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That whilst the other did his horses reyne,

Though not your way, yet may you lye by me: He might slide froin his spheare, and court this Nymph, with a shepheard thou as merrily swaine ;

Majst love and live, as with the greatest lord, Whose sparkling cyes vi'd lustre with the starres, • Greatnesse doth never most content afford.' The truest center of all circulars.

I love tiee onely, not affect world's pelfe, In briefe, if any man in skill were able

'She is not lov'd, that's lov'd not for herselfe.' To unish up Apelles' halfe-dove table,

How inany shepheard's daughters who in dutie, This boy (the man left out) were fittest sure

To griping fathers, have inthral'd their beautie, To be the patterne of that portraiture,

To waite upon the gout, to walke when pleases Piping lie sate, as merry as his looke,

Olde January hault. O that diseases And by him lay his bottle and his hooke,

Should linke with youth! She hath such a mate His buskins (edg'd with silver) were of silke,

Is like two twinnes borne both incorporate: Which held a legge more white than morning's

'Th' one living, the other dead: the living twinnemilke.

Must needs be slaine through noysomnesse of him Those buskins he had got and brought away

He carrieth with him : such are their estates, For dancing best upon the revell day.

Who merely marry wealth and not their mates." His oaten reede did yeeld forth such sweet notes,

As ebbing waters freely slide away, Joyned in consort with the birds shrill throtes, To pay their tribute to the racing sea ; That equaliz'd the harmony sphears,

When meeting with the floud they justle stout, A musicke that would ravish choisest eares. Whether the one shall in, or th'otber out: Long look'd they on (who would not long looke on, | Till the strong fond new power of waves doth bring, That such an object had to looke upon?)

And drives the river back into his spring : Tili at the last the nymph did Marine send,

So Marine's words off’ring to take tbeir course, To aske the neerest way, whereby to wend By love then ent'ring, were kept backe, and force To those faire walkes where sprung Marina's ill To it, his sweet face, eyes, and tongue assigir'd Whilst she would stay: Marine obey'd her will,

And threw them backe againe into her miude. And hast'ned towards him (who would not doe so,

How hard it is to leave and not to do That such a pretty journey had to goe?)

That which by nature we are prone unto ? Sa eetly she came and with a modest blush, We hardly can (alas ! why not?) discusse, Gave him the day, and then accosted thus :

When nature hath decreed it must be thus. “ Fairest of men, that (whilst thy flocke doth

It is a maxime held of all, knowne plaine, Sit'st sweetly piping on thine oaten reed [feed) Thrust nature off with forkes, she'll turn againe." Upon this little berry (some ycleep

Blithe Doridon (so men this shepheard hight) A hillocke) voide of care, as are thy sheepe

Seeing his goddesse in a silent plight, Devoid of spots, and sure on all this greene

(“Love often makes the speeche's organs mute,”) A fairer flocke as yet were never seene :

Begane againe thus to renue his sute : Doe me this favour (men should favour maides) · If by my words your silence bath been such, That wbatsoever path directly leades,

Faith I am sorry I have spoke so much. And voide of danger, thou to me doe show,

Barre I those lips ? fit to be th' utt'rers, when That by it to the Marish I might goe.”

The Heavens would parly with the chiefe of men. Marriage !” (quoth he) mistaking what she said, Fit to direct (a tongue all hears convinces) “ Nature's perfection, thou most fairest maid,

When best of scribes writes to the best of priuces, (If any fairer than the fairest may be)

Were mine like yours of choicest words coinpleatest, Come sit tbee downe by me; know, lovely ladie,

• Ide show how grief's a thing weighes dowpe the Love is the readiest way: if tane aright

greatest,

(taint it. You may attaine thereto full long ere night."

The best of forms (who knows not ?) griefe doth. The maiden thinking he of Marish spoke,

The skilfullst pencill never yet could paint it.' And not of marriage, straight-way did invoke,

And reason good, since no man yet could finde And praid the shepheard's god might alwayes keepe What figure represents a grieved minde. Him from all danger, and from wolves his sheepe.

