The Whole Works of William Browne :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Whole Works of William Browne

of Tavistock ... Now first collected and edited, with a memoir of the poet, and notes, by W. Carew Hazlitt, of the Inner Temple

Browne, William (1590- ca. 1645)

1, 2.

THE FIRST VOLUME, THE SECOND VOLUME.

Britannia's PASTORALS.

The first Booke.

TO THE NO LESSE ENOBLED BY VERTVE, THEN ANCIENT In Nobilitie, the Right Honorable Edvvard Lord Zouch, Saint-Maure, and Cantelupe, and one of his Maiesties most Honourable Privie Covncell.

To the Reader.

[Commendatory Verses.]

By the Same.

To his Friend the Avthor.

To his Ingenious and worthy Friend the Avthor.

On him; a Pastorall Ode to his fairest Shepheardesse.

To his Friend the Avthor vpon his Poem.

To his Friend the Author.

To the Avthor.

[Euterpe to her deerest Darling W. B.

Carmina amo, mihi Wille placet tua fistula: fælix! En re sonant laudes illa, vel illa tuas.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

On the Same.

On the Author of Britannias Peerlesse Pastoralls.

Uppon the occasion of Readinge this compleet Poem.

To the now unparelleled Sydney of his time, W. B., the ingenuous Author of Brittannia's Pastorals.

An Ode entreating him to proceed in the continuation of his Brittannias Pastorals.

To the Authour, W. B.

On the Author, W. B.

To the unparalleled Author of the sequent Poems, W. B.

Idem ad Eundem.

On the Author of Brittanias Matchlesse (though unfinisht) Pastorals.

The first presents his Dogge, with these:

The second, his Pipe, with these:

The third, a paire of Gloues, thus:

The fourth, an Anagram. Maiden aid Men.

The fift, a Ring, with a Picture in a Iewell on it.

The sixt, a Nosegay of Roses, with a Nettle in it.

The seuenth, a Girdle.

TO THE TRVLY NOBLE AND LEARNED William EARLE OF Pembroke, LORD CHAMBERLAINE TO HIS Maiestie, &c.

[Commendatory Verses.]

To the most ingenious Author Mr. W. Browne.

To his Friend Mr. Browne.

To his worthily-affected Friend Mr. VV. Browne.

Another to the same.

[To my Browne, yet brightest Swaine]

To my noble Friend the Author.

To the Author.

To his worthy Friend Mr. W. Browne, on his Booke.

To his Friend the Authour.

To his Friend the Author.

To the Authour.

To Mr. Browne.

To my truly-belou'd Friend M. Browne, on his Pastorals.

THE SHEPHEARDS PIPE.

To the truely Vertuous, and worthy of all Honour, the Right Honourable Edvvard, Lord Zovch, Saint Mavre and Cantelvpe, and one of his Mties. most Honourable Priuy Councell.

Of his Friend Maister William Browne.

To his better beloued, then knowne friend, Mr. Brovvne.

The first Eglogue. Roget and Willy both ymet

The second Eglogue. Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong

The Third Eglogve. Old Neddy's pouertie they mone

The Fovrth Eglogve. Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid

TO THE VERTVOVS and much lamenting Sisters of my euer admired friend, Mr Thomas Manvvood.

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

[dedication]

THE INNER TEMPLE MASQUE.

[THE FIRSTE SCENE.]

The Description of THE FIRSTE SCENE.

[Loue who will, for Ile loue none]

ON A FAIRE LADYES YELLOW HAIRE POWDRED WITH WHITE.

[Not longe agone a youthfull swayne]

[Shall I loue againe, & try]

[Deepe are the wounds which strike a vertuous name]

[Poore silly foole! thou striv'st in vaine to knowe]

[Wellcome, wellcome, doe I sing]

[Ye merry birds, leaue of to sing]

A SIGH FROM OXFORD.

[A haples shepherd on a daye]

[Coelia is gone, & now sit I]

II.

II. Odes, Songs, and Sonnets.

An Ode.

A ROUNDE.

[Vnhappy Muse, that nothing pleasest me]

THIRSIS' PRAISE OF HIS MISTRESSE.

CŒLIA.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

III.

III. Epistles.

AN EPISTLE.

AN EPISTLE

AN EPISTLE THROWNE INTO A RIUER, IN A BALL OF WAX.

AN EPISTLE.

FIDO: AN EPISTLE TO FIDELIA.

IV.

IV. Elegies.

AN ELEGYE ON MR. WILLM. HOPTON.

AN ELEGIE ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROOKE.

ON AN INFANT VNBORNE, & THE MOTHER DYEING IN TRAUELL.

ON THE R: H: CHARLES LORD HERBERT OF CARRDIFF & SHERLAND.

AN EPICED ON MR. FISHBOURNE.

AN ELEGYE ON SR THOMAS OVERBVRYE,

AN ELEGIE

AN ELEGYE.

ON A TWIN AT TWO YEARES OLD,

AN ELEGIE

V. Visions.

VI. Epigrams.

[It hapned lately at a Fair, or Wake]

ON AN HOURE GLASSE.

ON THE COUNTESSE OF SOMERSETS PICTURE.

ON JOHN TOOTH.

TO DON ANTONIO, KING OF PORTUGALL.

[MAN.]

[Give me three kisses, Phillis; if not three]

ON ONE BORNE BLYNDE, AND SOE DEAD.

ON A ROPE-MAKER HANG'D.

VII.

VII. Epitaphs.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. JOHN SMYTH, CHAPLAYNE TO THE RIGHT HOBLE THE EARLE OF PEMBROOKE.

ON MRS. ANNE PRIDEAUX, DAUGHTER OF MR. DOCTOR PRIDEAUX, REGIUS PROFESSOR.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. WM. HOPTON.

AN EPITAPH ON SR. JOHN PROWDE.

IN OBITUM M. S. xo MAIJ, 1614.

ON MR. VAUX, THE PHYSITIAN.

ON ONE DROWNED IN THE SNOWE.

ON MR. JOHN DEANE, OF NEW COLLEDGE.

AN EPITAPH.

ON MR. FRANCIS LEE OF THE TEMPLE, GENT.

MY OWNE EPITAPH.

ON HIS WIFE, AN EPITAPH.

ON THE COUNTESSE DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE

ON THE R. H. SUSAN, COUNTESSE OF MONTGOMERIE.

AN EPITAPH ON MR. THOMAS AYLEWORTH.

AN EPITAPH ON MRS. EL: Y.

ON MR TURNER OF ST. MARY-HALL.

ON GOODMAN HURST OF THE GEORGE AT HORSHAM,

[Heere lyes kind Tom, thrust out of dore]

VIII.

VIII. Paraphrases, &c.

[Tell me, Pyrrha, what fine youth]

THE HAPPY LIFE.

IN URBEM ROMAM QUALIS EST HODIE.

IX.

IX. Miscellaneous Pieces.

ON A DREAME.

LIDFORD JOURNEY.

[RELIGIOUS VERSES.]

X. Commendatory Verses.

TO HIS WORTHY AND INGENIOUS FRIEND THE AUTHOR.

TO MY HONOR'D FRIEND MR. DRAYTON.

VPON THIS WORKE OF HIS BELOUED FRIEND THE AVTHOR.

THE AUTHORS FRIEND TO THE READER.

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165

THE SHEPHEARDS PIPE.

Του ποιμην φορμιγγη και ορχηθμω και αοιδη.

167

To the truely Vertuous, and worthy of all Honour, the Right Honourable Edvvard, Lord Zovch, Saint Mavre and Cantelvpe, and one of his Mties. most Honourable Priuy Councell.

Be pleas'd (great Lord) whē vnderneath the shades
Of your delightfull Brams-hill, (where the spring
Her flowers for gentle blasts with Zephire trades)
Once more to heare a silly Shepheard sing.
Yours be the pleasure, mine the Sonneting;
Eu'n that hath his delight; nor shall I need
To seeke applause amongst the common store
It is enough if this mine oaten Reed
Please but the eare it should; I aske no more:
Nor shall those rurall notes which heretofore
Your true attention grac'd and wing'd for fame
Imperfect lye; Obliuion shall not gaine
Ought on your worth, but sung shall be your name
So long as England yeelds or song or Swaine.
Free are my lines, though drest in lowly state,
And scorne to flatter but the men I hate.

Your Honours. W. Brovvne.

169

Of his Friend Maister William Browne.

A Poets borne, not made: No wonder then
Though Spencer, Sidney (miracles of men,
Sole English Makers, whose eu'n names so hie
Expresse by implication Poesy)
Were long vnparaleld: For nature, bold
In their creation, spent that precious mould,
That Nobly better earth, that purer spirit
Which Poets, as their Birth-rights, claime t'inherite:
And in their great production Prodigall,
Carelesse of futures, well-nye spent her all.
Veiwing her work: conscious sh'had suffred wracke,
Hath caus'd our Countrymen ere since to lacke
That better earth and forme: Long thrifty growne
Who truely might beare Poets, brought forth none:
Till now of late, seeing her stockes new full
(By Time and Thrift) of matter beautifull,
And quint-essence of formes; what seuerall
Our elder Poets graces had, those all
Shee now determin'd to vnite in one;
So to surpasse her selfe; and call'd him Browne.
'That beggard by his birth, shee's now so poore
That of true Maker[s] shee can make no more.
Heereof accus'd; answer'd, shee meant that hee
A species should, no indiuiduum, bee.

