Sivut kuvina







And all the first fruits of the buds,

Then joyne we, Jockie ; for the rest To wioe thee to their quire.

Of all our fellow swaines, Silvanas' songsters learne thy straine,

I am assur'd, will doe their best For by a neighbour spring

To rid him fro'our plaines. The nightingale records againe

What thou dost primely sing. Nor canst thou tune a madrigall,

What is in me shall never faile Or any drery mone,

To forward such a deed ; But nymphs, or swaines, or birds, or all,

And sure I thinke we might prevaile Permit thee not alone.

By some satyricke reed. And yet (as though devoid of these)

Canst thou so low decline, As leave the lovely Naides

If that will doe, I know a lad

Can hit the master-vaine;
For one that keepeth swine?
But how befell it?

But let us home, the skies are sad,

And clouds distil in raine.

T'other day
As to the field I set me,
Neere to the May-pole on the way

This sluggish swinward met me :
And seeing Weptol with him there,

Our fellow-swaine and friend I bad good day, so on did fare To my proposed end.

THE ARGUNENT. But as backe from my wintring ground

Old Neddy's povertie they mone, I came the way before,

Who wbilome was a swaine This rude groome all alone I found

That had more sheepe himselfe alone,
Stand by the alehouse dore.
There was no nay, but I must in

Than ten upon the plaine.
And taste a cup of ale;
Where on his pot he did begin

To stammer out a tale.
He told me how be much desir'd

Th' acquaintance of us swaines,
And from the forest was retir'd

Where is every piping lad, To graze upon our plaines :

That the fields are not yclad But for what cause I cannot tell,

With their milk-white sheepe? He cannot pipe nor sing,

Tell me : Is it holy day, Nor knowes he how to digge a well,

Or if in the month of May Nor neatly dresse a spring :,

Use they long to sleepe?
Nor knowes a trap nor snare to till,

He sits as in a dreame;
Nor scarce hath so much whistling skill

Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
Will hearten on a teame.

For the turtle and her mate Well, we so long together were,

Sitten yet in nest : I gan to haste away,

And the thrustle hath not been He licenc'd me to leave him there,

Gath’ring wormes yet on the green, And gave me leave to pay.

But attends her rest.
Not a bird bath taught her young,

Nor her morning's lesson sung
Done like a swinward ; may you all

In the shady grove : That close with such as he,

But the nightingale, in darke Be used so ! that gladly fall

Singing, woke the mounting larke,

She records her love. But, if I faile not in inine art,

Not the Sun hath with his beames Ne send him to his yerd,

Guilded yet our christall streames, And make him from our plaines depart

Rising from the sea. With all his Jurty berd.

Mists do crowde the mountaines' tojis, I wonder he hath soff'red been

And each pretty mirtle drops, Upon our common heere,

'Tis but newly day. His hogges doe root our yonger treen,

Yet see yonder (though unwist) And spoyle the smelling breere.

Some man commeth in the mist; Our purest welles they wallow in,

Hast thou him beheld ? All over-spred with durt,

See, he crosseth or'e the land
Nor will they from our arbours lin,

With a dogge and staffe in hand,
But all our pleasures hurt.
Our curious benches, that we build

Beneath a shady tree,
Shall be orethrowne, or so defilde

Yes, I see him, and doe know him, As we would loath to see.

And we all do rev'rerice owe him,



Into like company.

Limping for his eld.


'Tis the aged sire

Groomes he had, and he did send themi Neddy, that was wont to make

With his heards a field to tend thern, Such great feasting at the wake.

Had they further been : And the blessing-fire'.

Sluggish, lazy, thriftlesse elves, Good old man ! see how he walkes

Sheepe had better kept themselves Painfull and among the balkes,

From the foxes' teen. Picking locks of wull ;

Some would kill their sheepe, and then I have knowne the day when he

· Bring their master home agen Had as much as any three,

Nothing but the skin ; When their lofts were full.

