sharpe Winters breath?

Perkin.

Shee hath rob'd Nature of her skill,
And comforts all things with her breath.

Motto.

Why slide these Brookes so slow away,
As swift as the wild Roe that were?

Perkin.

O, muse not Shepheard, that they stay,
When they her Heavenly voice doe heare.

569

Motto.

From whence come all these goodly Swaynes,
And lovely Girles attyr'd in Greene?

Perkin.

From gathering Garlands on the Playnes,
To crowne thy Syl: our Shepheards Queene.

Motto.

The Sunne that lights this World below,
Flocks, Brooks, and Flowres, can witnesse beare.

Perkin.

These Shepheards, and these Nymphs doe know,
Thy Sylvia is as chaste, as faire.

Lastly, it came unto the Clownish King,
Who, to conclude, this Shepheards yeerely feast,
Bound as the rest, his Roundelay to sing,
As all the other him were to assist.

When shee (whom then, they little did expect,
The fayrest Nymph that ever kept in field)
Idea, did her sober pace direct
Towards them, with joy that every one beheld.

And whereas other drave their carefull keepe,
Hers did her follow, duely at her will,
For, through her patience shee had learnt her Sheepe,
Where ere shee went, to wait upon her still.

A Milke-white Dove upon her hand shee brought,
So tame, 'twould goe, returning at her call,
About whose necke was in a Choller wrought,
Only like Me, my Mistris hath no Gall.

To whom her Swayne (unworthy though he were)
Thus unto her his Roundelay applyes,
To whom the rest the under part did beare,
Casting upon her their still-longing Eyes.

Rowland.

Of her pure Eyes (that now is seene,)

Chorus.

Come, let us sing, yee faithfull Swaynes.

Rowland.

O, shee alone the Shepheards Queene.

Chorus.

Her Flocke that leades,
The Goddesse of these Meades,
These Mountaynes and these Playnes.

570

Rowland.

Those Eyes of Hers that are more cleere,

Chorus.

Then can poore Shepheards Songs expresse,

Rowland.

Then be his Beames that rules the Yeere.

Chorus.

Fie on that prayse,
In striving things to rayse:
That doth but make them lesse.

Rowland.

That doe the Flowry Spring prolong.

Chorus.

So all things in her sight doe joy,

Rowland.

And keepes the plenteous Summer young:

Chorus.

And doe asswage
The wrathfull Winters rage,
That would our Flocks annoy.

Rowland.

Jove saw her brest that naked lay,

Chorus.

A sight most fit for Jove to see:

Rowland.

And swore it was the Milkie way,

Chorus.

Of all most pure,
The Path (we us assure)
To his bright Court to bee.

Rowland.

He saw her Tresses hanging downe,

Chorus.

That moved with the gentle Ayre,

Rowland.

And said that Ariadnes Crowne,

Chorus.

With those compar'd,
The Gods should not regard,
Nor Berenices Haire.

Rowland.

When shee hath watch'd my Flocks by night,

Chorus.

O happy Flocks that shee did keepe,

Rowland.

They never needed Cynthia's light,

Chorus.

That soon gave place,
Amazed with her grace,
That did attend thy Sheepe.

Rowland.

Above, where Heavens high glories are,

Chorus.

When shee is placed in the skies,

Rowland.

Shee shall be call'd the Shepheards Starre,

Chorus.

And evermore,
We Shepheards will adore
Her setting and her rise.

571

THE TENTH EGLOGUE. What time the wearie weather-beaten Sheepe

What time the wearie weather-beaten Sheepe,
To get them Fodder, hie them to the Fold,
And the poore Heards that lately did them keepe,
Shuddred with keenenesse of the Winters cold:
The Groves of their late Summer pride forlorne,
In mossie Mantles sadly seem'd to mourne.

That silent time, about the upper World,
Phœbus had forc'd his fierie-footed Teame,
And downe againe the steepe Olympus whurld,
To wash his Chariot in the Westrene streame,
In Nights blacke shade, when Rowland all alone,
Thus him complaines his fellow Shepheard's gone.