170

That (Phœnix-like) Hee in himselfe should find
Of Poesy contain'd each seuerall kind.
And from this Phœnix's vrne, thought shee could take
Whereof all following-Poets well to make.
For of some former shee had, now made knowne
They were her errours whilst sh'intended Browne.

In libellum, inscriptionemq;.

Not Æglogues your, but Eclogues: To compare:
Virgil's selected, yours elected are.
Hee Imitates, you Make: and this your creature
Expresseth well your Name, and theirs, their Nature.

E. Iohnson Int. Temp.

171

To his better beloued, then knowne friend, Mr. Brovvne.

Svch is the fate of some (write) now a daies
Thinking to win and weare, they breake the Bayes,
As a slow Foote-man striuing neere to come
A swifter that before him farre doth runne,
Puft with the hope of Honours gole to winne
Runnes out of Breath yet furthest of from him.
So do our most of Poets whose Muse flies
About for honour, catch poore Butterflies.
But thou, faire freind, not rankt shall be 'mongst those
That makes a Mountaine where a Mole-hill growes;
Thou whose sweete singing Pen such layes hath writ
That in an old way teacheth vs new wit:
Thou that wert borne and bred to bee the man
To turne Apollos glory into Pan,
And when thou lists of Shepheards leaue to write,
To great Apollo adde againe his light
For neuer yet like Shepheards forth haue come
Whose Pipes so sweetely play as thine haue done.
Faire Muse of Browne, whose beauty is as pure
As women Browne that faire and long'st endure,
Still may'st thou as thou dost a louer moue,
And as thou dost each mouer may thee loue,
Whilst I my selfe in loue with thee must fall,
Brownes Muse the faire Browne woman still will call.

Iohn Onley. Int. Temp.

173

The first Eglogue. Roget and Willy both ymet

The Argvment.

Roget and Willy both ymet,
Vpon a greeny Ley,
With Rondelayes and Tales are set.
To spend the length of day.

Willie. Roget.
Willie.
Roget, droope not, see the spring
Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on euery Tree
Greete this morne with melody:
Hearke, how yonder Thrustle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vants it;

174

See how euery streame is drest
By her Margine with the best
Of Flora's gifts, she seemes glad
For such Brookes such flowres she had.
All the trees are quaintly tyred
With greene buds, of all desired;
And the Hauthorne euery day
Spreads some little shew of May:
See the Prim-rose sweetely set
By the much-lou'd Violet
All the Bankes doe sweetly couer,
As they would inuite a Louer
With his Lasse to see their dressing
And to grace them by their pressing:
Yet in all this merry tyde
When all cares are laid aside,
Roget sits as if his bloud
Had not felt the quickning good
Of the Sun, nor cares to play,
Or with songs to passe the day
As he wont: Fye, Roget, flye,
Raise thy head, and merrily
Tune vs somewhat to thy reed:
See our Flockes do freely feed,
Heere we may together sit,
And for Musicke very fit
Is this place; from yonder wood
Comes an Eccho shrill and good,
Twice full perfectly it will
Answere to thine Oaten quill.
Roget, droope not then, but sing
Some kind welcome to the Spring.

Roget.
Ah Willie, Willy, why should I
Sound my notes of iollity?

175

Since no sooner can I play
Any pleasing Roundelay,
But some one or other still
'Gins to descant on my Quill;
And will say, by this he me
Meaneth in his Minstralsie.
If I chance to name an Asse
In my song, it comes to passe,
One or other sure will take it
As his proper name, and make it
Fit to tell his nature too.
Thus what e're I chance to do
Happens to my losse, and brings
To my name the venom'd stings
Of ill report: How should I
Sound then notes of iollity?

Willie.
Tis true indeed, we say all
Rub a gal'd horse on the gall,
Kicke he wil, storme and bite,
But the horse of sounder plight
Gently feeles his Maisters hand.
In the water thrust a brand
Kindled in the fire, 'twill hisse,
When a sticke that taken is
From the Hedge, in water thrust,
Neuer rokes as would the first,
But endures the waters touch:
Roget, so it fares with such
Whose owne guilt hath them enflam'd,
Rage when e're their vice is blam'd.
But who in himselfe is free
From all spots, as Lillies be,
Neuer stirres, do what thou can.
If thou slander such a man

176

Yet he's quiet, for he knowes
With him no such vices close.
Onely he that is indeed
Spotted with the leprous seed
Of corrupted thoughts, and hath
An vlcerous soule in the path
Of reproofe, he straight will brall
If you rub him on the gall.
But in vaine then shall I keepe
These my harmlesse flocke of sheepe.
And though all the day I tend them,
And from Wolues & Foxes shend them.
Wicked Swaines that beare mee spight,
In the gloomy vaile of night,
Of my fold will draw the pegges,
Or else breake my Lambkins legges:
Or vnhang my Weathers bell,
Or bring bryers from the dell,
And them in my fold by peeces
Cast, to tangle all their fleeces.
Welladay! such churlish Swaynes
Now and then lurke on our plaines:
That I feare a time ere long
Shall not heare a Sheepheards song,
Nor a Swayne shall take in taske
Any wrong, nor once vnmaske
Such as do with vices rife
Soyle the Sheepheards happy life:
Except he meanes his Sheepe shall bee
A prey to all their iniury.
This causeth mee I do no more
Chant so as I wont of yore:
Since in vaine then should I keepe
These my harmlesse flocke of Sheepe.

177

Willie.
Yet if such thou wilt not sing,
Make the Woods and Vallies ring
With some other kind of lore,
Roget hath enough in store,
Sing of loue, or tell some tale,
Praise the flowers, the Hils, the Vale:
Let vs not heere idle be;
Next day I will sing to thee.
Hearke on knap of yonder Hill
Some sweet Sheepheard tunes his quill;
And the Maidens in a round
Sit (to heare him) on the ground.
And if thou begin, shall wee
Grac'd be with like company.
And to gird thy Temples bring
Garlands for such fingering.
Then raise thee Roget—

Roget.
Gentle Swaine
Whom I honour for thy straine,
Though it would beseeme me more
To attend thee and thy lore:
Yet least thou might'st find in me
A neglect of courtesie,
I will sing what I did leere
Long agon in Ianiueere
Of a skilfull aged Sire,
As we tosted by the fire.

Willy.
Sing it out, it needs must be
Very good what comes from thee.

178

Roget.

Whilome an Emperour prudent and wise,
Raigned in Rome, and had sonnes three
Which he had in great chiertee & great prise,
And when it shop so, that th' infirmitee
Of death, which no wight may eschew or flee,
Him threw downe in his bed, hee let do call
His sonnes, and before him they came all.

And to the first he said in this maneere,
All th' eritage which at the dying
Of my fadir, he me left, all in feere
Leaue I thee: And all that of my buying
Was with my peny, all my purchasing,
My second sonne bequeath I to thee,
And to the third sonne thus said hee:

Vnmoueable good right none withouten oath
Thee giue I may; but I to thee deuise
Iewels three, a Ring, a Brooch and a Cloth:
With which, and thou bee guied as the wise,
Thou maist get all that ought thee suffice;
Who so that the Ring vseth still to weare
Of all folkes the loue hee shall conquere.

And who so the Broch beareth on his breast,
It is eke of such vertue and such kind,
That thinke vpon what thing him liketh best,
And he as bliue shall it haue and finde.
My words, sonne, imprint well in mind:
The Cloth eke hath a meruailous nature,
Which that shall be committed to thy cure.

Who so sit on it, if he wish where
In all the world to beene, he suddenly
Without more labour shall be there.

179

Sonne, those three Iewels bequeath I
To thee, vnto this effect certainely
That to study of the Vniuersitee
Thou go, and that I bid and charge thee.

When he had thus said, the vexation
Of death so hasted him, that his spirit
Anon forsooke his habitation
In his body: death would no respyte
Him yeue at all: he was of his life quitte.
And buried was with such solemnity,
As fell to his Imperiall dignity.

Of the yongest sonne I tell shall,
And speake no more of his brethren two,
For with them haue I not to do at all.
Thus spake the mother Ionathas vnto:
Sin God hath his will of thy father do,
To thy fathers Will, would I me conforme,
And truly all his Testament performe.

He three Iewels, as thou knowest well:
A Ring, a Brooch, and a Cloth thee bequeath,
Whose vertues he thee told euery deal,
Or that he past hence and yalde vp the breath:
O good God, his departing, his death
Full grieuously sticketh vnto mine heart,
But suffered mot been, all how sore it smart.

