Daemonologia: A discourse on witchcraft as it was acted in the family of Mr. Edward Fairfax, of Fuyston, in the county of York, in the year 1621; along with the only two eclogues of the same author known to be in existence. With a biographical introduction, and notes topographical & illustrative. By William Grainge |
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ECLOGUE THE FOURTH. |
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 | Daemonologia: A discourse on witchcraft |  |
ECLOGUE THE FOURTH.
EGLON AND ALEXIS.
Whilst on the rough and heath-strewed wilderness
His tender flocks the rasps and brambles cropp,
Poor shepherd Eglon full of sad distress,
By the small stream sat on a mole-hill topp,
Crown'd with a wreath of Heban branches broke:
Whom good Alexis found, and thus bespoke:—
His tender flocks the rasps and brambles cropp,
Poor shepherd Eglon full of sad distress,
By the small stream sat on a mole-hill topp,
Crown'd with a wreath of Heban branches broke:
Whom good Alexis found, and thus bespoke:—
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My friend, what means this silent lamentation?
Why on this field of mirth, this realm of smiles,
Doth the fierce war of griefe make such invasion?
Witty Timanthes had he seen ere whiles,
What face of woe thy cheek of sadness bears,
He had not curtained Agamemnon's tears.
Why on this field of mirth, this realm of smiles,
Doth the fierce war of griefe make such invasion?
Witty Timanthes had he seen ere whiles,
What face of woe thy cheek of sadness bears,
He had not curtained Agamemnon's tears.
The black ox treads not yet upon thy toe,
Nor thy good fortune turns her wheele away;
Thy flocks increase, and thou increasest so;
Thy stragling goates now mild and gentle playe;
And that foole Love thou whip'st away with rods;
Then what sets thee and joy so far at odds?
Nor thy good fortune turns her wheele away;
Thy flocks increase, and thou increasest so;
Thy stragling goates now mild and gentle playe;
And that foole Love thou whip'st away with rods;
Then what sets thee and joy so far at odds?
Eglon.
Nor love, nor loss of ought that worldlings love,
Be it dress, wealth, dream, pleasure, smoke or glory,
Can my well-settled thought to passion move:
A greater cause it is that makes me sorry,
But known to thee it may seem small or none;
Under his fellow's burden who needs grone?
Be it dress, wealth, dream, pleasure, smoke or glory,
Can my well-settled thought to passion move:
A greater cause it is that makes me sorry,
But known to thee it may seem small or none;
Under his fellow's burden who needs grone?
Alexis.
Yet tell me Eglon, for my ram shall die
On the same altar where thy goat doth burn;
Else let these kids my olive trees lick dry,
And let my sheep to shag-hayr'd Musmons turn!
All things with friends are common, grief and sorrow
Men without bond or interest freely borrow.
On the same altar where thy goat doth burn;
Else let these kids my olive trees lick dry,
And let my sheep to shag-hayr'd Musmons turn!
All things with friends are common, grief and sorrow
Men without bond or interest freely borrow.
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Sufficeth to each man his own mishap;
Yet for our friends our eye oft spends more tears
Than for ourselves; our neighbour in his lap
Sometimes our grief, our losses never beares;
Fitter to weep than help when need requires!
So soon the halting steed of friendship tires.
Yet for our friends our eye oft spends more tears
Than for ourselves; our neighbour in his lap
Sometimes our grief, our losses never beares;
Fitter to weep than help when need requires!
So soon the halting steed of friendship tires.
Thou know'st I had a tender lamb; a cade,
Nourish't with milk and morsels from my table,
That in my bosom its soft lodging made,
And cherish't was and fed as I was able;
It was my child, my darling, and my queen,
And might for shape a Passover have been!
Nourish't with milk and morsels from my table,
That in my bosom its soft lodging made,
And cherish't was and fed as I was able;
It was my child, my darling, and my queen,
And might for shape a Passover have been!
I kept it for an offering 'gainst the day
That the great god of shepherds, Pan, shall come,—
Not he whose thousand lambs did feed and stray
On Sicil hills, one such at night brought home.
Nor could the ram wonne by the lords of Greece,
Compare his guilded with her pearled fleece.
That the great god of shepherds, Pan, shall come,—
Not he whose thousand lambs did feed and stray
On Sicil hills, one such at night brought home.
Nor could the ram wonne by the lords of Greece,
Compare his guilded with her pearled fleece.
