THE FIRST EGLOG.
VVhen as the ioyfull spring brings in the Summers sweete reliefe:
Poore
Rowland malcontent be wayles the winter of his griefe.
NOw
Phoebus from the equinoctiall Zone,
Had task'd his teame vnto the higher spheare.
And from the brightnes of his glorious throne,
Sends forth his Beames to light the lower ayre,
The cheerfull welkin, comen this long look'd hower,
Distils adowne full many a siluer shower.
Fayre
Philomel night-musicke of the spring,
Sweetly recordes her tunefull harmony,
And with deepe sobbes, and dolefull sorrowing,
Before fayre
Cinthya actes her Tragedy:
The Throstle cock, by breaking of the day,
Chants to his sweete, full many a louely lay.
The crawling snake, against the morning sunne,
Now streaks him in his rayn-bow coloured cote:
The darkesome shades, as loathsome he doth shunne,
Inchanted with the Birds sweete siluan note:
The Buck forsakes the launds where he hath fed,
And scornes the hunt should view his veluet head.
Through all the partes, dispersed is the blood,
The lustie spring, in flower of all her pride,
Man, bird, and beast, and fish, in pleasant flood,
Reioycing all in this most ioyfull tide:
Saue
Rowland leaning on a Ranpick tree,
O'r growne with age, forlorne with woe was he.
Oh blessed
Pan, thou shepheards god sayth he,
O thou Creator of the starrie light,
Whose wonderous workes shew thy diuinitie,
Thou wise inuentor of the day and night,
Refreshing nature with the louely spring,
Quite blemisht erst, with stormy winters sting.
O thou strong builder of the firmament,
Who placedst
Phoebus in his fierie Carre,
And by thy mighty Godhead didst inuent,
The planets mansions that they should not iarre,
Ordeyning
Phebe, mistresse of the night,
From
Tytans flame to steale her forked light.
Euen from the cleerest christall shining throne,
Vnder whose feete the heauens are low abased,
Commaunding in thy maiestie alone,
Whereas the fiery Cherubines are placed:
Receiue my vowes as incense vnto thee,
My tribute due to thy eternitie.
O shepheards soueraigne, yea receiue in gree,
The gushing teares, from neuer-resting eyes,
And let those prayers vvhich I shall make to thee,
Be in thy sight perfumed sacrifice:
Let smokie sighes be pledges of contrition,
For follies past to make my soules submission.
Submission makes amends for all my misse,
Contrition a refined life begins,
Then sacred sighes, what thing more precious is?
And prayers be oblations for my sinnes,
Repentant teares, from heauen-beholding eyes,
Ascend the ayre, and penetrate the skies.
My sorowes waxe, my ioyes are in the wayning,
My hope decayes, and my despayre is springing,
My loue hath losse, and my disgrace hath gayning,
Wrong rules, desert with teares her hands sits wringing:
Sorrow, despayre, disgrace, and wrong, doe thwart
My Ioy, my loue, my hope, and my desert.
Deuouring time shall swallow vp my sorrowes,
And strong beliefe shall torture black despaire,
Death shall orewhelme disgrace, in deepest furrowes,
And Iustice laie my wrongs vpon the Beere:
Thus Iustice, death, beleefe, and time, ere long,
Shall end my woes, despayre, disgrace, and wrong.
Yet time shall be expir'd and lose his date,
And full assurance cancell strongest trust,
Eternitie shall trample on deathes pate,
And Iustice shall surcease when all be iust:
Thus time, beleefe, death, Iustice, shall surcease,
By date, assurance, eternity, and peace.
Thus breathing from the Center of his soule,
The tragick accents of his extasie,
His sun-set eyes gan here and there to roule,
Like one surprisde with sodaine lunacie:
And being rouzde out of melancholly,
Flye whirle-winde thoughts vnto the heauens quoth he.
Now in the Ocean
Tytan quencht his flame,
And summond
Cinthya to set vp her light,
The heauens with their glorious starry frame,
Preparde to crowne the sable-vayled night:
When
Rowland from this time consumed stock,
With stone-colde hart now stalketh towards his flock.
Quid queror? & toto facio conuicia coelo:
Di quo
(que) habent oculos, di quo
(que) pectus habent.
THE SECOND EGLOG.
Wynken of mans frayle wayning age
declares the simple truth,
And doth by
Rowlands harmes reprooue
Mottos vnbrideled youth.
Motto.
MIght my youths mirth delight thy aged yeeres,
My gentle shepheard father of vs all,
Wherewith I why lome Ioy'd my louely feeres,
Chanting sweete straines of heauenly pastorall.
Now would I tune my miskins on this Greene,
And frame my muse those vertues to vnfold,
Of that sole Phenix Bird, my liues sole Queene:
Whose locks done staine, the three times burnisht gold.
But melancholie grafted in thy Braine,
My Rimes seeme harsh, to thy vnrelisht taste,
Thy droughthy wits, not long refresht with raigne,
Parched with heat, done wither now and waste.
Wynken.
Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorne,
My flowers decayd, with winter-withered frost,
My clowdy set eclips'd my cherefull morne,
That Iewell gone wherein I ioyed most.
My dreadful thoughts been drawen vpon my face,
In blotted lines with ages iron pen,
The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place,
Where beuties damaske daz'd the eies of men.
A cumber-world, yet in the world am left,
A fruitles plot, with brambles ouergrowne,
Misliued man of my vvorlds ioy bereft,
Hart-breaking cares the ofspring of my mone.
Those daintie straines of my vvell tuned reed,
Which manie a time haue pleasd my vvanton eares,
Nor svveet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed,
But tell the follies of my vvandring yeares.
Those poysned pils been biding at my hart,
Those loathsome drugs of my youths vanitie,
Svveete seem'd they once, ful bitter novv and tart,
Ay me consuming corosiues they be.
Motto.
Euen so I vveene, for thy olde ages feuer,
Deemes svveetest potions bitter as the gall,
And thy colde Pallat hauing lost her sauour,
Receiues no comfort in a cordiall.
VVynken.
As thou art novv, vvas I a gamesome boy,
Though staru'd vvith vvintred eld as thou do'st see,
And vvell I knovv thy svvallovv-vvinged ioy,
Shalbe forgotten as it is in me.
When on the Arche of thine eclipsed eies,
Time hath ingrau'd deepe characters of death,
And sun-burnt age thy kindlie moisture dries,
Thy vvearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,
Thy bravvne-falne armes, thy camock-bended backe,
The time-plovv d furrovves in thy fairest field,
The Southsaiers of natures vvofull vvrack,
When blooming age must stoupe to starued eld,
When Lillie vvhite is of a tavvnie die,
Thy fragrant crimson turn'd ash-coloured pale,
Thy skin orecast vvith rough embroderie,
And cares rude pencell, quite disgrac'd thy sale,
When dovvne-beds heat must thavve thy frozen cold,
And luke-vvarme brothes recure Phlebotomie,
And vvhen the bell is readie to be tol'd,
To call the vvormes to thine Anatomie:
Remember then my boy, vvhat once I said to thee.
Now am I like the knurrie-bulked Oke,
Whome wasting eld hath made a toombe of dust,
Whose windvfallen branches fold by tempest stroke,
His barcke consumes with canker wormed rust
And though thou seemst like to the bragging bryer,
As gay as is the mornings Marygolde,
Yet shortly shall thy sap be drie and seere,
Thy gaudy Blossomes blemished with colde.
Euen such a wanton, an vnruly swayne,
was little
Rowland, vvhen of yore as he,
Vpon the Beechen tree on yonder playne,
Carued this rime of loues Idolatrie.