In that case women haue such heauinesse,
That it not lyeth in my cunning aright
You tell of so great sorrow the excesse;
But wise women can take it light,
And in short while put vnto the flight
All sorrow & woe, and catch againe comfort:
Now to my tale make I my resort.

180

Thy fathers will, my sonne, as I said ere,
Will I performe; haue heere the ring and go
To study anon, and when that thou art there,
As thy father thee bade, do euen so,
And as thou wilt my blessing haue also.
Shee vnto him as swythe tooke the Ring
And bad him keepe it well for any thing.

Hee went vnto the study generall
Where he gat loue enough, and acquaintance
Right good and friendly, the ring causing all,
And on a day to him befell this chance
With a woman, a morsell of pleasance,
By the streetes of the Vniuersity
As he was in his walking, met he.

And right as bliue he had with her a tale,
And therewithall sore in her loue he brent;
Gay, fresh and piked was she to the sale,
For to that end and to that intent
She thither came, and both forth they went,
And he a pistle rowned in her eare,
Nat wot I what, for I ne came nat there.

She was his Paramour, shortly to sey:
This man to folkes all was so leefe,
That they him gaue aboundance of money,
He feasted folke, and stood at high boncheefe:
Of the lacke of good hee felt no griefe,
All whiles the ring he with him had;
But fayling it his friendship gan sad.

His Paramour, which that ycalled was
Fellicula, maruailed right greatly
Of the dispences of this Ionathas,
Sin she no peny at all with him sy,

181

And on a night as there she lay him by
In the bed, thus she to him spake and said,
And this petition assoile him praid:

O reuerent sir, vnto whom, quoth she,
Obey I would ay with hearts humblenesse,
Since that ye han had my virginitie,
You I beseech of your high gentlenesse,
Tellith me whence comth the good and richesse
That yee with feasten folke, and han no store,
By ought I see can, ne gold, ne tresore.

If I tell it, quoth he, par auenture
Thou wilt discouer it, and out it publish;
Such is womans inconstant nature,
They cannot keep Councell worth a rish:
Better is my tongue keepe than to wish
That I had kept close that is gone at large,
And repentance is thing that I mote charge.

Nay, good sir, quoth she, holdeth me not suspect,
Doubteth nothing, I can be right secree,
Well worthy were it me to been abiect
From all good company, if I, quoth she,
Vnto you should so mistake me.
Be not adread your councell me to shew.
Well, said he, thus it is at words few:

My father the ring, which that thou maist see
On my finger, me at his dying day
Bequeath'd, which this vertue and propertee
Hath, that the loue of men he shall haue aye
That weareth it, and there shall be no nay
Of what thing that him liketh aske and craue,
But with good will he shall as bliue it haue.

182

Through the rings vertuous excellence
Thus am I rich, and haue euer ynow.
Now, Sir, yet a word by your licence
Suffreth me to say, and to speake now:
Is it wisedome, as that it seemeth you,
Weare it on your finger continually?
What woldst thou meane, quoth he, therby?

What perill thereof might there befall?
Right great, quoth she, as yee in company
Walke often, fro your finger might it fall,
Or plucked off been in a ragery
And so be lost, and that were folly:
Take it me, let me been of it wardeine,
For as my life keepe it would I certeine.

This Ionathas, this innocent yong man,
Giuing vnto her words full credence,
As youth not auised best be can:
The Ring her tooke of his insipience.
When this was done, the heat & the feruence
Of loue which he beforne had purchased,
Was quench'd, and loues knot was vnlaced.

Men of their gifts to stint began.
Ah, thought he, for the ring I not ne beare,
Faileth my loue; fetch me, woman
(Said he) my Ring, anon I will it weare.
She rose, and into chamber dresseth her,
And when she therein had been a while,
Alasse (quoth she), out on falshood and gyle,

The chest is broken, and the Ring take out.
And when he heard her complaint and cry,
He was astonied sore, and made a shout,
And said: Cursed be the day that I

183

Thee met first, or with mine eyne sy.
She wept and shewed outward cheere of wo,
But in her heart was it nothing so.

The ring was safe enough, and in her Chest
It was; all that she said was leasing,
As some woman other while at best
Can lye and weepe when is her liking.
This man saw her woe, and sayd: Dearling,
Weep no more, Gods helpe is nye,
To him vnwiste how false she was and slye.

He twyned thence, and home to his countree
Vnto his mother the streight way he went,
And when she saw thither comen was he,
My sonne, quoth she, what was thine intent
Thee fro the schoole now to absent?
What caused thee fro schoole hither to hye?
Mother, right this, said he, nat would I lye.

Forsooth, mother, my ring is a goe,
My Paramour to keepe I betooke it,
And it is lost, for which I am full woe,
Sorrowfully vnto mine heart it sit.
Sonne, often haue I warned thee, and yet
For thy profit I warne thee, my sonne,
Vnhonest women thou hereafter shunne.

Thy brooch anon right woll I to thee fet,
She brought it him, and charged him full deep
When he it tooke, and on his breast it set,
Bet than his ring he should it keepe,
Lest he the losse bewaile should and weepe.
To the vniuersity, shortly to seyne,
In what he could, he hasted him ageine.

184

And when he comen was, his Paramour
Him met anon, and vnto her him tooke,
As that he did erst, this yong reuelour;
Her company he nat a deale forsooke,
Though he cause had, but as with the hooke
Of her sleight he beforne was caught and hent,
Right so he was deceiued oft and blent.

And as through vertue of the Ring before
Of good he had abundance and plentee,
While it was with him, or he had it lore:
Right so through vertue of the brooch had hee
What good him list; she thought, how may this be?
Some priuy thing now causeth this richesse,
As did the Ring herebefore, I gesse.

Wondring hereon she praid him, and besought
Besily night and day, that tell he would
The cause of this; but he another thought:
He meant it close for him it kept be should,
And a long time it was or he it told.
She wept aye too and too, and said: alasse,
The time and houre that euer I borne was!

Trust ye not on me, Sir? she seid,
Leuer me were be slaine in this place
By that good Lord that for vs all deid,
Then purpose againe you any fallace;
Vnto you would I be my liues space
As true as any woman in earth is
Vnto a man; doubteth nothing of this.

Small may she doe, that cannot well byheet,
Though not performed be such a promesse.
This Ionathas thought her words so sweet,
That he was drunke of the pleasant sweetnesse

185

Of them, and of his foolish tendernesse.
Thus vnto her he spake and said tho:
Be of good comfort, why weepest thou so?

And she thereto answered thus sobbing:
Sir, quoth she, my heauinesse and dreed
Is this; I am adread of the leesing
Of your brooch, as Almighty God forbeed
It happen so. Now what so God thee speed,
Said he, wouldest thou in this case counsaile?
Quoth she, that I keep it might sans faile.

He said: I haue a feare and dread algate,
If I so did thou wouldst it leese
As thou lostest my ring, now gon but late.
First God pray I, quoth she, that I not cheese,
But that my heart as the cold frost may freeze,
Or else be it brent with wild fire:
Nay, surely it to keepe is my desire.

To her words credence he gaue pleneere,
And the brooch tooke her, and after anone,
Whereas he was beforne full leefe and cheere
To folke, and had good, all was gone.
Good & frendship him lacked, there was none.
Woman, me fetch the brooch, quoth he; swythee
Into thy chamber for it goe; hye thee.

She into chamber went, as then he bad,
But she not brought that he sent her fore;
She meant it nat; but as she had be mad
Her clothes hath she all to rent and tore,
And cryd, alasse, the brooch away is bore.
For which I wole anon right with my knife
My selfe slay: I am weary of my life.

186

This noice he heard, and bliue he to her ran,
Weening she would han done as she spake,
And the knife in all haste that he can
From her tooke, and threw it behind his back,
And said: ne for the losse, ne for the lacke
Of the brooch, sorrow not, I forgiue all,
I trust in God, that yet vs helpe he shall.

To th' Emperesse his mother this yong man
Againe him dresseth: he went her vnto,
And when she saw him, she to wonder gan;
She thought, now somewhat there is misdoe,
And said, I dread thy Iewels two
Been lost now, percase the brooch with the ring.
Mother, he said, yea, by heauen King.

Sonne, thou wotst well no iewell is left
Vnto thee now, but the cloath pretious
Which I thee take shall, thee charging eft
The company of women riotous
Thou flee, least it be to thee so grieuous
That thou it nat sustaine shalt ne beare;
Such company on my blessing forbeare.

The cloth she fet, and it hath him take,
And of his Lady his mother his leaue
He tooke; but first this forward gan he make:
Mother, said he, trusteth this weel and leeue,
That I shall seyn, for sooth ye shall it preeue,
If I leese this cloth, neuer I your face
Henceforth see wole, ne you pray of grace.