Me thinkes a troubled thought is thus exprest, Wishing with all that in the prime of spring

To be a chaos rude and indigest : Each sheep he had, two lambes might yearly bring. Where all doe rule, and yet none beares chiefe " But yet” (quoth she) “arede good gentle swaine, Checkt onely by a power that's more than they.

: If in the dale below, or on yond plaine ; Or is the village scituate in a grove,

This do I speake, since to this every lover Through which my way lyes, and ycleeped Love." That thus doth love, is thus still given over. “Nor on yond plaine, nor in this neighbouring wood; If that you say you will not, cannot love: (more? Nor in the dale where glides the silver flood.

Oh Heavens ! for what cause then do you here. But like a beacon on a hill so hie,

Are you not fram'd of that expertest molde, That every one may see't which passeth by

For whom all in this round concordance holde? Is Love yplac'd: there's nothing can it hide,

Or are you framed of some other fasbion, Although of you as yet 'tis unespide." [true?” And have a forme and heart, but not a passion? ¢ But on which hill” (quoth she) “pray tell me

It cannot be : for then unto what end "Why here" (quoth he) " it sits and talkes to

Did the best worke-mau this great worke intend ? you."

[adue.

Not that by minde's commerce, and joynt estate, “ And are you Love" (quoth she) " fond swaine

The world's continuers still should propagate ? You guide me wrong, my way lies not by you."

Yea, if that reason (regent of the senses)

Have but a part amongst your excellences, * An unfinished Venus. Plin. I. 35. c. 10. Cicero, She'll tell you what you call virginitie, Į. 3. de Officiis, lib. 1. epist. 9. Epist. ad Pamil.

Is fitly lik’ned to a barren tree;

name.

Which when the gardner on it paines bestowes, Olde shepheards saine (olde shepheards sooth To graff and impe thereon, in time it growes

have saine) To such perfection, that it yeerely brings

Two rivers to took their issue from the maine, As goodly fruit, as any tree that springs.

Both neare together, and each bent his race, Beleeve, me maiden, vow no chastitie

Which of them both should tirst behold the face For maidens but imperfect creatures be”

Of radiant Phæbus: one of them in gliding
Alas, poor boy!” quoth Marine, “ have the Chanc'd on a reine where niter bad abiding:
Exempted no degrees? Are no estates [Fates | The other, loathing that her purer wave
Free from love's rage? Be ruld: unhappy swaine, Should be defil'd with that the niter gave,
Call backe thy spirits, and recollect againe Fled fast away; the other follow'd fast,
Thy vagrant wits. I tell thee for a truih,

Till both beene in a rocke ymet at last.
Love is a syren that doth shipwracke youth.' As seemned best, to rocke did first deliver
Be well advis'l, thou entertain'st a guest

Out of his hollow sides the purer river: That is the harbinger of all unrest:

(As if it taught those men in honour clad, Which like the viper's young, that licke the earth, To helpe the vertuous and suppresse the bad) Eate out the breeder's wombe to get a birth.” Which gotten loose, did softly glide away.

“ Faith," quoth the boy, “ I know there cannot As men from earth, to earth; from sea, to sea Danger in loving or in enjoying thee.

(be So rivers runne: and that from whence both came For what cause vere things madle and called good, Takes what she gave: waves, earth: but leaves a But to be loved ? If you understood The birds that prattle here, you would know then, As waters have their course, and in their place As birds wooe birds, maides should be wood of men. Sucoteding streames well out, so is man's race: But I want power to wooe, since what was mine The name doth still survive, and cannot die, Is fied, and lye as vassals at your shrine :

Untill the channels stop, or spring grow dry. And since what's mine is yours, let that saine move, As I have seen upou a briilall-day Although in me you see nought worthy love." Full many inailles clad in their best array, Marine about to speake, forth of a sling

In honour of the bride come with their flaskets (Fortune to all misfortune's plyes her wing