The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle,
Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.
Fortunes fayr'st mistresse, vertues surest guide,
Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.
Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence,
Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.
Conceipts sole Riches thoughts only treasure,
Desires true hope, loyes sweetest pleasure.
Yea she alone, next that eternall he,
The expresse Image of eternitie.
Motto.
Oh diuine loue, which so aloft canst raise,
And lift the minde out of this earthly mire,
And do'st inspire the pen with so hie prayse,
As with the heauens doth equal mans desire.
Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesie,
Whose furie doth incense the swelling braines,
As drawes to thee by heauen-bred Sympathie,
The sweete delights of highest soaring vaines:
Who doth not helpe to deck thy holy Shrine,
With Mirtle, and triumphant Lawrell tree?
Who will not say that thou art most diuine?
Or who doth not confesse thy deitie?
Wynken.
A foolish boy, full ill is he repayed,
For now the wanton pines in endles paine,
And sore repents what he before missaide,
So may they be which can so lewdly faine.
Now hath this yonker torne his tressed lockes,
And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweete,
Forsaking his companions and their flocks,
And casts his gayest garland at his feete.
And being shrowded in a homely cote,
And full of sorrow as a man might be,
He tun'd his Rebeck with a mournfull note,
And thereto sang this dolefull elegie.
Tell me fayre flocke (if so you can conceaue)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or vgly
Saturne from his combust sent,
This fat all presage of deaths dreryment.
Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring might,
Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.
May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
VVhen loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.
Yet needes the earth must droupe with visage sad;
VVhen siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,
The Cheerefull
Welkin once in sables clad,
Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.
And yet for all to make amends for this,
The clouds sheed teares and weepen at my misse.
Motto.
Woe's me for him that pineth so in payne,
Alas poore
Rowland, how it pities me,
So faire a baite should breed so foule a bayne,
Or humble shewes should couer crueltie.
VVinken
Beware by him thou foolish wanton svvayne,
By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heede,
Beautie and wealth been fraught vvith hie disdaine,
Beleeue it as a Maxim of thy Creede.
Motto.
If that there be such woes and paines in loue,
Woe be to him that list the same to proue.
VVynken.
Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir'st to proue,
There is no hell, vnto the paines in loue.
THE THIRD EGLOG.
Rowland and
Perkin both Ifeere, in field vpon a day,
VVith little Robin redbrests Round, doe passe the time away.
Perkin.
ROwland for shame awake thy drowsie muse,
Time plaies the hunts-vp to thy sleepie head,
Why li'st thou here as thou hadst long been dead, foule idle swayne?
Who euer heard thy pipe and pleasing vaine,
And doth but heare this scurrill minstralcy.
These noninos of filthie ribauldry, that doth not muse.
Then slumber not with foule
Endymion,
But tune thy reede to dapper virelayes,
And sing a while of blessed
Betas prayse, faire
Beta she:
In thy sweete song so blessed may'st thou bee,
For learned
Collin laies his pipes to gage,
And is to fayrie gone a Pilgrimage: the more our mone.
Rowland.
What
Beta? shepheard, she is
Pans belou'd,
Faire
Betas praise beyond our straine doth stretch,
Her notes too hie for my poore pipe to reach,
poore oten reede:
So farre vnfit to speake of vvorthies deede,
But set my stops vnto a lovver kay,
Whereas a horne-pipe I may safelie play,
yet vnreproou'd.
With flatterie my muse could neuer fage,
Nor could affect such vaine scurrility,
To please lewd Lorrels, in their foolery,
too base and vile:
Nor but a note yet will I raise my stile,
My selfe aboue
VVill Piper to aduance,
Which so bestirs him at the morris dance,
for pennie wage.
Perkin.
Rowland, so toyes oft times esteemed are,
And fashions euer changing with the time,
Then frolick it a while in lustie rime,
with mirth and glee:
And let me heare that Roundelay of thee,
Which once thou sangst to me in Ianeueer.
VVhen Robin-redbrest sitting on a breere,
the burthen bare.
Rowland.
VVell needes I must yet with a heauie hart:
But were not
Beta sure I would not sing,
VVhose praise the ecchoes neuer cease to ring,
vnto the skies.
Pirken.
Be blith good
Rowland then, and cleere thine eyes:
And now sith Robin to his roost is gone,
Good
Rowland then supplie the place alone,
and shew thy arte.
O thou fayre siluer Thames: ô cleerest chrystall flood,
Beta alone the Phenix is, of all thy watery brood,
The Queene of Uirgins onely she:
And thou the Queene of floods shalt be:
Let all thy Nymphes be ioyfull then to see this happy day,
Thy
Beta now alone shalbe the subiect of my laye.
VVith daintie and delight some straines of sweetest virelayes:
Come louely shepheards sit we down & chant our
Betas prayse:
And let vs sing: so rare a verse,
Our Betas prayses to reheaerse
That little Birds shall silent be, to heare poore shepheards sing,
And riuers backward bend their course, & flow vnto the spring.
Range all thy swannes faire Thames together on a rancke,
And place them duely one by one, vpon thy stately banck,
Then set together all a good,
Recording to the siluer stood,
And craue the tunefull Nightingale to helpe you with her lay,
The Osel & the Throstlecocke, chiefe musick of our maye.
O see what troups of Nimphs been sporting on the strands,
And they been blessed Nimphs of peace, with Oliues in their
How meryly the Muses sing, (hands.
That all the flowry Medowesring,
And
Beta sits vpon the banck, in purple and in pall,
And she the Queene of Muses is, and weares the Corinall.
Trim vp her Golden tresses with
Apollos sacred tree,
ô happy sight vnto all those that loue and honor thee,
The Blessed Angels haue prepar'd,
A glorious Crowne for thy reward,
Not such a golden Crowne as haughtie
Caesar weares,
But such a glittering starry Crowne as
Ariadne beares.
Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine,
And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglentine:
Bedeck our
Beta all with Lillies,
And the dayntie Daffadillies,
VVith Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice,
VVith Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloues of Paradice.
O thou fayre torch of heauen, the dayes most deerest light,
And thou bright-shyning
Cinthya, the glory of the night:
You starres the eyes of heauen,
And thou the glyding leuen,
And thou ô gorgeous
Iris with all strange Colours dyed,
VVhen she streams foorth her rayes, then dasht is all your pride.
See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,
And time loe stretcheth foorth her armes, thy
Beta to imbrace,
The Syrens sing sweete layes,
The Trytons sound her prayse,
Goe passe on Thames and hie thee fast vnto the Ocean sea,
And let thy billowes there proclaime thy
Betas holy-day.
And water thou the blessed roote of that greene Oliue tree,
VVith whose sweete shadow, al thy bancks with peace preserued
Lawrell for Poets and Conquerours, (be,
And mirtle for Loues Paramours:
That fame may be thy fruit, the boughes preseru'd by peace,
And let the mournfist Cipres die, now stormes & tempests cease.
VVee'l straw the shore with pearle where
Beta walks alone,
And we wil paue her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,
Perfume the ayre and make it sweete,
For such a Goddesse it is meete,
For if her eyes for purity contend with Tytans light,
No maruaile then although they so doe dazell humaine sight.
Sound out your trumpets then, from
Londons stately towres,
To beat the stormie windes a back & calme the raging showres,
Set too the Cornet and the flute,
The Orpharyon and the Lute,
And tune the Taber and the pipe, to the sweet violons,
And moue the thunder in the ayre, with lowdest Clarions.