Telling him, how in the morne Underneath yond hanging rocks

In the fold they found them torne, All the valley with his flockes

And nere lying lin. Was wbilome over-spread :

If they went unto the faire He had milch-goates without peeres,

With a score of fatned ware, Well-hung kine, and fatned steeres

And did chance to sell, Many hundred head.

If old Neddy had againe Wilkin's cote his dairy was,

Halfe his owne; I dare well saine, For a dwelling it may passe

That but seldome fell. With the best in towne.

They at their return would say, Curds and creame, with other cheare,

Such a man, or such, would pay, Have I had there in the yeare

Well knowne of your hyne. For a greeny gowne.

Alas, poore man! that subtill knave Lasses kept it, as againe

Undid him, and vaunts it brate, Were not fitted on the plaine

Though his master pine. For a lusty dance :

Of his master be would beg And at parting, home would take us,

Such a lambe that broke his leg: Flawnes or sillibubs to make us

And if there were none, For our jouisance.

To the fold by night he'd hye, And though some in spight would tell,

And them hurt full rufully, Yet old Neddy tooke it well ;

Or with the staffe or stone. Bidding us agajne

He would have petitions new, Never at bis cote be strange :

And for desprate debts would suo Unto him that wrought this change,

Neddy bad forgot :
Mickle be the paine !

He would grant : the other theni

Tares from poore and aged men é

Or in jayles they rot. What disaster, Thomalin,

Neddy, lately rich in store, This mischauce hath cloth'd him in,

Giving much, deceived more, Quickly tellen me :

On a sudden fell. Rue I doe his state the more,

Then the steward lent him gold, That he clipped heretofore

Yet no inore than might be told Some felicitie.

Worth his master's cell. Han by night accursed theeves

That is gone, and all beside, Slaine his lambs, or stolne his beeves ?

(Well-a-day, alacke the tide!) Or consuming fire

In a hollow den, Brent his shearing-house, or stall,

Underneath yond gloomy wood Or a deluge drowned all ?

Wons he now, and wails the brood
Tell me it intire.

Of ingratefull men.
Have the winters been so set
To raine and snow, they have wet

All his driest laire ?
By which meanes his sheepe have got

But, alas ! now he is old,
Such a deadly curelesse rot,

Bit with bunger, nipt with cold,
That none living are?

Wat is left him?

Or to succour, or relieve him,

Or from wants oft to repreeve him.
Neither waves, nor theeves, nor fire,
Nor have rots impoor'd this sire,

Suretiship, nor yet

All's bereft him, Was the usurer lielping on

Save he hath a little crowd, Witb his damn'd extortion,

(He in youth was of it prowd) Nor the chaines of debt.

And a dogge to dance: But deceit, that ever lies

With them, he on holy-dayes Strongest arm'd for treacheries

In the farmers' houses plages
In a bosom'd friend :

For his sustenance.
That (and onely that) hath brought it,
Cursed be the head that wrought it!

And the basest end.

See! he's neere, let's rise and meet him, 1 The Midsummer fires are termed so in the west

And with dues to old age greet him,

It is fitting so. parts of England



But ye have surely seene 'Tis a notion good and sage,

(Whom we in sorrow misse) Honour still is due to age:

A swaine whom Phoebe thought her love, Up, and let us goe.

And Titan deemed his. “ But he is gone; then inwards turne your


Behold him there; here never shall you more, THE SHEPHEARD'S PIPE.

O’re-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!

Or change the gaudy greene she whilome wore THE FOURTH EGLOGUE.

To fenny blacke. Hyperion great

To ashy palenesse turne her!

Greene well befits a lover's heate,

Rut blacke beseemes a mourner.

Yet neither this thou canst, In this the author bewailes the death of one whom

Nor see his second birth, he shadoweth under the name of Philarete, com

His brightnesse blinds thine eye more now, pounded of the Greek words pires and dgton, a

Then thine did his on Earth. lover of vertue, a name well befiting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being" Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines, sometime his truly loved (and now as much la- Tune notes of glee, as used were of yore: mented) friend Mr. Thomas Manwood, sonne to For Philarete is dead, let mirthfull straines the worthy sir Peter Manwood, knigbt.

