IDEA THE shepherds GARLAND, Fashioned in nine Eglogs.  
ROLAND'S SACRIFICE to the nine Muses.  
Effugiunt avidos Carmina sola rogues.  
Imprinted at London for Thomas Woodcock, dwelling in Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the black Bear. 1593.   

TO THE NOBLE, AND VALOROUS GENTLEMAN, MASTER ROBERT DUDLEY: ENRICHED WITH ALL virtues OF THE MIND, AND WORTHY OF ALL HONOURABLE DESERT.  
Your most affectionate, and devoted: Michael Drayton.   


THE FIRST EGLOG.  

When as the joyful spring brings in the Summer's sweet relief:  
Poor Rowland malcontent be wails the winter of his grief.   

NOw Phoebus from the equinoctial Zone,  
Had tasked his team unto the higher sphere.  
And from the brightness of his glorious throne,  
Sends forth his Beams to light the lower air,  
The cheerful welkin, comen this long looked hour,  
distills adown full many a silver shower.   

Fair Philomela night-musicke of the spring,  
Sweetly records her tuneful harmony,  
And with deep sobs, and doleful sorrowing,  
Before fair Cynthia acts her Tragedy:  
The Throstle cock, by breaking of the day,  
Chants to his sweet, full many a lovely lay.   

The crawling snake, against the morning sun,  
Now streaks him in his rayn-bow coloured cote:  
The darksome shades, as loathsome he doth shun,  
Enchanted with the Birds sweet sylvan note:  
The Buck forsakes the lands where he hath fed,  
And scorns the hunt should view his velvet head.   

Through all the parts, dispersed is the blood,  
The lusty spring, in flower of all her pride,  
Man, bird, and beast, and fish, in pleasant flood,  
Rejoicing all in this most joyful tide:  
Save Rowland leaning on a Ranpick tree,  
O'er grown with age, forlorn with woe was he.   

Oh blessed Pan, thou shepherds god saith he,  
O thou Creator of the starry light,  
Whose wondrous works show thy divinity,  
Thou wise inventor of the day and night,  
Refreshing nature with the lovely spring,  
Quite blemished erst, with stormy winter's sting.   

O thou strong builder of the firmament,  
Who placedst Phoebus in his fiery Car,  
And by thy mighty Godhead didst invent,  
The planet's mansions that they should not jar,  
Ordaining Phebe, mistress of the night,  
From Titan's flame to steal her forked light.   

Even from the clearest crystal shining throne,  
Under whose feet the heavens are low abased,  
Commanding in thy majesty alone,  
Whereas the fiery Cherubins are placed:  
Receive my vows as incense unto thee,  
My tribute due to thy eternity.   

O shepherds sovereign, yea receive in gree,  
The gushing tears, from never-resting eyes,  
And let those prayers which I shall make to thee,  
Be in thy sight perfumed sacrifice:  
Let smoky sighs be pledges of contrition,  
For follies past to make my soul's submission.   

Submission makes amends for all my miss,  
Contrition a refined life gins,  
Then sacred sighs, what thing more precious is?  
And prayers be oblations for my sins,  
Repentant tears, from heaven-beholding eyes,  
Ascend the air, and penetrate the skies.   

My sorrows wax, my joys are in the waning,  
My hope decays, and my despair is springing,  
My love hath loss, and my disgrace hath gaining,  
Wrong rules, desert with tears her hands sits wring:  
Sorrow, despair, disgrace, and wrong, do thwart  
My joy, my love, my hope, and my desert.   

Devouring time shall swallow up my sorrows,  
And strong belief shall torture black despair,  
Death shall o'erwhelm disgrace, in deepest furrows,  
And justice lay my wrongs upon the Beer:  
Thus justice, death, belief, and time, ere long,  
Shall end my woes, despair, disgrace, and wrong.   

Yet time shall be expired and lose his date,  
And full assurance cancel strongest trust,  
Eternity shall trample on deaths pate,  
And justice shall surcease when all be just:  
Thus time, belief, death, justice, shall surcease,  
By date, assurance, eternity, and peace.   

Thus breathing from the Centre of his soul,  
The tragic accents of his ecstasy,  
His sunset eyes 'gan here and there to roll,  
Like one surprised with sudden lunacy:  
And being roused out of melancholy,  
Fly whirlwind thoughts unto the heavens quoth he.   

Now in the Ocean Titan quenched his flame,  
And summoned Cynthia to set up her light,  
The heavens with their glorious starry frame,  
Prepared to crown the sable-vayled night:  
When Rowland from this time consumed stock,  
With stone-colde heart now stalketh towards his flock.   

Quid queror? & toto facio convicia coelo:  
Di quoque habent oculos, di quoque pectus habent.    

THE SECOND EGLOG.  

Wynken of man's frail waning age  
declares the simple truth,  
And doth by Roland's harms reprove  
Mottos unbridled youth.   

Motto.  

MIght my youth's mirth delight thy aged years,  
My gentle shepherd father of us all,  
Wherewith I why lome Joyed my lovely fears,  
Chanting sweet strains of heavenly pastoral.   

Now would I tune my miskins on this Green,  
And frame my muse those virtues to unfold,  
Of that sole Phoenix Bird, my lives sole Queen:  
Whose locks done stain, the three times burnished gold.   

But melancholy grafted in thy Brain,  
My Rhymes seem harsh, to thy unrelisht taste,  
Thy droughthy wits, not long refreshed with reign,  
Parched with heat, done whither now and waste.    

wink.  

Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorn,  
My flowers decayed, with winter-withered frost,  
My cloudy set eclipsed my cheerful morn,  
That jewel gone wherein I joyed most.   

My dreadful thoughts been drawn upon my face,  
In blotted lines with age's iron pen,  
The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place,  
Where beauty's damask dazed the eyes of men.   

A cumber-world, yet in the world am left,  
A fruitless plot, with brambles overgrown,  
Mislived man of my world's joy bereft,  
Hart-breaking cares the offspring of my moan.   

Those dainty strains of my well tuned reed,  
Which many a time have pleased my wanton ears,  
Nor sweet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed,  
But tell the follies of my wandering years.   

Those poisoned pills been biding at my heart,  
Those loathsome drugs of my youth's vanity,  
Sweet seemed they once, full bitter now and tart,  
Ay me consuming corrosives they be.    

Motto.  

