University of Virginia Library

The second Eglogue. Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong

Willie. Iockie.
Willie.
Iockie, say: what might he be
That sits on yonder hill?
And tooteth out his notes of glee
So vncouth and so shril?

Iockie.
Notes of glee? bad ones I trow,
I haue not heard beforne
One so mistooke as Willie now,
Tis some Sow-gelders horne.
And well thou asken mightst if I
Do know him, or from whence
He comes, that to his Minstralsie
Requires such patience.
He is a Swinward, but I thinke
No Swinward of the best.
For much he reketh of his swinke,
And carketh for his rest.

Willie.
Harme take the Swine! What makes he heere?
What lucklesse planets frownes
Haue drawne him and his Hogges in feere
To root our daisied downes.
Ill mote hee thriue! and may his Hogges
And all that ere they breed
Be euer worried by our Dogges,
For so presumptuous deed.
Why kept hee not among the Fennes,
Or in the Copses by,
Or in the Woods and braky glennes,
Where Hawes and Acornes lye?
About the Ditches of the Towne,
Or Hedge-rowes hee might bring them.

Iockie.
But then some pence 'twould cost the Clowne
To yoke and eke to ring them;
And well I weene he loues no cost
But what is for his backe:
To goe full gay him pleaseth most,
And lets his belly lacke.
Two sutes he hath, the one of blew,
The other home-spun gray:
And yet he meanes to make a new
Against next reuell day;
And though our May-lord at the feast
Seem'd very trimly clad,
In cloth by his owne mother drest,
Yet comes not neere this lad.
His bonnet neatly on his head,
With button on the top,
His shooes with strings of leather red,
And stocking to his slop.
And yet for all it comes to passe,
He not our gybing scapes:
Some like him to a trimmed Asse,
And some to Iacke-an-Apes.

Willie.
It seemeth then by what is said,
That Iockie knowes the Boore;
I would my scrip and hooke haue laid
Thou knewst him not before.

Iockie.
Sike lothed chance by fortune fell
(If fortune ought can doe):
Not kend him? Yes. I ken him well
And sometime paid for't too.

Willie.
Would Iockie euer stoope so low,
As conissance to take
Of sike a Churle? Full well I know
No Nymph of spring or lake,
No Heardesse, nor no shepheards gerle
But faine would sit by thee,
And Sea-nymphs offer shells of perle
For thy sweet melodie.
The Satyrs bring thee from the woods
The Straw-berrie for hire,
And all the first fruites of the budds
To wooe thee to their quire.
Siluanus songsters learne thy straine,
For by a neighbour spring
The Nightingale records againe
What thou dost primely sing.
Nor canst thou tune a Madrigall,
Or any drery mone,
But Nymphs, or Swaines, or Birds, or all
Permit thee not alone.
And yet (as though deuoid of these)
Canst thou so low decline,
As leaue the louely Naides
For one that keepeth Swine?
But how befell it?

Iockie.
Tother day
As to the field I set me,
Neere to the May-pole on the way
This sluggish Swinward met me.
And seeing Weptol with him there,
Our fellow-swaine and friend,
I bad, good day, so on did fare
To my preposed end.
But as backe from my wintring ground
I came the way before,
This rude groome all alone I found
Stand by the Ale-house dore.
There was no nay, but I must in
And taste a cuppe of Ale;
Where on his pot he did begin
To stammer out a tale.
He told me how he much desir'd
Th' acquaintance of vs Swaines,
And from the forrest was retir'd
To graze vpon our plaines:
But for what cause I cannot tell,
He can nor pipe nor sing,
Nor knowes he how to digge a well,
Nor neatly dresse a spring:
Nor knowes a trappe nor snare to till,
He sits as in a dreame;
Nor scarce hath so much whistling skill
Will hearten-on a teame.
Well, we so long together were,
I gan to haste away,
He licenc'd me to leaue him there,
And gaue me leaue to pay.

Willie.
Done like a Swinward! may you all
That close with such as he,
Be vsed so! that gladly fall
Into like company.
But if I faile not in mine Art,
Ile send him to his yerd,
And make him from our plaines depart
With all his durty herd.
I wonder he hath suffred been
Vpon our Common heere,
His Hogges doe root our yonger trees
And spoyle the smelling breere.
Our purest welles they wallow in,
All ouer-spred with durt,
Nor will they from our Arbours lin,
But all our pleasures hurt.
Our curious benches that we build
Beneath a shady tree,
Shall be orethrowne, or so defilde
As we would loath to see.
Then ioyne we, Iockie; for the rest
Of all our fellow Swaines,
I am assur'd, will doe their best
To rid him fro our plaines.

Iockie.
What is in me shall neuer faile
To forward such a deed.
And sure I thinke wee might preuaile
By some Satyricke reed.

Willie.
If that will doe, I know a lad
Can hit the maister-vaine.
But let vs home, the skyes are sad,
And clouds distill in raine.