The THIRD PASTORAL.
Linus. Coridon.
The Argument.
Linus a Shepheard doth explaine
To Coridon, a rigid Swaine,
What learned Shepheards once there were,
And who do now the Lawrell beare,
And (as he's able) yeeldeth praise
Vnto their most admired Layes.
Linus.
Come
Coridon sit down by me,
Our flocks securely feeding be,
While Phœbus beames do parch the earth,
Giving the slime of Nilus birth,
An houre weel wholly spend in chat,
Finding discourse of this, and that.
Coridon.
I list not spend my time so ill,
But yet because it is your will,
Il'e sit, though much against my mind,
Now—what talk with me will you find.
Linus.
Indeed I know thou lov'st to heare
Of nought, but how thy Oxe will beare
His yoke, and when thy sheep to sheare,
That thou mayst make a gainefull yeare,
But yet to mee more pleasant is
To hear Tytirus play I wis
Upon his oaten Reed, while hee
Doth make delitious mellodie,
(As once to Orpheus Harp) each tree
Does nod, Beasts of the wood agree
To cast aside their furious kind,
And take to them a gentle mind,
While he records in pleasant verse
Sweettales of Love, and doth rehaerse
His dreames and songs, the stones do move.
Coridon.
O foole with fancies much in love,
I wot not what Tytirus was,
Nor for his tales and songs, do passe,
But yet I pray thee let me heare
Yet more of this fantastick geare,
If they were Shepheards like as we.
Linus.
O Coridon that cannot be,
They passe us Swainlings all as farr,
As doth the Moon the smallest Star,
But I to thee will now display
What I have heard my Father say.
Next unto Tytirus there came
One that deservd a greater name,
Then was bestowed, but when She swaid,
Whom to this day some call a Maid,
Then Collin Clout his pipe did sound,
Making both Heaven and Earth resound;
The Shepheards all both farre and near
About him flock'd his layes to hear,
And for his songs he was so fam'd,
He was the Prince of Shepheards nam'd:
And next to him was the sweet quill
Of far renowned Astrophil
Admired, who whether that he chose
To pipe in Verse or else in Prose,
Was held the bravest swain to be,
Ere folded Flocks in Arcadie:
After him rose as sweet a Swaine,
As ever pip'd upon the Plain,
He sang of warres, and Tragedies
He warbled forth, on him the eyes
Of all the Shepheards fixed were,
Rejoycing much his songs to hear.
And then liv'd He who sweetly sung,
Orlandos fate in his own tongue,
Who would not deigne t'divulge his own,
But by another would be known,
O gentle Shepheard we to thee
Are bound in a supream degree.
And after him a swain arose,
In whom sweet Ovids Spirit chose
For to reside, he sang of Love,
How Cupid Ladies hearts can move,
And each how large the Continent
Of Arcadie is in extent,
He praisd his maker in his Layes,
And from a King receiv'd the Bayes.
Coridon.
Although thy words a mistery
Include, not understood by me,
Yet these I think our Fathers were,
Have we none now their names to bear?
And able are their Pipes to sound
As lowd as those so much renownd.
Linus.
Yes Coridon, Ile tell thee then,
Not long agoe liv'd learned Ben,
He whose songs, they say, out-vie
All Greek and Latine Poesie,
Who chanted on his pipe Divine,
The overthrow of Cataline,
Both Kings and Princesses of might,
To heare his Layes did take delight,
The Arcadian Shepheards wonder all,
To heare him sing Sejanus fall,
O thou renowned Shepheard, we
Shall ne're have one againe like thee,
With him contemporary then,
(As Naso, and fam'd Maro, when
Our sole Redeemer took his birth)
Shakespeare trod on English earth,
His Muse doth merit more rewards
Then all the Greek, or Latine Bards,
What flowd from him, was purely rare,
As born to blesse the Theater,
He first refin'd the Commick Lyre,
His Wit all do, and shall admire,
The chiefest glory of the Stage,
Or when he sung of war and Strage,
Melpomene soon viewd the globe,
Invelop'd in her sanguine Robe,
He that his worth would truely sing,
Must quaffe the whole Pierian spring.
And now—(be gone ye gastfull feares
Alas I cannot speak for teares)
There is a Shepheard cag'd in stone
Destin'd unto destruction,
Worthy of all before him were,
Apollo him doth first preferre,
Renowned Lawreate be comtent,
Thy workes are thine own Monument.
Apollo still affords supply,
For the Castalian Fount's nere drie,
Two happy wits, late brightly shone,
The true sonnes of Hyperion,
Fletcher, and Beaumont, who so wrot,
Iohnsons Fame was soon forgot,
Shakespeare no glory was alow'd,
His Sun quite shrunk beneath a Cloud:
These had been solely of esteem,
Had not a Sucklin Rivald them.
Sucklin
, whose neat superior phrase
At once delights, and doth amaze,
Serene, sententious, of such worth,
I want fit words to set it forth,
Exactly excellent, I think,
He us'd Nepenthe stead of Inke,
In this he all else doth out-do,
At once hee's grave, and sportive too.
And next to him well rankt may be
He, whose Pipe melodiously
Doth sound, who for his well-tun'd Layes,
May before Plautus claim the Bayes,
Whose Commick straines, and Tragick sounds,
Do ecchoe all about our grounds:
O gentle Shepheard still pipe on,
Still take deep draughts of Helicon,
And thou'lt be rankt I make no doubt
With Tytirus and Collin Clout.
Coridon.
Come let us rise, I wonder why,
Thou'lt spend thy time so foolishly,
By this we might our traps have set,
The Wolfe within our toiles to get,
Have made new Hurdles for our fold,
While we have heard these stories told,
That are not worth a lock of wooll,
Linus.
Wisely to speak unto a Foole
Is madnesse, come, bright Sol declines,
And glimmering on the Hills he shines.
Lets fold our flocks, which done, then I
My self will to my pipe apply.
The End.