Beta long may thine Altars smoke, with yeerely sacrifice,
And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,
Thy shepheards watch by day and night,
Thy Mayds attend the holy light,
And thy large empyre stretch her armes from east vnto the west,
And thou vnder thy feet mayst tread, that soule seuen-headed
beast.
Perken.
Thanks gentle
Rowland for my Roundelay,
And bless'd be
Beta burthen of thy song,
The shepheards Goddesse may she florish long, ô happie she.
Her yeares and dayes thrice doubled may they bee.
Triumphing
Albion clap thy hands for ioy,
And pray the heauens may shield her from anoy,
so will I pray.
Rowland.
So doe, ānd when my milk-white eawes haue yeande,
Beta shall haue the firstling of the foulde,
I le burnish all his hornes with finest gould,
and paynt his fleece with purple grayne.
Perkin.
Beleeue me as I am true shepheards swayne,
Then for thy loue all other I forsake,
And vnto thee my selfe I will betake,
with fayth vnfayn'd.
Ipse ego thura dabo, fumosis candidus aris:
Ipse feram ante tuos munera vota pedes.
THE FOVRTH EGLOG.
Wynken be wayleth
Elphinslosse,
the God of Poesie,
with
Rowlands rime ecleepd the tears
of the greene Hawthorne tree.
Gorbo.
WEll met good
wynken, whither doest thou wend?
How hast thou far'd sweet shepherd many a yeer?
May
vvynken thus his daies in darkenes spend?
Who I haue knowne for piping had no peere?
Where been those fayre flocks thou wert wont to guide?
What? been they dead? or hap'd on some mischance,
Or mischiefe hath their master else betide,
Or Lordly Loue hath cast thee in a trance.
What man? lets still be merie whilst we may,
And take a truce with sorrow for a time,
And let vs passe this wearie winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making rime.
VVynken.
Ah woe's me
Gorbo, mirth is farre away,
Mirth may not soiourne with black malcontent,
The lowring aspect of this dismall day,
The winter of my sorrow doth augment.
My song is now a swanne-like dying song,
And my conceipts, the deepe conceipts of death,
My heart becom'n a very hell of wrong,
My breast the irksome prison of my breath.
I loth my life, I loth the dearest light,
Com'n is my night, when once appeeres the day,
The blessed sunne seemes odious in my sight,
No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.
Gorbo.
What mayst thou be, that old
vvynkin de word,
Whose thred-bare wits o'rworne with melancholly,
Once so delightsome at the shepheards boord,
But now forlorne with thy selues self-wild folly.
I think thou dot'st in thy gray-bearded age,
Or brusd with sinne, for thy youths sin art sory,
And vow'st for thy? a solemne pilgrimage,
To holy Hayles or Patricks Purgatory.
Come sit we downe vnder this Hawthorne tree.
The morrowes light shall lend vs daie enough,
And tell a tale of
Gawen or Sir
Guy,
Of
Robin Hood, or of good
Clema Clough.
Or else some Romant vnto vs areed,
Which good olde
Godfrey taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy loue, or of thy lasses truth.
VVinken
Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care,
A new mishap my wonted ioyes hath crost:
Then meruaile not although my musicke iarre,
When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,
Elphin is dead, and in his graue is laid,
Our liues delight whilst louely
Elphin liued,
What cruell fate hath so the time berraid,
The widow world of all her ioyes depriued.
O cursed death, Liues fearsull enemie,
Times poysned sickle: Tyrants reuenging pride:
Thou blood-sucker, Thou childe of infamie:
Deuouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide:
Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.
Naught hast thou got, the earth hath wonne the most,
Nature is payd the interest of her due,
Pan hath receau'd, what him so dearly cost,
O heauens his vertues doe belong to you.
A heauenly clowded in a humaine shape,
Rare substance, in so rough a barcke Iclad,
Of Pastorall, the liuely springing sappe,
Though mortall thou, thy fame immortall made.
Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-diuining seer,
ô heauenly musicke of the highest spheare,
Sweet sounding trump, soule-rauishing desire,
Thou stealer of mans heart, inchanter of the eare.
God of Inuention,
Ioues deere
Mercury,
Ioy of our Lawrell, pride of all our ioy:
The essence of all Poets diuinitie,
Spirit of
Orpheus: Pallas louely boy.
But all my words shalbe dissolu'd to teares,
And my tears fountaines shall to riuers grow:
These Riuers to the floods of my dispaires,
And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.
His rare desarts, shall kindle my desire,
With burning zeale, the brands of mine vnrest,
My sighes in adding sulphure to this fire,
Shall frame another
AEtna in my breast.
Planets reserue your playnts till dismall day,
The ruthles rockes but newly haue begonne,
And when in drops they be dissolu'd away,
Let heauens begin to weepe when earth hath done.
Then tune thy pipe and I will sing alaye,
Vpon his death by
Rowland of the rocke,
Sitting with me this other stormy day,
In you sayre field attending on our flock.
Gorbo.
This shall content me
VVynken wondrous well,
And in this mistie wether keepe vs waking,
To heare ofhim, who whylome did excell,
In such a song of learned
Rowlands making.
Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine,
And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base,
And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face,
with weeping verse,
attend his hearse,
VVhose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.
Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,
VVarble forth your wamenting harmony,
And at his drery fat all obsequie,
with Cypres bowes,
maske your fayre Browes,
And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.
Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen,
And on thy death this dolefull song we sing,
Sweet Child of
Pan, and the Castalian spring,
vnto our endles mone,
from vs why art thou gone,
To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.
O whylome thou thy lasses dearest loue,
VVhen with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee,
Immortall mirror of all Poesie:
the Muses treasure,
the Graces pleasure,
Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.
Our mirth is now depriu'd of all her glory,
Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd.
Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound,
our melodie is mar'd
and we of ioyes debard,
Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.
O dismall day, bereauer of delight,
O stormy winter sourse of all our sorrow,
ô most vntimely and eclipsed morrow,
to rob vs quite
of all delight,
Darkening that starre which euer shone so bright:
Oh
Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone,
In spight of death yet shalt thou liue for aye,
Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye:
and still shall blaze
thy lasting prayse:
VVhose losse poore shepherds euer shall bemone.
Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his graue,
VVith damaske Roses and the hyacynt:
Come with sweete VVilliams, Marioram and Mynt,
with precious Balmes,
with hymnes and psalmes,
His funerall deserues no lesse at all to haue.
But see where
Elphin sits in fayre Elizia,
Feeding his flocke on yonder heauenly playne,
Come and behold, yon louely shepheards swayne,
piping his fill,
on yonder hill,
Tasting sweete
Nectar, and
Ambrosia.
Gorbo.
Oh how thy plaints (sweete friend) renew my payne,
In listning thus to thy lamenting cries:
That from the tempest of my troubled brayne,
See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.
And being now a full tide of our teares,
It is full time to stop the streame of griefe,
Lest drowning in the floods of our despaires,
We want our liues, wanting our soules reliefe.
But now the sunne beginneth to decline,
And whilest our woes been in repeating here,
Yon little eluish moping Lamb of mine,
Is all betangled in yon crawling Brier.
Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur auaris:
Implentur numer is deteriora suis.
THE FIFTH EGLOG.
This lustie swayne bis lowly quill,
to higher notes doth rayse,
And in
Ideas person paynts,
his louely lasses prayse.
Motto.
COme frolick it a while my lustie swayne,
Let's see if time haue yet reuiu'd in thee,
Or if there be remayning but a grayne,
Of the olde stocke of famous poesie,
Or but one slip yet left of this same sacred tree.
