 | John Harington of Stepney |  |
133
II B 5
[Erst in Arcadia's londe much prais'd was found]
Erst in Arcadia's londe much prais'd was found
A lustie tree far rearing t'ward the skie,
Sacred to Jove, and placed on high grounde,
Beneath whose shade did gladsome shepherds hie,
Met plenteous good, and oft were wont to shunne
Bleak winters drizzle, summers parching sunne.
A lustie tree far rearing t'ward the skie,
Sacred to Jove, and placed on high grounde,
Beneath whose shade did gladsome shepherds hie,
Met plenteous good, and oft were wont to shunne
Bleak winters drizzle, summers parching sunne.
Outstretch'd in all the luxurie of ease,
They pluck'd rich mistletoe of virtue rare;
Their lippe was temptede by each kindlie breeze,
That wav'd the branch to proffer acorns fair;
While out the hollowd root, with sweets inlaide,
The murm'ring bee her daintie hoard betrayde.
They pluck'd rich mistletoe of virtue rare;
Their lippe was temptede by each kindlie breeze,
That wav'd the branch to proffer acorns fair;
While out the hollowd root, with sweets inlaide,
The murm'ring bee her daintie hoard betrayde.
The fearless bird safe bosom'd here its neste,
Its sturdie side did brave the nipping winde,
Where many a creeping ewe mought gladlie reste
Warme comforte here to all and ev'ry kinde
Where hunge the leaf well sprint with honey dew,
Whence dropt their cups, the gamboling fairie knew.
Its sturdie side did brave the nipping winde,
Where many a creeping ewe mought gladlie reste
Warme comforte here to all and ev'ry kinde
Where hunge the leaf well sprint with honey dew,
Whence dropt their cups, the gamboling fairie knew.
But ah! in luckless day what mischief 'gan
'Midst fell debate, and madd'ning revelrie,
When tipsie Bacchus had bewitched Pan,
For sober swains so thankless neer mought be;
Tho' passinge strange—'twas bruited all arounde,
This goodlie tree did shadowe too much grounde.
'Midst fell debate, and madd'ning revelrie,
When tipsie Bacchus had bewitched Pan,
For sober swains so thankless neer mought be;
Tho' passinge strange—'twas bruited all arounde,
This goodlie tree did shadowe too much grounde.
With much despight they aim its overthrow,
And sorrie jestes its wonted giftes deride,
How 'snaring birdlimes made of mistletoe;
Nor trust their flocks to shelter 'neath its side;
It drops chill venom on our ewes, they cry,
And subtle serpent at its root doth lie.
And sorrie jestes its wonted giftes deride,
How 'snaring birdlimes made of mistletoe;
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It drops chill venom on our ewes, they cry,
And subtle serpent at its root doth lie.
Eftsoons the axe doth rear its deadlie blowe,
Arounde dothe eccho bear each labouringe stroke;
Now to the grounde its loftie head doth bowe,
Then angry Jove aloud in thunder spoke,
On high Olympus next mine tree I'll place,
Heav'n's still unscann'd by sich ungrateful race.
Arounde dothe eccho bear each labouringe stroke;
Now to the grounde its loftie head doth bowe,
Then angry Jove aloud in thunder spoke,
On high Olympus next mine tree I'll place,
Heav'n's still unscann'd by sich ungrateful race.
| John Harington of Stepney | |