ECLOGUES.
ECLOGUE THE FIRST.
[When England, smoking from her deadly wound]
I
When England, smoking from her deadly wound,
From her galled neck did pluck the chains away,
Knowing her lawful sons fall all around,
(Mighty they fell, 'twas Honour led the fray).
Then in a dale, by eve's dark surcote gray,
Two lonely shepherds did abrodden fly,
(The rustling leaf doth their white hearts affray),
And with the owlet trembled and did cry;
First Robert Neatherd his sore bosom stroke,
Then fell upon the ground and thus y-spoke.
Robert.
Ah, Raufe! if thus the hours do come along,
If thus we fly in chase of further wo,
Our feet will fail, albeit we be strong,
Nor will our pace swift as our danger go.
To our great wrongs we have enheapèd mo.
The Barons war! Oh, woe and well-a-day!
I have my life, but have escapèd so,
That life itself my senses doth affray.
Oh Raufe, come list, and hear my dernie tale,
Come hear the baleful doom of Robin of the dale.
Raufe.
Say to me naught; I know thy woe in mine.
Oh! I've a tale that Sabalus might tell.
Sweetflowerets, mantled meadows, forests digne;
Gravots, far-kenned, around the hermit's cell,
The sweet ribible dinning in the dell,
The joyous dancing in the hostel-court;
Eke the high song and every joy, farewell!
Farewel, the very shade of fair disport;
Impestering troubles on my head do come,
Nor one kind Saint to ward the aye-increasing doom.
Rob.
Oh! I could wail my kingcup-deckèd mees,
My spreading flocks of sheep of lily white,
My tender apples, and embodied trees,
My parker's grange, far-spreading to the sight,
My cuyen kine, my bullocks strong in fight,
My gorne emblanchèd with the comfreie plant,
My flower-Saint-Mary shooting with the light,
My store of all the blessings Heaven can grant;
I am duressèd unto sorrow's blow,
I, hanten'd to the pain, will let no salt tear flow.
Raufe.
Here I will obaie until Death do 'pear,
Here, like a foul empoisoned lethal tree,
Which slayeth every one that cometh near,
So will I, fixèd unto this place, gre.
I to bemoan have far more cause than thee;
Slain in the war my boolie father lies;
Oh! joyous I his murderer would sle,
And by his side for aye enclose mine eyes.
Calkèd from every joy, here will I bleed,
Fall'n is the cullis-gate of my heart's castlestead.
Rob.
Our woes alike, alike our doom shall be,
My son, my only son, ystorven is;
Here will I stay, and end my life with thee,
A life like mine a burden is, ywis.
Now e'en from lodges fled is happiness,
Minsters alone can boast the holy saint.
Now doth fair England wear a bloody dress,
And with her champions' gore her face depeint;
Peace fled, disorder sheweth her dark rode,
And thórough air doth fly, in garments stained with blood.
ECLOGUE THE SECOND.
[Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said]
Nygelle.
Sprites of the blest, the pious Nigel said,
Pour out your pleasure on my father's head.
I
Richard of Lion's heart to fight is gone,
Upon the broad sea do the banners gleam;
The amenusèd nations are aston
To ken so large a fleet, so fine, so breme.
The barkès heads do cut the polished stream,
Waves sinking, waves upon the hard oak rise;
The water-slughorns, with a swotye cleme,
Strive with the dinning air, and reach the skies.
Sprites of the blest, on golden thrones a-stead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
II
The red y-painted oars from the black tide,
Carved with devices rare, do shimmering rise;
Upswelling do they shew in dreary pride,
Like gore-red estells in the eve-mirk skies;
The name-depicted shields, the spears arise,
Aye like tall rushes on the water-side;
Along from bark to bark the bright sheen flies;
Swift-sped delights do on the water glide.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
III
The Saracen looks out; he doëth fear,
That England's furious sons do cut the way;
Like hunted bucks, they run now here, now there,
Unknowledging in what place to obaie.
The banner glisters in the beam of day,
The mighty cross-Jerusalem is seen,
Thereof the sight their courage doth affray,
In baleful dole their faces are y-wreen.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
IV
The bollengers and cottes, so swift in fight,
Upon the sides of every bark appear;
Forth to his office leapeth every knight,
Eftsoons his squiër, with his shield and spear.
The joining shields do shimmer and much glare,
The dashing oar doth make united din;
The running foemen, thinking if to dare,
Draw the dark sword, they seek the fray, they blin.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
V
Now come the warring Saracens to fight;
King Richard, like a lioncel of war,
In shining gold, like fiery gronfers, dight,
Shaketh aloft his hand, and seen afar.
So haveth I espied a greater star
Among the lesser ones to shine full bright;
So the sun's wain with aumayl'd beams doth bar
The pallid moon or estells to give light.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
VI
Distraught affray, with locks of blood-red dye,
Terror, emburlèd in the thunder's rage,
Death, linkèd to dismay, doth ugsom fly,
Enchafing every champion war to wage.
