THOMALIN. 'Tis a notion good and sage, Honour still is due to age: Up, and let us goe. THE SHEPHEARD'S PIPE. THE FOURTH EGLOGUE. THE ARGUMENT. In this the author bewailes the death of one whom he shadoweth under the name of Philarete, compounded of the Greek words pies and ágirn, a lover of vertue, a name well befiting him to whose memory these lines are consecrated, being sometime his truly loved (and now as much lamented) friend Mr. Thomas Manwood, sonne to the worthy sir Peter Manwood, knight. UNDER an aged oke was Willy laid, And from their masters wood the neighbring flocks: That nie his heart-strings rent: Ne car'd for merriment. But chang'd his wonted walkes For uncouth paths unknowne, Where none but trees might here his plaints, And eccho rue his moue. Autumne it was, when droopt the sweetest floures, The pleasant meadows sadly lay Against the broad-spread oake, Yet fell their leaves not halfe so fast As was his seate so was his gentle heart, Broke was his tunefull pipe "Day, thou art too officious in thy place, But ye have surely seene (Whom we in sorrow misse) A swaine whom Phoebe thought her love, And Titan deemed his. "But he is gone; then inwards turne your light, Behold him there; here never shall you more, To ashy palenesse turne her! Yet neither this thou canst, Nor see his second birth, "Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines, And if a fellow swaine doe live Or I would lend him some, But that the store I have Will all be spent before I pay The debt I owe his grave. "O what is left can make me leave to mone! It solitarie seemes. Behold our flowrie beds; Their beauties fade, and violets For sorow hang their heads. ""Tis not a cypresse bough, a count'nance sad, A mourning garment, wailing elegie, A standing herse in sable vesture clad, A toombe built to his name's eternitie, Although the shepheards all should strive And vow to keepe thy fame alive That can suppresse my griefe: All these and more may be, Yet all in vaine to recompence My greatest losse of thee. “ 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, dod as he spent the day, The night he past alone; Nor made a truer mone. For had he been lesse good, 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. OF MY EVER-ADMIRED FRIEND, MASTER THOMAS MANWOOD. To me more knowne than you, is your sad chance, Then, I by these spent teures had not been knowne, Nor left another's griefe to sing mine owne. In sad tones then my verse Yet since bis fate hath wrought these throer Shall with incessant teares Permit a partner in your woes : Bemoane my haplesse losse of him 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 fountaines first begun, And some farre off, some neerer fleete; They will (at last) in one streame meete. Mine shal with yours, yours mix with mine, 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 lainent, Not that thou left'st the world, but left'st me THE SHEPHEARD'S PIPE. THE FIFTH ECLOGUE. TO HIS INGENIOUS FRIEND, MASTER CHRISTOPHER BROOKE. Be honour'd by thy quill. " And ye his sheepe (in token of his lacke) Whilome the fairest flocke on all the plaine : Willy incites bis friend to write Yeane never lambe, but be it cloath'd in blacke. Things of a higher fame Than silly shepheards use endite Vail'd in a shepheard's name. WILLY. CUTTY. Morne had got the start of night, Lab'ring men were ready dight With their shovels and their spades, And after death my love." 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 he 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, THB ARGUMENT. And (full carefull) search'd if one 2 And young Willy (that had given To his flock the latest even Neighbourhood with Cutty's sheepe) Shaking off refreshing sleepe, Hy'd him to his charge that blet, Where he (busied) Cutty met: Both their sheepe told, and none mist Of their number; then they blist Pan, and all the gods of plaines For respecting of their traines Of silly sheepe; and in a song Praise gave to that holy throng. Thus they drave their flocks to graze, Whose white fleeces did amaze All the lillies as they passe Where their usual feeding was. Lillies angry that a creature Of no more eye-pleasing feature Than a sheepe, by nature's duty Should be crown'd with far more beauty Than a lilly; and the powre Of white in sheepe, outgoe a flowre: From the middle of their sprout (Like a furie's sting) thrust out 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, Where their masters (that did eye them) Underneath a hawthorne by them, On their pipes thus gan to play, And with rimes weare out the day. WILLIE. Cease, Cutty, cease to feed these simple flockes, CUTTY. Wil'ie, to follow sheepe I neere shall scorne; Who 'gainst the Sun (though weakned by the morne) Would vie with lookes, needeth an eagle's eye, Whose pens were fed with blood of this faire ile. WILLIE. O who would not aspire, and by his wing See learned Cutty, on yond mountaines are Cleere springs arising, and the climbing goat That can get up, hath water cleerer farre Than when the streames doe in the vallies float. What mad-man would a race by torch-light run, That might his steps have usher'd by the Sunne? We shepheards tune our layes of shepheards' loves, Or in the praise of shady groves, or springs; We seldome heare of Cytherea's doves, Except when some more learned shepheard sings; An equall meed have to our sonetings: A belt, a sheep hooke, or a wreath of flowres, Is all we seeke, and all our versing brings; And more deserts than these are seldome ours. But thou, whose Muse a falcon's pitch can sore, Maist share the bayes even with a conqueror. CUTTY. Why doth not Willy then produce such lines Of men and armes as might accord with these? WILLIE. 'Cause Cuttie's spirit not in Willie shines, Nor dare a merlin on a heron seise. In aught, which none but semi-gods must heare; CUTTY. But (wel-a-day) who loves the Muses now? Or helpes the climber of the sacred hill? None leane to them; but strive to disalow All heavenly dewes the goddesses distil. WILLIE. Let earthly minds base mucke for ever fill, And if there's none deserves what thou canst doo, tell thee Cutty, had I all the sheepe And though I say't, hath better tricks in store Than both of yours, or twenty couple more. How often have the maidens strove to take him, When he hath crost the plaine to barke at crowes? How many lasses have I knowne to make him Garlands to gird his necke, with which he goes Vaunting along the lands so wondrous trim, That not a dog of yours durst barke at him. And when I list (as often-times I use) To tune a horne pipe, or a morris-dance, The dogge (as he by nature could not choose) Seeming asleepe before, will leap and dance. Upon our plaines, or in some uncouth cell? That heares not what to Hobbinol befell; Phillis the faire, and fairer is there none, To-morrow must be linkt in marriage bands, 'Tis I that must undoe her virgin zone. Behold the man, behold the happy hands. The garland given for throwing best the barre, I know not by what chance or luckie starre, Was chosen late To be the mate Unto our lady of our gleesome May, Must clip ber than; For him she wreathes of flowers and chaplets made; To strawberries invites him in the shade, In shearing time, And in the prime, Would helpe to clip his sheep, and gard his lambs: These eies, these hands, so much know of that woman, [common? As more thou canst not: can that please that's No: should I wed, My marriage bed, |