Or if reseru'd from elds deuouring rage,
Recordes of vertue, Aye memoriall,
Left to the world as learnings lasting gage,
Or if the prayse of worthy pastorall,
May tempt thee now, or mooue thee once at all.
To Fortunes Orphanes Nature hath bequeath'd,
That mighty Monarchs seldome haue possest,
From highest Heauen, this influence is breath'd,
A most diuine impression in the breast, (feast.
And those whom Fortune pines doth Nature often
Ti's not the troupes of paynted Imagerie,
Nor these worlds Idols, our worlds Idiots gazes,
Our forgers of suppos'd Gentillitie,
When he his great, great Grand-sires glory blases,
And paints out fictions in base coyned Phrases.
For honour naught regards, nor followeth fame,
These silken pictures shewed in euery streete:
Of Idlenes comes euill, of pride ensueth shame,
And blacke obliuion is their winding sheete,
And all their glory troden vnder feete.
Though Enuie sute her seuen-times poysned dartes,
Yet purest golde is seuen times try'd in fier,
True valeur lodgeth in the lowlest harts,
Vertue is in the minde, not in th'attyre,
Nor stares at starres; nor stoups at filthy myre.
Rowland.
I may not sing of such as fall, nor clyme,
Nor chaunt of armes, nor of heroique deedes,
It fitteth not poore shepheards rurall rime,
Nor is agreeing with my oaten reedes,
Nor from my quill, grosse flatterie proceedes.
Vnsitting tearmes, nor false dissembling smiles,
Shall in my lines, nor in my stile appeare,
Worlds fawning fraud, nor like deceitfull guiles,
No, no, my muse none such shall soiourne here,
Nor any bragges of hope nor signes of base despaire,
No fatall dreades nor fruitles vaine desires,
Nor caps, nor curtsies to a paynted wall,
Nor heaping rotten sticks on needles fires,
Ambitious thoughts to clime nor fearcs to fall,
A minde voyd of mistrust, and free from seruile thral.
Foule slander thou suspitions Bastard Child,
Selfe-eating Impe from vipers poysned wombe,
Foule swelling to ade with lothly spots defil'd,
Vile
Aspis bred within the ruinde tombe,
Eternall death for euer be thy doombe.
Still be thou shrouded in blacke pitchie night,
Luld with the horror of night-rauens song,
Let foggie mistes, clowd and eclipse thy light,
Thy wooluish teeth chew out thy venomd tongue,
With Snakes and adders be thy body stong.
Motto.
Nor these, nor these, may like thy lowlie quill,
As of too hie, or of too base a straine,
Vnfitting thee, and sdeyned ofthy skill,
Nor yet according with a shepheards vayne,
Nor no such subiect may beseeme a swayne.
Then tune thy reede vnto
Ideas prayse:
And teach the woods to wonder at her name:
Thy lowlie notes here mayst thou learne to rayse,
And make the ecchoes blazen out her name,
The lasting trumpe of
Phebes lasting fame.
Thy Temples then shall with greene bayes be dight,
Thy Egle-soring muse vpon her wing,
With her fayre siluer wings shall take her flight,
To that hie welked tower where Angels sing,
From thence to fetch the tutch of her sweete string.
Rowland.
Oh hie inthronized
Ioue, in thy
Olympicke raigne,
Oh battel-waging Marte, oh sage-saw'd
Mercury,
Oh Golden shrined
Sol, Uenus loues soueraigne,
Oh dreadfull
Saturne, flaming aye with furie,
Moyst-humord
Cinthya, Author of Lunacie,
Conioyne helpe to erect our faire
Ideas trophie.
Oh Tresses of faire
Phoebus stremed die,
Oh blessed load-starre lending purest light,
Oh Paradice of heauenly tapistrie,
Angels sweete musick, ô my soules delight,
ô fayrest
Phebe passing euery other light.
Whose presence ioyes the earths decayed state,
Whose counsels are registred in the sphere,
Whose sweete reflecting clearenes doth amate,
The starrie lights, and makes the Sunne more fayre,
Whose breathing sweete perfumeth all the ayre.
Thy snowish necke, fayre Natures tresurie,
Thy swannish breast, the hauen of lasting blisse,
Thy cheekes the bancks of Beauties vsurie,
Thy heart the myne, where goodnes gotten is,
Thy lips those lips which
Cupid ioyes to kisse.
And those fayre hands within whose louely palmes,
Fortune diuineth happie Augurie,
Those straightest fingers dealing heauenly almes,
Pointed with pur'st of Natures Alcumie,
Where loue sits looking in loues palmistrie.
And those fayre Iuorie columnes which vpreare,
That Temple built by heauens Geometrie,
And holiest Flamynes sacrifizen theare,
Vnto that heauenly Queene of Chastitie,
Where vertues burning lamps can neuer quenched be.
Thence see the fairest light that euer shone,
That cleare which doth worlds cleerenes quite surpasse,
Braue
Phoebus chayred in his golden throane,
Beholding him, in this pure Christall glasse,
See here the fayrest fayre that euer was.
Delicious fountaine, liquid christalline,
Mornings vermilion, verdant spring-times pride,
Purest of purest, most refined fine,
With crimson tincture curiously Idy'd,
Mother of Muses, great
Apollos bride.
Earths heauen, worlds wonder, hiest house of fame,
Reuiuer of the dead, eye-killer of the liue,
Belou'd of Angels, Vertues greatest name,
Fauors rar'st feature, beauties prospectiue,
Oh that my verse thy vertues could contriue.
That stately Theater on whose fayre stage,
Each morall vertue actes a princely part,
Where euery scene pronounced by a Sage,
Eternizeth diuinest Poets Arte,
Ioyes the beholders eyes, and glads the hearers hart.
The worlds memorials, that sententious booke,
Where euery Comma, points a curious phrase,
Vpon whose method, Angels ioye to looke:
At euery Colon, Wisdomes selfe doth pause,
And euery Period hath his hie applause.
Read in her eyes a Romant of delights,
Read in her words the prouerbs of the wise,
Read in her life the holy vestall rites,
Which loue and vertue sweetly moralize:
And she the
Academ of vertues exercise.
But on thy volumes who is there may comment,
When as thy selfe hath Arts selfe vndermined:
Or vndertake to coate thy learned margent,
When learnings lines are euer enterlined,
And purest words, are in thy mouth refined.
Knewest thou thy vertues, oh thou fayr'st of fayrest,
Thou earths sole
Phenix, of the world admired,
Vertue in thee repurify'd and rarest,
Whose endles fame by time is not expired,
Then of thy selfe would thy selfe be admired.
But arte wants arte to frame so pure a Myrror,
VVhere humaine eyes may view thy vertues beautie,
VVhen fame is so surprised with the terror,
wanting to pay the tribute of her duetie,
with colours who can paint out vertues beautie.
But since vnperfect are the perfects colours,
And skill is so vnskilfull how to blaze thee:
Now will I make a myrror of my dolours,
and in my teares then looke thy selfe and prayse thee,
oh happy I, if such a glasse might please thee.
Goe gentle windes and whisper in her eare,
and tell
Idea how much I adore her,
And thou my flock, reporte vnto my fayre,
How she excelleth all that went before her,
Tell her the very foules in ayre adore her.
And thou cleare Brooke by whose fayre siluer streame,
Grow those tall Okes where I haue caru'd her name,
Conuay her praise to
Neptunes watery Realme,
refresh the rootes of her still growing fame,
and teach the Dolphins to resound her name.