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But when the sun with his intising ray
Allured her forth from quiet of my shed,
Thorow the broken wall she slipt away,
Behind the corner stone, and thence she fled,
Ambling along the meads and rivers shrill;
And yet she thought she knew, she did, no ill.
Allured her forth from quiet of my shed,
Thorow the broken wall she slipt away,
Behind the corner stone, and thence she fled,
Ambling along the meads and rivers shrill;
And yet she thought she knew, she did, no ill.
The fox, whose fort Malpardus border'd nie,
Spied from his keep the wand'ring innocent,
That weary in the cooling shade did lye,
Lest the hot beams her tender limbs might shent;
And soon he judged by her harmless look,
It was a fish would easily take the hook.
Spied from his keep the wand'ring innocent,
That weary in the cooling shade did lye,
Lest the hot beams her tender limbs might shent;
And soon he judged by her harmless look,
It was a fish would easily take the hook.
He buskt him boon, and on his sanded coat,
He buckled close a slain kid's hairy skin,
And wore the vizzard of a smooth fac't goat;
All saint without, none spied the devil within!
With wanton skips he boards the harmless sheep,
And with sweet words thus into grace did creep.
He buckled close a slain kid's hairy skin,
And wore the vizzard of a smooth fac't goat;
All saint without, none spied the devil within!
With wanton skips he boards the harmless sheep,
And with sweet words thus into grace did creep.
Dear sister lamb! queen of the fleecy kind!
That opal flowers pick'st from these em'rald closes;
Thy bombace, soft in silver trammels bind,
And crowd thy lamber horns with corall roses!
This sabbath is the feast-day of thy birth;
Come be thou lady of our May, and mirth.
That opal flowers pick'st from these em'rald closes;
Thy bombace, soft in silver trammels bind,
And crowd thy lamber horns with corall roses!
This sabbath is the feast-day of thy birth;
Come be thou lady of our May, and mirth.
Break from the prison of the austere cell
Of thy strict master, and his cynick diet!
And in sweet shades of this fat valley dwell,
In ease and wealth! Here we are rich and quiet!
Unty these bonds of awe and cords of duty;
They be weak chains to fetter youth and beauty.
Of thy strict master, and his cynick diet!
And in sweet shades of this fat valley dwell,
In ease and wealth! Here we are rich and quiet!
Unty these bonds of awe and cords of duty;
They be weak chains to fetter youth and beauty.
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With that he kissed her lips and strayn'd her hand,
And softly raysed her from the tender grass;
And squiring her along the flowry land,
Still made her court, as through the fields they pass;
And that bawd love, factor of shame and sin;
Lent him a net to catch his woodcock in.
And softly raysed her from the tender grass;
And squiring her along the flowry land,
Still made her court, as through the fields they pass;
And that bawd love, factor of shame and sin;
Lent him a net to catch his woodcock in.
Close in the bosom of a bended hill,
Of faire and fruitful trees a forest stood,
Balm, Myrrh, Bdellium, from their bark distill.
Bay, Smilax, Myrtle, (Cupid's arrow wood)
Grew there, and Cypress with his kiss-sky tops,
And Ferrea's tree whence pure rose-water drops.
Of faire and fruitful trees a forest stood,
Balm, Myrrh, Bdellium, from their bark distill.
Bay, Smilax, Myrtle, (Cupid's arrow wood)
Grew there, and Cypress with his kiss-sky tops,
And Ferrea's tree whence pure rose-water drops.
The golden bee, buzzing with tinsell wings,
Suckt amber honey from the silken flower;
The dove sad love-groans on her sacbut sings,
The throssell whistles from his oaken tower;
And sporting lay the nymphs of woods and hills,
On beds of heart's-ease, rue, and daffodills.
Suckt amber honey from the silken flower;
The dove sad love-groans on her sacbut sings,
The throssell whistles from his oaken tower;
And sporting lay the nymphs of woods and hills,
On beds of heart's-ease, rue, and daffodills.
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Hither the traitor fox his mistress leads,
Intising her with sweetness of the place,
Till on a hidden net unwares she treads;
The silken threads their guileless prey embrace,
Yet hurt her not; the subtile fowler smil'd;
Nor knew the Dottrell yet she was beguil'd.
Intising her with sweetness of the place,
Till on a hidden net unwares she treads;
The silken threads their guileless prey embrace,
Yet hurt her not; the subtile fowler smil'd;
Nor knew the Dottrell yet she was beguil'd.
