Nor he, nor any noble-man
Admitted to her vewe.

One while in melancholy fits
He pines himselfe awaye;
Anon he thought by force of arms
To win her if he maye:

And still against the kings restraint
Did secretly invay.

At length the high controller Love,
Whom none may disobay,

Imbased him from lordlines

Into a kitchen drudge,

That so at least of life or death
She might become his judge.

Accesse so had to see and speak,

He did his love bewray,

And tells his birth: her answer was,
She husbandles would stay.

Meane while the king did beate his braines,

His booty to atchieve,

Nor caring what became of her,

So he by her might thrive;

At last his resolution was

Some pessant should her wive.

And (which was working to his wish)

He did observe with joye

How Curan, whom he thought a drudge,

Scapt many an amorous toye.1

The construction is, 'How that many an amorous toy, or foolery of love,

'scaped Curan;' i.e. escaped from him, being off his guard.

The king, perceiving such his veine,
Promotes his vassal still,

Lest that the basenesse of the man

Should lett, perhaps, his will.

Assured therefore of his love,
But not suspecting who

The lover was, the king himselfe
In his behalf did woe.

The lady resolute from love,

Unkindly takes that he

Should barre the noble, and unto

So base a match agree:

And therefore shifting out of doores,

Departed thence by stealth;

Preferring povertie before

A dangerous life in wealth.

When Curan heard of her escape,

The anguish in his hart

Was more than much, and after her
From court he did depart;

Forgetfull of himselfe, his birth,
His country, friends, and all,
And only minding (whom he mist)
The foundresse of his thrall.

Nor meanes he after to frequent
Or court, or stately townes,

But solitarily to live

Amongst the country grownes.

75

80

85

90

95

A brace of years he lived thus,

Well pleased so to live,

And shepherd-like to feed a flocke
Himselfe did wholly give.

So wasting love, by worke, and want,
Grew almost to the waine:
But then began a second love,

The worser of the twaine.

A country wench, a neatherds maid,
Where Curan kept his sheepe,

Did feed her drove: and now on her
Was all the shepherds keepe.

He borrowed on the working daies

His holy russets oft,

And of the bacon's fat, to make
His startops blacke and soft.

And least his tarbox should offend,

He left it at the folde:

Sweete growte, or whig, his bottle had,

As much as it might holde.

A sheeve of bread as browne as nut,

And cheese as white as snow,

And wildings, or the seasons fruit

He did in scrip bestow.

And whilst his py-bald curre did sleepe,

And sheep-hooke lay him by,

On hollow quilles of oten straw

He piped melody.

Ver. 112, i.e. holy-day russets.

100

105

110

115

120

125

But when he spyed her his saint,

He wip'd his greasie shooes,

And clear'd the drivell from his beard,
And thus the shepheard wooes.

'I have, sweet wench, a peece of cheese,
As good as tooth may chawe,
And bread and wildings souling well,'
(And therewithall did drawe

His lardrie) and in [yeaning] see

Yon crumpling ewe,' quoth he,

'Did twinne this fall, and twin shouldst thou,

If I might tup with thee.

Thou art too elvish, faith thou art,

Too elvish and too coy:

Am I, I pray thee, beggarly,
That such a flocke enjoy?

I wis I am not yet that thou

Doest hold me in disdaine

Is brimme abroad, and made a gybe
To all that keepe this plaine.

There be as quaint (at least that thinke
Themselves as quaint) that crave

The match, that thou, I wot not why,

Maist, but mislik'st to have.

How wouldst thou match? (for well I wot,

Thou art a female) I,

Her know not here that willingly

With maiden-head would die.

Ver. 135, Eating, PCC.-Ver. 153, Her know I not her that. 1602.

130

135

140

145

150

The plowmans labour hath no end,

And he a churle will prove:

The craftsman hath more worke in hand

Then fitteth unto love:

The merchant, traffiquing abroad,

Suspects his wife at home:

A youth will play the wanton; and
An old man prove a mome.

Then chuse a shepheard: with the sun
He doth his flocke unfold,
And all the day on hill or plaine

He merrie chat can hold;

And with the sun doth folde againe;

Then jogging home betime,

He turnes a crab, or turnes a round,

Or sings some merry ryme.

Nor lacks he gleefull tales, whilst round
The nut-brown bowl doth trot;

And sitteth singing care away,

155

160

165

170

Till he to bed be got:

Theare sleepes he soundly all the night,

175

Forgetting morrow-cares:

Nor feares he blasting of his corne,

Nor uttering of his wares;

Or stormes by seas, or stirres on land,

Or cracke of credit lost:

180

Ver. 169, i.e. roasts a crab, or apple.-Ver. 171, to tell, whilst round the bole doth trot. Ed. 1597.