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They speak their maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

JOHN GAY

THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK

MONDAY, OR THE SQUABBLE

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole

Lobbin Clout. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just

awake;

No throstles shrill the bramble bush forsake;
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes;
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cot so rear?

Cuddy. Ah, Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guessed,

For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;

If swains belie not, thou hast proved the smart,

And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.

This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,

Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,

Thee Blouzelinda smites, Buxoma me.

Lobbin Clout. Ah, Blouzelind! I love thee more by

half,

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Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf:

Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,
That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.

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** * *

Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,

That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

35 Lobbin Clout. See this tobacco pouch that's lined with hair,

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Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer.

This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,
I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,
Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.
Lobbin Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,
Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.
Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,
Fair is the daisy that beside her grows,
Fair is the gillyflower, of gardens sweet,
Fair is the mary-gold, for pottage meet.

But Blouzelind's than gillyflower more fair,
Than daisy, mary-gold, or king-cup rare.
Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,
That e'er at wake delightsome gambol played.
Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,
And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.
The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,

The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,

The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,
And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;

But neither lamb nor kid, nor calf nor Tray,
Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Lobbin Clout. Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is

near;

Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.

With her no sultry summer's heat I know;
In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.
Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,
My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!
Cuddy. As with Buxoma once I worked at hay,
Ev'n noon-tide labour seemed an holiday;
And holidays, if haply she were gone,

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Like worky-days I wished would soon be done.
Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,

And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lobbin Clout. As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood,
Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,

I slyly ran and snatched a hasty kiss,
She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,

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Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cuddy. As my Buxoma in a morning fair,

With gentle finger stroked her milky care,

I queintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.

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Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,

Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows. Lobbin Clout. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,

Of Irish swains potato is the cheer;

Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,

Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potato, prize.

Cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The capon fat delights his dainty wife,

Pudding our Parson eats, the Squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.

While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

95 Lobbin Clout. As once I play'd at Blindman's-buff, it hapt

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About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.

I missed the swains, and seized on Blouzelind. True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind. Cuddy. As at Hot-cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

Lobbin Clout. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou can'st, ex

plain,

This wily riddle puzzles ev'ry swain.