You flames, quoth he, wherewith thou Heaven art dight,
That me (alive) the wofull'st Creature view,
You, whose aspects have wrought me this despight,
And me with hate, yet ceaslesly pursue,
For whom too long I tarryed for reliefe,
Now aske but Death, that onely ends my griefe.

Yearly my Vowes, O Heavens, have I not paid,
Of the best Fruits, and Firstlings of my Flock?
And oftentimes have bitterly invayde,
'Gainst them that you prophanely dar'd to mock?
O, who shall ever give what is your due,
If mortall man be uprighter then you?

If the deepe sighes of an afflicted brest,
O'rwhelm'd with sorrow, or th'erected eyes
(Of a poore Wretch with miseries opprest)
For whose complaints, teares never could suffice,
Have not the power your Deities to move,
Who shall e'r looke for succour from above?

572

O Night, how still obsequious have I beene
To thy slow silence whispering in thine eare,
That thy pale Soveraigne often hath beene seene,
Stay to behold me sadly from her Spheare,
Whilst the slow minutes duly I have told,
With watchfull eyes attending on my Fold.

How oft by thee the solitary Swayne,
Breathing his passion to the early spring,
Hath left to heare the Nightingale complaine,
Pleasing his thoughts alone, to heare me sing!
The Nymphes forsooke their places of abode,
To heare the sounds that from my Musicke flow'd.

To purge their Springs and sanctifie their Grounds,
The simple Shepheards learned I the meane,
And Soveraine simples to their use I found,
Their teeming Eawes to helpe when they did yeane:
Which when againe in summer time they share,
Their wealthy Fleece my cunning did declare.

In their warme Coates whilst they have soundly slept,
And pass'd the Night in many a pleasant Bowre,
On the Bleake Mountaines I their Flocks have kept,
And bid the Brunt of many a cruell showre,
Warring with Beasts in safety mine to keepe;
So true was I, and carefull of my Sheepe.

Fortune and Time, why tempted you me forth,
With those your flattering promises of Grace,
Fickle, so falsly to abuse my worth,
And now to flie me, whom I did imbrace?
Both that at first incourag'd my desire,
Lastly against me lewdly doe conspire.

Or Nature, didst thou prodigally waste
Thy gifts on me infortunatest Swayne,
Only thereby to have thy selfe disgrac'd?
Vertue in me why was thou plac'd in vaine?
If to the World predestined a prey,
Thou wert too good to have beene cast away.

573

Ther's not a Grove that wondreth not my wo,
Nor not a River weepes not at my tale,
I heare the Eccho's (wandring to and fro)
Resound my griefe through every Hill and Dale,
The Birds and Beasts yet in their simple kinde
Lament for me, no pittie else that finde.

None else there is gives comfort to my griefe,
Nor my mis-haps amended with my mone,
When Heaven and Earth have shut up all reliefe,
Nor care availes what curelesse now is growne:
And teares I finde doe bring no other good,
But as new Showres increase the rising Floud.

When on an old Tree, under which ere now,
He many a merry Roundelay had sung,
Upon a leavelesse Canker-eaten Bow,
His well-tun'd Bag-pipe carelesly he hung:
And by the same, his Sheepe-Hooke, once of price,
That had beene carv'd with many a rare device.

He call'd his Dog, (that sometime had the prayse)
Whitefoote, well knowne to all that kept the Playne,
That many a Wolfe had werried in his dayes,
A better Curre, there never followed Swayne:
Which, though as he his Masters sorrowes knew,
Wag'd his cut Taile, his wretched plight to rue.

Poore Curre, quoth he, and him therewith did stroke,
Goe, to our Cote, and there thy selfe repose,
Thou with thine Age, my Heart with sorrow broke:
Be gone, ere Death my restlesse Eyes doe close,
The Time is come, thou must thy Master leave,
Whom the vile World shall never more deceave.

With folded Armes thus hanging downe his Head,
He gave a grone, his Heart in sunder cleft,
And as a Stone, alreadie seemed dead,
Before his Breath was fully him bereft:
The faithfull Swayne, here lastly made an end,
Whom all good Shepheards ever shall defend.

FINIS.

574

THE MAN IN THE MOONE.