Even so I ween, for thy old age's fever,  
deems sweetest potions bitter as the gall,  
And thy cold palate having lost her savour,  
Receives no comfort in a cordial.    

Wynken.  

As thou art now, was I a gamesome boy,  
Though starved with wintered eld as thou dost see,  
And well I know thy swallow-winged joy,  
shallbe forgotten as it is in me.   

When on the Arch of thine eclipsed eyes,  
Time hath engraved deep characters of death,  
And sunburnt age thy kindly moisture dries,  
Thy wearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,   

Thy brawn-fallen arms, thy camock-bended back,  
The time-plow d furrows in thy fairest field,  
The Soothsayers of natures woeful wrack,  
When blooming age must stoop to starved eld,   

When Lily white is of a tawny die,  
Thy fragrant crimson turned ash-coloured pale,  
Thy skin o'ercast with rough embroidery,  
And cares rude pencil, quite disgraced thy sale,   

When downe-beds heat must thaw thy frozen cold,  
And lukewarm broths recure Phlebotomy,  
And when the bell is ready to be told,  
To call the worms to thine Anatomy:  
Remember then my boy, what once I said to thee.   

Now am I like the knurrie-bulked Oak,  
Whom wasting eld hath made a tomb of dust,  
Whose windufallen branches fold by tempest stroke,  
His bark consumes with canker wormed rust   

And though thou seemest like to the bragging briar,  
As gay as is the morning's marigold,  
Yet shortly shall thy sap be dry and sere,  
Thy gaudy Blossoms blemished with cold.   

Even such a wanton, an unruly swain,  
was little Rowland, when of yore as he,  
Upon the Beechen tree on yonder plain,  
Carved this rhyme of loves Idolatry.   

The God's delight, the heavens high spectacle,  
Earth's greatest glory, world's rarest miracle.   

Fortune's fair'st mistress, virtues surest guide,  
loves Governess, and nature's chiefest pride.   

Delights own darling, honours chief defence,  
Chastities choice, and wisdoms quintessence.   

Conceits sole Riches thoughts only treasure,  
Desires true hope, joys sweetest pleasure.   

Mercies due merit, valeurs just reward,  
Time's fairest fruit, fame's strongest guard.   

Yea she alone, next that eternal he,  
The express Image of eternity.    

Motto.  

Oh divine love, which so aloft canst raise,  
And lift the mind out of this earthly mire,  
And dost inspire the pen with so high praise,  
As with the heavens doth equal man's desire.   

Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesy,  
Whose fury doth incense the swelling brains,  
As draws to thee by heaven-bred Sympathy,  
The sweet delights of highest soaring veins:   

Who doth not help to deck thy holy Shrine,  
With Myrtle, and triumphant Laurel tree?  
Who will not say that thou art most divine?  
Or who doth not confess thy deity?    

wink.  

A foolish boy, full ill is he repaid,  
For now the wanton pines in endless pain,  
And sore reputes what he before missaide,  
So may they be which can so lewdly feign.   

Now hath this younker torn his tressed locks,  
And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweet,  
Forsaking his companions and their flocks,  
And casts his gayest garland at his feet.   

And being shrouded in a homely cote,  
And full of sorrow as a man might be,  
He tuned his Rebeck with a mournful note,  
And thereto sang this doleful elegy.   

Tell me fair flock (if so you can conceive)  
The sudden cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,  
If this be wrought me my light to bereave,  
By Magic spells, from some enchanting lips  
Or ugly Saturn from his combust sent,  
This fat all presage of death's dreryment.   

Oh clearest day-star, honoured of mine eyes,  
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze upon thy light,  
Bright morning sun, who with thy sweet arise,  
Expell'st the clouds of my heart's lowering might,  
Gods rejecting sweetest sacrifice,  
Of mine eyes tears ay offered to thine eyes.   

May purest heavens scorn my souls pure desires?  
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orisons?  
May sacred temples gainsay sacred prayers?  
Or Saints refuse the poors devotions?  
Then Orphan thoughts with sorrow be you waind,  
When loves Religion shallbe thus prophayned.   

Yet needs the earth must droop with visage sad;  
When silver dews been turned to bitter storms,  
The Cheerful Welkin once in sables clad,  
Her frowns foretell poor humane creatures harms.  
And yet for all to make amends for this,  
The clouds shed tears and weepen at my miss.    

Motto.  

Woe's me for him that pineth so in pain,  
Alas poor Rowland, how it pities me,  
So fair a bait should breed so foul a bain,  
Or humble shows should cover cruelty.    

Winken  

Beware by him thou foolish wanton swain,  
By others harms thus mayst thou learn to heed,  
Beauty and wealth been fraught with high disdain,  
Believe it as a Maxim of thy Creed.    

Motto.  

If that there be such woes and pains in love,  
Woe be to him that list the same to prove.    

Wynken.  

Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir'st to prove,  
There is no hell, unto the pains in love.     

THE THIRD EGLOG.  

Rowland and Perkin both Ifeere, in field upon a day,  
With little Robin redbreasts Round, do pass the time away.   

Perkin.  

ROwland for shame awake thy drowsy muse,  
Time plays the hunts-up to thy sleepy head,  
Why liest thou here as thou hadst long been dead, foul idle swain?   

Who ever heard thy pipe and pleasing vain,  
And doth but hear this scurril minstrelsy.  
These noninos of filthy ribaldry, that doth not muse.   

Then slumber not with foul Endymion,  
But tune thy reed to dapper virelayes,  
And sing a while of blessed Betas praise, fair Beta she:   

In thy sweet song so blessed mayst thou be,  
For learned Collen lays his pipes to gauge,  
And is to fairy gone a Pilgrimage: the more our moan.    

Rowland.  

What Beta? shepherd, she is Pan's beloved,  
Fair Betas praise beyond our strain doth stretch,  
Her notes too high for my poor pipe to reach,  
poor oaten reed:   

So far unfit to speak of worthies deed,  
But set my stops unto a lower key,  
Whereas a hornpipe I may safely play,  
yet unreproved.   

With flattery my muse could never fage,  
Nor could affect such vain scurrility,  
To please lewd Lorrels, in their foolery,  
too base and vile:   

Nor but a note yet will I raise my style,  
Myself above Will Piper to advance,  
Which so bestirs him at the morris dance,  
for penny wage.    