Not that false snare, wherewith the cuckold-smith
Sham'd his queen and himself; nor that sly gin
Astolfo caught the eat-man giant with,
Nor that Arachne takes her wild fowle in,
Nor those small toiles the morning queen doth set
In every mead, so fine were as that net.
Sham'd his queen and himself; nor that sly gin
Astolfo caught the eat-man giant with,
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Nor those small toiles the morning queen doth set
In every mead, so fine were as that net.
Thus caught he bound her in a chain three-fold,
And led her to a shady arbour near;
The chain was copper, yet it seemed gold,
And every link a sundry name did bear,
Wrath, sloth, strife, envy, avarice, foul lust,
And pride: what flesh can so strong fetters burst?
And led her to a shady arbour near;
The chain was copper, yet it seemed gold,
And every link a sundry name did bear,
Wrath, sloth, strife, envy, avarice, foul lust,
And pride: what flesh can so strong fetters burst?
An hundred times her virgin lip he kiss't,
As oft her mayden finger gently wrung;
Yet what he would her childhood nothing wist;
The bee of love her soft heart had not stung!
In vain he sigh'd, he glanc'd, he shook his head,
Those hierogliphicks were too hard to read.
As oft her mayden finger gently wrung;
Yet what he would her childhood nothing wist;
The bee of love her soft heart had not stung!
In vain he sigh'd, he glanc'd, he shook his head,
Those hierogliphicks were too hard to read.
She did not, nay, she would not understand,
Upon what errand his sweet smiles were gone;
And in his borrowed coat some hole she fond,
Through which she spied all was not gold that shone;
Yet still his tools the workman ply'd so fast,
That her speed-wing his lime-twig took at last.
Upon what errand his sweet smiles were gone;
And in his borrowed coat some hole she fond,
Through which she spied all was not gold that shone;
Yet still his tools the workman ply'd so fast,
That her speed-wing his lime-twig took at last.
Her silver rug from her soft hide he clipt,
And on her body knit a canvas thin,
With twenty-party-colours evenly stript,
And guarded like the Zebra's rain-bow skin,
Such coats young Tamar, and fayre Rachel's child
Put off, when he was sold, and she defil'd.
And on her body knit a canvas thin,
With twenty-party-colours evenly stript,
And guarded like the Zebra's rain-bow skin,
Such coats young Tamar, and fayre Rachel's child
Put off, when he was sold, and she defil'd.
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There mourn'd the black, the purple tyranniz'd,
The russet hop'd, and green the wanton play'd;
Yellow spy'd faults in such as love disguised;
Carnation still desir'd, white lived a mayd;
Blue kept his faith unstain'd, red bled to death,
And forlorn tawney wore a willow-wreath.
The russet hop'd, and green the wanton play'd;
Yellow spy'd faults in such as love disguised;
Carnation still desir'd, white lived a mayd;
Blue kept his faith unstain'd, red bled to death,
And forlorn tawney wore a willow-wreath.
All these, and twenty new found colours more,
Were in the weft of that rich garment wrought;
And who that charmed vesture took and wore,
Like it were changeable in will and thought.
What wonder then, if on so smooth a plate,
He stampt a fiend, where once an angel sate?
Were in the weft of that rich garment wrought;
And who that charmed vesture took and wore,
Like it were changeable in will and thought.
What wonder then, if on so smooth a plate,
He stampt a fiend, where once an angel sate?
Thus clad he set her on a throne of glass,
And spread a plenteous table on the green;
And every platter of true porcelain was,
Which had a thousand years in temp'ring been,
Yet did the cates exceed the substance fine;
So rare the viands were, so rich the wine!
And spread a plenteous table on the green;
And every platter of true porcelain was,
Which had a thousand years in temp'ring been,
Yet did the cates exceed the substance fine;
So rare the viands were, so rich the wine!
Lucullus was a niggard of his meat,
And sparefull of his cups seem'd Anthony;
But in each morsel which the guests should eate,
The cruel rats-bane of vile lusts did lye;
Yet at that board, the little-fearing-sheep
Eats, till she surfeit, quaffeth till she sleep.
And sparefull of his cups seem'd Anthony;
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The cruel rats-bane of vile lusts did lye;
Yet at that board, the little-fearing-sheep
Eats, till she surfeit, quaffeth till she sleep.