Of all the Tales that ever have beene told,
By homely Shepheards lately, or of old,
The Mooned Man, although the last in place,
Is not the last, And thus befell the case.
It was the time when (for their good Estate)
The thankefull Shepheards yeerely celebrate
A Feast, and Bone-fires on the Vigills keepe,
To the Great Pan, preserver of their Sheepe:
Which whilst in high solemnity they spend,
Lastly the long day grew unto an end:
When as by Night with a devout intent,
About the Field Religiously they went,

Men by sorcerie turning themselves into Wolves.

With hollowing Charmes the Warwolfe thence to fray,
That them and theirs awayted to betray.

And now the Sunne neere halfe his course had run
Under the Earth, when comming every one,
Backe to the place where usually they met,
And on the Ground together being set:
It was agreed to passe away the time,
That some one Shepheard should rehearse some Rime:
Long as they could their drowping hearts to glad,
Blame not poore Swaynes, though inly they were sad,
For some amongst them perfectly there knew,
That the sad tymes were shortly to ensue,
When they of all the sorts of men neglected,
In barren Fields should wander unrespected.
For carefull Shepheards that doe watch by Night,
In the vast Ayre see many a fearefull sight:
From whose observance they doe wisely gather
The change of Times, as well as of the weather.

But whilst they strove this Story who should tell,
Amongst the rest to Rowlands Lot it fell,
By generall voyce, in time that then was growne,
So excellent, that scarce there had bin knowne
Him that exceld in Piping or in Song:
When not a Man the company among

575

That was not silent. Now the goodly Moone
Was in the Full, and at her Nighted Noone,
Shew'd her great Glory, shining now so bright,
Quoth Rowland, Shee that gently lends us light
Shall be our Subject, and her Love alone,
Borne to a Shepheard, Wise Endimion,
Sometime on Latmus that his Flocke did keepe,

A Mountayne of Ionia: where Endimion is fayned to have enjoyed the Moone.

Rapted that was in admiration deepe
Of her perfections, that he us'd to ly,
All the long night contemplating the Sky,
At her high beauties: often of his store,
As to the God he only did adore,
And sacrific'd: shee perfect in his love,
“For the high Gods inthronized above:
“From their cleere Mansions plainly doe behold,
“All that frayle man doth in this grosser Mold:
For whom bright Cynthia gliding from her Spheare,
Used oft times to recreate her there:
That oft her want unto the World was strange,
Fearing that Heaven the wonted course would change,
And Phœbus, her oft missing did inquire,
If that elsewhere she borrowed other fire:
But let them doe to crosse her what they could,
Downe unto Latmus every Month shee would.
So that in Heaven about it there was ods,
And as a question troubled all the Gods,
Whether without their generall consent,
She might depart, but nath'lesse, to prevent
Her Lawlesse course, they laboured all in vayne,
Nor could their Lawes her liberty restraine:
For of the Seven, since shee the lowest was,
Unto the Earth nought hindred her to passe:
Before the rest of which she had the Charge,
No lesse her Power was in the Waters large:
From her deriving naturally their Source:
Besides shee being swiftest in her course,
Of all the Planets, therefore him defies,
That her, her ancient liberty denies.

576

That many a time apparelled in Greene,
Arm'd with her Dart, she Huntresse-like was seene:
Her Hayre tuck'd up in many a curious pleate,
Sometimes in Fields found feeding of her Neate,
A Countrey Mayden, then amongst the Swaynes,
A Shepheardesse, she kept upon the Playnes;
Yet no disguise her Deity could smother,
So farre in beauty she excelled other:
Such was the Vertue of the World, that then
The Gods did use t'accompany with Men,
In Humane Shapes, descending from their Powers,
Often were seene in homely Shepheards Bowers.
But he her course that studied still to know,
Muse not though oft he malcontent did goe,
Seldome in one state that her ever found,

Pro vario ad solem aspectu varias induit figuras.