Perkin.  

Rowland, so toys oft times esteemed are,  
And fashions ever changing with the time,  
Then frolic it a while in lusty rhyme,  
with mirth and glee:   

And let me hear that Roundelay of thee,  
Which once thou sangst to me in janeveer.  
When Robin-redbreast sitting on a breere,  
the burden bare.    

Rowland.  

Well needs I must yet with a heavy heart:  
But were not Beta sure I would not sing,  
Whose praise the echoes never cease to ring,  
unto the skies.    

Pirken.  

Be blithe good Rowland then, and clear thine eyes:  
And now sith Robin to his roost is gone,  
Good Rowland then supply the place alone,  
and show thy art.   

O thou fair silver Thames: o clearest crystal flood,  
Beta alone the Phoenix is, of all thy watery brood,  
The Queen of Virgins only she:  
And thou the Queen of floods shalt be:  
Let all thy Nymphs be joyful then to see this happy day,  
Thy Beta now alone shallbe the subject of my lay.   

With dainty and delight some strains of sweetest virelayes:  
Come lovely shepherds sit we down & chant our Betas praise:  
And let us sing: so rare a verse,  
Our Betas praises to reheaerse  
That little Birds shall silent be, to hear poor shepherds sing,  
And rivers backward bend their course, & flow unto the spring.   

Range all thy swans fair Thames together on a rank,  
And place them duly one by one, upon thy stately bank,  
Then set together all a good,  
Recording to the silver stood,  
And crave the tuneful Nightingale to help you with her lay,  
The Osel & the Throstlecocke, chief music of our may.   

O see what troops of Nymphs been sporting on the strands,  
And they been blessed Nymphs of peace, with Olives in their  
How merrily the Muses sing, (hands.  
That all the flowery Medowesring,  
And Beta sits upon the bank, in purple and in pall,  
And she the Queen of Muses is, and wears the Corinall.   

Trim up her Golden tresses with Apollo's sacred tree,  
o happy sight unto all those that love and honour thee,  
The Blessed Angels have prepared,  
A glorious Crown for thy reward,  
Not such a golden Crown as haughty Caesar wears,  
But such a glittering starry Crown as Ariadne bears.   

Make her a goodly Chapilet of azur'd Colombine,  
And wreath about her Coronet with sweetest Eglantine:  
Bedeck our Beta all with Lilies,  
And the dainty Daffodils,  
With Roses damask, white, and red, and fairest flower delice,  
With Cowslips of Jerusalem, and cloves of Paradise.   

O thou fair torch of heaven, the days most dearest light,  
And thou bright-shining Cynthia, the glory of the night:  
You stars the eyes of heaven,  
And thou the gliding leaven,  
And thou o gorgeous Iris with all strange Colours died,  
When she streams forth her rays, then dashed is all your pride.   

See how the day stands still, admiring of her face,  
And time lo stretcheth forth her arms, thy Beta to embrace,  
The Sirens sing sweet lays,  
The Tritons sound her praise,  
Go pass on Thames and hie thee fast unto the Ocean sea,  
And let thy billows there proclaim thy Betas holiday.   

And water thou the blessed root of that green Olive tree,  
With whose sweet shadow, all thy banks with peace preserved  
Laurel for Poets and Conquerors, (be,  
And myrtle for loves Paramours:  
That fame may be thy fruit, the boughs preserved by peace,  
And let the mournfist Cipres die, now storms & tempests cease.   

we'll straw the shore with pearl where Beta walks alone,  
And we will pave her princely Bower with richest Indian stone,  
Perfume the air and make it sweet,  
For such a Goddess it is meet,  
For if her eyes for purity contend with Titan's light,  
No marvel then although they so do dazzle humane sight.   

Sound out your trumpets then, from London's stately towers,  
To beat the stormy winds a back & calm the raging showers,  
Set too the Cornet and the flute,  
The Orpharyon and the Lute,  
And tune the Taber and the pipe, to the sweet violons,  
And move the thunder in the air, with loudest Clarions.   

Beta long may thine Altar's smoke, with yearly sacrifice,  
And long thy sacred Temples may their Saboths solemnize,  
Thy shepherds watch by day and night,  
Thy Maids attend the holy light,  
And thy large empire stretch her arms from east unto the west,  
And thou under thy feet mayst tread, that soul seven-headed  
beast.    

Perken.  

Thanks gentle Rowland for my Roundelay,  
And blessed be Beta burden of thy song,  
The shepherds Goddess may she flourish long, o happy she.   

Her years and days thrice doubled may they be.  
Triumphing Albion clap thy hands for joy,  
And pray the heavens may shield her from annoy,  
so will I pray.    

Rowland.  

So do, and when my milk-white ewes have yeande,  
Beta shall have the firstling of the fold,  
I le burnish all his horns with finest gold,  
and paint his fleece with purple grain.    

Perkin.  

Believe me as I am true shepherds swain,  
Then for thy love all other I forsake,  
And unto thee myself I will betake,  
with faith unfeigned.   

Ipse ego thura dabo, fumosis candidus aris:  
Ipse feram ante tuos munera vota pedes.     

THE FOURTH EGLOG.  

Wynken be waileth Elphinslosse,  
the God of Poesy,  
with Roland's rhyme ecleepd the tears  
of the green Hawthorne tree.   

Gorbo.  

WEll met good wink, whither dost thou wend?  
How hast thou fared sweet shepherd many a year?  
May wynken thus his days in darkness spend?  
Who I have known for piping had no peer?   

Where been those fair flocks thou wert wont to guide?  
What? been they dead? or happed on some mischance,  
Or mischief hath their master else betid,  
Or Lordly Love hath cast thee in a trance.   

What man? let's still be merry whilst we may,  
And take a truce with sorrow for a time,  
And let us pass this weary winter's day,  
In reading Riddles, or in making rhyme.    

Wynken.  

Ah woe's me Gorbo, mirth is far away,  
Mirth may not sojourn with black malcontent,  
The lowering aspect of this dismal day,  
The winter of my sorrow doth augment.   

My song is now a swanne-like dying song,  
And my conceits, the deep conceits of death,  
My heart becom'n a very hell of wrong,  
My breast the irksome prison of my breath.   

I loath my life, I loath the dearest light,  
come is my night, when once appears the day,  
The blessed sun seems odious in my sight,  
No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.    