Then drunk with folly, to his loather nest
He brought his prey; and in a dusky room,
All night he crouched on her tender brest,
Till timely day spring with her morning broom
Had swept the silver motes from heaven's steel-flore,
And at the key-hole peeped through theyr dore.
He brought his prey; and in a dusky room,
All night he crouched on her tender brest,
Till timely day spring with her morning broom
Had swept the silver motes from heaven's steel-flore,
And at the key-hole peeped through theyr dore.
But such the issue was of that embrace,
That deadly poison thro' her body spread,
Rotted her limbs, and leprous grew her face;
His bosom's touch so dire a mischief bred;
So venomous was not the poysoned lip
Of th'Indian king, or Guinea's Cock's Combe-ship.
That deadly poison thro' her body spread,
Rotted her limbs, and leprous grew her face;
His bosom's touch so dire a mischief bred;
So venomous was not the poysoned lip
Of th'Indian king, or Guinea's Cock's Combe-ship.
Pherecides' small winged dragonets,
Ferrontines' gentles, Scella's swarm of lice,
The Boghar-worm that joynts asunder frets;
The plague that scourged wanton Cressed's vice;
And that great evill which viper-wine makes sound—
Compared with hers, are but a pin's small wound.
Ferrontines' gentles, Scella's swarm of lice,
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The plague that scourged wanton Cressed's vice;
And that great evill which viper-wine makes sound—
Compared with hers, are but a pin's small wound.
The gastly raven from the blasted oake,
With deadly call foreshewed my lamb's mishap;
The wake-bird on my chimney well-nigh spoke;
But I alas! foresaw no after-clap!
Yet crew my hens, sure shepherd's sign of ill!
But my fond heart in bird-spell had no skill.
With deadly call foreshewed my lamb's mishap;
The wake-bird on my chimney well-nigh spoke;
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Yet crew my hens, sure shepherd's sign of ill!
But my fond heart in bird-spell had no skill.
For help I sought the Leach, wise Mardophage,
I try'd the English—Bath, and German Spaw;
To Walsingham I went on pilgrimage,
And said strong Charmes that kept even Death in awe!
Yet none of these can her lost health restore;
Ah no, my lambs' recovery costeth more!
I try'd the English—Bath, and German Spaw;
To Walsingham I went on pilgrimage,
And said strong Charmes that kept even Death in awe!
Yet none of these can her lost health restore;
Ah no, my lambs' recovery costeth more!
Alexis.
So vain a thing is man, what least we fear
That soonest haps; the evill we present feel
Brings greater anguish than our souls can bear,
Desp'rate we are in woe, careless in weal!
Unfallen, unfeared! if ill betide us, then
Are we past hope; so vain a thing is man!
That soonest haps; the evill we present feel
Brings greater anguish than our souls can bear,
Desp'rate we are in woe, careless in weal!
Unfallen, unfeared! if ill betide us, then
Are we past hope; so vain a thing is man!
Great is I grant, the danger of thy sheep!
But yet there is a salve for every sore;
That shepherd who our flock and us doth keep,
To remedy this sickness long before,
Killéd a holy lamb, clear, spotless, pure;
Whose blood the salve is all our hearts to cure.
But yet there is a salve for every sore;
That shepherd who our flock and us doth keep,
To remedy this sickness long before,
Killéd a holy lamb, clear, spotless, pure;
Whose blood the salve is all our hearts to cure.
Call for that surgeon good to dress her wound!
Bath her in holy water of thy tears!
Let her in bands of faith and love be bound!
And while on earth she spends her pilgrim years,
Thou for thy charm pray with the publican!
And so restore thy lamb to health again!
Bath her in holy water of thy tears!
Let her in bands of faith and love be bound!
And while on earth she spends her pilgrim years,
Thou for thy charm pray with the publican!
And so restore thy lamb to health again!
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Now farewell Eglon! for the sun stoops low,
And calling guests before my sheep-coat's dore,
Now clad in white I see my Porter-crow,
Great kings oft want the blessings of the poor.
My board is short, my kitchen needs no clerk,
Come Fannius! come! be thou Symposiarke.
And calling guests before my sheep-coat's dore,
Now clad in white I see my Porter-crow,
Great kings oft want the blessings of the poor.
My board is short, my kitchen needs no clerk,
Come Fannius! come! be thou Symposiarke.
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