And to the fame down folemnly they fit,
In the fresh shadow of their fummer bowers,
With fundry sweets them every way to fit,
Their neighb'ring vale despoiled of her flowers.
And whilst together merry thus they make,
The fun to weft a little 'gan to lean,
Which the late fervour foon again did flake,
When as the nymphs came forth upon the plain.

Here might you many a fhepherdess have seen,
Of which no place, as Cotswold, fuch doth yield,
Some of it native, fome for love I ween,
Thither were come from many a fertile field.

There was the widow's daughter of the glen,
Dear Rofalynd, that fcarcely brook'd compare,
The moorland-maiden, so admir'd of men,
Bright Goldy-Locks, and Phillida the fair.

Lettice and Parnel, pretty lovely peats,
Cuffe of the fold, the virgin of the well,
Fair Ambry with the alabaster teats,

And more, whofe names were here too long to tell. Which now came forward following their fheep,

Their batning flocks on graffy leas to hold,
Thereby from fkathe and peril them to keep,
Till evening come, that it were time to fold.
When now, at last, as lik'd the shepherds king,
(At whofe command they all obedient were)
Was pointed, who the roundelay should fing,
And who again the under-fong should bear.

The first whereof he Batte doth bequeath.
A wittier wag on all the wold's not found,
Gorbo, the man, that him fhould fing beneath,
Which his loud bag-pipe fkilfully could found.
Who amongst all the nymphs that were in fight,
Batte his dainty Daffadil there mist,
Which, to inquire of, doing all his might,
Him his companion kindly doth affift.

BATTE.

Gorbo, as thou cam'st this way, By yonder little hill,

Or, as thou, through the fields did stray, Saw't thou my Daffadil?

She's in a frock of Lincoln green,
Which colour likes her fight,
And never hath her beauty feen,
But through a veil of white.

Than roses richer to behold,
That trim up lovers bowers,

The panfie and the marigold,
Though Phoebus' paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well defcrib'ft the daffadil, It is not full an hour,

Since by the fpring, near yonder hill,
I saw that lovely flower.

The easy turns and quaintness of the song,
And flight occafion whereupon 'twas rais'd,
Not one this jolly company among,

(As most could well judge) highly that not prais'd.

When Motto next with Perkin pay their debt,
The moorland-maiden Sylvia that espy'd,
From th' other nymphs a little that was set,
In a near valley by a river's fide.

Whofe fov'reign flowers her fweetness well exprefs'd,

And honour'd fight a little not them mov'd:
To whom their fong they reverently address'd,
Both as her loving, both of her belov'd.

Motto. Tell me, thou fkilful fhepherd fwain, Who's yonder in the valley fet?

Perkin. O it is fhe, whofe fweets do ftain The lily, rofe, the violet.

Motto. Why doth the fun against his kind, Stay his bright chariot in the fkies?

Perkin. He paufeth, almoft ftricken blind, With gazing on her heavenly eyes.

Motto. Why do thy flocks for bear theirfood, Which fometime was their chief delight? Perkin. Because they need no other goo, That live in presence of her sight.

Motto. How come thofe flowers to flurish ftill,

Not withering with sharp winter's breath Perkin. She hath robb'd nature of her skl, And comforts all things with her breath.

Motto. Why flide these brooks fo flow awy, As swift as the wild roe that were? Perkin. O! mufe not fhepherd that they by, When they her heavenly voice do hear.

Motto. From whence come all those godly fwains,

And lovely girls attir'd in green?

Perkin. From gathering garlands on the plins, To crown thy Syl: our fhepherds queen.

Motto. The fun that lights this world below, Flocks, brooks, and flowers can witness bear. Perkin. Thefe fhepherds, and thefe nymphs de know,

Thy Sylvia is as chafte as fair. .

Laftly, it came unto the clownish sing,
Who, to conclude this fhepherds early feast,
Bound as the reft, his roundelay o fing,
As all the other him were to aflit.

When the (whom then they litle did expect,
The fairest nymph that ever kept in field)
Idea did her fober pace direct

Towards them, with joy that every one behed.

And whereas other drave their careful keep,
Hers did her follow duly at her will,
For, through her patience she had learnt her sheep,
Where'er the went, to wait upon her still.

A milk-white dove upon her hand she brought,
So tame, 'twould go, returning at her call,
About whofe neck was in a collar wrought
Only like me, my mistress hath no gall.

To whom her fwain (unworthy though he were)
Thus unto her his roundelay applies,
To whom the reft the under part did bear,
Cafting upon her their still longing eyes.

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is feen,)
Chorus. Come, let us fing, ye faithful fwains,
Rowland. O! fhe alone the thepherds queen.
Chorus. Her flock that leads,

The goddess of these meads,
The mountains and these plains.

Rowland. Thofe eyes of hers that are more clear,
Chorus. Than can poor fhepherds fongs exprefs:
Rowland. They be his beams that rules the year,
Chorus. Fie on that praile,

In ftriving things to raise :
That doth but make them lefs.