Gorbo.  

What mayst thou be, that old wynkin de word,  
Whose threadbare wits o'rworne with melancholy,  
Once so delightsome at the shepherds board,  
But now forlorn with thy selues self-willed folly.   

I think thou dotest in thy gray-bearded age,  
Or brusd with sin, for thy youth's sin art sorry,  
And vow'st for thy? a solemn pilgrimage,  
To holy Hails or Patrick's Purgatory.   

Come sit we down under this Hawthorne tree.  
The morrows light shall lend us day enough,  
And tell a tale of Gawen or Sir Guy,  
Of Robin Hood, or of good Clema Clough.   

Or else some Romant unto us aread,  
Which good old Godfrey taught thee in thy youth,  
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deed,  
Or of thy love, or of thy lass' truth.    

Winken  

Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care,  
A new mishap my wont joys hath crossed:  
Then marvel not although my music jar,  
When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,   

Elphin is dead, and in his grave is laid,  
Our lives delight whilst lovely Elphin lived,  
What cruel fate hath so the time berraid,  
The widow world of all her joys deprived.   

O cursed death, lives fearsull enemy,  
Time's poisoned sickle: Tyrants revenging pride:  
Thou bloodsucker, Thou child of infamy:  
Devouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide:  
Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.   

nought hast thou got, the earth hath won the most,  
Nature is paid the interest of her due,  
Pan hath received, what him so dearly cost,  
O heavens his virtues do belong to you.   

A heavenly clouded in a humane shape,  
Rare substance, in so rough a bark Yclad,  
Of Pastoral, the lively springing sap,  
Though mortal thou, thy fame immortal made.   

Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-divining seer,  
o heavenly music of the highest sphere,  
Sweet sounding trump, soul-ravishing desire,  
Thou stealer of man's heart, enchanter of the ear.   

God of Invention, Ioues dear Mercury,  
joy of our Laurel, pride of all our joy:  
The essence of all Poet's divinity,  
Spirit of Orpheus: Pallas lovely boy.   

But all my words shallbe dissolved to tears,  
And my tears fountains shall to rivers grow:  
These Rivers to the floods of my despairs,  
And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.   

His rare deserts, shall kindle my desire,  
With burning zeal, the brands of mine unrest,  
My sighs in adding sulphur to this fire,  
Shall frame another AEtna in my breast.   

Planets reserve your plaints till dismal day,  
The ruthless rocks but newly have begun,  
And when in drops they be dissolved away,  
Let heavens begin to weep when earth hath done.   

Then tune thy pipe and I will sing alaye,  
Upon his death by Rowland of the rock,  
Sitting with me this other stormy day,  
In you fair field attending on our flock.    

Gorbo.  

This shall content me Wynken wondrous well,  
And in this misty wether keep us waking,  
To hear ofhim, who whilom did excel,  
In such a song of learned Roland's making.   

Melpomene put on thy mourning Gaberdine,  
And set thy song unto the doleful Base,  
And with thy sable veil shadow thy face,  
with weeping verse,  
attend his hearse,  
Whose blessed soul the heavens do now enshrine.   

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell,  
Warble forth your waymenting harmony,  
And at his dreary fat all obsequy,  
with Cypress bows,  
mask your fair Brows,  
And beat your breasts to chime his burying peal.   

Thy birthday was to all our joy, the even,  
And on thy death this doleful song we sing,  
Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring,  
unto our endless moan,  
from us why art thou gone,  
To fill up that sweet Angel's quire in heaven.   

O whilom thou thy lass' dearest love,  
When with green Laurel she hath crowned thee,  
Immortal mirror of all Poesy:  
the Muse's treasure,  
the Grace's pleasure,  
Reigning with Angels now in heaven above.   

Our mirth is now deprived of all her glory,  
Our Taburins in doleful dumps are drowned.  
Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound,  
our melody is marred  
and we of joys debarred,  
Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.   

O dismal day, bereaver of delight,  
O stormy winter source of all our sorrow,  
o most untimely and eclipsed morrow,  
to rob us quite  
of all delight,  
Darkening that star which ever shone so bright:   

Oh Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone,  
In spite of death yet shalt thou live for aye,  
Thy Poesy is garlanded with Bay:  
and still shall blaze  
thy lasting praise:  
Whose loss poor shepherds ever shall bemoan.   

Come Girls, and with Carnations deck his grave,  
With damask Roses and the hyacynt:  
Come with sweet William's, Marjoram and Mint,  
with precious Balms,  
with hymns and psalms,  
His funeral deserves no less at all to have.   

But see where Elphin sits in fair Elizia,  
Feeding his flock on yonder heavenly plain,  
Come and behold, yond lovely shepherds swain,  
piping his fill,  
on yonder hill,  
Tasting sweet Nectar, and Ambrosia.    

Gorbo.  

Oh how thy plaints (sweet friend) renew my pain,  
In listening thus to thy lamenting cries:  
That from the tempest of my troubled brain,  
See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.   

And being now a full tide of our tears,  
It is full time to stop the stream of grief,  
Lest drowning in the floods of our despairs,  
We want our lives, wanting our soul's relief.   

But now the sun beginneth to decline,  
And whilst our woes been in repeating here,  
Yond little elvish moping Lamb of mine,  
Is all betangled in yond crawling Brier.   

Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur avaris:  
Implentur number is deteriora suis.     

THE FIFTH EGLOG.  

This lusty swain bis lowly quill,  
to higher notes doth raise,  
And in Ideas person paints,  
his lovely lass' praise.   

Motto.  

COme frolic it a while my lusty swain,  
Let's see if time have yet reviv'd in thee,  
Or if there be remaining but a grain,  
Of the old stock of famous poesy,  
Or but one slip yet left of this same sacred tree.   

Or if reserved from elds devouring rage,  
Records of virtue, Ay memorial,  
Left to the world as learning's lasting gage,  
Or if the praise of worthy pastoral,  
May tempt thee now, or move thee once at all.   

To Fortune's Orphans Nature hath bequeathed,  
That mighty Monarches seldom have possessed,  
From highest Heaven, this influence is breathed,  
A most divine impression in the breast, (feast.  
And those whom Fortune pines doth Nature often   

ti's not the troops of painted Imagery,  
Nor these world's Idols, our world's Idiots gazes,  
Our forgers of supposed Gentility,  
When he his great, great grandsire's glory blazes,  
And paints out fictions in base coined Phrases.   