Horned sometime, now halfe-fac'd, and then round,
Shining on that part, then another more,
Then there most darkned, where most light before,
Now all Night shining, now a piece and then,
Observes the Day, and in her course agen,
Sometime to South, then Northward she doth stirre,
Him so amazing, he supposed her
Vayne and inconstant, now herselfe t'attyre,
And helpe her beauties with her Brothers fire,
When most of all accomplish'd is her face,
A sudden darkenesse doth her quite disgrace.
For that the earth by nature cold and dry,
By the much grosenesse and obscurity,

Eclip. Lunæ.

Whose Globe exceeds her compasse being fixt,
Her Surface and her Brothers Beames betwixt:
Within whose shaddow when she haps to fall,
Forceth her Darkenesse to be generall;
That he resolv'd she ever would be strange:
Yet marking well he found upon her change,
If that her Brow with bloudy Red were staynd,
Tempests soone after, and if blacke, it raind:
By his observance that he well discern'd,
That from her course things greater might be learn'd.

577

Whilst that his brayne he busied yet doth keepe,
Now from the Splene the Melancholy deepe,
Pierceth the Veynes, and like a raging Floud,
Rudely it selfe extending through the Bloud,
Appaulls the spirits denying their defence,

The depth of Contemplation.

Unto the Organs, when as every sence
Ceaseth the Office, then the labouring Minde,
Strongest in that which all the Powers doth binde,
Strives to high knowledge, being in this plight,
Now the Sunnes Sister, Mistris of the Night,
His sad desires long languishing to cheare,
Thus at the last on Latmus doth appeare,
Her Brothers Beames inforc'd to lay aside,
Her selfe for his sake seeming to divide.
For had she come appareld in her light,

The exaltation of the Moone in Taurus, therefore not improperly said to ride upon a Bull.

Then should the Swayne have perish'd in her sight.
Upon a Bull as white as Milke she rode,
Which like a Huntresse bravely shee bestrode,
Her Brow with beautie gloriously repleat,
Her count'nance lovely with a swelling Teat;
Gracing her broad Brest curiously inchaste,
With branched Veynes all bared to the Waste.
Over the same she ware a Vapour thin,
Thorow the which her Cleere and dainty Skin,
To the beholder amiably did show,
Like Damaske Roses lightly clad in Snow.
Her Bow and Quiver at her Backe behinde,
That easly mooving with the wanton Winde,
Made a soft rustling, such as you doe heare,
Amongst the Reedes some gliding River neare,
Whence the fierce Boreas thorow them doth Ride,
Against whose Rage the hollow Canes doe chide;
Which breath, her Mantle amorously did swell,

In this supposed Mantle is described the surface of a Sea and Land in Lantskip.

From her straight Shoulders carelesly that fell.
Now here, now there, now up and downe that flew,
Of sundry Coloures, wherein you might view
A Sea, that somewhat straitned by the Land,
Two furious Tydes raise their ambitious Hand,

578

One 'gainst the other, warring in their Pride,
Like two fond Worldlings that themselves devide
For some slight Trifle, opposite in all,
Till both together ruined, they fall.
Some comming in, some out againe doe goe,
And the same way, and the same Winde doth blowe,
Both Sayles their course each labouring to prefer,
By th'Hand of eithers helpefull Marriner:
Outragious Tempest, Shipwracks over-spread
All the rude Neptune, whilst that pale-fac'd dread
Ceaseth the Ship-boy, that his strength doth put
The Ancored Cable presently to cut.
All above Boord, the sturdy Eolous casts
Into the wide Seas, whilst on Planks and Masts
Some say to swim: and there you might behold,
Whilst the rude Waters enviously did scold,
Others upon a Promontory hie,
Thrusting his Blue top through the bluer Skie,
Looking upon those lost upon the Seas,
Like Worldly Rich men that doe sit at ease,
Whilst in this vayne World others live in strife,
Warring with sorrow every-where so rife:
And oft amongst the Monsters of the Maine,
Their horrid Foreheads through the Billows straine,
Into the vast Aire driving on their Brests,
The troubled Water, that so ill disgests
Their sway, that it them enviously assailes,
Hanging with white Jawes on their Marble Scales;
And in another in-land part agen,
Were Springs, Lakes, Rivers, Marishes and Fen,
Wherein all kinds of Water-fowle did wonne,
Each in their colours excellently done,
The greedie Sea-maw fishing for the fry,
The hungry Shell-fowle, from whose rape doth flye
Th'unnumbred sholes, the Mallard there did feed.
The Teale and Morecoot raking in the Weed,
And in a Creeke where waters least did stirre,
Set from the rest the nimble Divedopper,

