Then at midnight he would bark and bawl, 1 Quickly. (For he had eft1 learned a currës call,)
As if a wolf were among the sheep:
With that the shepherd would break his sleep,
And send out Lowder (for so his dog hote2)
To range the fields with wide open throat.
Then, when as Lowder was far away,
This wolvish sheep would catchen his prey,
A lamb, or a kid, or a weanel wast;8
With that to the wood would he speed him fast.
Long time he used this slippery prank,
Ere Roffy could for his labour him thank.
At end, the shepherd his practice spied,
(For Roffy is wise, and as Argus ey'd,)
And, when at even he came to the flock,
Fast in their folds he did them lock,
And took out the wolf in his counterfeit coat,
And let out the sheep's blood at his throat.
HOB. Marry, Diggon, what should him affray
To take his own where ever it lay?
For, had his weasand been a little widder,
3 Him and He would have devoured both hidder and shidder.5
DIG. Mischief light on him, and God's great curse,
Too good for him had been a great deal worse;
For it was a perilous beast above all,
Learned. And eke had he condR the shepherd's call,
And oft in the night came to the sheep-cote,
And called Lowder, with a hollow throat,
As if the old man self had been:
The dog his master's voice did it ween,
Yet half in doubt he opened the door,
And ran out as he was wont of yore.
No sooner was out, but, swifter than thought,
Fast by the hide the wolf Lowder caught;
And, had not Roffy run to the steven,1
Lowder had been slain thilk2 same even.
HOB. God shield, man, he should so ill have thrive,
All for he did his devoir3 belive.4
If such be wolves, as thou hast told,
How might we, Diggon, them behold?
DIG. How, but, with heed and watchfulness,
Forstallen them of their wiliness:
Forthy with shepherd sits not play,
Or sleep, as some doen, all the long day;
But ever liggen7 in watch and ward,
From sudden force their flocks for to guard.
• Therefore. 6 Becomes. 7 Lie.
Hoв. Ah! Diggon, thilk same rule were too
All the cold season to watch and wait:
We be of flesh, men as other be,
Why should we be bound to such misery?
Whatever thing lacketh changeable rest,
Must needs decay, when it is at best.
DIG. Ah! but, Hobbinol, all this long tale
Naught easeth the care that doth me forhaile;9
What shall I do? what way shall I wend,10
My piteous plight and loss to amend?
Ah! good Hobbinol, might I thee pray
Of aid or counsel in my decay?
HOB. Now by my soul, Diggon, I lament
The hapless mischief that has thee hent;"
Natheless thou seest my lowly sail,
That froward Fortune doth ever availe:12
But, were Hobbinol as God might please,
Diggon should soon find favour and ease:
But if to my cottage thou wilt resort,
So as I can I will thee comfort;
There mayst thou lig 13 in a vetchy" bed,
Till fairer Fortune shew forth his head.
DIG. Ah! Hobbinol, God may it thee requite; Diggon on few such friends did ever light.
DIGGON'S EMBLEM.
Inopem me copia fecit.
(Plenty has made me poor.)
In Cuddie is set out the perfect pattern of a Poet, which, finding no maintenance of his state and studies, complaineth of the contempt of Poetry, and the causes thereof: specially having been in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, always of singular account and honour, and being indeed so worthy and commendable an art; or rather no art, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct not to be gotten by labour and learning, but adorned with both; and poured into the wit by a certain Enthousiasmos and celestial inspiration, as the Author hereof elsewhere at large discourseth in his book called The English Poet, which book being lately come to my hands, I mind also by God's grace, upon farther advisement, to publish.
CUDDIE, for shame, hold up thy heavy head,
And let us cast with what delight to chase
And weary this long ling'ring Phoebus' race.
Whilome1 thou wont the shepherds' lads to lead
In rhymes, in riddles, and in bidding base; 2
Now they in thee, and thou in sleep, art dead.
CUD. Piers, I have piped erst so long with pain,
That all mine oaten reeds be rent and wore,
And my poor Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much less gain.
Such pleasance makes the grasshopper so poor,
And lig1 so laid,5 when winter doth her strain.
The dapper ditties,1 that I wont devise,
To feed youth's fancy, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much; what I the bett2 forthy ?3
They have the pleasure, I a slender prise:
I beat the bush, the birds to them do fly:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?
PIERS. Cuddie, the praise is better than the price, The glory eke much greater than the gain:
O what an honour is it, to restrain
The lust of lawless youth with good advice,
Or prick them forth with pleasance of thy vein,
Whereto thou list their trained wills entice!
Soon as thou 'ginn'st to set thy notes in frame,
O how the rural routs to thee do cleave!
Seemeth thou dost their soul of sense bereave,
All as the shepherd5 that did fetch his dame
From Pluto's baleful bower withouten leave;
His music's might the hellish hound did tame.
CUD. So praisen babes the peacock's spotted train,
And wondren at bright Argus' blazing eye;
But who rewards him e'er the more forthy,
Or feeds him once the fuller by a grain?
Such praise is smoke, that sheddeth in the sky;
Such words be wind, and wasten soon in vain.
PIERS. Abandon then the base and viler clown;
Lift up thyself out of the lowly dust,
And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts;6
Turn thee to those that wield the awful crown,
To doubted' knights, whose woundless armour rusts,
And helms unbruised waxen daily brown.
There may thy Muse display her flutt'ring wing, 43
And stretch herself at large from east to west;
Whither thou list in fair Elisa* rest,
Or, if thee please in bigger notes to sing,
Advance the Worthy whom she loveth best,
That first the White Bear to the stake did bring.
And, when the stubborn stroke of stronger stounds1
Has somewhat slack'd the tenor of thy string,
Of love and lustihead then mayst thou sing,
2 A dance. And carol loud, and lead the Miller's round,2
All3 were Elisa one of thilk same ring;
So might our Cuddie's name to heaven sound.
CUD. Indeed the Romish Tityrus,5 I hear,
Through his Mecenas left his oaten reed,
Whereon he erst had taught his flocks to feed,
And laboured lands to yield the timely ear,
And eft did sing of wars and deadly dreed
So as the heavens did quake his verse to hear.
But ah! Mecanas is yclad in clay,
And great Augustus long ago is dead,
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead,
That matter made for poets on to play:
For ever, who in derring-do were dread,
The lofty verse of them was loved aye.
But after Virtue gan for age to stoop,
And mighty Manhood brought a bed of ease,
The vaunting poets found naught worth a pease
To put in press among the learned troop;
Then gan the streams of flowing wits to cease,
And sunbright honour penn'd in shameful coop.
* 'Elisa' Queen Elizabeth; the Worthy' is the Earl of Leicester.
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