Motto.
Cease shepheard cease, reserue thy Muses store,
Till after time shall teach thy Oaten reede,
Aloft in ayre with Egles wings to sore,
and sing in honor of some worthies deede,
to serue
Idea in some better steede.
She sees not shepheard, no she will not see,
her rarest vertues blazond by thy quill,
Nor knowes the effect the same hath wrought in thee,
The very tuch and anuile of thy skill,
and this is that which bodeth all thy ill.
Yet if her vertues glorie shall decay,
Or if her beauties flower shall hap to fall,
Or any cloud eclipse her sun-shine day,
Then looke (
Idea) in thy pastorall,
And thou thy vertues vnto minde shalt call,
Rowland.
Shepheard farewell, the skies begin to lowre,
Yon pitchie clowd which hangeth in the West,
I feare me doth presage some sodaine showre,
Come let vs home, for so I think it best,
For all our flocks been laid them downe to rest.
Motto.
And if thou list to come vnto my Coate,
Although (God knowes) my cheere be to too small,
And wealth with me was neuer yet afloate,
Yet take in gree what euer doe befall,
And wee will sit, and sing a mery madrigall.
Rowland.
Per superos iuro testes, pampamque Deorum,
Te Dominam nobis tempus in omne fore.
Motto.
Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem,
Iunctáque semper erunt nomina nostratuis.
THE SIXT EGLOG.
Good
Gorbo cals to mind the fame,
of our old Ancestrie:
And
Perkin sings
Pandoras prayse,
The Muse of Britanye.
Perkin.
ALL haile good
Gorbo, yet return'd at last,
What tell me man? how goes the world with thee?
What is it worse then it was wont to be?
Or been thy youthfull dayes already past?
Haue patience man, for wealth will come and goe,
And to the end the world shall ebbe and flowe.
The valiant man, whose thoughts on hie been placed,
And sees sometime how fortune list to rage,
With wisdome still his actions so doth gage,
As with her frownes he no whit is disgraced,
And when she fawnes, and turnes her squinting eye,
Bethinks him then, of her inconstancie.
When as the Cullian, and the viler Clowne,
Who with the swine, on draffe sets his desire,
And thinks no life to wallowing in the myre,
In stormie tempest, dying layes him downe,
Yet tasting weale, the asse begins to bray,
And feeling woe, the beast consumes away.
Gorbo.
So said the Sage in his Philofophie,
The Lordly hart inspir'd with noblesse,
VVith courage doth his crosses still suppresse,
His patience doth his passions mortifie,
vvhen other folke this paine cannot endure,
because they vvant this med'cine for their cure.
Perkin.
And yet oft times the vvorld I doe admire,
VVhen as the vvise and vertuous men I see,
Be hard beset vvith neede and pouertie,
And lewdest fooles to highest things aspire,
vvhat should I say? that fortune is to blame?
or vnto vvhome should I impute this shame.
Gorbo.
Vertue and Fortune neuer could agree,
Foule Fortune euer vvas faire vertues foe,
Blinde Fortune blindly doth her gifts bestovve,
But vertue wise, and vvisely doth foresee,
they tall vvhich trust to fortunes fickle vvheele,
but staied by vertue, men shall neuer reele.
Perkin.
If so, vvhy should she not be more regarded,
Why should men cherish vice and villanie,
And maintaine sinne and basest rogerie,
And vertue thus so slightly be revvarded,
this shevves that vve full deepe dissemblers be,
and all vve doe, but meere hypocrisie.
Gorbo.
Where been those Nobles,
Perkin, vvhere been they?
Where been those vvorthies,
Perkin, vvhich of yore,
This gentle Ladie did so much adore?
And for her Impes did vvith such care puruey,
they been ysvvadled in their vvinding sheete,
and she (I thinke) is buried at their feete.
Oh vvorthy vvorld, vvherein those vvorthies liued,
Vnvvorthy vvorld, of such men so vnvvorthy,
Vnvvorthy age, of all the most vnvvorthy,
Which art of these so vvorthy men depriued,
and invvardly in vs is nothing lesse,
Than outvvardly that, vvhich vve most professe.
Perkin.
Nay stay good
Gorbo, Vertue is not dead,
Nor all her friends be gone which wonned here,
She liues with one who euer held her deere,
And to her lappe for succour she is fled,
In her sweete bosome, she hath built her nest,
And from the world, euen there she liues at rest.
Vnto this sacred Ladie she was left,
(To be an heire-loome) by her ancestrie,
And so bequeathed by their legacie,
When on their death-bed, life was them berest:
And as on earth together they remayne,
Together so in heauen they both shall raigne.
Oh thou
Pandora, through the world renoun'd,
The glorious light, and load starre of our West,
With all the vertues of the heauens possest,
With mighty groues of holy Lavvrell cround,
Erecting learnings long decayed fame,
Heryed and hallowed be thy sacred name.
The flood of
Helicon, forspent and drie,
Her sourse decayd with foule obliuion,
The fountaine flovves againe in thee alone,
VVhere Muses now their thirst may satisfie,
And old
Apollo, from
Pernassus hill,
May in this spring refresh his droughty quill.
The Graces twisting garlands for thy head,
Thy Iuorie temples deckt with rarest flowers,
Their rootes refreshed with diuinest showers,
Thy browes with mirtle all inueloped,
shepheards erecting trophies to thy praise,
lauding thy name in songs and heauenly laies.
Sapphos sweete vaine in thy rare quill is seene,
Minerua was a figure of thy worth,
Mnemosine, who brought the Muses forth,
Wonder of
Britaine, learnings famous Queene,
Apollo was thy Syer,
Pallas her selfe thy mother,
Pandora thou, our
Phoebus was thy brother.
Delicious Larke, sweete musick of the morrow,
Cleere bell of Rhetoricke, ringing peales of loue,
Ioy of the Angels, sent vs from aboue,
Enchanting
Syren, charmer of all sorrow,
the loftie subiect a heauenly tale,
Thames fairest Swanne, our summers Nightingale.
Arabian Phenix, wonder of thy sexe,
Louely, chaste, holy, Myracle admired,
With spirit from the highest heauen inspired,
Oh thou alone, whome fame alone respects,
Natures chiefe glory, learnings richest prize,
hie
Ioues Empresa, vertues Paradize.
Oh glorie of thy nation, beauty of thy name,
Ioy of thy countrey, blesser of thy birth,
Thou blazing Comet, Angel of the earth,
Oh Poets Goddesse, sun-beame of their fame:
vvhome time through many worlds hath sought to
thou peerles Paragon of woman kinde. (find,
Thy glorious Image, gilded with the sunne,
Thy lockes adorn'd with an immortall crowne,
Mounted aloft, vpon a Chrystal throne,
When by thy death, thy life shalbe begun:
the blessed Angels tuning to the spheares,
with Gods sweete musick, charme thy sacred eares.
From Fayrie Ile, deuided from the mayne,
To vtmost
Thuly fame transports thy name,
To
Garamant shall thence conuey the same,
Where taking wing, and mounting vp againe,
from parched banckes on sun-burnt.
Affricks shore,
shall flie as farre as erst she came of yore.
And gentle
Zephire from his pleasant bower,
Whistling sweete musick to the shepheards rime,
The
Ocean billowes duely keeping time,
Playing vpon
Neptunus brazen tower:
louers of learning shouting out their cries,
shaking the Center with th'applaudities.