With Gods helpe I shall do well ynow.
Her blessing he tooke, and to study is go,
And as beforne told haue I vnto you,
His Paramour his priuy mortall foe

187

Was wont to meet him, right euen so
She did than, & made him pleasant cheere.
They clip and kisse and walke homeward in feere.

When they were entred in the house, he sprad
This cloth vpon the ground, and thereon sit,
And bad his Paramour, this woman bad,
To sit also by him adowne on it.
She doth as he commandeth and bit;
Had she this thought and vertue of the cloth
Wist, to han set on it had she been loth.

She for a while was full sore affesed.
This Ionathas wish in his heart gan:
Would God that I might thus been eased,
That as on this cloth I and this woman
Sit heare, as farre were, as that neuer man
Or this came: & vnneth had he so thought,
But they with the cloth thither weren brought.

Right to the worlds end, as that it were.
When apparceiued had she this, she cry'd
As thogh she through girt had be with a spere.
Harrow! alasse! that euer shope this tide!
How came we hither? Nay, he said, abide,
Worse is coming; here sole wole I thee leaue,
Wild beasts shallen thee deuoure or eaue.

For thou my Ring & Brooch hast fro me holden.
O reuerent Sir! haue vpon me pittee,
Quoth she, if yee this grace do me wolden,
As bring me home againe to the Cittee
Where as I this day was, but if that yee
Them haue againe, of foule death do me dye:
Your bountee on me kythe, I mercy cry,

188

This Ionathas could nothing beware,
Ne take ensample of the deceites tweine
That she did him beforne, but feith him bare,
And her he commanded on deaths peine
Fro such offences thenceforth her restreine.
She swore, and made thereto foreward;
But herkneth how she bore her afterward.

Whan she saw and knew that the wrath and ire
That he to her had borne, was gone and past,
And all was well: she thought him eft to fire,
In her malice aye stood she stedfast,
And to enquire of him was not agast
In so short time how that it might be
That they came thither out of her contree.

Such vertue hath this cloth on which we sit,
Said he, that where in this world vs be list
Sodeinly with the thought shallen thither flit,
And how thither come vnto vs vnwist:
As thing fro farre vnknowne in the mist.
And therwith to this woman fraudulent,
To sleep, he said, haue I good talent.

Let see, quoth he, stretch out anon thy lap,
In which wole I my head downe lay and rest.
So was it done, and he anon gan nap,
Nap? nay, he slept right well at best.
What doth this woman, one the ficklest
Of women all, but that cloth that lay
Vnder him, she drew lyte and lyte away.

Whan she it had all: would God, quoth she,
I were as I was this day morning!
And therewith this root of iniquitee
Had her wish, and sole left him there sleeping.

189

O Ionathas! like to thy perishing
Art thou, thy paramour made hath thy berd;
Whan thou wakest, cause hast thou to be ferd.

But thou shalt do full well; thou shalt obteene
Victory on her; thou hast done some deed
Pleasant to thy mother, well can I weene,
For which our Lord quite shall thy meed,
And thee deliuer out of thy wofull dreed.
The child whom that the mother vseth blesse,
Full often sythe is eased in distresse.

Whan he awoke, and neither he ne fond
Woman ne Cloth, he wept bitterly,
And said, Alasse! now is there in no lond
Man worse I know begon then am I
On euery side his looke he cast, and sy
Nothing but birds in the aire flying,
And wild beasts about him renning.

Of whose sight he full sore was agrysed.
He thought, all this well deserued I haue,
What ayled me to be so euill auised,
That my counsell could I nat keepe and saue?
Who can foole play? who can mad and raue?
But he that to a woman his secree
Discouereth: the smart cleaueth now on me.

He thus departeth as God would harmlesse,
And forth of auenture his way is went,
But whitherward he draw, he conceitlesse
Was, he nat knew to what place he was bent.
He past a water which was so feruent
That flesh vpon his feet left it him none,
All cleane was departed from the bone.

190

It shope so that hee had a little glasse,
Which with that water anon filled he,
And whan he further in his way gone was,
Before him he beheld and saw a tree
That faire fruit bore, and in great plentee:
He eate thereof, the taste him liked well,
But he there-through became a foule mesel.

For which vnto the ground for sorrow and wo
He fell, and said, cursed be that day
That I was borne, and time and houre also
That my mother conceiued me, for ay
Now am I lost, alasse and well away!
And when some deel slaked his heauinesse,
He rose, and on his way he gan him dresse.

Another water before him he sye,
Which sore to comen in he was adrad:
But nathelesse, since thereby other way
Ne about it there could none be had,
He thought, so streitly am I bestad,
That though it sore me affese or gast,
Assoile it wole I; and through it he past.

And right as the first water his flesh
Departed from his feet, so the secownd
Restored it, and made all whole and fresh:
And glad was he, and ioyfull that stownd,
Whan he felt his feet whole were and sound:
A violl of the water of that brooke
He fild, and fruit of the tree with him tooke.

Forth his iourney this Ionathas held,
And as he his looke about him cast,
Another tree from a farre he beheld,
To which he hasted, and him hied fast.

191

Hungry he was, and of the fruit he thrast
Into his mouth, and eate of it sadly,
And of the lepry he purged was thereby.

Of that fruit more he raught, & thence is gone;
And a faire Castle from a farre saw he
In compasse of which heads many one
Of men there hung, as he might well see,
But not for that he shun would or flee;
He thither him dresseth the streight way
In that euer that he can or may.

Walking so, two men came him ageine,
And saiden thus: deere friend, we you pray
What man be ye? Sirs, quoth he, certeine
A leech I am, and though my selfe it say,
Can for the health of sicke folkes well puruay.
They said him: of yonder castle the King
A leper is, and can whole be for nothing.

With him there hath bin many a sundry leech
That vndertooke him well to cure and heale
On paine of their heads, but all to seech
Their Art was; 'ware that thou not with him deale,
But if thou canst the charter of health enseale;
Least that thou leese thy head, as didden they,
But thou be wise: thou finde it shall no pley.

Sirs, said he, you thanke I of your reed,
For gently ye han you to me quit:
But I nat dread to loose mine heed,
By Gods helpe full safe keepe I will it;
God of his grace such cunning and wit
Hath lent me, that I hope I shall him cure,
Full well dare I me put in auenture.

192

They to the kings presence han him lad,
And him of the fruit of the second tree
He gaue to eate, and bad him to be glad,
And said: anon your health han shall yee;
Eke of the second water him gaue he
To drinke, & whan he those two had receiued,
His Lepry from him voided was and weiued.

The King (as vnto his high dignity
Conuenient was) gaue him largely,
And to him said: If that it like thee,
Abiden here, I more habundantly
Thee giue wole. My Lord, sickerly,
Quoth he, faine would I your pleasure fulfill,
And in your high presence abide still.

But I no while may with you abide,
So mochill haue I to done elsewhere.
Ionathas euery day to the sea side
Which was nye, went to look and enquere
If any ship drawing hither were
Which him home to his country lead might,
And on a day of ships had he sight

Well a thirty toward the Castle draw,
And at time of Euensong they all
Arriueden, of which he was full faw,
And to the shipmen cry he gan and call,
And said: if it so hap might and fall,
That some of you me home to my countree
Me bring would, well quit should he bee.

And told them whither that they shoulden go.
One of the shipmen forth start at last,
And to him said: my ship and no moe
Of them that here been, doth shope and cast

193

Thither to wend; let see, tell on fast,
Quoth the shipman, that thou for my trauaile
Me giue wilt, if that I thither saile.

They were accorded; Ionathas forth goeth
Vnto the King to aske him licence
To twine thence, to which the king was loth,
And nathlesse with his beneuolence,
This Ionathas from his magnificence
Departed is, and forth to the shipman
His way he taketh, as swyth as he can.

Into the ship he entreth, and as bliue
As winde and wether good shope to be,
Thither as he purposed him arriue
They sailed forth, and came to the Cittee
In which this Serpentine woman was, shee
That had him terned with false deceitis,
But where no remedy followeth, streit is.

Turnes been quit, all be they good or bad
Sometime, though they put been in delay.
But to my purpose: she deemed he had
Been deuoured with beasts many a day
Gone, she thought he deliuered was for ay.
Folke of the Citty knew not Ionathas,
So many a yeare was past, that he there was.

Misliking and thought changed eke his face,
Abouten he go'th, and for his dwelling
In the Cittie, he hired him a place,
And therein exercised his cunning
Of Physicke, to whom weren repairing
Many a sicke wight, and all were healed,
Well was the sick man that with him dealed.

Now shope it thus that this Fellicula,
(The well of deceiuable doublenesse,

194

Follower of the steps of Dallida)
Was than exalted vnto high richesse,
But she was fallen into great sicknesse
And heard seine, for not might it been hid
How masterfull a leech he had him kid.

Messages solemne to him she sent,
Praying him to do so mochill labour
As come and see her; and he thither went.
Whan he her saw, that she his Paramour
Had been he well knew, and for that dettour
To her he was, her he thought to quite
Or he went, and no longer it respite.