For honour nought regards, nor followeth fame,  
These silken pictures showed in every street:  
Of Idleness comes evil, of pride ensueth shame,  
And black oblivion is their winding sheet,  
And all their glory trodden under feet.   

Though Envy suit her seventimes poisoned darts,  
Yet purest gold is seven times tried in fire,  
True valeur lodgeth in the lowlest hearts,  
Virtue is in the mind, not in th'attire,  
Nor stars at stars; nor stoups at filthy mire.    

Rowland.  

I may not sing of such as fall, nor climb,  
Nor chant of arms, nor of heroic deeds,  
It fitteth not poor shepherds rural rhyme,  
Nor is agreeing with my oaten reeds,  
Nor from my quill, gross flattery proceeds.   

Unfitting terms, nor false dissembling smiles,  
Shall in my lines, nor in my style appear,  
World's fawning fraud, nor like deceitful guiles,  
No, no, my muse none such shall sojourn here,  
Nor any brags of hope nor signs of base despair,   

No fatal dreads nor fruitless vain desires,  
Nor caps, nor curtsies to a painted wall,  
Nor heaping rotten sticks on needles fires,  
Ambitious thoughts to climb nor fearcs to fall,  
A mind void of mistrust, and free from servile thrall.   

Fowl slander thou suspicions Bastard Child,  
Self-eating Imp from viper's poisoned womb,  
Fowl swelling to ade with loathly spots defiled,  
Vile Aspis bred within the ruined tomb,  
Eternal death for ever be thy doom.   

Still be thou shrouded in black pitchy night,  
Lulled with the horror of night-ravens song,  
Let foggy mists, cloud and eclipse thy light,  
Thy wolvish teeth chew out thy venomed tongue,  
With Snakes and adders be thy body stung.    

Motto.  

Nor these, nor these, may like thy lowly quill,  
As of too high, or of too base a strain,  
Unfitting thee, and sdeyned ofthy skill,  
Nor yet according with a shepherds vain,  
Nor no such subject may beseem a swain.   

Then tune thy reed unto Ideas praise:  
And teach the woods to wonder at her name:  
Thy lowly notes hear mayst thou learn to raise,  
And make the echoes blazen out her name,  
The lasting trump of Phebe's lasting fame.   

Thy Temples then shall with green bays be dight,  
Thy Egle-soring muse upon her wing,  
With her fair silver wings shall take her flight,  
To that high welked tower where Angels sing,  
From thence to fetch the touch of her sweet string.    

Rowland.  

Oh hie enthronized jove, in thy Olympic reign,  
Oh battel-waging Mart, oh sage-sawed Mercury,  
Oh Golden shrined Sol, Venus loves sovereign,  
Oh dreadful Saturn, flaming aye with fury,  
Moyst-humord Cynthia, Author of Lunacy,  
Conjoin help to erect our fair Ideas trophy.   

Oh Tresses of fair Phoebus stremed die,  
Oh blessed lodestar lending purest light,  
Oh Paradise of heavenly tapistry,  
Angels sweet music, o my soul's delight,  
o fairest Phebe passing every other light.   

Whose presence joys the earth's decayed state,  
Whose counsels are registered in the sphere,  
Whose sweet reflecting clearness doth amate,  
The starry lights, and makes the Sun more fair,  
Whose breathing sweet perfumeth all the air.   

Thy snowish neck, fair Nature's treasury,  
Thy swannish breast, the haven of lasting bliss,  
Thy cheeks the banks of Beauty's usury,  
Thy heart the mine, where goodness gotten is,  
Thy lips those lips which Cupid joys to kiss.   

And those fair hands within whose lovely palms,  
Fortune divineth happy Augury,  
Those straightest fingers dealing heavenly alms,  
Pointed with purest of Nature's Alchemy,  
Where love sits looking in loves palmistry.   

And those fair ivory columns which upreare,  
That Temple built by heavens Geometry,  
And holiest Flamynes sacrifizen there,  
Unto that heavenly Queen of Chastity,  
Where virtues burning lamps can never quenched be.   

Thence see the fairest light that ever shone,  
That clear which doth world's clearness quite surpass,  
Brave Phoebus chayred in his golden throne,  
Beholding him, in this pure Crystal glass,  
See here the fairest fair that ever was.   

Delicious fountain, liquid crystalline,  
Morning's vermilion, verdant spring-times pride,  
Purest of purest, most refined fine,  
With crimson tincture curiously Idyed,  
Mother of Muses, great Apollo's bride.   

Earth's heaven, world's wonder, highest house of fame,  
reviver of the dead, eye-killer of the live,  
Beloved of Angels, virtues greatest name,  
Favours rarest feature, beauty's prospective,  
Oh that my verse thy virtues could contrive.   

That stately Theatre on whose fair stage,  
Each moral virtue acts a princely part,  
Where every scene pronounced by a Sage,  
Eternizeth divinest Poet's Art,  
joys the beholders eyes, and glads the hearers heart.   

The world's memorial, that sententious book,  
Where every Comma, points a curious phrase,  
Upon whose method, Angel's joy to look:  
At every Colon, Wisdoms self doth pause,  
And every Period hath his high applause.   

Read in her eyes a Romant of delights,  
Read in her words the proverbs of the wise,  
Read in her life the holy vestal rites,  
Which love and virtue sweetly moralise:  
And she the Academic of virtues exercise.   

But on thy volumes who is there may comment,  
When as thyself hath Art's self undermined:  
Or undertake to coat thy learned margin,  
When learning's lines are ever interlined,  
And purest words, are in thy mouth refined.   

Knewest thou thy virtues, oh thou fayr'st of fairest,  
Thou earth's sole Phoenix, of the world admired,  
Virtue in thee repurifyed and rarest,  
Whose endless fame by time is not expired,  
Then of thyself would thyself be admired.   

But art wants art to frame so pure a Mirror,  
Where humane eyes may view thy virtues beauty,  
When fame is so surprised with the terror,  
wanting to pay the tribute of her duty,  
with colours who can paint out virtues beauty.   

But since unperfect are the perfects colours,  
And skill is so unskilful how to blaze thee:  
Now will I make a mirror of my dolours,  
and in my tears then look thyself and praise thee,  
oh happy I, if such a glass might please thee.   