579

That comes and goes so quickly and so oft,
As seemes at once both under and aloft:
The jealous Swan, there swimming in his pride,
With his arch'd brest the Waters did divide,
His saily wings him forward strongly pushing,
Against the billowes with such furie rushing,
As from the same, a fome so white arose,
As seem'd to mocke the brest that them oppose:
And here and there the wandring eye to feed,
Oft scattered tufts of Bul-rushes and Reed,
Segges, long-leav'd Willow, on whose bending spray,
The pide Kings-fisher, having got his prey,
Sate with the small breath of the water shaken,
Till he devour'd the Fish that he had taken.
The long-neck'd Herne, there watching by the brimme,
And in a Gutter neere againe to him
The bidling Snite, the Plover on the Moore,
The Curlew, scratching in the Oose and Ore:
And there a Fowler set his Lime and ginne,
Watching the Birds unto the same to winne;
Sees in a Boat a Fisher neere at hand,
Tugging his Net full laden to the Land,
Keepe off the Fowle, whereat the others bloud
Chaf'd; from the place where secretly he stood,
Makes signes, and closely beckneth him away,
Shaketh his hand, as threatning if he stay,
In the same stayned with such naturall grace,
That rage was lively pictured in his face:
Whilst that the other eagerly that wrought,
Having his sence still settled on his draught
More than before, beats, plunges, hales the cord,
Nor but one looke the other can afford.
Buskins she ware, which of the Sea did beare
The pale greene colour, which like waved were,
To that vast Neptune, of two colours mixt,
Yet none could tell the difference was betwixt,
With Rockes of Christall lively that were set,
Covering whose feet with many a curious fret,

580

Were Groves of Corall, which not feeling weather,
Their limber branches were so lap'd together,
As one inamour'd had of other beene,
Jealous the Ayre t'have intercourse betweene:

Amber found in the Ligustick Deepes.

'Mongst which, cleere Amber jellyed seem'd to bee,
Through whose transparence you might easly see,

Pearles bred in shells.

The beds of Pearle whereon the Gum did sleepe,
Cockles, broad Scallops, and their kind that keepe
The precious Seed which of the waters come,
Some yet but thriving, when as other some,
More then the rest that strangely seeme to swell,
With the deare fruit that grew within the shell;
Others againe wide open there did yawne,
And on the Gravell spew'd their orient spawne:
That he became amazed at her sight,
Even as a man is troubled at the light
Newly awaked, and the white and red,
With his eyes twinkling, gathered and fled:
Like as a Mirrour to the Sunne oppos'd,
Within the margent equally inclos'd,
That being moved, as the hand directs,
It at one instant taketh and reflects:
For the affection by the violent heat,
Forming it passion, taketh up the seat
In the full heart, whereby the joy or feare,
That it receives either by the eye or eare,
Still as the object altereth the moode,
Either attracts, or forceth forth the bloud:
That from the chiefe part violently sent,
In either kind thereby is vehement.

Whilst the sad Shepheard in this wofull plight
Perplex'd, the Goddesse with a longing sight
Him now beheld, for worshipped by men:
The heavenly powers so likewise love agen
To shew themselves and make their glories knowne:
And one day marking when he was alone,
Unto him comming, mildly him bespake:
Quoth she, Know, Shepheard, only for thy sake,

581

I first chose Latmus, as the onely place
Of my abode, and have refus'd to grace
My Menalus, well knowne in every Coast,
To be the Mount that once I loved most:
And since alone of wretched mortals, thou
Hast laboured first my wandring course to know;
To Times succeeding thou alone shalt bee,

Endimion first found out the course of the Moone.

