The Poems of Thomas Pestell Edited with an account of his life and work by Hannah Buchan |
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On the Packington Shepperdesse: 1624. |
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 | The Poems of Thomas Pestell |  |
On the Packington Shepperdesse: 1624.
By fayre day-light my fairer Kala roseMy Shepperdesse, in homely weeds to close
Hir flowre of youth; & beauties so to shrowd
As when Sols head is thrust into a Clowd.
Just in Convexure of hir damaske cheeke
With actiue force hir marble fingers seeke
To make surprizall of a bloudie foe
Who late forsooke hir nose to pitch belowe.
With that the morning Ayre hir softer skinn
Had reacht; & as a gentle wynd lett in
To topps of trees; wth easie motion waues
The trembling Leaues; so she hirself behaues.
She twice hir gracefull armes to North & South
And to an Ovall twice extends hir mouth.
Hir bodie then in Bodies overlayd
And bones of flesh, in bones of fish convayd;
Those on a Vesture wrought from tender ryne
Which curious hands of Flemish dames entwyne
Whiter then Lillies, snow, or morrow milke
She runns togither wth a worme of Silke.
Orê hir Refulgent head a weed she throwes
Ample & redd; It from hir middle flowes
Doune to hir decent foote; & bordering grace
Deriues from grass-green silk & siluer Lace.
Then she descends on hir bright leggs to pull
Two purple Cases, wrought of purer wooll,
With azure filletts bound: Lowe shoes & playne;
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Hir back a robe, hir neck a ruff; A tyre
Hir head adornes whose neither globe nor spyre,
Yet sprightly dresse exacts to reare the frame
Counsell of witch, or preist, or deare Madame.
The Liuely water from the fontaine skipps,
Into the ioyfull basyn, where she dipps
Hir dainty hands, & spread vpon hir face
Wipes of no paint; but cleares the natiue grace.
Hir Sillie Corydon is rom'd on high
From whence he may his Litle flock descrie,
For whose Repast, she thinks of somthing rare.
And first an homebredd plant pure, white & faire
Into a woodden vessell Louely browne
She slowly putts, & softly setts it downe.
Then sixe round things, that meaner sheppards know
Which neither yet on earth nor water growe
Coue'rd wth slender filmes, whose inner parts
She to a golden liquor straight Converts
Forc'd by an Engine all of glittering tynn.
Theise she infuses, & to them Letts in,
Strange fruits, & things deriu'd from stronds remote,
All which wth christall Liquor sett a floate
Or some more pretious moisture, she Contriues
And wth hir Engin she togither driues:
That cas'd in Canvase, fastned wth a string,
And sodd, will make a dinner for a king.
| The Poems of Thomas Pestell | |