Spears bevyle spears, swords upon swords engage;
Armour on armour dins, shield upon shield,
Nor death of thousands can the war assuage;
But falling numbers darken all the field.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
VII
The foemen fall around, the cross reels high;
Stainèd in gore, the heart of war is seen;
King Richard thórough every troop doth fly,
And beareth many Turks unto the green;
By him the flower of Asia's men are slain;
The waning moon doth fade before his sun:
By him his knights are formed to actions digne,
Doing such marvels, strangers are aston.
Sprites of the blest, and every saint y-dead,
Pour out your pleasance on my father's head.
VIII
The fight is won: King Richard master is,
The English banner kisseth the high air;
Full of pure joy the army is, y-wis,
And every one haveth it on his bayre
Again to England come, and worshipped there,
Pulled into loving arms, and feasted eft;
In every eye a-reading naught of were,
Of all remembrance of past pain bereft.
Sprites of the past, and every saint y-dead,
Such pleasures pour upon my father's head.
IX
So Nigel said, when from the blue-y sea
The swollen sail did daunce before his eyne;
Swift as the wish, he to the beach did flee,
And found his father stepping from the brine.
Let thyssen men, who have the sprite of love,
Bethink unto themselves how might the meeting prove!
ECLOGUE THE THIRD.
[Would'st thou ken Nature in her better part?]
A Man, a Woman, Sir Roger.
I.
Would'st thou ken Nature in her better part?
Go, search the cots and lodges of the hind;
If they have any, it is rough-made art,
In them you see the naked form of kind;
Haveth your mind a liking of a mind?
Would it ken everything, as it might be?
Would it hear phrase of vulgar from the hind,
Without wiseacre words and knowledge free?
If so, read this, which I disporting penned,
If naught beside, its rhyme may it commend.
II.
Man.
But whither, fair maid, do ye go?
O where do ye bend your way?
I will know whither you go,
I will not be answered nay.
Woman.
To Robin and Nell, all down in the dell,
To help them at making of hay.
Man.
Sir Roger, the parson, hath hired me there,
Come, come, let us trip it away,
We'll work and we'll sing, and we'll drink of strong beer,
As long as the merry summer's day.
III.
Woman.
How hard is my doom to wurch!
Great is my woe:
Dame Agnes, who lies in the church
With birlet gold,
With gilded aumeres, strong, untold,
What was she more than me, to be so?
Man.
I ken Sir Roger from afar,
Tripping over the lea;
I will ask why the lordès son
Is more than me.
IV.
Sir Roger.
The sultry sun doth hie apace his wain,
From every beam a seed of life doth fall;
Quickly heap up the hay upon the plain,
Methinks the cocks beginneth to grow tall.
This is aye like our doom; the great, the small,
Must wither and be forwyned by deathès dart.
See! the sweet floweret hath no sweet at all;
It with the rank weed beareth equal part.
The craven, warrior, and the wise are blent,
Alike to dry away with those they did lament.
V.
Man.
All-a-boon, Sir Priest, all-a-boon!
By your priestship, now say unto me;
Sir Gaufrid the knight, who liveth hard by,
Why should he than me be more great,
In honour, knighthood, and estate?
VI.
Sir Roger.
Revolve thine eye around this hayèd mee;
Attentively look round the thirsty dell;
An answer to thy barganette here see,
This withered floweret will a lesson tell;
It rose, it blew, it flourished, and did well,
Looking askance upon the neighbour green;
Yet with the 'dainèd green its glory fell,
Eftsoons it shrank upon the day-burnt plain,
Did not its look, whilest it there did stand,
To crop it in the bud move some dread hand.
VII.
[Sir Roger]
Such is the way of life; the loverd's ente
Moveth the robber him therefor to sle;
If thou hast ease, the shadow of content,
Believe the truth, there's none more haile than thee.
Thou workest; well, can that a trouble be?
Sloth more would jade thee than the roughest day.
Could'st thou the kivercled of soulès see,
Thou wouldst eftsoons see truth in what I say.
But let me hear thy way of life, and then
Hear thou from me the lives of other men.
VIII.
Man.
I rise with the sun,
Like him to drive the wain,
And ere my work is done,
I sing a song or twain.
I follow the plough-tail,
With a long jub of ale.
But of the maidens, oh!
It needeth not to tell;
Sir Priest might not cry woe,
Could his bull do as well.
I dance the best heiedeygnes,
And foil the wisest feygnes.
On every saint's high-day
With the minstrel I am seen,
All a-footing it away
With maidens on the green.
But oh! I wish to be more great
In glory, tenure, and estate.
IX.
Sir Roger.
Hast thou not seen a tree upon a hill,
Whose unlist branches reachen far to sight?
When furious tempests do the heaven fill,
It shaketh dire, in dole and much affright,
Whilst the poor lowly floweret, humbly dight,
Standeth unhurt, unquashèd by the storm.
Such is a picte of life; the man of might
Is tempest-chafed, his woe great as his form;
Thyself, a floweret of a small account,
Wouldst harder feel the wind, as thou didst higher mount.