But what that he was, she ne wist nat:
He saw her vrine, and eke felt her pous,
And said, the sooth is this plaine and flat,
A sicknesse han yee strange and meruailous,
Which to auoid is wonder dangerous:
To heale you there is no way but one,
Leech in this world other can finde none.

Auiseth you whether you list it take
Or not, for I told haue you my wit.
Ah sir, said she, for Gods sake,
That way me shew, and I shall follow it,
What euer it be: for this sicknesse sit
So nigh mine heart, that I wot not how
Me to demene: tell on, I pray yow.

Lady, yee must openly you confesse,
And if against good conscience and right,
Any good han ye take more or lesse,
Beforne this houre, of any manner wight,
Yeeld it anon; else not in the might
Of man is it, to giue a medicine
That you may heale of your sicknes & pine.

195

If any such thing be, tell out thy reed,
And yee shall been all whole I you beheet;
Else mine Art is naught, withouten dreed.
O Lord, she thought, health is a thing ful sweet:
Therewith desire I souerainly to meet:
Since I it by confession may recouer,
A foole am I but I my guilt discouer.

How falsely to the sonne of th' Emperour
Ionathas, had she done, before them all
As yee han heard aboue, all that errour
By knew she; ô Fellicula thee call
Well may I so, for of the bitter gall
Thou takest the beginning of thy name,
Thou root of malice and mirrour of shame.

Than said Ionathas: where are those three
Iewels, that thee fro the Clerke with-drew?
Sir, in a Coffer at my beds feet yee
Shall finde them; open it, and so pray I you.
He thought not to make it queint and tow,
And say nay, and streine courtesie,
But with right good will thither he gan hye.

The Coffer he opened, and them there fond.
Who was a glad man but Ionathas? who
The ring vpon a finger of his hond
He put, and the brooch on his breast also,
The cloth eke vnder his arme held he tho;
And to her him dresseth to done his cure.
Cure mortall, way to her sepulture.

He thought rue she should, and fore-thinke
That she her had vnto him mis bore.
And of that water her he gaue to drinke,
Which that his flesh from his bones before

196

Had twined, wherethrough he was almost lore,
Nad he relieued been, as ye aboue
Han heard, and this he did eke for her loue.

Of the fruit of the tree he gaue her ete,
Which that him made into the Leper stert,
And as bliue in her wombe gan they fret
And gnaw so, that change gan her hert,
Now harkneth how it her made smert.
Her wombe opened, & out fell each intraile
That in her was, thus it is said, sans faile.

Thus wretchedly (lo) this guile-man dyde,
And Ionathas with iewels three
No lenger there thought to abide,
But home to the Empresse his mother hasteth he,
Whereas in ioy and in prosperitee
His life led he to his dying day,
And so God vs grant that we doe may.

Willy.
By my hooke this is a Tale
Would befit our Whitson-ale:
Better cannot be, I wist,
Descant on it he that list.
And full gladly giue I wold
The best Cosset in my fold
And a Mazor for a fee,
If this song thou'lt teachen me.
Tis so quaint and fine a lay,
That vpon our reuell day
If I sung it, I might chance
(For my paines) be tooke to dance
With our Lady of the May.

Roget.
Roget will not say thee nay,
If thou deem'st it worth thy paines.
Tis a song, not many Swaines

197

Singen can, and though it be
Not so deckt with nycetee
Of sweet words full neatly chused
As are now by Shepheards vsed:
Yet if well you sound the sence,
And the Morals excellence,
You shall finde it quit the while,
And excuse the homely stile.
Well I wot, the man that first
Sung this Lay, did quench his thirst,
Deeply as did euer one
In the Muses Helicon.
Many times he hath been seen
With the Fairies on the greene,
And to them his Pipe did sound,
Whilst they danced in a round.
Mickle solace would they make him,
And at mid-night often wake him,
And convey him from his roome
To a field of yellow broome;
Or into the Medowes where
Mints perfume the gentle Aire,
And where Flora spends her treasure:
There they would begin their measure.
If it chanc'd nights sable shrowds
Muffled Cinthia vp in clowds,
Safely home they then would see him,
And from brakes and quagmires free him.
There are few such swaines as he
Now adayes for harmony.

Willie.
What was he thou praisest thus?

Roget.
Scholler vnto Tityrus:
Tityrus the brauest Swaine

198

Euer liued on the plaine,
Taught him how to feed his Lambes,
How to cure them, and their Dams:
How to pitch the fold, and then
How he should remoue agen:
Taught him when the Corne was ripe,
How to make an Oaten Pipe,
How to ioyne them, how to cut them,
When to open, when to shut them,
And with all the skill he had
Did instruct this willing lad.

Willie.
Happy surely was that Swaine!
And he was not taught in vaine:
Many a one that prouder is,
Han not such a song as this,
And haue garlands for their meed,
That but iarre as Skeltons reed.

Roget.
Tis too true: But see the Sunne
Hath his iourney fully run;
And his horses all in sweate
In the Ocean coole their heate;
Seuer we our sheepe and fold them,
T'will be night ere we haue told them.

Thomas Occleeve, one of the priuy Seale, composed first this tale, and was neuer till now imprinted. As this shall please, I may be drawne to publish the rest of his workes, being all perfect in my hands. Hee wrote in Chavcers time.

199

The second Eglogue. Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong

The Argvment.

Two Shepheards here complaine the wrong
Done by a swinish Lout,
That brings his Hogges their Sheepe among,
And spoyles the Plaine throughout.

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

200

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:

201

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.

202

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

203

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

204

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.

205

The Third Eglogve. Old Neddy's pouertie they mone

The Argvment.

Old Neddy's pouertie they mone,
Who whilome was a Swaine
That had more Sheepe himselfe alone,
Then ten vpon the plaine.

Piers. Thomalin.
Thomalin.
Where is euery piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: Is it Holy-day,
Or if in the Month of May
Vse they long to sleepe?

206

Piers.
Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the Turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the Thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her yong,
Nor her mornings lesson sung
In the shady groue:
But the Nightingale in darke
Singing woke the mounting Larke:
She records her loue.
Not the Sun hath with his beames
Guilded yet our christall streames,
Rising from the Sea,
Mists do crowne the mountaines tops,
And each pretty mirtle drops:
Tis but newly day.
Yet see, yonder (though vnwist)
Some man commeth in the mist;
Hast thou him beheld?
See he crosseth or'e the land
With a dogg and staffe in hand,
Limping for his eld.

Thomalin.
Yes, I see him, and doe know him,
And we all do reu'rence owe him,
Tis the aged Sire
Neddy; that was wont to make
Such great feasting at the wake,
And the blessing-fire.
Good old man! see how he walkes
Painfull and among the balkes
Picking lockes of wull!

207

I haue knowne the day when he
Had as much as any three,
When their lofts were full.
Vnderneath yond hanging rockes
All the valley with his Flockes
Was whilome ouer-spread:
Hee had milch-goates without peeres,
Well-hung kine, and fatned steeres
Many hundred head.
Wilkins cote his Dairy was,
For a dwelling it may passe
With the best in towne.
Curds and Creame with other cheare
Haue I had there in the yeare
For a greeny gowne.
Lasses kept it, as againe
Were not fitted on the plaine
For a lusty dance:
And at parting, home would take vs,
Flawnes or Sillibubs to make vs
For our iouisance.
And though some in spight would tell,
Yet old Neddy tooke it well;
Bidding vs againe
Neuer at his Cote be strange:
Vnto him that wrought this change,
Mickle be the paine!

Piers.
What disaster, Thomalin
This mischance hath cloth'd him in,
Quickly tellen me?
Rue I doe his state the more,
That hee clipped heretofore
Some felicity.
Han by night accursed theeues

208

Slaine his Lambs, or stolne his Beeues,
Or consuming fire
Brent his shearing-house, or stall;
Or a deluge drowned all,
Tell me it intire?
Haue the Winters been so set
To raine and snow, they haue wet
All his driest Laire:
By which meanes his sheepe haue got
Such a deadly curelesse rot,
That none liuing are?