With Philarete cease for evermore!

And if a fellow swaine doe live

A niggard of his teares; UNDER an aged oke was Willy laid,

The shepheardesses all will give Willy, the lad who wilome made the rockes

To store bim, part of theirs. To ring with joy, whilst on his pipe he plaid,

Or I would lend him some,
And from their masters wood the neighbring flocks:

But that the store I have
But now o’re-come with Jolours deepe

Will all be spent before I pay
That nie his heart-strings rent:

The debt I owe bis grave.
Ne car'd he for his silly sheepe,

“O what is left can make me teave to mone! Ne card for merriment,

Or what remains but doth increase it more? But chang'd his wonted walkes

Looke on his sheepe: alas! their master's gone. For uncouth paths unknowne,

Looke on the place where we two heretofore Where none bui trees might here his plaints,

With locked armes have vow'd our love, And eccho rue his moue.

(Our love which time shall see Autumne it was, when droopt the sweetest floures,

In shepheard's songs for ever move, And rivers (swolne with pride) ore-look'd the banks,

And grace their harmony) Poore grew the day of Summer's golden houres,

It solitarie seemnes.
And void of sap stood Ida's cedar-rankes,

Bebold our flowrie beds;
The pleasant meadow's sadly lay

Their beauties fade, and violets
In chill and cooling sweats

For sorow hang their heads.
By rising fountains, or as they

“ 'Tis not a cypresse bough, a count'nance sad, Fear'd Winter's wastfull threats.

A mourning garment, wailing elegie, Against the broad-spread oake,

A standing herse in sable vesture clad, Each wind in furie beares:

A toonbe built to his name's eternitie, Yet fell their leaves not halfe so fast

Although the shepheards all should strive As did the shepheard's teares.

By yearly obsequies, As was his seate so was his gentle heart,

And vow to keepe thy fame alive Pleeke and dejected, but his thoughts as hie

lo spight of destinies As those aye-wandring lights, who doth impart

That can suppresse my griefe: Their beames ou us, and heaven still beautifie.

All these and more may be,

Yet all in vaine to recompence
Sad was his looke (О heavy fate!
That swaine should be so sad,

My greatest losse of thee.
Whose merry notes the forlorne mate

Cypresse may fade, the countenance be
With greatest pleasure clad.)

changed, Broke was his tunefull pipe

A garment rot, an elegie forgotten, That charm'd the christall foods,

A herse 'mongst irreligious rites be ranged, And thus his griefe took airie wings

A tombe pluckt down, or else through age be And few about the woods.

rotten : “ Day, thou art too officious in thy place,

All things th' unpartial hand of fate And Night too sparing of a wished stay,

Can rase out with a thought: Yee wand'ring lampes: O be ye fix a space!

These have a sey'ral fixed datc,
Some other hemisphere grace with your ray.

Whicb, ended, turne to nought
Great Phæbus ! Daphne is not heere,

Yet shall my truest cause
Nor Hyacinthus faire ;

Of sorrow firmely stay,
Phæbe! Endimioo and thy deere

When these effects the wings of time

Sball fanne and sweepe away.
Hath long since cleft the aire,

“ Looke as a sweet rose fairely budding forth

Unto his cote with heavy pace Bewrayes ber beauties to th' enamour'd morne,

As ever sorrow trode, Untill some keene blast from the envious North,

He went, with mind no more to trace
Killes the sweet bud that was but newly borne,

Where mirthful swaines abode,
Or else her rarest smels delighting

and as he spent the day,
Make her, herselfe betray,

The night he past alone;
Some wbite and curious hand inviting Was never shepheard lov'd more deere,
To plucke her thence away.