Go gentle winds and whisper in her ear,  
and tell Idea how much I adore her,  
And thou my flock, report unto my fair,  
How she excelleth all that went before her,  
Tell her the very fowls in air adore her.   

And thou clear Brook by whose fair silver stream,  
Grow those tall Okes where I have carved her name,  
Convey her praise to Neptune's watery Realm,  
refresh the roots of her still growing fame,  
and teach the Dolphins to resound her name.    

Motto.  

Cease shepherd cease, reserve thy Muse's store,  
Till after time shall teach thy Oaten reed,  
Aloft in air with eagles wings to sore,  
and sing in honour of some worthies deed,  
to serve Idea in some better steed.   

She sees not shepherd, no she will not see,  
her rarest virtues blazoned by thy quill,  
Nor knows the effect the same hath wrought in thee,  
The very tuch and anvil of thy skill,  
and this is that which bodeth all thy ill.   

Yet if her virtues glory shall decay,  
Or if her beauty's flower shall hap to fall,  
Or any cloud eclipse her sunshine day,  
Then look (Idea) in thy pastoral,  
And thou thy virtues unto mind shalt call,    

Rowland.  

Shepheard farewell, the skies begin to lower,  
Yond pitchy cloud which hangeth in the West,  
I fear me doth presage some sudden shower,  
Come let us home, for so I think it best,  
For all our flocks been laid them down to rest.    

Motto.  

And if thou list to come unto my Coat,  
Although (God knows) my cheer be to too small,  
And wealth with me was never yet afloat,  
Yet take in gree what ever do befall,  
And we will sit, and sing a merry madrigal.    

Rowland.  

Per superos iuro testes, pampamque Deorum,  
Te Dominam nobis tempus in omne fore.    

Motto.  

Nos quoque per totum pariter cantabimur orbem,  
junctáque semper erunt nomina nostratuis.     

THE sixth EGLOG.  

Good Gorbo calls to mind the fame,  
of our old Ancestry:  
And Perkin sings Pandora's praise,  
The Muse of Britanye.   

Perkin.  

ALL hail good Gorbo, yet returned at last,  
What tell me man? how goes the world with thee?  
What is it worse than it was wont to be?  
Or been thy youthful days already past?  
Have patience man, for wealth will come and go,  
And to the end the world shall ebb and flow.   

The valiant man, whose thoughts on high been placed,  
And sees sometime how fortune list to rage,  
With wisdom still his actions so doth gage,  
As with her frowns he no whit is disgraced,  
And when she fawns, and turns her squinting eye,  
Bethinks him then, of her inconstancy.   

When as the Cullian, and the viler Clown,  
Who with the swine, on draff sets his desire,  
And thinks no life to wallowing in the mire,  
In stormy tempest, dying lays him down,  
Yet tasting weal, the ass gins to bray,  
And feeling woe, the beast consumes away.    

Gorbo.  

So said the Sage in his Philofophie,  
The Lordly heart inspired with noblesse,  
With courage doth his crosses still suppress,  
His patience doth his passions mortify,  
when other folk this pain cannot endure,  
because they want this medicine for their cure.    

Perkin.  

And yet oft times the world I do admire,  
When as the wise and virtuous men I see,  
Be hard beset with need and poverty,  
And lewdest fools to highest things aspire,  
what should I say? that fortune is to blame?  
or unto whom should I impute this shame.    

Gorbo.  

Virtue and Fortune never could agree,  
Fowl Fortune ever was fair virtues foe,  
Blind Fortune blindly doth her gifts bestow,  
But virtue wise, and wisely doth foresee,  
they tall which trust to fortunes fickle wheel,  
but stayed by virtue, men shall never reel.    

Perkin.  

If so, why should she not be more regarded,  
Why should men cherish vice and villainy,  
And maintain sin and basest roguery,  
And virtue thus so slightly be rewarded,  
this shows that we full deep dissemblers be,  
and all we do, but mere hypocrisy.    

Gorbo.  

Where been those Nobles, Perkin, where been they?  
Where been those worthies, Perkin, which of yore,  
This gentle Lady did so much adore?  
And for her Imps did with such care purvey,  
they been yswadled in their winding sheet,  
and she (I think) is buried at their feet.   

Oh worthy world, wherein those worthies lived,  
Unworthy world, of such men so unworthy,  
Unworthy age, of all the most unworthy,  
Which art of these so worthy men deprived,  
and inwardly in us is nothing less,  
Than outwardly that, which we most profess.    

Perkin.  

Nay stay good Gorbo, Virtue is not dead,  
Nor all her friends be gone which wonned here,  
She lives with one who ever held her dear,  
And to her lap for secure she is fled,  
In her sweet bosom, she hath built her nest,  
And from the world, even there she lives at rest.   

Unto this sacred Lady she was left,  
(To be an heirloom) by her ancestry,  
And so bequeathed by their legacy,  
When on their deathbed, life was them bearest:  
And as on earth together they remain,  
Together so in heaven they both shall reign.   

Oh thou Pandora, through the world renowned,  
The glorious light, and load star of our West,  
With all the virtues of the heavens possessed,  
With mighty groves of holy Laurel crowned,  
Erecting learnings long decayed fame,  
Heryed and hallowed be thy sacred name.   

The flood of Helicon, forspent and dry,  
Her source decayed with foul oblivion,  
The fountain flows again in thee alone,  
Where Muses now their thirst may satisfy,  
And old Apollo, from Parnassus' hill,  
May in this spring refresh his droughty quill.   

The Graces twisting garlands for thy head,  
Thy ivory temples decked with rarest flowers,  
Their roots refreshed with divinest showers,  
Thy brows with myrtle all inveloped,  
shepherds erecting trophies to thy praise,  
lauding thy name in songs and heavenly lays.   

Sapphos sweet vain in thy rare quill is seen,  
Minerva was a figure of thy worth,  
Mnemosine, who brought the Muses forth,  
Wonder of Britain, learning's famous Queen,  
Apollo was thy Sire, Pallas herself thy mother,  
Pandora thou, our Phoebus was thy brother.   

Delicious Lark, sweet music of the morrow,  
Clear bell of Rhetoric, ringing peals of love,  
joy of the Angels, sent us from above,  
Enchanting Siren, charmer of all sorrow,  
the lofty subject a heavenly tale,  
Thames fairest Swan, our summer's Nightingale.   