Thomalin.
Neither waues, nor theeues, nor fire,
Not haue rots impoor'd this Sire,
Suretiship, nor yet
Was the vsurer helping on
With his damn'd extortion,
Nor the chaines of debt.
But deceit that euer lies
Strongest arm'd for treacheries
In a bosom'd friend:
That (and onely that) hath brought it:
Cursed be the head that wrought it,
And the basest end!
Groomes he had, and he did send them
With his heards a-field, to tend them,
Had they further been;
Sluggish, lazy, thriftlesse elues,
Sheep had better kept themselues
From the Foxes teen.
Some would kill their sheepe, and then
Bring their maister home agen
Nothing but the skin;
Telling him, how in the morne
In the fold they found them torne,

209

And nere lying lin.
If they went vnto the faire
With a score of fatned ware,
And did chance to sell:
If old Neddy had againe
Halfe his owne, I dare well saine,
That but seldome fell.
They at their returne would say,
Such a man or such would pay,
Well knowne of your Hyne.
Alas poore man! that subtill knaue
Vndid him, and vaunts it braue,
Though his Maister pine.
Of his maister he would begg
Such a lambe that broke his legg,
And if there were none:
To the fold by night hee'd hye,
And them hurt full rufully
Or with staffe or stone.
Hee would haue petitions new,
And for desp'rate debts would sue
Neddy had forgot:
He would grant: the other then
Tares from poore and aged men:
Or in Iayles they rot.
Neddy lately rich in store,
Giuing much, deceiued more,
On a sudden fell;
Then the Steward lent him gold,
Yet no more then might bee told
Worth his maisters Cell.
That is gone, and all beside
(Well-a-day, alacke the tide):
In a hollow den
Vnderneath yond gloomy wood
Wons he now, and wails the brood

210

Of ingrateful men.

Piers.
But alas! now hee is old,
Bit with hunger, nipt with cold,
What is left him?
Or to succour, or releeue him,
Or from wants oft to repreeue him.

Thomalin.
Al's bereft him,
Saue he hath a little crowd,
(Hee in youth was of it prowd)
And a dogge to dance:
With them he on holy-dayes
In the Farmers houses playes
For his sustenance.

Piers.
See; he's neere, let's rise and meet him,
And with dues to old age greet him,
It is fitting so.

Thomalin.
Tis a motion good and sage,
Honour still is due to age:
Vp, and let vs go.

The Midsummer fires are tearmed so in the West parts of England.

211

The Fovrth Eglogve. Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid

The Argvment.

In this the Author bewailes the death of one whom he shadoweth vnder the name of Philarete, compounded of the Greeke words φιλος and αρετη, a louer of vertue, a name well befitting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being sometime his truly loued (and now as much lamented) friend Mr Thomas Manvvood sonne to the worthy Sir Peter Manvvood Knight.

Vnder an aged Oke was Willy laid,
Willy, the lad who whilome made the rockes
To ring with ioy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,
And from their maisters wood the neighbring flockes:
But now o're-come with dolors deepe
That nye his heart-strings rent,

212

Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,
Ne car'd for merriment.
But chang'd his wonted walkes
For vncouth paths vnknowne,
Where none but trees might heare his plaints,
And eccho rue his mone.

Autumne it was, when droop't the sweetest floures,
And Riuers (swolne with pride) orelook'd the bankes;
Poore grew the day of Summers golden houres,
And void of sapp stood Ida's Cedar-rankes,
The pleasant meadows sadly lay
In chill and cooling sweats
By rising fountaines, or as they
Fear'd Winters wastfull threats.
Against the broad-spred Oke,
Each winde in fury beares;
Yet fell their leaues not halfe so fast
As did the Shepheards teares.

As was his seate, so was his gentle heart,
Meeke and deiected, but his thoughts as hye
As those aye-wandring lights, who both impart
Their beames on vs, and heauen still beautifie.
Sad was his looke, (ô heauy Fate!
That Swaine should be so sad
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate
With greatest pleasure clad.)
Broke was his tunefull pipe
That charm'd the Christall Floods,
And thus his griefe tooke airie wings
And flew about the woods.

213

Day, thou art too officious in thy place,
And night too sparing of a wished stay,
Yee wandring lampes, ô be ye fixt a space!
Some other Hemisphere grace with your ray.
Great Phœbus! Daphne is not heere,
Nor Hyacinthus faire;
Phœbe! Endimion and thy deere
Hath long since cleft the aire.
But yee haue surely seene
(Whom we in sorrow misse)
A Swaine whom Phœbe thought her loue,
And Titan deemed his.

But he is gone; then inwards turne your light,
Behold him there: here neuer shall you more;
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!
Or change the gaudy green she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. Hyperion great
To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a louers heate
But blacke beseemes a mourner.
Yet neither this thou canst,
Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blindes thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on earth.

Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines
Tune notes of glee, as vsed were of yore!
For Philaret is dead, let mirthfull straines
With Philarete cease for euermore!
And if a fellow swaine doe liue
A niggard of his teares,
The Shepheardesses all will giue
To store him part of theirs.
Or I would lend him some,
But that the store I haue

214

Will all be spent before I pay
The debt I owe his graue.

O what is left can make me leaue to mone,
Or what remains but doth increase it more?
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their masters gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked arms haue vowd our loue,
(Our loue which time shall see
In shepheards songs for euer moue,
And grace their harmony)
It solitary seemes.
Behold our flowrie beds;
Their beauties fade, and Violets
For sorrow hang their heads.

Tis not a Cypresse bough, a count'nance sad,
A mourning garment, wailing Elegie,
A standing herse in sable vesture clad,
A Toombe built to his names eternitie,
Although the shepheards all should striue
By yearly obsequies,
And vow to keepe thy fame aliue
In spight of destinies
That can suppresse my griefe:
All these and more may be,
Yet all in vaine to recompence
My greatest losse of thee.

Cypresse may fade, the countenance bee changed,
A garment rot, an Elegie forgotten,
A herse 'mongst irreligious rites bee ranged,
A toombe pluckt down, or else through age be rotten:

215

All things th' vnpartiall hand of Fate
Can raze out with a thought,
These haue a seu'rall fixed date
Which ended, turne to nought.
Yet shall my truest cause
Of sorrow firmly stay,
When these effects the wings of Time
Shall fanne and sweepe away.

Looke as a sweet Rose fairely budding forth
Bewrayes her beauties to th' enamour'd morne,
Vntill some keene blast from the enuious North
Killes the sweet budd that was but newly borne;
Or else her rarest smels delighting
Make her her selfe betray,
Some white and curious hand inuiting
To plucke her thence away.
So stands my mournfull case,
For had he beene lesse good,
He yet (vncropt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.

Yet though so long hee liu'd not as hee might,
Hee had the time appointed to him giuen.
Who liueth but the space of one poore night,
His birth, his youth, his age is in that Eeuen.
Who euer doth the period see
Of dayes by heau'n forth plotted,
Dyes full of age, as well as hee
That had more yeares alotted.
In sad Tones then my verse
Shall with incessant teares
Bemoane my haplesse losse of him,
And not his want of yeares.

216

In deepest passions of my griefe-swolne breast
(Sweete soule!) this onely comfort seizeth me,
That so few yeares did make thee so much blest,
And gaue such wings to reach Eternity.
Is this to dye? No: as a shippe
Well built with easie winde
A lazy hulke doth farre out-strippe,
And soonest harbour finde:
So Philarete fled,
Quicke was his passage giuen,
When others must haue longer time
To make them fit for heauen.

Then not for thee these briny teares are spent,
But as the Nightingale against the breere
Tis for my selfe I moane, and doe lament
Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st mee heere:
Heere, where without thee all delights
Faile of their pleasing powre,
All glorious dayes seeme vgly nights;
Me thinkes no Aprill showre
Embroder should the earth,
But briny teares distill,
Since Flora's beauties shall no more
Be honour'd by thy quill.

And yee his sheepe (in token of his lacke),
Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine,
Yeane neuer Lambe, but bee it cloath'd in blacke:
Yee shady Sicamours, when any Swaine

217

To carue his name vpon your rinde
Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shedde droppes, if he be so vnkinde
To raze it with his hand.
And thou, my loued Muse,
No more should'st numbers moue,
But that his name should euer liue,
And after death my loue.

This said, he sigh'd, and with o're-drowned eyes
Gaz'd on the heauens for what he mist on earth,
Then from the earth full sadly gan arise
As farre from future hope as present mirth;
Vnto his Cote with heauy pace
As euer sorrow trode
He went with minde no more to trace,
Where mirthfull Swaines abode,
And as he spent the day,
The night he past alone,
Was neuer Shepheard lou'd more deere,
Nor made a truer mone.

218

TO THE VERTVOVS and much lamenting Sisters of my euer admired friend, Mr Thomas Manvvood.

To me more known then you, is your sad chance,
Oh! had I still enjoy'd such ignorance;
Then I by these spent teares had not bin known,
Nor left anothers griefe to sing mine owne.
Yet since his fate hath wrought these throes
Permit a Partner in your woes:
The cause doth yeeld, and still may do
Ynough for Yov, and others too
But if such plaints for Yov are kept,
Yet may I grieue since you haue wept.
For hee more perfect growes to bee
That feeles anothers Miserie.
And thogh these drops wch mourning run,
From seuerall Fountaines first begun:
And some farre off, some neerer fleete,
They will (at last) in one streame meete.
Mine shal with yours, yours mix wth mine
And make one Offring at his Shrine:
For whose Eternitie on earth, my Muse
To build this Altar, did her best skill vse;
And that you, I, and all that held him deere,
Our teares and sighes might freely offer heere.

219

The Fifth Eglogve.