Fill'd full with dowies : others in wicker-baskets More quicke and speedy) came a sharp'ned fint, Bring from the marish rushes, to o'er-spread Which in the faire boye's necke made such a dint, The ground, whereon to church the lovers tread; That crimson blond came streaming from the wound, whilst that the quaintest youth of all the plaine And he fell downe into a deadly swound.

l'shers their way with many a piping straine: The bloud rame all along where it did fall, So, as in joy, at this faire river's birth, And could not finde a place of buriall:

Triton came up a channell with his mirth.. But where it came, it ihere congealed stood, Avd calls the neighb'ring nymphes, each in her As if the earth loath'd to drinke guilttesse blood.

turne, Gold-hair'd Apollo, Muses' sacred king,

To poure their pretty rivilets from their urne ; Whose praise in Delphos' ile doth ever ring : To waite upon this new-delivered spring. Physicke's first founder, whose art's excellence Some, running through the meadows, with them Extracted nature's chiefest quintessence,

Cowslip and mint: and 'tis another's lot [bring Unwilling that a thing of such a worth

To light upon some gardener's curious knot, Should so be lost ; straight sent a dragon forth Whence she upon her brest (love's sweete repose) To fetch his bloud, and he perform'u the same: Doth bring the queene of flowers, the English rosc. And now apoihecaries give it name,

Some from the fen buing reeds, wilde-thyme from From him that fetch'd it: (doctors know it good

downes; In physieke's use) and call it dragon's blood'. Some from a grove the bay that poets crownes; Some of the blood by chance did down-ward fall, Some froin an aced rocke the mosse hath torne, And by a veine got to a minerall,

And leares bim naked unto winter's storme: Whence came a red, decayed dames infuse it Another from her bankes (in meere good-will) With Venice ceruse, and for painting use it. Brings nutriment for fish, the camomill. Marine, astonisht, (most unhappy maide)

Thus all bring somewhat, and doe over-spread O’er-come with feare, and at the view afraid, The way the spring unto the sia doth tread. Fell downe into a trance, eyes lost their sight, This while the floud, which yet the rocke up pent, Which being open made all darknesse light. And suffered not with jocund merriment Her bloud ranne to her heart, or life to feel, To tread rounds in his spring; came rusbing forth, Or Toathing to behold so vilde a deed.

As angry that bis waves (he thought) of worth And as when winter doth the earth array Should not have libertie, nor helpe the prine. In silver sute, and when the night and day

And as some ruder swaine composing rhyme, Are in dissension, night lockes up the ground, Spends many a gray goose quill unto the handle, Which by the helpe of day is oft unbound ;

Buries within his socket many a candle;
A shepheard's boy, with low and shafts addrest, Blots paper by the quire, and dryes up incke,
Ranging the fields, having onde pierc'd the brest As Xerxes' armie did whole rivers dripke,
Of some poore fowle, doth with the blow straight Hoping thereby his wame his worke should raise,
To catch the bird lies panting in the bush: (rush That it should live untill the last of dayes:
So rusht the striker in, up Marine tooke,

Which tinished; he boldly doth addresse
And hast'oed with her to a neare-hand brooke, Him and his workes to under-goe the presse;

• The tears of a tree bearing a fruit something 19 An expression of the natures of two rivers like a cherry; the skin of which pulled off, they rising neere together, and differing in their tastes day, ressembles a dragon.

and inanger of running,

When loe (O fate!) his worke not seeming fit Then each faire nymph, whom Nature doth endow To walke in equipage with better wit, [worms, With beautie's cheeke, crown'd with a shamefast Is kept from light, there gnawn by moathes and

brow; At which he frets: right so this river stormes : Whose well-tun'd eares, chast-object-loving eyne, But broken forth, as Tavy creepes upon

Ne'er heard nor saw the workes of Aretine"; The westerne vales" of fertile Albion,