Whilst that great engine, on her axeltree,
Doth role about the vaultie circled Globe,
Whilst morning mantleth, in her purple Robe,
Or
Tytan poste his sea Queenes bower to see,
whilst
Phoebus crowne, adornes the starrie skie,
Pandoras fame so long shall neuer die.
When all our siluer swans shall cease to sing,
And when our groues shall want their Nightingales,
When hils shall heare no more our shepheards tales,
Nor ecchoes with our Roundelayes shall ring,
the little birdes long listning to thy fame,
shall teach their ofspring to record thy name.
Ages shall tell such wonders of thy name,
And thou in death thy due desert shalt haue,
That thou shalt be immortall in thy graue,
Thy vertues adding force vnto thy fame,
so that vertue with thy fames wings shall flie,
and by thy fame shall vertue neuer die.
Vpon thy toombe shall spring a Lawrell tree,
Whose sacred shade shall serue thee for an hearse,
Vpon whose leaues (in golde) ingrau'd this verse,
Dying she liues, whose like shall neuer be,
a spring of
Nectar flowing from this tree,
the fountayne of eternali memorie.
To adorne the trrumph of eternitie,
Drawne with the steedes which dragge the golden sunne,
Thy wagon through the milken way shall runne,
Millions of Angels still attending thee,
Millions of Saints shall thy liues prayses sing,
pend with the quill of an Archangels wing.
Gorbo.
Long may
Pandora weare the Lawrell crowne,
The ancient glory of her noble Peers,
And as the Egle: Lord renew her yeeres,
Long to vpholde the proppe of our renowne,
long may she be as she hath euer beene,
the lowly handmaide of the Fayrie Queene.
Non mihi mille placent: non sum desertor Amoris:
Tu mihi (si quafides) curaperennis eris.
THE SEVENTH EGLOG.
Borrill an aged shepheard swaine,
with reasons doth reprooue,
Batte a foolish want on boy,
but lately falne in loue.
Batte.
BOrill, why sit'st thou musing in thy coate?
like dreaming
Merlyn in his drowsie Cell,
What may it be with learning thou doest doate,
or art inchanted with some Magick spell?
Or wilt thou an Hermites life professe?
And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?
See how faire
Flora decks our fields with flowers,
and clothes our groues in gaudie summers greene,
And wanton
Uer distils rose-water showers,
to welcome
Ceres, haruests hallowed Queene,
Who layes abroad her louely sun-shine haires,
Crown'd with great garlands of her golden eares.
Now shepheards layne their blankets all awaie,
and in their lackets minsen on the plaines,
And at the riuers fishen daie by daie,
now none so frolicke as the shepheards swaines,
Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome caue,
As though a man were buried quicke in graue.
Borrill.
Batte, my coate from tempest standeth free,
when stately towers been often shakt with wind,
And wilt thou
Batte, come and sit with me?
contented life here shalt thou onely finde,
Here mai'st thou caroll Hymnes, and sacred Psalmes,
And hery
Pan, with orizons and almes.
And scorne the crowde of such as cogge for pence,
and waste their wealth in sinfull brauerie,
Whose gaine is losse, whose thrift is levvd expence,
and liuen still in golden slauery:
Wondring at toyes, as foolish worldlings doone,
Like to the dogge which barked at the moone.
Here maist thou range the goodly pleasant field,
and search out simples to procure thy heale,
What sundry vertues hearbs and flovvres doe yeeld,
gainst griefe vvhich may thy sheepe or thee assaile:
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmeles Hare,
Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.
Or if thou vvilt in antique Romants reede,
of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore,
In forraine lands atchieu'd their noble deede,
and been renovvnd from East to Westerne shore:
Or learne the shepheards nice astrolobie,
To knovv the Planets moouing in the skie.
Batte.
Shepheard these things been all too coy for mee,
vvhose lustie dayes should still be spent in mirth,
These mister artes been better fitting thee, (earth:
vvhose drouping dayes are dravving tovvards the
VVhat thinkest thou? my iolly peacocks trayne,
Shall be acoyd and brooke so foule a stayne?
These been for such as make them votarie,
and take them to the mantle and the ring,
And spenden day and night in dotarie,
hammering their heads, musing on heauenly thing,
And vvhisper still of sorrovv in their bed,
And done despise all loue and lustie head:
Like to the curre, vvith anger vvell neere vvoode,
vvho makes his kennel in the Oxes stall,
And snarleth vvhen he seeth him take his foode,
and yet his chaps can chevv no hay at all.
Borrill, euen so it fareth novv vvith thee,
And vvith these vvisards of thy mysterie.
Borrill.
Sharpe is the thorne, full soone I see by thee,
bitter the blossome, vvhen the fruite is sovver,
And early crook d, that vvill a Camock bee,
rough is the vvinde before a sodayne shovver:
Pittie thy vvit should be so vvrong mislead,
And thus be guyded by a giddie head.
Ah foolish else, I inly pittie thee,
misgouerned by thy lewd brainsick will:
The hidden baytes, ah fond thou do'st not see,
nor find'st the cause which breedeth all thy ill:
Thou think'st all golde, that hath a golden shew,
And art deceiu'd, for it is nothing soe.
Such one art thou as is the little flie,
who is so crowse and gamesome with the flame,
Till vvith her busines and her nicetie,
her nimble vvings are scorched vvith the same,
Then fals she dovvne vvith pitteous buzzing note,
And in the fier doth sindge her mourning cote.
Batte.
Alas good man I see thou ginst to raue,
thy vvits done erre, and misse the cushen quite,
Because thy head is gray and vvordes been graue,
Thou think'st thereby to dravv me from delight:
What I am young, a goodly Batcheler,
And must liue like the lustie limmeter.
Thy legges been crook'd, thy knees done bend for age,
and I am svvift and nimble as the Roe,
Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage,
and in the field I vvander too and froe,
Thou must doe penance for thy olde misdeedes,
And make amends, vvith Auies and vvith creedes.
For al that thou canst say, I will not let,
for why my fancie strayneth me so sore,
That day and night, my minde is wholy set
on iollie. Loue, and iollie Paramore:
Only on loue I set my whole delight,
The summers day, and all the winters night.
That pretie
Cupid, little god of loue,
whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight,
Who striketh men below, and Gods aboue,
Rouing at randon with his feathered flight,
When louely
Uenus sits and giues the ayme,
And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.
Vpon my staffe his statue will I carue,
his bowe and quiuer on his winged backe,
His forked heads, for such as them deserue,
and not of his, an implement shall lacke,
And
Uenus in her Litter all of loue,
Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Doue.
And vnder him
Thesby of
Babylon,
and
Clcopatra somtime of renovvne:
Phillis that died for loue of
Demophôon,
Then louely
Dido Queen of
Carthage towne,
Which euer held god
Cupids lawes so deare,
And been canoniz'd in Loues Calendere.
Borrill.
Ah wilfull boy, thy follie now I finde,
and hard it is a fooles talke to endure,
Thou art as deafe euen as thy god is blinde,
sike as the Saint, sike is the seruiture:
But wilt thou heare a good olde Minstrels song,
A medicine for such as been vvith loue ystong.
Batte.
Borrill, sing on I pray thee let vs heare,
that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard,
But take heede
Borrill that thy voyce be cleare,
or by my hood thou'lt make vs all afeard,
Or els I doubt that thou wilt fright our flockes,
When they shall heare thee barke so like a foxe.
Borrill.
Oh spight full way ward wretched loue,
VVoe to
Venus which did nurse thee,
Heauens and earth thy plagues do proue,
Gods and men haue cause to curse thee.