Arabian Phoenix, wonder of thy sex,  
Lovely, chaste, holy, Miracle admired,  
With spirit from the highest heaven inspired,  
Oh thou alone, whom fame alone respects,  
Nature's chief glory, learning's richest prize,  
hie Ioues Empresa, virtues Paradise.   

Oh glory of thy nation, beauty of thy name,  
joy of thy country, blesser of thy birth,  
Thou blazing Comet, Angel of the earth,  
Oh Poets Goddess, sunbeam of their fame:  
whom time through many worlds hath sought to  
thou peerless Paragon of woman kind. (find,   

Thy glorious Image, gilded with the sun,  
Thy locks adorned with an immortal crown,  
Mounted aloft, upon a Crystal throne,  
When by thy death, thy life shallbe begun:  
the blessed Angels tuning to the spheres,  
with God's sweet music, charm thy sacred ears.   

From Fairy I'll, divided from the main,  
To utmost Thuly fame transports thy name,  
To Garamant shall thence convey the same,  
Where taking wing, and mounting up again,  
from parched banks on sunburnt. Africa's shore,  
shall fly as far as erst she came of yore.   

And gentle Zephir from his pleasant bower,  
Whistling sweet music to the shepherds rhyme,  
The Ocean billows duly keeping time,  
Playing upon Neptunus' brazen tower:  
lovers of learning shouting out their cries,  
shaking the Centre with th'applaudities.   

Whilst that great engine, on her axle-tree,  
Doth role about the vaulty circled Globe,  
Whilst morning mantleth, in her purple rob,  
Or Titan post his sea Queen's bower to see,  
whilst Phoebus' crown, adorns the starry sky,  
Pandora's fame so long shall never die.   

When all our silver swans shall cease to sing,  
And when our groves shall want their Nightingales,  
When hills shall hear no more our shepherds tales,  
Nor echoes with our Roundelays shall ring,  
the little birds long listening to thy fame,  
shall teach their offspring to record thy name.   

Age's shall tell such wonders of thy name,  
And thou in death thy due desert shalt have,  
That thou shalt be immortal in thy grave,  
Thy virtues adding force unto thy fame,  
so that virtue with thy fame's wings shall fly,  
and by thy fame shall virtue never die.   

Upon thy tomb shall spring a Laurel tree,  
Whose sacred shade shall serve thee for an hearse,  
Upon whose leaves (in gold) engraved this verse,  
Dying she lives, whose like shall never be,  
a spring of Nectar flowing from this tree,  
the fountain of eternali memory.   

To adorn the trrumph of eternity,  
Drawn with the steeds which drag the golden sun,  
Thy waggon through the milken way shall run,  
Millions of Angels still attending thee,  
Millions of Saints shall thy lives praises sing,  
penned with the quill of an Archangels wing.    

Gorbo.  

Long may Pandora wear the Laurel crown,  
The ancient glory of her noble Peers,  
And as the Eagle: Lord renew her years,  
Long to uphold the prop of our renown,  
long may she be as she hath ever been,  
the lowly handmaid of the Fairy Queen.   

Non mihi mill placent: non sum desertor Amoris:  
Tu mihi (si quafides) curaperennis eris.     

THE SEVENTH EGLOG.  

Borrill an aged shepherd swain,  
with reasons doth reprove,  
bat a foolish want on boy,  
but lately fallen in love.   

bat.  

BOrill, why sittest thou musing in thy coat?  
like dreaming Merlin in his drowsy Cell,  
What may it be with learning thou dost dote,  
or art enchanted with some Magic spell?  
Or wilt thou an hermits life profess?  
And bid thy beads hear like an Ancoresse?   

See how fair Flora decks our fields with flowers,  
and clothes our groves in gaudy summers green,  
And wanton Ver distills rose-water showers,  
to welcome Ceres, harvests hallowed Queen,  
Who lays abroad her lovely sunshine hairs,  
Crowned with great garlands of her golden ears.   

Now shepherds lain their blankets all away,  
and in their lackets minsen on the plains,  
And at the rivers fishen day by day,  
now none so frolic as the shepherds swains,  
Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome cave,  
As though a man were buried quick in grave.    

Borrill.  

bat, my coat from tempest standeth free,  
when stately towers been often shaked with wind,  
And wilt thou Bat, come and sit with me?  
contented life here shalt thou only find,  
Here may'st thou carol Hymns, and sacred Psalms,  
And hery Pan, with orisons and alms.   

And scorn the crowd of such as cog for pence,  
and waste their wealth in sinful bravery,  
Whose gain is loss, whose thrift is lewd expense,  
and liven still in golden slavery:  
Wondering at toys, as foolish worldlings done,  
Like to the dog which barked at the moon.   

Here mayst thou range the goodly pleasant field,  
and search out simples to procure thy heal,  
What sundry virtues herbs and flowers do yield,  
'gainst grief which may thy sheep or thee assail:  
Here mayst thou hunt the little harmless Hare,  
Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.   

Or if thou wilt in antic Romants reed,  
of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore,  
In foreign lands achieved their noble deed,  
and been renowned from East to Western shore:  
Or learn the shepherds nice astrolobie,  
To know the Planets moving in the sky.    

bat.  

Shepheard these things been all too coy for me,  
whose lusty days should still be spent in mirth,  
These mister arts been better fitting thee, (earth:  
whose drooping days are drawing towards the  
What thinkest thou? my jolly peacocks train,  
Shall be acoyd and brook so foul a stain?   

These been for such as make them votary,  
and take them to the mantle and the ring,  
And spenden day and night in dotarie,  
hammering their heads, musing on heavenly thing,  
And whisper still of sorrow in their bed,  
And done despise all love and lusty head:   

Like to the cur, with anger well near wood,  
who makes his kennel in the Ox's stall,  
And snarleth when he seethe him take his food,  
and yet his chaps can chew no hay at all.  
Borrill, even so it fareth now with thee,  
And with these wizards of thy mystery.    

Borrill.  

Sharp is the thorn, full soon I see by thee,  
bitter the blossom, when the fruit is sower,  
And early crook d, that will a Camock be,  
rough is the wind before a sudden shower:  
Pity thy wit should be so wrong misled,  
And thus be guided by a giddy head.   