To his ingenious friend Mr. Christopher Brooke.

The Argvment.

Willy incites his friend to write
Things of a higher fame
Then silly Shephards vse endite
Vaild in a Shepheards name.
Willy and Cvtty.
Morne had got the start of night,
Lab'ring men were ready dight
With their shouels and their spades
For the field, and (as their trades)
Or at hedging wrought or ditching
For their food more then enritching.
When the shepheards from the fold

220

All their bleating charges told,
And (full carefull) search'd if one
Of all their flocke were hurt or gone,
Or (if in the night-time cul'd)
Any had their fleeces pul'd:
'Mongst the rest (not least in care)
Cvtty to his fold gan fare,
And yong Willy (that had giuen
To his flocke the latest euen
Neighbourhood with Cvtty's sheep)
Shaking off refreshing sleepe,
Hy'd him to his charge that blet;
Where he (busied) Cvtty met.
Both their sheepe told, and none mist
Of their number; then they blist
Pan and all the Gods of plaines
For respecting of their traines
Of silly sheepe, and in a song
Praise gaue to that holy throng.
Thus they draue their flockes to graze,
Whose white fleeces did amaze
All the Lillies, as they passe
Where their vsuall feeding was.
Lillies angry that a creature
Of no more eye-pleasing feature
Then a sheepe, by natures duty
Should be crownd with far more beauty
Then a Lilly, and the powre
Of white in sheepe outgoe a flowre,
From the middle of their sprout
(Like a Furies sting) thrust out
Dart-like forks in death to steep them;
But great Pan did safely keepe them,
And affoorded kinde repaire
To their dry and wonted laire,
Where their maisters (that did eye them)

221

Vnderneath a Haw-thorne by them,
On their pipes thus gan to play,
And with rimes weare out the day.
Willie.
Cease, Cvtty, cease, to feed these simple Flockes,
And for a Trumpet change thine Oaten-reeds;
O're-looke the vallies as aspiring rockes,
And rather march in steele then shepheards weeds.
Beleeue me, Cvtty! for heroicke deeds
Thy verse is fit, not for the liues of Swaines,
(Though both thou canst do well) and none proceeds
To leaue high pitches for the lowly plaines:
Take thou a Harpe in hand, striue with Apollo;
Thy Muse was made to lead, then scorne to follow.

Cuttie.
Willy, to follow sheepe I ne're shall scorne,
Much lesse to follow any Deity;
Who 'gainst the Sun (though weakned by the morne)
Would vie with lookes, needeth an Eagles eye,
I dare not search the hidden mistery
Of tragicke Scenes; nor in a buskin'd stile
Through death and horror march, nor their height fly
Whose pens were fed with blood of this faire Ile.
It shall content me on these happy downes
To sing the strife for garlands, not for crownes.

Willie.

O who would not aspire, and by his wing
Keep stroke with fame, and of an earthly iarre
Another lesson teach the Spheres to sing?
Who would a shepheard that might be a star?

222

See, learned Cutty, on yond mountaines are
Cleere springs arising, and the climbing goat,
That can get vp, hath water cleerer farre
Then when the streames do in the vallies float.
What mad-man would a race by torch-light run
That might his steps haue vsher'd by the Sunne?

We Shepheards tune our layes of Shepheards loues,
Or in the praise of shady groues or springs;
We seldome heare of Citherea's Doues,
Except when some more learned Shepheard sings;
And equall meed haue to our sonetings:
A Belt, a sheep-hooke, or a wreath of flowres,
Is all we seeke, and all our versing brings;
And more deserts then these are seldome ours.
But thou whose muse a falcons pitch can sore
Maist share the bayes euen with a Conqueror.

Cuttie.
Why doth not Willy then produce such lines
Of men and armes as might accord with these?

Willie.
'Cause Cutties spirit not in Willy shines,
Pan cannot weild the Club of Hercules,
Nor dare a Merlin on a Heron seise.
Scarce know I how to fit a shepheards eare:
Farre more vnable shall I be to please
In ought, which none but semi-gods must heare.
When by thy verse (more able) time shall see,
Thou canst giue more to kings then kings to thee.

Cuttie.
But (wel-a-day) who loues the muses now,
Or helpes the climber of the sacred hill?

223

None leane to them, but striue to disalow
All heauenly dewes the goddesses distill.

Willie.

Let earthly mindes base mucke for euer fill,
Whose musicke onely is the chime of gold,
Deafe be their eares to each harmonious quil!
As they of learning thinke, so of them hold.
And if ther's none deserues what thou canst doe,
Be then the Poet and the Patron too.

I tell thee, Cuttie, had I all the sheepe,
With thrice as many moe, as on these plaines
Or shepheard or faire maiden sits to keepe,
I would them all forgoe, so I thy straines
Could equalize. O how our neatest swaines
Do trim themselues, when on a holy-day
They hast to heare thee sing, knowing the traines
Of fairest Nymphs wil come to learne thy lay.
Well may they run and wish a parting neuer,
So thy sweet tongue might charme their eares for euer.

Cuttie.
These attributes (my lad) are not for me,
Bestow them where true merit hath assign'd—

Willie.
And do I not, bestowing them on thee?
Beleeue me, Cuttie, I doe beare this minde,
That whereso'ere we true deseruing finde,
To giue a silent praise is to detract;
Obscure thy verses (more then most refin'd)
From any one of dulnesse to compact.
And rather sing to trees then to such men,
Who know not how to crowne a Poets pen.

224

Cuttie.
Willy, by thy incitement I'le assay
To raise my subiect higher than tofore,
And sing it to our Swaines next holy-day,
Which (as approu'd) shall fill them with the store
Of such rare accents; if dislik'd, no more
Will I a higher straine then shepheards vse,
But sing of Woods and Riuers, as before.

Willie.
Thou wilt be euer happy in thy Muse.
But see, the radiant Sun is gotten hye,
Let's seeke for shadow in the groue hereby.

225

The Sixth Eglogve.

The Argvment.

Philos of his Dogge doth bragge
For hauing many feates;
The while the Curre vndoes his bagge,
And all his dinner eates.
Willy. Iockie. Philos.
Willy.
Stay, Iockie, let vs rest here by this spring,
And Philos too, since we so well are met;
This spreading Oke will yeeld vs shadowing
Till Phæbus steeds be in the Ocean wet.

Iockie.
Gladly (kind swaine) I yeeld, so thou wilt play,
And make vs merry with a Roundelay.

226

Philos.
No, Iockie, rather wend we to the wood,
The time is fit, and Filberds waxen ripe,
Let's go and fray the Squirrell from his food;
We will another time heare Willie pipe.

Willie.
But who shall keepe our flockes when we are gone?
I dare not go, and let them feed alone.

Iockie.
Nor I: since but the other day it fell,
Leauing my sheep to graze on yonder plaine,
I went to fill my bottle at the well,
And ere I could return two lambs were slaine.

Philos.
Then was thy dogg ill taught, or else a sleepe;
Such Curres as those shall neuer watch my sheepe.

Willie.
Yet Philos hath a dogg not of the best:
He seemes too lazy, and will take no paines,
More fit to lye at home and take his rest,
Then catch a wandring sheep vpon the plains.

Iockie.
Tis true indeed: and Philos, wot ye what?
I thinke he playes the Fox, he growes so fat!

Philos.

Yet hath not Iockie nor yet Willie seene
A dogge more nimble then is this of mine,
Nor any of the Fox more heedfull beene,
When in the shade I slept, or list to dine.

227

And though I say't, hath better tricks in store
Then both of yours, or twenty couple more.

How often haue the maidens stroue to take him,
When he hath crost the plaine to barke at Crowes?
How many Lasses haue I knowne to make him
Garlands to gird his necke, with which he goes
Vaunting along the lands so wondrous trim,
That not a dog of yours durst barke at him.

And when I list (as often-times I vse)
To tune a Horne-pipe or a Morris-dance,
The dogge (as hee by nature could not chuse)
Seeming asleepe before, will leap and dance.

Willie.
Belike your dog came of a Pedlers brood,
Or Philos musicke is exceeding good.

Philos.
I boast not of his kin, nor of my Reed,
(Though of my reed and him I wel may boast)
Yet if you will aduenture that some meed
Shall be to him that is in action most,
As for a Coller of shrill sounding bels
My dog shall striue with yours, or any's els.

Iockie.
Philos, in truth I must confesse your Wagge
(For so you call him) hath of trickes good store,
To steale the vittailes from his maisters bagge
More cunningly I nere saw dogge before.
See, Willy, see! I prithee, Philos, note
How fast thy bread & cheese goes down his throte.

Willie.
Now, Philos, see how mannerly your Curre,

228

Your well-taught dog, that hath so many trickes,
Deuoures your Dinner.

Philos.
I wish 'twere a burre
To choke the Mungrell!

Iockie.
See how cleane he lickes
Your Butter-boxe; by Pan, I doe not meanly
Loue Philos dog that loues to be so cleanly.

