I more delight then larke in Sommer dayes, Whose Echo made the neyghbour groves to ring, And taught the byrds, which in the lower spring Did shroude in shady leaves from sonny rayes, Frame to thy songe their cheereful cheriping, Or hold theyr peace, for shame of thy sweete layes.
I sawe Calliope wyth Muses moe,
Soone as thy oaten pype began to sound, Theyr yvory Luyts and Tamburins forgoe, And from the fountaine, where they sat around, 60 Renne after hastely thy silver sound; But, when they came where thou thy skill didst showe, They drewe abacke, as halfe with shame confound, Shepheard to see them in theyr arte outgoe.
Col. Of Muses, Hobbinoll, I conne no skill For they bene daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorne of homely shepheards quill; For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove, Which him to much rebuke and Daunger drove, I never list presume to Parnasse hyll, But, pyping low in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myselfe, all be it ill.
Nought weigh I, who my song doth prayse or blame,
Ne strive to winne renowne, or passe the rest: With shepheard sittes not followe flying fame, But feede his flocke in fields where falls hem best. I wote my rymes bene rough, and rudely drest; The fytter they my carefull case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And poore my piteous plaints out in the same.
The god of shepheards, Tityrus, is dead, Who taught mee homely, as I can, to make; Hee, whilst hee lived, was the soveraigne head Of shepheards all that bene with love ytake : Well couth hee waile his Woes, and lightly slake
The flames which love within his heart had bredd.
And tell us mery tales to keepe us wake, The while our sheepe about us safely fedde.
Nowe dead hee is, and lyeth wrapt in lead, (O! why should Death on hym such outrage showe?) And all hys passing skil with him is fledde, The fame whereof doth dayly greater growe. But, if on me some little drops would flowe Of that the spring was in his learned hedde, I soone would learne these woods to wayle my woe, And teache the trees their trickling teares to shedde
Then should my plaints, causde of discurtesee, As messengers of this my painfull plight, Flye to my love, where ever that she bee, And pierce her heart with poynt of worthy wight, As shee deserves that wrought so deadly spight. 101 And thou, Menalcas, that by trecheree Didst underfong my lasse to wexe so light, Shouldest well be knowne for such thy villanee.
But since I am not as I wishe I were, Ye gentle Shepheards, which your flocks do feede, Whether on hylls, or dales, or other where, Beare witnesse all of thys so wicked deede; And tell the lasse, whose flowre is woxe a weede, And faultlesse fayth is turned to faithlesse fere, 110 That she the truest shepheards heart made bleede, That lyves on earth, and loved her most dere.
Hob. O, carefull Colin! I lament thy case; Thy teares would make the hardest flint to flowe. Ah, faithless Rosalind and voyde of grace, That art the roote of all this ruthfull woe! But now is time, I gesse, homeward to goe: Then ryse, ye blessed Flocks, and home apace, Least night with stealing steppes do you forsloe, And wett your tender Lambes that by you trace. 120
COLINS EMBLEME.
Gia speme spenta.
THIS Æglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepeheardes, and to the shame and disprayse of proude and ambitious Pastours: Such as Morrell is here imagined to be.
S not thilke same a goteheard prowde, that sittes on yonder bancke,
Whose straying heard them selfe doth
emong the bushes rancke ?
Mor. What, ho! thou jollye shepheards swayne,
come up the hill to me;
Better is then the lowly playne,
als for thy flocke and thee.
Thom. Ah! God shield, Man, that I should clime,
and learne to looke alofte;
This reede is ryfe that, oftentime
Great clymbers fall unsoft.
In humble dales is footing fast,
the trode is not so tickle,
And though one fall through heedlesse hast,
yet is his misse not mickle.
And now the Sonne hath reared up
his fierie footed teme,
Making his way betweene the Cuppe
and golden Diademe;
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast, with dogge of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast pyne, plagues, and dreery death. Agaynst his cruell scortching heate, where hast thou coverture ?
The wastefull hylls unto his threate
But, if thee lust to holden chat
with seely shepherds swayne, Come downe, and learne the little what,
that Thomalin can sayne.
Mor. Syker, thous but a laesie loord,
and rekes much of thy swinck,
That with fond termes, and weetlesse words,
to blere mine eyes doest thinke.
In evill houre thou hentest in hond
thus holy hylles to blame, For sacred unto saints they stond, and of them han their name. St. Michels Mount who does not know, that wardes the Westerne coste ?
And of St. Brigets bowre, I trow, all Kent can rightly boaste: And they that con of Muses skill sayne most what, that they dwell (As gote-heards wont) upon a hill, beside a learned well. And wonned not the great God Pan upon mount Olivet, Feeding the blessed flocke of Dan, which did himselfe beget?
Thom. O blessed sheepe! O shepheard great! that bought his flocke so deare,
And them did save with bloudy sweat from Wolves that would them teare.
Mor. Besyde, as holy fathers sayne, there is a hyllye place, Where Titan ryseth from the mayne to renne his dayly race,
Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed, and all the skie doth leane;
There is the cave where Phœbe layed the shepheard long to dreame. Whilome there used shepheards all to feede theyr flockes at will, Till by his folly one did fall, that all the rest did spill. And, sithens shepheardes bene foresayd
from places of delight, For thy I weene thou be affrayd to clime this hilles height. Of Synah can I tell thee more, and of our Ladyes bowre; But little needes to strow my store, suffice this hill of our.
Here han the holy Faunes recourse, and Sylvanes haunten rathe; Here has the salt Medway his sourse, wherein the Nymphes doe bathe; The salt Medway, that trickling stremis adowne the dales of Kent, Till with his elder brother Themis His brackish waves be meynt. Here growes Melampode every where, and Teribinth, good for Gotes; The one my madding kiddes to smere, the next to heale their throtes. Hereto, the hilles bene nigher heven, and thence the passage ethe; As well can proove the piercing levin, that seldome falles bynethe.
Thom. Syker, thou speakes like a lewd lorrell,
of Heaven to demen so;
How be I am but rude and borrell,
yet nearer wayes I knowe.
To Kerke the narre, from God more farre,
has bene an old sayd sawe;
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