Nor made a truer mone.
So stands my mournfull case,

For had he been lesse good,
He yet (uncorrupt) had kept the stocke
Whereon he fairely stood.

TO THE VERTUOUS AND MUCH LAMENTING SISTERS “ Yet though so long he liv'd not as he might, He had the time appointed to him given.

Who liveth but the space of one poor night,

His birth, his youth, his age is in that even.
Whoever doth the period see

To me more knowne than you, is your sad chance,
Of dayes by Heav'n forth plotted, Oh! had I still enjoy'de such ignorance ;
Dyes full of age, as well as he

Then, I by these spent teures had not been knowne,
That had more yeares alotted.

Nor left another's griefe to sing mine owne. In sad tones then my verse

Yet since bis fate hath wrought these throcs Shall with incessant teares

Permit a partner in your woes: Bemoane my haplesse losse of hiin

The cause doth yeeld, and still may doe And not his want of yeares.

Ynough for you, and others too:

But if such plaints for you are kept, “ In deepest passions of my griefe-swolne breast

Yet may I grieve since you have wept. (Sweete soule!) this onely comfort seizeth me, For he more perfect growes to be That so few yeeres should make thee so much

That feeles another's miserie: blest,

And though these drops which mourning run And gave such wings to reach eternitie.

From several fountajves first begun,
Is this to die? No: as a ship

And some farre off, some neerer fleete;
Well built, with easie wind

They will (at last) in one streame meete.
A lazy hulke doth farre out-strip,

Mine shal with yours, yours mix with mine,
And soonest harbour fiad:

And make one offring at his shrine: So Philarete fled,

For whose eternitie on Earth, my Muse Quicke was his passage given,

To build this altar, did her best skill use; When others must have longer time

And that you, I, and all that held him deere, To make them fit for Heaven.

Our teares and sighes might freely offer heere. “ Then not for thee these briny teares are spent, But as the nightingale against the breere, 'Tis for myselfe I moane, and doe lament, Not tliat thou left'st the world, but left'st me

Here, where without thee all delights

Faile of their pleasing powre;
All glorious daies seeme ugly nights,
Methinkes no Aprill showre

Embroder should the earth,
But briny teares distil,

MASTER CHRISTOPHER BROOKE Since Flora's beauties shall no more

Be honour'd by thy quill. “ And ye his sheepe (in token of his lacke) Whilome the fairest Pocke on all the plaine:

Willy incites his friend to write Yeane never lambe, but be it cloath'd in blacke.

Things of a higher fame
Ye shady siccantours! when any swaine,

Than silly shepheards use endite
To carve his name upon your rind

Vaild in a shepheard's name.
Doth come, where his doth stand,
Shed drops, if he be so unkind
To raze it with his hand.

And thou my loved Muse
No more should'st numbers move,

Morne had got the start of night,
But that his name should ever live,

Lab'ring men were ready dight And after death my love."

With their shovels and their spades.

For the field, and (as their trades) This said, he sigh'd, and with o’re-drowned eyes Or at hedging wrought, or ditching Gaz'd on the Heavens for what be mist on Earth; For their food more then enriching. Then from the earth, full sadly gan arise

When the shepheards from their fold As farre from future hope, as present mirtb,

All their bleating charges told,






And (full carefull) search'd if one

See learned Cutty, on yond mountaines are
Of all their flock were hurt or gone,

Cleere springs arising, and the climbing goat
Or (if in the night-time cul'd)

That can get up, hath water cleerer farre
And had their fleeces pul’d:

Than when the streamės doe in the vallies float. 'Mongst the rest (not least in care)

What mad-man would a race by torch-light run,
Cutty to his fold gan fare;

That might his steps have usher'd by the Sunne?
And young Willy (that had given
To his flock the latest even

We shepheards tune our layes of shepheards’loves,
Neighbourhood with Cutty's sleepe)

Or in the praise of shady groves, or springs;
Shaking off refreshing sleepe,

We seldome heare of Cytherea's doves,
Hy'd him to his charge that blet,

Except when some more learned shepheard sings; Where he (busied) Cutty met:

An equall meed have to our sonetings:
Both their sheepe told, and none mist

A belt,

sheep hooke, or a wreath of Rowres, Of their number; then they blist

Is all we seeke, and all our versing brings;
Pan, and all the gods of plaines

And more deserts than these are seldome ours.
For respecting of their traines

But thou, whose Muse a falcon's pitch can sore, Of silly sheepe; and in a song

Maist share the bayes even with a conqueror. Praise gave to that holy throng. Thus they drave their focks to graze, Whose white fleeces did amaze

Why doth not Willy then produce such lines All the lillies as they passe

Of men and armes as might accord with these? Where their visual feeding was. Lillies angry that a creatore

'Cause Cuttie's spirit not in Willie shines, Of no more eye-pleasing feature

Pan cannot weill the club of Hercules, Than a sbeepe, by nature's duty

Nor dare a merlin on a heron seise.
Should be crown'd with far more beauty Scarce know I how to fit a shepheard's eare;
Than a lilly ; and the powre

Farre more unable shalt I be to please
Of wbite in sheepe, outgoe a fowre:
From the middle of their sprout

In anght, which none but semi-gods must heare;

When by thy verse (more able) time shall see (Like a furie's sting) thrust out

Thou canst give inore to kings, than kings to Dart-like forks in death to steepe them :

But great Pan did safely keepe them;
And affoorded kind repaire
To their dry and wonted laire,

But (wel-a-day) who loves the Muses now
Where their masters (that did eye them) Or helpes the climber of the sacred hill?
Underneath a hawthorne by thein,

None leane to them; but strive to disalow
On their pipes thus gan to play,

All heavenly dewes the goddesses distil.
And with rimes weare out the day.

Let earthly minds base mucke for ever fill, Cease, Cutty, cease to feed these simple lockes, Whose musicke onely is the chime of gold, And for a trumpet change thine oaten reeds; Dease be their eares to each harmonious quill! O're looke the vallies as aspiring rockes,

As they of learning thinke, so of them hold. And rather march in steele, then shepheard's weeds. And if there's none deserves what thou canst doo, Releeve ine Cutty! for heroicke deeds

Be then the poct and the patron too. Thy verse is fit; not for the lives of swaines, (Though both thou canst do well) and none proceeds I tell thee Cutty, had I all the sheepe

With thrice as many moe, as on these plaines, To leave high pitches for the lowly plaines:

Take thou a harpe in hand, strive with Apollo; Or shepheard, or faire maiden sits to keepe,
Thy Muse was made to lead, then scorne to follow. I would them all forgoe, so I thy straines

Could equalize. O how our neatest swajnes

Doe triin themselves, when on a holy-day

They haste to hcare thee sing, knowing the traines Willie, to follow sheepe I neere shall scorne ;

Of fairest nymphs will come to learne tty lay. Much lesse to follow any deity :

Well may they run and wish a parting never, Who'gainst the Sun (though weakned by the

So thy sweet tong might charme their eares morne)

for ever. Would vie with lookes, needeth an eagle's eye, I dare not search the hidden mysterie Of tragicke scenes; nor in a buskin'd stile These attributes (my lad) are not for me, Through death and horrour march, por their height Bestow them where true merit hath assiga'd; fie,

Whose pens were fed with blood of this faire ile.

It shall content me, on these happy downes And do I not? bestowing them on thee:
To sing the strife for garlands, not for crownes. Beleeve me Cutty, I doe beare this mind,

That wheresoe're we true deserving find,

To give a silent praise is to detract;
O who would not aspire, and by his wing

Obscure thy verses (more than most refin'd) Keep stroke with fame, and of an earthly jar From any one, of dulnesse so compact. Another lesson teach the spberes to sing ?

And rather sing to trees, tian so such men, Who would a shepheard, that might be a star? Who knoir not how to crowne a poet's pen. VOL. VI.




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