By whom my motion shall be taught, quoth she,
For those first simple that my face did marke,
In the full brightnesse suddenly made darke,
Ere Knowledge did the cause thereof disclose,
To be inchanted long did me suppose:
With sounding Brasse and all the while did ply,
The incantation thereby to untye.

But to our purpose, when my Mother went,
The bright Latona (and her wombe distent)

Tibul. Elegia 8. Juven. Satyr. 6. Plutar. vi. Æmi. Apollo and Phœbe, fained to bee the Twins of Jupiter, and Latona. Vide Ovidium, l. sexto Metam. & Plin. l. 27. c. 44.

With the great burden that by Jove she bare,
Me and my Brother, the great Thunderer's care:
Whom floting Delos wandring in the Maine,
From jealous Juno, hardly could containe:
Then much distress'd, and in a hard estate,
Cæus' faire Daughter by our Stepdames hate,
Betwixt a Lawrell, and an Olive Tree,
Into the World did bring the Sunne and mee.
When I was borne (as I have heard her say)
Nature alone did rest her on that day:
In Joves high House the Gods assembled all,
To whom he held a sumptuous festivall:
The Well wherein my Mother bath'd me first,
Hath that high vertue, that he shall not thirst,
Thereof that drinkes, and hath the paine appeased
Of th'inward griev'd, and outwardly diseased:
And being young, the Gods that haunt the Deepe,
Stealing to kisse me softly laid to sleepe:
And having felt the sweetnesse of my breath,
Missing me, mourn'd and languished to death:
I am the Rectresse of this Globe below,
And with my course the Sea doth ebbe and flow,

582

When from aloft my beames I oblique cast,
Straightwayes it ebbes, and floweth then as fast,
Downward againe my motion when I make:

Secundum motum diurnum singulis diebus bis fluens, bis refluens.

Twice doth it swell, twice every day doth slake,
Sooner or latter shifting of the tyde
As farre or neere my wandring course doth guide.

That kindly moysture that doth life maintayne,
In every Creature prooves how I doe raigne
In fluxive humour, which is ever found,
As I doe wane, or wax up to my round;
Those fruitfull Trees of Victorie and Peace,
The Palme, and Olive, still with my increase
Shoote forth new branches: and to tell my power,
As my great Brother, so have I a

Selenetropium, the Flowre of the Moone.

Flowre
To me peculiar, that doth ope and close,
When as I rise, and when I me repose.
No lesse then these that greene and living be,
The precious Gemmes doe sympathize with me:
As most that

The Selenite of σεληνη.

stone that doth the name derive
From me, with me that lesseneth or doth thrive,
Darkneth and shineth, as I doe, her Queene.
And as in these, in beasts my power is seene.
As he whose grimme face all the lesser feares,
The cruell Panther, on his shoulder beares
A spot, that dayly changeth as I doo,
And as that creature me affecteth too,
It whose deepe craft scarce any creature can,
Seeming in reason to devide with man,
The nimble

Cinocephalus, the Babion, or Baboon.

Babion mourning all the time,
Nor eats betwixt my waning and my prime.
The spotted Cat, whose sharpe and subtill sight
Pierceth the vapour of the blackest night,
My want and fulnesse in her eye doth find,
So great am I and powerfull in that kind.
As those great burgers of the forrest wild,
The Hart, the Goate, and

Adonis slaine by a Bore.

he that slew the child
Of wanton Mirrah, in their strength doe know
The due observance nature doth me owe.

583

And if thou thinke me heavenly not to bee,
That in my face thou often seem'st to see,
A palenesse, where those other in the skie
Appeare so purely glorious in thine eye:
Those freckles thou supposest me disgrace,
Are those pure parts that in my lovely face,
By their so much tenuity doe slight,
My Brothers Beames assisting me with light,

Partes Lunæ rariores & proinde minus lucidæ.

And keepe that cleerenesse as doth me behove,
Of that pure Heaven me set wherein to move.
My least spot seene unto the Earth so neare,
Wherefore that compasse that doth oft appeare

The cause of that circle which the Philosophers call Halo, which we oft see about the Moone.