Who ne'er came on the Citherean shelfe, Here dashes roughly on an aged rocke,

But is as true as chastitie itselfe, That his extended passage doth up locke ; Where hated impudence ne'er set her seede; There intricately 'mongst the woods doth wander, Where Just lies not vail'd in a virgin's weede : Losing himselfe in many a wry meander: Let her with-draw. Let each young shepheardling Here, ainorously bent, clips some faire meade; Walke by, or stop his eare, the whilst I sing. And then disperst in rills, doth measures treade But yee, whose bloud, like kids upon a plaine, Upon her bosom ’mongst her flow'ry rankes : Doth skip, and daunce lavoltoes in each veine ; There ia another place beares down the bankes Whose brests are swolne with the Venerean game, Of some day-labouring wretch: heere meets a rill, And warme yourselves at lust's alluring flame; And with their forces joynde cut out a mill Who dare to act as much as men dare thinke, Into an iland, then in jocund guise

And wallowing lie withia a sensuall sinke; Survayes his conquest, lauds his enterprise : Whose fained gestures doe entrap our youth Here digs a cave at some high mountaine's foote: With an apparencie of simple truth; There undermines an oak, tears up his roote : Insatiate gulphs, in your defective part Thence rushing to some country farme at hand, By art helpe nature, and by nature, art: Breakes o'er the yeoman's mounds, sweepes from Lend me your eares, and I will touch a string his land

Shall lull your sense asleepe the while I sing, His harvest hope of wheate, of rye, or pease : But stay: me thinkes I heare something in me And makes that channell which was shepheard's That bids me keepe the bounds of modestie ; Here, as our wicked age doth sacriledge, [lease : Sayes, " Each man's voice to that is quickly moved Helpes downe an abbey, then a naturall bridge, Which of himselfe is best of all beloved ; By creeping under ground he frameth out,

By utt'ring what thou know'st lesse glory's got, As who should say he eyther went about

1 han by concealing what thou knowest not.” To right the wrong he did, or hid his face, If so, I yeeld to it, and set my rest For having done a deed so vild and base :

Rather to loose the bad, than wrong the best. So ranne this river on, and did bestirre

My maiden Muse flies the lascivious swaines, Himselfe, to finde his fellow-traveller.

and scornes to soyle her lines with lustfull straines : But th' other fearing least her noyse might show will not dilate (nor on her fore-head beare What path she tooke, which way her streames did. Immodestie's abhorred character) flow:

His shamelesse pryings, bis undecent doings; As some way-faring man strayes through a wood, His curious searches, his respectlesse wooings : Where beasts of prey, thirsting for humane bloud, How that he saw. But what? I dare not breake it, Lurke in their dens, ne softly list'ning goes, You safer may conceive than I dare speake it. Not trusting to bis heeles, trcades on his toes: Yet verily, had he not thought her dead, Dreads every noyse he eares, thinkes each small Sh'ad lost, ne'er to be found, her maiden-head. To be a beast, that would upon him rush: [bush The rougher streame, loathing a thing comFeareth to dye, and yet his winde doth smother ;

pacted Now leaves this path, lakes that, then to another: Of so great shame, should on his floud be acted ; Sach was her course. This feared to be found, (According to our times not well allow'd The other pot to finde, swels q'er each mound, In others, what he in himselfe avow'd) Roares, rages, foames, against a mountaine dashes, Bent hard his fore-head, furrow'd up his face, Anu ia recoile, makes meadowes standing plashes : And danger led the way the boate did trace. Yet findes not what he seeks in all his way, And as within a landtskip that doth stand But ja despaire runnes hea:llong to the sea. Wrought by the pencill of some curions hand, This was the cause them by tia lition taught, We may descry, here meadow, there a wood : Why one floud ranne so fast, the other so soft, Here standing ponds, and there a running foud: Both from one head. Unto the rougher streame, Here on some mount a house of pleasure vantod, (Crown'd by that meadowe's flow'rý diadeame, Where once the roaring cannon had been planted: Where Doridon lay but) the cruell swaine There on a hill a swaine pipes out the day, Hurries the shepheardesse, where having layne Out-braving all the quiristers of May. Her in a boate like the cannowes of Inde 2, A huntsman here followes his cry of hounds, Some seely trough of wood, or some tree's rinde; Driving the hare along the fallow grounds : Pots from the shoare, and leaves the weepiug Wbilst one at hand seeming the sport l'allow, Intends an act by water, wbich the land (strand, Followes the hounds, and carelesse leaves the plow. Abborr'd to boulstyr; yea, the guiltlesse earth There in another place some high-rais'd land, Loath'd to be mid-wife to so vilde a birth :