Philos.
Well flouted, Iockie.

Willie.
Philos! run amaine,
For in your scrip hee now hath thrust his head
So farre, he cannot get it forth againe;
See how he blind-fold strags along the mead,
And at your scrip your bottle hangs, I thinke.
He loues your meat, but cares not for your drinke.

Iockie.
I, so it seemes: and Philos now may goe
Vnto the wood, or home for other cheere.

Philos.
Twere better he had neuer seru'd me so:
Sweet meat, sowre sauce, he shal abye it deere.
What, must he be aforehand with his maister?

Willie.
Onely in kindnesse hee would be your taster.

229

Philos.
Well, Willy, you may laugh, and vrge my spleen;
But by my hooke I sweare he shall it rue,
And had far'd better had hee fasting been.
But I must home for my allowance new.
So farewell, lads. Looke to my fleeced traine
Till my returne.

Iockie.
We will.

Willie.
Make haste againe.

230

The Seventh Eglogve.

The Argvment.

Palinode intreates his friend
To leaue a wanton Lasse;
Yet hee pursues her to his end
And lets all Councell passe.

Palinode. Hobbinol.

Whither wends Hobbinoll so early day?
What, be thy Lamkins broken from the fold,
And on the plaines all night haue run astray?
Or are thy sheepe and sheep-walkes both yfold?
What mister-chance hath brought thee to the field
Without thy sheepe? thou wert not wont to yeeld

231

To idle sport,
But didst resort
As early to thy charge from drowzy bed
As any shepheard that his flocke hath fed
Vpon these downes.

Hobbinoll.
Such heauy frownes
Fortune for others keepes; but bends on me
Smiles would befit the seat of maiestie.
Hath Palinode
Made his abode
Vpon our plaines, or in some vncouth Cell,
That heares not what to Hobbinoll befell?
Phillis the faire, and fairer is there none,
To morrow must be linkt in marriage bands,
Tis I that must vndo her virgin Zone:
Behold the man, behold the happy hands.

Palinode.
Behold the man! Nay then the woman too:
Though both of them are very smal beholding
To any powre that set them on to wooe.
Ah Hobbinoll! it is not worth vnfolding
What shepheards say of her; thou canst not chuse
But heare what language all of Phillis vse;
Yet, then such tongues
To her belongs
More men to sate her lust. Vnhappy elfe!
That wilt be bound to her to loose thy selfe.
Forsake her first.

Hobinoll.
Thou most accurst!
Durst thou to slander thus the innocent,
The graces patterne, Vertues president?

232

She in whose eye
Shines modesty:
Vpon whose brow lust neuer lookes with hope?
Venus rul'd not in Phillis Horoscope.
Tis not the vapour of a Hemblocke stem
Can spoile the perfume of sweet Cynnamon;
Nor vile aspersions, or by thee or them
Cast on her name, can stay my going on.

Palinode.
On maist thou goe, but not with such a one,
Whom (I dare sweare) thou knowst is not a maid:
Remember, when I met her last alone,
As wee to yonder Groue for filberds straid,
Like to a new-strook Doe from out the bushes
Lacing herselfe, and red with gamesome blushes
Made towards the greene,
Loth to be seene:
And after in the groue the goatheard met:
What saidst thou then? If this preuaile not, yet
I'le tell thee moe.
Not long agoe
Too long I lou'd her, and as thou dost now,
Would sweare Diana was lesse chaste then she,
That Iupiter would court her, knew he how
To finde a shape might tempt such chastity:
And that her thoughts were pure as new-falne snow,
Or siluer swans that trace the bankes of Poe,
And free within
From spot of sin:
Yet like the flinte her lust-swolne breast conceal'd
A hidden fire; and thus it was reueal'd:
Cladon, the Lad
Who whilome had
The Garland giuen for throwing best the barre,
I know not by what chance or lucky star,

233

Was chosen late
To bee the mate
Vnto our Lady of the gleesome May,
And was the first that danc'd each holyday.
None would hee take but Phillis forth to dance,
Nor any could with Phillis dance but hee,
On Palinode shee thenceforth not a glance
Bestowes, but hates him and his pouerty,
Cladon had sheepe and lims for stronger lode
Then ere shee saw in simple Palinode;
Hee was the man
Must clip her than;
For him shee wreathes of flowers and chaplets made,
To strawberries inuites him in the shade
In sheering time:
And in the prime
Would helpe to clip his sheepe and gard his lambs,
And at a need lend him her choicest rams;
And on each stocke
Worke such a clocke
With twisted couloured thred, as not a Swaine
On all these downes could shew the like againe.
But as it seemes, the Well grew dry at last,
Her fire vnquench'd; and shee hath Cladon left.
Nor was I sorry; nor do wish to taste
The flesh whereto so many flyes haue cleft.
Oh Hobbinoll! Canst thou imagine shee
That hath so oft beene tryde, so oft misdone,
Can from all other men bee true to thee?
Thou knowst with mee, with Cladon, shee hath gone
Beyond the limites that a maiden may,
And can the name of wife those rouings stay?
Shee hath not ought
That's hid, vnsought:
These eyes, these hands, so much know of that woman
As more thou canst not; can that please that's cōmon?

234

No: should I wed,
My marriage bed
And all that it containes should as my heart
Be knowne but to my selfe; if wee impart
What golden rings
The Fairie brings,
Wee loose the Iem: nor will they giue vs more.
Wiues loose their value, if once knowne before.
Behold this Violet that cropped lyes,
I know not by what hand, first from the stem,
With what I plucke my selfe shall I it prise?
I scorne the offals of a Diadem.
A Virgins bed hath millions of delights,
If then good parents please shee know no more:
Nor hath her seruants nor her fauorites
That waite her husbands issuing at dore.
Shee that is free both from the act and eye
Onely deserues the due of Chastitie.
But Phillis is
As farre from this,
As are the Poles in distance from each other:
Shee well beseemes the daughter of her mother.
Is there a brake
By Hill or Lake
In all our plaines that hath not guilty beene
In keeping close her stealths; the Paphian Queene
Ne're vs'd her skill
To win her will
Of yong Adonis with more heart then shee
Hath her allurements spent to work on mee.
Leaue, leaue her, Hobinol; shee is so ill
That any one is good that's nought of her,
Though she be faire, the ground which oft we till
Growes with his burden old and barrenner.

Hobbinoll.
With much ado, and with no little paine

235

Haue I out-heard thy railing 'gainst my loue:
But it is common, what wee cannot gaine
Wee oft disualew; sooner shalt thou moue
Yond lofty Mountain from the place it stands,
Or count the Medowes flowers, or Isis sands,
Then stirre one thought
In mee, that ought
Can be in Phillis which Diana faire
And all the Goddesses would not wish their.
Fond man, then cease
To crosse that peace
Which Phillis vertue and this heart of mine
Haue well begun; and for those words of thine
I do forgiue,
If thou wilt liue
Heereafter free from such reproaches moe,
Since goodnesse neuer was without her foe.

Palinode.
Beleeue mee, Hobinoll, what I haue said
Was more in loue to thee then hate to her:
Thinke on thy liberty; let that bee weigh'd;
Great good may oft betide, if wee deferre,
And vse some short delayes ere marriage rites;
Wedlocke hath daies of toile as ioysome nights.
Canst thou bee free
From iealousy?
Oh no: that plague will so infect thy braine
That onely death must worke thy peace againe.
Thou canst not dwell
One minute well
From whence thou leau'st her; locke on her thy gate,
Yet will her minde bee still adulterate.
Not Argos eyes
Nor ten such spies
Can make her onely thine; for shee will do
With those that shall make thee mistrust them too.

236

Hobbinoll.
Wilt thou not leaue to taint a virgines name?

Palinode.
A virgine? yes: as sure as is her mother.
Dost thou not heare her good report by fame.

Hobbinoll.
Fame is a lyer, and was neuer other.

Palinode.
Nay, if shee euer spoke true, now shee did:
And thou wilt once confesse what I foretold:
The fire will bee disc[l]os'd that now lies hid,
Nor will thy thought of her thus long time hold.
Yet may shee (if that possible can fall)
Bee true to thee, that hath beene false to all.

Hobbinoll.
So pierce the rockes
A Red-breasts knockes
As the beleefe of ought thou tell'st mee now.
Yet bee my guest to morrow.

Pallinode.
Speed your plough.
I feare ere long
You'le sing a song
Like that was sung heereby not long ago:
Where there is carrion neuer wants a crow.

Hobinoll.
Ill tutor'd Swaine,
If on the plaine

237

Thy sheep hence-forward come where mine do feed,
They shall bee sure to smart for thy misdeed.

Palinode.
Such are the thankes a friends fore-warning brings.
Now by the loue I euer bore thee, stay!
Meete not mishaps! themselues haue speedy wings.

Hobbinoll.
It is in vaine. Farewell. I must away.

Finis. W. B.