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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,
For they nill listen to the shepheards voyce;
But if he call hem, at theyr good choyce

They wander at wil and stay at pleasure,
And to theyr folds yead at their owne leasure.
But they had be better come at their cal;

For many han into mischiefe fall,

And bene of ravenous Wolves yrent,

All for they nould be buxome and bent.

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Hob. Fye on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leasing!

Well is knowne that sith the Saxon king,
Never was Woolfe seene, many nor some,
Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendome;
But the fewer Woolves (the soth to sayne)
The more bene the Foxes that here remaine.
Dig. Yes, but they gang in more secrete wise,
And with sheepes clothing doen hem disguise.
They walke not widely as they were wont,
For feare of raungers and the great hunt,
But prively prolling two and froe,
Enaunter they mought be inly knowe.
Hob. Or prive or pert yf any bene,
We han great Bandogs will teare their skinne.
Dig. Indeede, thy Ball is a bold bigge curre,
And could make a jolly hole in theyr furre:
But not good Dogges hem needeth to chace,
But heedy shepheards to discerne their face;
For all their craft is in their countenaunce,
They bene so grave and full of mayntenaunce
But shall I tell thee what my selfe knowe
Chaunced to Roffynn not long ygoe ?

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Hob. Say it out, Diggon, whatever it hight,

For not but well mought him betight:
He is so meeke, wise, and merciable,
And with his word his worke is convenable.
Colin Clout, I wene, be his selfe boye,
(Ah, for Colin, he whilome my ioye!)
Shepheards sich, God mought us many send,
That doen so carefully theyr flocks tend.

Dig. Thilk same shepheard mought I well marke,

He has a Dogge to byte or to barke ;
Never had shepheard so kene a kurre,
That waketh and if but a leafe sturre.

Whilome there wonned a wicked Wolfe,
That with many a Lambe had glutted his gulfe,
And ever at night wont to repayre

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Unto the flocke, when the Welkin shone fayre,

Ycladde in clothing of seely sheepe,

When the good old man used to sleepe.
Tho at midnight he would barke and ball,

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(For he had eft learned a curres call,)
As if a Woolfe were emong the sheepe:
With that the shepheard would breake his sleepe,
And send out Lowder (for so his dog hote)
To raunge the fields with wide open throte.
Tho, when as Lowder was farre awaye,

This Wolvish sheepe woulde catchen his pray,
A Lambe, or a Kidde, or a weanell wast;
With that to the wood would he speede him fast.

Long time he used this slippery pranck,
Ere Roffy could for his laboure him thanck.
At end, the shepheard his practise spyed,
(For Roffy is wise, and as Argus eyed,)
And when at even he came to the flocke,
Fast in theyr folds he did them locke,
And tooke out the Woolfe in his counterfect cote,
And let out the sheepes bloud at his throte.

Hob. Marry, Diggon, what should him affraye
To take his owne where ever it laye ?

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For, had his wesand bene a little widder,
He woulde have devoured both hidder and shidder.

Dig. Mischiefe light on him, and Gods great curse!

Too good for him had bene a great deale worse;
For it was a perilous beast above all,
And eke had he cond the shepherds call,
And oft in the night came to the shepecote,
And called Lowder, with a hollow throte,
As if it the olde man selfe had bene:

The dog his maisters voice did it wene,
Yet halfe in doubt he opened the dore,
And ranne out as he was wont of yore.
No sooner was out, but, swifter then thought,
Fast by the hyde the Wolfe Lowder caught;
And, had not Roffy renne to the steven,
Lowder had bene slaine thilke same even.

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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,
How mought we, Diggon, hem be-hold?

Dig. How, but, with heede and watchfullnesse, Forstallen hem of their wilinesse :

For thy with shepheard sittes not playe,
Or sleepe, as some doen, all the long day;
But ever liggen in watch and ward,

From soddein force theyr flocks for to gard.

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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?
Whatever thing lacketh chaungeable rest,
Mought needes decay, when it is at best.

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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;
Nethelesse thou seest my lowly saile,
That froward fortune doth ever availe:
But, were Hobbinoll as God mought please,
Diggon should soone finde favour and ease:
But if to my cotage thou wilt resort,

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So as I can I wil thee comfort;
There mayst thou ligge in a vetchy bed,
Till fayrer Fortune shewe forth his head.

Dig. Ah, Hobbinoll! God mought it thee requite;

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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.

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