In pride beares out her breasts unto the strand, Which to relate, I am inforc'd to wrong

Here stands a bridge, and there a conduit-head: The modest blushes of my maiden-song:

Here round a May-pole sone the mtasures tread :

There boyes the truant play and leave their booke : 11 Devonshire.

Here stands an angler with a bayted hooke. 12 See Th. De Bry's America, vol. 1. fol. part 1. There for a stagge one darkes within a bough: Virginia Tabul. 12mo. Lintrium conficiendorom Here sits a maiden milking of ber cow. Ratio. See likewise Sir l'ho. Herbert's Travels, fol. 3d edit. p. 30.

19 An obscene Italian pool. See Bayle's Dict.

THE THIRD SONG.

THE ARCU MEXT.

There on a goodly plaine (by time throwne downe)
Lies buried in his dust some anncient towne ;

BRITANNIA'S PASTORAL
Who now invillaged, there's onely seene
In his vaste ruines what his state has beene:
And all of these in shadowes so exprest,
Make the beholder's eyes to take no rest,
So for the swaine the Houd did meane to him
To show in nature (not by art to limbe)

The shepheard's swaine, bere singing on,
A tempest's rage, his furious waters threate,

Tels of the cure of Doridon : Šoine on this shoare, some on the other, beate. And then unto the water's fałs Here stands a mountaine, where was once a dale ;

Chanteth the rusticke pastorals. There, where a mountainę stood, is now a vale. Here flowes a billow, there another meetes : Pach, on each side the skitfe, unkindely greetes. Now bad the Summe, in golden chariot hurt'd, The waters underneath gan upward move,

Twice bid good-morrow to the nether world : Wond'ring what stratagems were wrought above : And Cynthia, in her orbe and perfect rond, Billowes that mist the boate, still onward thrust, Twice view'd the shadowes of the upper ground. And on the cliffes, as swoln with anger, burst. Twice had the day-starre usher'd forth the light; All these, and more, in substance so exprest, And twice the evening-starte proclaim'd the night; Made the beholder's thoughts to take no rest. Ere once the sweet-fac'd boy (now all forlorbe) Horrour in triumph rid opon the waves;

Came with his pipe to resalute the morne. And all the Furies from their gloomy caves

When grac'd by time, (anhappy time the while) Come hovering o'er the boate, summond each sepce | The cruell swaine (who ere koew swaine so vile?) Before the fearefull barre of Conscience;

Had stroke the lad, in came the wat'ry nymph, Were guilty all, and all condenined wese

To raise from sound poore Doridon, (the impe, To under-goe their horrours which despaire. Whom Nature seem'd to have selected forth

Wbat Muse? what powre? or what thrice sacred To be ingrafied on some stocke of worth;) That lives immortall in a wel tup'd verse, (herse, And the maides helpe, but since “ to domes of fate Can lend me such a sight, that I might see Succour, tho' ne'er so soone, comes still too late.” A guiltie conscience' true anatomie;,

She rais'd the yontb, then with her armes iprings That well kept register, wberein is writ

him,

[hiin. All ils men doe, all goodnesse they omit? And so with words of hope she home-wards brings His pallid feares, his sorrowes, his affrightings; At doore expecting him his mother sate, His late wisht had-I-wists, remorcefull bitings: Wond'ring her boy would stay froin ber so late; His many tortures, his heart-renting paine : Framing for him unto herselfe excuses : How were his griefes composed in one chaine, And with such thoughts gladly herselte abuses : And he by it let downe into the seas,

As that her sonne, since day grew olde and weake, Or through the centre to the antipodes ?