That filent time, about the upper world,
Phebus had forc'd his fiery-footed team,
And down again the fteep Olympus whirl'd
To wash his chariot in the western fream,

In night's black fhade, when Rowland all alone,
Thus him complains his fellow shepherd's gone.

You flames, quoth he, wherewith thou heaven art dight,

That me (alive) the woful'st creature view,
You, whofe afpects have wrought me this defpight
And me with hate yet ceafelessly pursue,

For whom too long I tarried for relief,
Now afk but death, that only ends my grief.

Yearly my vows, O heavens, have I not paid,
Of the beft fruits, and firftlings of my flock?
And oftentimes have bitterly inveigh'd

'Gainft them that you profanely dar'd re mock!
O, who shall ever give what is your due,
If mortal man be uprighter than you?

If the deep fighs of an afflicted breast,
O'erwhelm'd with forrow, or th' erected eyes
Of a poor wretch with miferies oppreft,
For whofe complaints, tears never could fuffice,
Have not the power your deities to move,
Who fhall e'er look for fuccour from above?

O night, how still obfequious have I been,
To thy flow filence whispering in thine ear,
That thy pale fovereign often hath been feen
Stay to behold me fadly from her sphere,

Whilft the flow minutes duly I have told,
With watchful eyes attending on my fold.
How oft by thee the folitary fwain,
Breathing his paffion to the early spring,
Hath left to hear the nightingale complain,
Pleafing his thoughts alone to hear me fing!

The nymphs forfook their places of abode,
To hear the founds that from my mufic flow'd.

To purge their fprings, and fanctify their grounds,
The fimple fhepherds learned I the mean,
And fov'reign fimples to their use I found,
Their teeming ewes to help when they did yean :
Which when again in fummer time they fhare,
Their wealthy fleece my cunning did declare.

In their warm cotes, whilft they have foundly flept,
And pafs'd the night in many a pleasant bower,
On the bleak mountains I their flocks have kept,
And bid the brunt of many a cruel shower,

Warring with beafts, in fafety mine to keep;
So true was I; and careful of my fheep.

Fortune and time, why tempted you me forth,
With thofe your flattering promifes of grace,
Fickle, fo falfely to abufe my worth,
And now to fly me, whom I did embrace?
Both that at first encourag'd my defire,
Laftly against me lewdly do confpire.

Or nature, didft thou prodigally waste
Thy gifts on me unfortunateft fwain,
Only thereby to have thyfelf disgrac'd?
Virtue, in me why wert thou plac'd in vain ?
If to the world predeftined a prey,

Thou wert too good to have been cast away.

There's not a grove that wond'reth not my woe
Nor not a river weeps not at my tale,
I hear the echoes (wand'ring to and fro)
Refound my grief through every hill and dale;
The birds and beafts yet in their fimple kind
Lament for me, no pity elfe that find.

None elfe there is gives comfort to my grief,
Nor my mishaps amended with my mo1n,
When heaven and earth have shut up all relief,
Nor care avails what curclefs now is grown:
And tears I find do bring no other good,
But as new fhowers increase the rifing flood.

When on an old tree, under which e'er now
He many a merry roundelay had fung,
Upon a leaflefs canker-eaten bough
His well tun'd bag-pipe carelessly he hung:

And by the fame, his fheep-hook, once of price, That had been carv'd with many a rare device.

He call'd his dog, (that fometime had the praife)
Whitefoot, well known to all that keep the plain,
That many a wolf had worried in his days,
A better cur there never followed fwain;

Which, though as he his master's forrows knew,
Wag'd his cut tail, his wretched plight to rue.

Poor cur, quoth be, and him threwith did ftroke;
Go to our cote, and there thyfeirepose,
Thou with thine age, my heart with forrow broke.
Be gone, e'er death my restless ces do close,

The time is come thou must th mafter leave,
Whom the vile world fhall never more deceive.

With folded arms thus hanging dơn his head,
He gave a groan, his heart in fund- cleft,
And as a ftone, already seemed dead
Before his breath was fully him bere:
The faithful fwain here laftly mad an end,
Whom all good shepherds ever shaldefend.

My moft bonoured Lord,

I HAVE :ver found that conftancy in your favours, fince your first acknowledging of me, that their durablenfs have now made me one of your family, and I im become happy in the title to be called yours that for retribution, could I have found a fitter way to publish your bounties, my thankfulnefs befor this might have found it out; I crave of your Lordship the patronage of my Elyfium, which, if he Mufe fail me not fhail not be altogether unvorthy of your protection. I have often

adventured upon defperate untrodden ways, which hath drawn fome fevere cenfures upon many of my labours; but that neither hath, nor can ever trouble me. The Divine Poems in this fmail volume inferted, I confecrate to your religious Countefs, my moft worthy lady. And so I reft

The honourer of you, and your noble family,

M. DRAYTON.