Then by much wrestling to leese the grosse. Hob. Nowe, Diggon, I see thou speakest to [o] plaine; Better it were a little to feyne, And cleanly cover that cannot be cured : Such ill, as is forced, mought nedes be endured. But of sike pastoures howe done the flocks creepe? Dig. Sike as the shepheards, sike bene her sheepe, They wander at wil and stay at pleasure, For many han into mischiefe fall, And bene of ravenous Wolves yrent, All for they nould be buxome and bent. 142 Hob. Fye on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leasing! Well is knowne that sith the Saxon king, 151 160 170 Hob. Say it out, Diggon, whatever it hight, For not but well mought him betight: Dig. Thilk same shepheard mought I well marke, He has a Dogge to byte or to barke ; Whilome there wonned a wicked Wolfe, 181 Unto the flocke, when the Welkin shone fayre, Ycladde in clothing of seely sheepe, When the good old man used to sleepe. 190 (For he had eft learned a curres call,) This Wolvish sheepe woulde catchen his pray, Long time he used this slippery pranck, Hob. Marry, Diggon, what should him affraye 200 210 For, had his wesand bene a little widder, Dig. Mischiefe light on him, and Gods great curse! Too good for him had bene a great deale worse; The dog his maisters voice did it wene, 220 Hob. God shield, man, hee should so ill have thrive, All for he did his devoyre belive! If sike bene Wolves, as thou hast told, Dig. How, but, with heede and watchfullnesse, Forstallen hem of their wilinesse : For thy with shepheard sittes not playe, From soddein force theyr flocks for to gard. 231 Hob. Ah, Diggon! thilke same rule were too straight, All the cold season to wach and waite; We bene of flesh, men as other bee, Why should we be bound to such miserce? 240 Dig. Ah! but, Hobbinoll, all this long tale Nought easeth the care that doth me forhaile; What shall I doe? what way shall I wend, My piteous plight and losse to amend ? Ah! good Hobbinoll, mought I thee praye Of ayde or counsell in my decaye. Hob. Now, by my soule, Diggon, I lament The haplesse mischiefe that has thee hent; 250 So as I can I wil thee comfort; Dig. Ah, Hobbinoll! God mought it thee requite; ОСТОВER. ÆGLOGA DECIMA. ARGUMENT. IN Cuddie is set out the perfecte paterne of a Poete, whiche, finding no maintenaunce of his state and studies, complayneth of the contempte of Poetrie, and the causes thereof: Specially having bene in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, alwayes of singular accounpt and honor, and being indede so worthy and commendable an arte; or rather no arte, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct not to bee gotten by laboure and learning, but adorned with both; and poured into the witte by a certain Ἐνθουσιασμὸς and celestiall inspiration, as the Author hereof els where at large discourseth in his booke called The English Poete, which booke being lately come to my hands, I mynde also by Gods grace, upon further advisement, to publish. PIERCE. CUDDIE. Pierce. UDDIE, for shame! hold up thy heavye head, And let us cast with what delight to chace, And weary thys long lingring Phœbus race. Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base; Nowe they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead. Cud. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne, That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore, And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne. Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore, And ligge so layd, when Winter doth her straine. |