Staid with the maides to runne at barlibreake: He might change climates, or be barr'd Heaven's Or that he cours'd a parke with females franght, face :

Which would not runne except they might bel Yet finde no salte, nor ever change his case. Or in the thickets lay'd some wily snare, (caught. Feares, sorrowes, tortures, sad affrights, nor any, To take the rabbet or the pourblinde hare. Like to the conscience sting, tho' thrice as many ; Or taught bis dogge to catch tlre climbing kid : Yet all these torments by the swaine were borne, Thus shepheards doe; and thus she thought he did. Whilst Death's grimme visage lay upon the storme. “ In things expected meeting with delay, Bat as when some kinde nurse doth longe time Tho' there be none, we frame some cause of stay." keepe

And so did she, (as she who doth not so) Her pretty babe at sucke, whom, falne asleepe, Conjecture Time unwing'd, he came so slow. She layes downe in his cradle, stints his cry But Doridon drew ncere, so did her griefe : With many a sweet and pleasing lullaby ;

“ III lucke, for speede, of all things else is chiefe.” Whilst the sweet childe, not troubled with the For as the blinde-man' sang, shocke,

vides, As sweetly slumbers, as his nurse doth rocke. That joy goes still on foote, and sorrow rides." So lay the maide, th' amazed swaine sate weeping, Now when she saw (a wofull sight!) her sonde, And death in ber was dispoosest by sleeping. Her hopes then fail'd her, and her cryes begun The roaring voyce of winds, the billowes' raves, To utter such a plaint, that scarce another, Nor all the mutt'ring of the sullen waves,

Like this, cre came froin any love-sicke mother Could once disquiet, or her slumber stirre:

“ If man hath done this, Heaven, why mad'st But lulld her more askepe than wakened her. Not to deface thee in thy children; (thou men ? Such are their states, whose soules, from fonl of But by the worke the worke-man to adore; Enthroned sit in spotlesse innocence. (fence, Framing that something, which was pought before. Where rest my Muse; till (jolly shepheard's

Aye me, unhappy wretch! if that in things swaines)

(plaines, which are as we, (save title) men feare kings, Next morne with pearles of dew bedecks our That be their postures to the life limb'd on We'll fold our flockes, then in fit time go on Some wood as fraile as they, or cut in stone, To tune mine oaten pipe for Doridon.

''Tis death to stab: why then should earthly

things,
Dare to deface his forme who formed kings

** Tiine so pro

I llomer.

When the world was but in his infancy,

Under the hollow hanging of this hill Revenge, desires unjust, vilde jealousie,

There was a cave, cut out by Nature's skill : Hate, envy, murther, all these sixe then raigned, Or else it seem'd the mount did opeu's brest, When but their halfe of men the world contained. That all might see what thoughts he there posseste Yet but in part of these, those ruled then, Whose gloomy entrance was environ'd round When now as many vices liye as men.

With shrubs that cloy ill husbands' meadow-ground: Live they? Yes, live, I feare, to kill my sonne, The thicke-growne haw-thorne and the binding With whom my joyes, my love, my hopes, are

bryer, done.”

(swaine; The holly that ont-dares cold winter's ire : "C'ease, " quoth the water's nymph, that led the Who all intwiode, each limbe with limbe did deale, « Tho'tis each mother's cause thus to complaine : That scarse a glympse of light could inward stealea Yet 'abstinence in things we must professe, An uncouth place, tit for an uncouth minde, Which Nature fram’d for neede, not for excesse.'” That is as heavy as that cave is blinde; “ Since the least bloud, drawnc from the lesser Here liv'd a man his hoary haires callid olde, part

Upon whose front time many yeares had tolle. Of any childe, comes from the mother's hart, Who, since dame Nature in him feeble grew, We cannot choose but grieve, except that we

And he unapt to give the world aught new, Should be more senslesse than the senslesse tree," The secret power of bearbes, that grow on molde, Reply'd his mother. “ Doe but cut the limbe Sought aught, to cherish and relieve the olde. Of any tree, the trunke will weepe for him :

Hither Marinda all in haste came running, Rend the cold sicamor's 2 thin barke in two, And with her tears desir'd the olde man's cunning. ilis name and teares would say, So love should do.' When this good man (as goodnesse still is prest, • That mother is all Aint (ihan beasts lesse good) At all assays, to helpe a wight distrest) Which drops no water when her childe streames As glad and willing was to ease her sonne, blood.""