About my Body, is the dampy Mist,
From earth arising, striving to resist
The Rayes my full Orbe plentiously projects,
On the grosse Cloud, whose thicknesse it reflects,
And mine owne light about my selfe doth fling
In equall parts, in fashion of a Ring;
For neer'st to Mortals though my state I keepe,
Yet not the colour of the troubled Deepe,
Those spots supposed, nor the Fogs that rise
From the dull Earth, me any whit agrize;
Whose perfect beauty no way can indure,
But what like me is excellently pure;
For moyst and cold although I doe respire,

Luna lumen habet congenitum.

Yet in my selfe had I not Genuine Fire,
When the grosse Earth devided hath the space,
Betwixt the full Orbe and my Brothers Face;
Though I confesse much lessned be my light,
I should be taken utterly from sight,
And for I so irregularly goe,
Therein wise nature most of all doth show
Her searchlesse judgement: for did I in all,
Keepe on in that way, which Star-gazers call
The Lyne Ecliptick, as my glorious Brother

The Line supposed to devide the Zodiake.

Doth in his course, one opposite to other;
Twise every Month, the Eclipses of our light,
Poore Mortals should prodigiously affright;

584

Yet by proportion certainely I move,
In rule of Number, and the most I love,
That which you call Full, that most perfect seven,
Of three and foure made, which for odde and even,

Numerus impar mas par fœmina.

Are Male and Female, which by mixture frame,
It most Mysterious, that as mine I clayme;
Quartered thereby, first of which Seven my Prime,
The second Seven accomplisheth the time
Unto my Fulnesse, in the third I range,
Lesning againe, the fourth then to my change:

The moneth the Yeere of the Moone.

The which foure Sevens the Eight and Twenty make,
Through the bright Girdle of the Zodiake,

The foure quarters of the moneth, resemble the foure Seasons of the Yeere, Macro.

In which I passe; whose Quarters doe appeare,
As the Foure Seasons of my Brothers Yeere.
First in my Birth am moystned as his Spring,
Hot as his Summer, he illumining
My Orbe, the Second: my Third Quarter Dry,
As is his Autumne, when from him I flye,
Depriv'd his bright Beames, and as waxing old,
Lastly, my Wane is as his Winter Cold.

Whereat shee paus'd; who all the while she spake,
The bustling Winds their murmur often brake;
And being silent seemed yet to stay,
To listen if she ought had else to say.
When now the while much troubled was his thought,
And her fayre speech so craftily had caught
Him, that the Spirits soone shaking off the loade
Of the grosse Flesh, and hating her abode;
Being throughly heated in these amorous Fires,
Wholly transported with the deare desires
Of her imbraces: for the living soule,
Being individuall, uniforme and whole,
By her unwearied faculties doth find,
That which the flesh of duller Earth by kind,
Not apprehends, and by her function makes
Good her owne state; Endimion now forsakes
All the delights that Shepheards doe preferre,
And sets his minde so gen'rally on her,

585

That all neglected to the Groves and Springs,
He followes Phœbe, that him safely brings
(As their great Queene) unto the nymphish Bowres,
Wherein cleere Rivers beautified with Flowres,
The silver Naydes bathe them in the bracke.

The Nymphes of the Waters.

Sometime with her the Sea-horse he doth backe,

Nymphes of the Sea.

Amongst the blue Nereides, and when

Nymphes of the Mountaynes.

Wearie of waters, Goddesse like agen,
She the high Mountaynes actively assayes,

Nymphes of the Woods.

And there amongst the light Oriades,
That ride the swift Roes, Phœbe doth resort,
Sometime amongst those that with them comport,
The Hamadriades doth the Woods frequent,
And there she stayes not; but incontinent,
Calls downe the Dragons that her Chariot draw,
And with Endimion pleased that she saw,
Mounteth thereon, in twinkling of an eye,
Stripping the winds, beholding from the Skye,
The Earth in roundnesse of a perfect Ball,
Which as a point but of this mightie All,
Wise Nature fix'd, that permanent doth stay,
Whereas the Spheares by a diurnall sway,
Of the first Moover carryed are about.
And how the severall Elements throughout,
Strongly infolded, and the vast Ayre spred
In sundry Regions, in the which are bred
Those strange Impressions often that appeare
To fearefull Mortalls, and the causes there,
And lightned by her piercing beames, he sees
The powerfull Planets, how in their degrees,
In their due seasons they doe fall and rise:
And how the Signes in their Triplicities,

The Signes in their triplicities, simpathize with the Elements.