Thoughts griefe, hearts woe,
Hopes paine, bodies languish,
Enutes rage, sleepes foe,
Fancies fraud, soules anguish,
Desires dread, mindes madnes,
Secrets be wrayer, natures error,
Sights deceit, sullens sadnes,
Speeches expence,
Cupids terror,
[Page 49]Malcontents melancholly,
Liues slaughter, deaths nurse,
Cares slaue, dotards folly,
Fortunes bayte, worlds curse,
Lookes theft, eyes blindnes,
Selfes will, tongues treason,
Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes,
Furies frensie, follies reason:
VVith cursing thee as I began,
Cursing thee I make an end,
Neither God, neither man,
Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.
Batte.
Ah worthy
Borrill, here's a goodly song,
now by my belt I neuer heard a worse:
Olde doting foole, for shame hold thou thy tongue,
I would thy clap were shut vp in my purse.
It is thy life, if thou mayst scolde and braule:
Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.
And for that wrong which thou to loue hast done,
I will aueng me at this present time,
And in such forte as now thou hast begonne,
I will repeat a carowlet in rime,
Where,
Borrill, I vnto thy teeth will proue,
That all my good consisteth in my loue.
Borrill.
Come on good
Batte, I pray thee let vs heare?
Much will be sayd, and neuer a vvhit the near.
Batte.
Loue is the heauens fayre aspect, loue is the glorie of the earth,
Loue only doth our liues direct, loue is our guyder from our birth,
Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie, loue taught mme eyes the way to loue,
Loue raysed my conceit so hie, loue framd my hand his arte to proue.
Loue taught my Muse her perfect skill, loue gaue me first to Poesies
Loue is the Soueraigne of my will, loue bound me first to loyalty.
Loue was the first that fram'd my speech, loue was the first that gaue me grace:
Loue is my life and fortunes leech, loue made the vertuous giue me place.
Loue is the end of my desire, loue is the loadstarre of my loue,
Loue makes my selfe, my selfe admire, loue seated my delights aboue.
Loue placed honor in my brest, loue made me learnings fauoret,
Loue made me liked of the best, loue first my minde on vertue set.
Loue is my life, life is my loue, loue is my whole felicity,
Loue is my sweete, sweete is my loue, I am in loue, and loue in me.
Borrill.
Is loue in thee? alas poore sillie lad, thou neuer couldst haue lodg'd a worser guest,
For where he rules no reason can be had, so is he still sworne enemie to rest:
It pitties me to thinke thy springing yeares,
Should still be spent with woes, with sighes, with teares.
Batte.
Gramercy
Borrill for thy company, for all thy iestes and all thy merrie Bourds,
I still shall long vntill I be with thee, because I find some wisdome in thy words,
But I will watch the next time thou doost ward, (heard.
And sing thee such a lay of loue as neuer shepheard
THE EIGHTH EGLOG.
Good
Gorbo of the golden world,
and
Saturns raigne doth tell,
And afterward doth make reporte,
of bonnie
Dovvsabell.
Motto.
SHepheard why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.
See how these yonkers raue it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in
Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like
Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.
Those mirtle Groues decay'd, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with
Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade inuites the homely swayne,
to sit him dovvne and heare the Muses sing.
Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Iuie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse vp top-gallant sayle,
Amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.
Gorbe.
My boy, these yonkers reachen after fame,
and so done presse into the learned troupe,
With filed quill to glorifie their name,
which otherwise were pend in shamefull coupe.
But this hie obiect hath abiected me,
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sorte,
Those little heard-groomes who admir'd to see,
when I by Moone-shine made the fayries sporte.
Who dares describe the toyles of
Hercules,
and puts his hand to fames eternall penne,
Must inuocate the soule of
Hercules,
attended with the troupes of conquered men.
Who vvrites of thrice renovvmed
Theseus,
a monster-tamers rare description,
Trophies the iavves of vglie
Cerberus,
and paynts out
Styx, and fiery
Acheron.
My Muse may not affect night-charming spels,
vvhose force effects th'
Olympicke vault to quake,
Nor call those grysly Goblins from their Cels,
the euer-damned frye of
Limbo lake.
And who erects the braue
Pyramides,
of Monarches or renowned warriours,
Neede bath his quill for such attempts as these,
in flowing streames of learned
Maros showres.
For when the great worlds conquerer began,
to proue his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the Poets-God
Orpheus ran,
foretold his Prophets had to play vpon.
When Pens and Launces sawe the
Olympiad prize,
those chariot triumphes with the Lawrell crowne,
Then gan the worthies glorie first to rise,
and plumes were vayled to the purple gowne.
The grauest Censor, sagest Senator,
with wings of Iustice and Religion,
Mounted the top of
Nimrods statelie Tower,
soring vnto that hie celestiall throne:
Where blessed Angels in their heauenly queares,
chaunt Anthemes with shrill
Syren harmonie,
Tun'd to the sound of those aye-crouding sphears,
Which herien their makers eternitie.
Those who foretell the times of vnborne men,
and future things in foretime augured,
Haue slumbred in that spell-gods darkest den,
which first inspir'd his prophesiyng head.
Sooth-saying
Sibels sleepen long agone,
we haue their reede, but few haue cond their Arte,
Welch-wisard
Merlyn, cleueth to a stone,
no Oracle more wonders may impart.
The Infant age could deftly caroll loue,
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honor,
Drew Poets pen, from his sweete lasses gloue,
to chaunt of slaughtering broiles & bloody horror.
Then
Ioues loue-theft was priuily discri'd,
how he playd false play in
Amphitrios bed,
And how
Apollo in the mount of
Ide,
gaue
Oenon phisick for her maydenhead.
The tender grasse was then the softest bed,
the pleasant'st shades were deem'd the statelyest hals,
No belly-god with
Bacchus banqueted,
nor paynted ragges then couered rotten wals.
Then simple loue with simple vertue way'd,
flowers the fauours which true fayth reuayled,
Kindnes with kindnes was againe repay'd,
with sweetest kisses couenants were sealed.
Then beauties selfe with her selfe beautified,
scornd payntings pergit, and the borrowed hayre,
Nor monstrous formes deformities did hide,
nor foule was vernisht with compounded fayre.
The purest fleece then couered purest skin,
for pride as then with
Lucifer remaynd:
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
nor clothes were yet with poysned liquor staynd.
But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
and men her golden intrayles did espie,
This mischiefe then into the world was brought,
this fram'd the mint which coynd our miserie.
Then lofty
Pines were by ambition hewne,
and men sea-monsters swamme the brackish flood,
In waynscot tubs, to seeke out worlds vnknowne,
for certain ill to leaue assured good.
The starteling steede is manag'd from the field,
and serues a subiect to the riders lawes,
He whom the churlish bit did neuer weeld,
now feels the courb controll his angrie iawes.
The hammering
Uulcane spent his wasting fire,
till he the vse of tempred mettals found,
His anuile wrought the steeled cotes attire,
and forged tooles to carue the foe-mans wound.
The Citie builder then intrencht his towres,
and wald his wealth within the fenced towne,
Which afterward in bloudy stormy stours,
kindled that flame which burnt his Bulwarks downe.
And thus began th'
Exordium of our woes,
the fatall dumbe shewe of our miserie:
Here sprang the tree on which our mischiefe growes,
the drery subiect of worlds tragedie.
Motto.
Well, shepheard well, the golden age is gone,
wishes may not reuoke that which is past:
It were no wit to make two griefes of one,
our prouerb sayth, Nothing can alwayes last.