As she would ever joy to see it done.
At this the wounded boy fell on his knee, And giving her a salve in leaves up bound,
“ Mother, kind mother," (said) “weepe not for me, and she directed how to cure the wound,
Why, I am well ! indeed I am. If you

With thankes, made home-wards, (longing still to
Cease not to weepe, my wound will bleed anew. Th’ effect of this good hermit's surgerie) (see
When I was promist first the light's fruition, There carefully, her sonne laid on a bed,
You oft have told me, 'twas on this condition, (Enriched with the bloud he on it shed)
That I should hold it with like rent and paine She washes, dresses, binds his wound, (yet sore)
As others doe, and one time leave't againe. That griev'd, it could weepe bloud for him no more.
Then, deerest mother, leave, oh ! leave to wayle, Now had the glorious Sunne tane up his inne,
* Time will effect where teares can nought availe.” And all the lamps of Heav'n inlight'ned bin,

Herewith Marinda, taking up her sonne, Within the gloomy shades of some thicke spring, Her hope, her love, her joy, her Doridon,

Sad Philomel 'gan on the baw-thorne sing She thank'd the nymph, for her kind succour lent, (Whilst every beast at rest was lowly laid) Who straite tript to her wat’ry regiment.

The outrage done upon a seely maide. Downe in a dell (where in that month, whose All things were busht, each bird slept on his bougb; fame

And night gave rest to him, day tir'd at plough: Growes greater by the man who gave it name,

Each beast, each bird, and each day-toyling wight, Stands many a well-pil'd cocke of short sweet hay, Receiv'd the comfort of the silent night: That feeds the husband's neate each winter's day) Free from the gripes of sorrow every one, A mountaine had his foote, and 'gan to rise Except poore Philomel and Doridon ; In stately height to parlee with the skies.

She on a thorne sings sweet tho' sighing straines ; and yet as blaming his owne lofty gate,

He, on a couch more soft, more sad complaines : Waighing the fickle props in things of state, Whose in-pent thoughts him long time having His head began to droope, and down-wards bending, pained, Knockt un that brest which gave it birth and ending: He sighing wept, and weeping thus complained. And lyes so with an hollow hanging raut,

“ Sweet Philomela !” (then be heard her sing) As when soine boy, trying the somersauit,

“ I do not envy thy sweet carolling, Stands on his head, and feete, as he did lie

But doe admire thee, that each even and morrow, To kicke against earth's spangled canopie ;

Canst carelesly thus sing away thy sorrow. When seeing that his heeles are of such weight,

Would I could doe so too! and ever be That he cannot obtaine their purpos'd height, In all my woes still imitating thee : Leaves any more to strive; and thus doth say: But I may not attaine to that; for then “ What now I cannot do, another day

Such most unhappy, miserable men, May well effect: it cannot be deny de

Would strive with Heaven, and imitate the Sunne, I slow'd a will to act, because I tride."

Whose golden beames in exbalation, The Scornfull-bill men call'd him, who did scorne Tho' drawne from fens, or other grounds impure, So to be callid, by reason he had borne

Turne all to fructifying nouriture. No hate to greatnesse, but a minde to be

When we draw no thing by our sun-like eyes, The slave of greatnesse through humilitie: That ever turnes to mirth, but miseries : Pot had his mother Nature thought it meete,

Would I had never seene, except that she lle, ineekely bowing, would have kist her feete. Who made me wish so, love to looke on me.

Had Colin Clout* yet liv'd, (but he is gone) * Alluding to our English pronunciation, and in- That best on Earth could tune a lover's mone, different orthographie. July took its name from Julius Cæsar.

Edmund Spenser.

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