Be simpathizing in their Trine consents,
With whose inferiour forming Elements,
From which our bodies the complexions take,
Natures and number: strongly and doe make
Our dispositions like them, and on Earth
The Power, the Heavens have over mortall Birth:

586

That their effects which men call Fortune, are
As is that good or in-auspicious Starre,
Which at the fraile Nativitie doth raigne.
Yet here her Love could Phœbe not containe,
And knowledge him so strongly doth inspire,
That in most plentie, more he doth desire;
Raysing him up to those excelling sights,
The glorious Heaven, where all the fixed lights,
Whose Images suppos'd to be therein,
Are fram'd of Starres, whose names did first begin
By those wise Ancients, not to stellifie
The first Worlds Heroes only, but imply
To reach their courses, for distinguished
In Constellations, a delight first bred
In slothfull Man, into the same to looke,
That from those Figures nomination tooke,
Which they resembled here on Earth below,
And the bright Phœbe subtilly doth know,
The heavenly Motions high her Orbe above,
As well as those that under her doe move.
For with long Titles doe we her invest,
So these great three most powerfull of the rest,
Phœbe, Diana, Hecate, doe tell,
Her Soveraigntie in Heaven, in Earth and Hell,
And wise Apollo, that doth franckly lend
Her his pure beames, with them doth likewise send
His wondrous knowledge, for that God most bright,

Sol, fons lucis.

King of the Planets, Fountaine of the Light:
That seeth all things, will have her to see,

Nine the most holy number.

So farre as where the sacred Angels bee.

The nine Orders of the Angels.

Those Hierarchies that Joves great will supply,
Whose Orders formed in triplicitie,
Holding their places by the treble Trine,
Make up that holy Theologike nine:
Thrones, Cherubin, and Seraphin that rise,
As the first three; when Principalities,
With Dominations, Potestates are plac'd
The second: and the Ephionian last,

587

Which Vertues, Angels, and Archangels bee.

Thus yonder Man that in the Moone you see,
Rapt up from Latmus, thus she doth preferre,
And goes about continually with her:
Over the World that every moneth doth looke,
And in the same there's scarce that secret nooke,
That he survayes not, and the places hidden,
Whence simple Truth and Candle light forbidden,
Dare not approch: he peepeth with his light,
Whereas suspicious policie by night,
Consults with Murther, basenesse at their hand,
Armed to act what ever they command:
With guiltie conscience and intent so foule,
That oft they start at whooping of an Owle,
And slily peering at a little pore,
See one sometimes content to keepe the doore:
One would not thinke the Bawd that did not know,
Such a brave bodie could descend so low.
And the base Churle, the Sunne that dare not trust,
With his old Gold, yet smelling it doth rust,
Layes it abroad, but lockes himselfe within
Three doubled lockes, or ere he dare begin
To ope his Bags, and being sure of all;
Else, yet therewith dare scarcely trust the wall:
And with a Candle in a filthy stick,
The grease not fully covering the wick;
(Pores o'r his base God) forth a flame that fryes,
Almost as dimme as his foule bleared eyes:
Yet like to a great Murtherer, that gave
Some slight reward unto some bloudie Knave,
To kill: the second secretly doth slay,
Fearing lest he the former should betray:
He the poore Candle murth'reth ere burnt out,
Because that he the secresie doth doubt;
And oftentimes the Mooned Man out-spyes,
The Eve-dropper, and circumspectly eyes
The Thiefe and Lover, specially which two,
With Night and Darknesse have the most to doe.

588

And not long since, besides this, did behold
Some of you here, when you should tend your Fold,
A Nights were wenching: thus he me doth tell.
With that, they all in such a laughter fell,
That the Field rang, when from a Village neere,
The watchfull Cocke crew, and with Notes full cleere,
The early Larke soone summoned the Day,
When they departed every one their way.

FINIS.