Listen to me my louely shepheards ioye,
and thou shalt heare with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie Tale, which when I was a boy,
my toothles Grandame oft hath tolde to me.
Corbo.
Shepheard say on, so may we passe the time,
There is no doubt it is some worthy ryme.
Motto.
Farre in the countrey of
Arden,
There wond a knight hight
Cassemen,
as bolde as
Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
as was the good sir
Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped
Dowsabell,
a may den fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well be seeme a mayden Queene,
which seemly was to see.
[Page 61]A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
ywrought full featuously.
Her feature all as fresh aboue,
As is the grasse that growes by Doue,
as lyth as lasse of Kent:
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on peakish hull,
or Swanne that swims in Trent.
This mayden in a morne betime,
VVent forth when May was in her prime,
to get sweete Cerywall,
The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,
to deck her summer hall.
Thus as she wandred here and there,
Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,
she chanced to espie
A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like
Chanteclere he crowed crancke,
and pip'd with merrie glee:
He leard his sheepe as he him list,
VVhen he would whistle in his fist,
to feede about him round:
VVhilst he full many a caroll sung,
Vntill the fields and medowes rung,
and that the woods did sound:
[Page 62]In fauour this same shepheards swayne,
was like the bedlam
Tamburlayne,
which helde prowd Kings in awe:
But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,
Ylike that gentle
Abel he,
whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,
which was of the finest loke,
that could be cut with sheere,
His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of Cordiwin,
his hood of Meniueere.
His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
his breech of Coyntrie blew:
Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as
Albion rocks,
so like a louer true.
And pyping still he spent the day,
So mery as the Popingay:
which liked
Dowsabell,
That would she ought or would she nought,
This lad would neuer from her thought:
she in loue-longing fell,
At length she tucked vp her frocke,
VVhite as the Lilly was her smocke,
she drew the shepheard nie,
[Page 63]But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe for sooke their foode,
to heare his melodie.
Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,
That haue a iolly shepheards swayne,
the which can pipe so well.
Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
in loue of
Dowsabell.
Of loue fond boy take thou no keepe,
Quoth she, looke well vnto thy sheepe,
lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seene fayre
Dowsabell,
come forth to gather Maye.
VVith that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheekes were like the Roses red,
but not a word she sayd.
VVith that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
and on the ground him layd.
Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leaue my summer hall vndight,
and all for long of thee.
My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
except thou fauour me.
[Page 64]Sayth she yet leuer I were dead,
Then I should lose my maydenhead,
and all for loue of men:
Sayth he yet are you too vnkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde,
to loue vs now and then:
And I to thee will be as kinde,
As
Colin was to
Rosalinde,
of curtesie the flower:
Then will I be as true quoth she,
As euer mayden yet might be,
vnto her Paramour:
VVith that she bent her snow-white knee,
Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,
and him she sweetely kist.
VVith that the shepheard whoop'd for ioy,
Quoth he, ther's neuer shepheards boy,
that euer was so blist.
Gorbo.
Now by my sheep-hooke here's a tale alone,
Learne me the same and I will giue thee hier,
This were as good as curds for our
Ione,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.
Motto.
Why gentle hodge I will not sticke for that,
when we two meeten here another day,
But see whilst we haue set vs downe to chat,
yon tikes of mine begin to steale away.
And if thou wilt but come vnto our greene,
on Lammas day when as we haue our feast,
Thou shalt sit next vnto our summer Queene,
and thou shalt be the onely welcome guest.
THE NINTH EGLOG.
VVhen cole-blacke night with sable vaile
eclipsd the gladsome light,
Rowland in darkesome shade alone,
bemoanes his wofull plight.
WHat time the wetherbeaten flockes,
forsooke the fields to shrowd them in the folde,
The groues dispoyl'd of their fayre summer lockes,
the leaueles branches nipt with frostie colde,
The drouping trees their gaynesse all agone,
In mossie mantles doe expresse their moane.
When
Phoebus from his Lemmans louely bower,
throughout the sphere had ierckt his angry Iades,
His Carre now pass'd the heauens hie welked Tower,
gan dragge adowne the occidentall slades,
In silent shade of desart all alone,
Thus to the night,
Rowland bewrayes his moane.
Oh blessed starres which lend the darknes light,
the glorious paynting of that circled throane,
You eyes of heauen, you lanthornes of the night,
to you bright starres, to you I make my moane,
Or end my dayes, or ease me of my griefe,
The earth is frayle, and yeelds me no reliefe.
And thou fayre
Phebe, cleerer to my sight,
then
Tytan is when brightest he hath shone,
Why shouldst thou now shut vp thy blessed light,
and sdayne to looke on thy
Endymion?
Perhaps the heauens me thus despight haue done,
Because I durst compare thee with their sunne.
If drery sighes the tempests of my brest,
or streames of teares from floods of weeping eyes,
If downe-cast lookes with darksome cloudes opprest,
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,
If these, nor her, nor you, to pittie moue,
There's neither helpe in you, nor hope in loue.
Oh fayr'st that liues, yet most vnkindest mayd,
ô whilome thou the ioy of all my flocke,
Why haue thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayd,
Vnto thy hart more hard then flintie rocke,
And lastly thus depriu'd me of their sight,
From whome my loue deriues both life and light.
Those dapper ditties pend vnto her prayse,
and those sweete straynes of tunefull pastorall,
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish layes,
and recketh as the rustick madrigall,
Her lippes prophane
Ideas sacred name,
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.
Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,
wherewith I crown'd her tresses in the prime,
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,
made to disport her in the summer time:
She hates the sports and pastimes I inuent,
And as the toade, flies all my meriment.
With holy verses heryed I her gloue,
and dew'd her cheekes with fountaines of my teares,
And carold her full many a lay of loue,
twisting sweete Roses in her golden hayres.
Her wandring sheepe full safely haue I kept,
And watch'd her flocke full oft when she hath slept.
Oenon neuer vpon
Ids hill,
so oft hath cald on
Alexanders name,
As hath poore
Rowland with an Angels quill,
erected trophies of
Ideas fame:
Yet that false shepheard
Oenon fled from thee,
I follow her that euer flies from me.
Ther's not a groue that wonders not my woe,
there's not a riuer weepes not at my tale:
I heare the ecchoes (wandring too and froe)
resound my griefe in euery hill and dale,
The beasts in field, with many a wosull groane,
The birds in ayre help to expresse my moane.
Where been those lines? the heraulds of my heart,
my plaints, my tears, my vowes, my sighes, my prayers?
ô what auayleth fayth, or what my Artes?
ô loue, ô hope, quite turn'd into despayres:
She stops her eares as Adder to the charmes,
And lets me lye and languish in my harmes.
All is agone, such is my endles griefe,
And my mishaps amended naught with moane,
I see the heauens will yeeld me no reliefe:
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,
And teares I see, doe me auayle no good,
But as great showres increase the rising flood.
With folded armes, thus hanging downe his head,
he gaue a groane as though his heart had broke,
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,
he fetch'd a sigh, but neuer a word he spoke:
For now his heart wax'd cold as any stone,
Was neuer man aliue so woe begone.
With that fayre
Cinthya stoups her glittering vayle,
and diues adowne into the
Ocean flood,
The easterne brow which erst was wan and pale,
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:
The whistling Larke ymounted on her wings,
To the gray morrow, her good morrow sings.
When this poore shepheard
Rowland of the Rocke,
whose faynting legges his body scarse vpheld,
Each shepheard now returning to his flocke,
alone poore
Rowland fled the pleasant field,
And in his Coate got to a vechie bed:
Was neuer man aliue so hard bested.