Ah foolish else, I inly pity thee,  
misgoverned by thy lewd brainsick will:  
The hidden baits, ah fond thou dost not see,  
nor findest the cause which breedeth all thy ill:  
Thou thinkest all gold, that hath a golden show,  
And art deceived, for it is nothing so.   

Such one art thou as is the little fly,  
who is so crows and gamesome with the flame,  
Till with her business and her nicety,  
her nimble wings are scorched with the same,  
Then falls she down with piteous buzzing note,  
And in the fire doth singe her mourning cote.    

bat.  

Alas good man I see thou ginst to rave,  
thy wits done err, and miss the cushion quite,  
Because thy head is grey and words been grave,  
Thou thinkest thereby to draw me from delight:  
What I am young, a goodly Bachelor,  
And must live like the lusty limmeter.   

Thy legs been crooked, thy knees done bend for age,  
and I am swift and nimble as the Roe,  
Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage,  
and in the field I wander too and fro,  
Thou must do penance for thy old misdeeds,  
And make amends, with Aves and with creeds.   

For all that thou canst say, I will not let,  
for why my fancy straineth me so sore,  
That day and night, my mind is wholly set  
on jolly. Love, and jolly Paramour:  
Only on love I set my whole delight,  
The summer's day, and all the winter's night.   

That pretty Cupid, little god of love,  
whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight,  
Who striketh men below, and Gods above,  
Roving at random with his feathered flight,  
When lovely Venus sits and gives the aim,  
And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.   

Upon my staff his statue will I carve,  
his bow and quiver on his winged back,  
His forked heads, for such as them deserve,  
and not of his, an implement shall lack,  
And Venus in her Litter all of love,  
Drawn with a Swan, a Sparrow, and a Dove.   

And under him Thesby of Babylon,  
and Clcopatra sometime of renown:  
Phillis that died for love of Demophôon,  
Then lovely Dido Queen of Carthage town,  
Which ever held god Cupid's laws so dear,  
And been canonised in Loves Calendere.    

Borrill.  

Ah wilful boy, thy folly now I find,  
and hard it is a fools talk to endure,  
Thou art as deaf even as thy god is blind,  
sick as the Saint, sick is the servitor:  
But wilt thou hear a good old Minstrels song,  
A medicine for such as been with love ystong.    

bat.  

Borrill, sing on I pray thee let us hear,  
that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard,  
But take heed Borrill that thy voice be clear,  
or by my hood thou'lt make us all afeard,  
Or else I doubt that thou wilt fright our flocks,  
When they shall hear thee bark so like a fox.    

Borrill.  

Oh spite full wayward wretched love,  
Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,  
Heavens and earth thy plagues do prove,  
Gods and men have cause to curse thee.  
Thoughts grief, heart's woe,  
Hope's pain, bodies languish,  
Enutes' rage, sleeps foe,  
Fancies fraud, soul's anguish,  
Desires dread, minds madness,  
Secrets bewrayer, nature's error,  
Sights deceit, sullens sadness,  
Speeches expense, Cupid's terror,  
Malcontents melancholy,  
lives slaughter, death's nurse,  
Cares slave, dotard's folly,  
Fortune's bait, world's curse,  
Looks theft, eyes blindness,  
selves will, tongues treason,  
Pains pleasure, wrongs kindness,  
Furies frenzy, folly's reason:  
With cursing thee as I began,  
Cursing thee I make an end,  
Neither God, neither man,  
Neither Fairy, neither Fiend.    

bat.  

Ah worthy Borrill, here's a goodly song,  
now by my belt I never heard a worse:  
Old doting fool, for shame hold thou thy tongue,  
I would thy clap were shut up in my purse.  
It is thy life, if thou mayst scold and brawl:  
Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.   

And for that wrong which thou to love hast done,  
I will avenge me at this present time,  
And in such fort as now thou hast begun,  
I will repeat a carowlet in rhyme,  
Where, Borrill, I unto thy teeth will prove,  
That all my good consisteth in my love.    

Borrill.  

Come on good Bat, I pray thee let us hear?  
Much will be said, and never a whit the near.    

bat.  

Love is the heavens fair aspect, love is the glory of the earth,  
Love only doth our lives direct, love is our guider from our birth,   

Love taught my thoughts at first to fly, love taught mme eyes the way to love,  
Love raised my conceit so high, love framed my hand his art to prove.   

love taught my Muse her perfect skill, love gave me first to Poesy's  
Love is the Sovereign of my will, love bound me first to loyalty.   

Love was the first that framed my speech, love was the first that gave me grace:  
Love is my life and fortune's leech, love made the virtuous give me place.   

Love is the end of my desire, love is the lodestar of my love,  
Love makes myself, myself admire, love seated my delights above.   

love placed honour in my breast, love made me learning's favoret,  
Love made me liked of the best, love first my mind on virtue set.   

Love is my life, life is my love, love is my whole felicity,  
Love is my sweet, sweet is my love, I am in love, and love in me.    

Borrill.  

Is love in thee? alas poor silly lad, thou never couldst have lodged a worse guest,  
For where he rules no reason can be had, so is he still sworn enemy to rest:  
It pities me to think thy springing years,  
Should still be spent with woes, with sighs, with tears.    

bat.  

Gramercy Borrill for thy company, for all thy jests and all thy merry Bourds,  
I still shall long until I be with thee, because I find some wisdom in thy words,  
But I will watch the next time thou dost ward, (heard.  
And sing thee such a lay of love as never shepherd     

THE EIGHTH EGLOG.  

Good Gorbo of the golden world,  
and Satur's reign doth tell,  
And afterward doth make report,  
of bonny Dowsabell.   

Motto.  

Shepherd why creep we in this lowly vain,  
as though our muse no store at all affords,  
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolic swain,  
and strut the stage with reperfumed words.   

See how these younkers rave it out in rhyme,  
who make a traffic of their rarest wits,  
And in Bellona's buskin tread it fine,  
like Bacchus' priests raging in frantic fits.   

Those myrtle Groves decayed, done grow again,  
their roots refreshed with Heliconas' spring,  
Whose pleasant shade invites the homely swain,  
to sit him down and hear the Muses sing.   

Then if thy Muse hath spent her wont zeal,  
with ivy twist thy temples shall be crowned,  
Or if she dares hoist up top-gallant sail,  
Amongst the rest, then may she be renowned.    

Gorbe.  

My boy, these younkers reachen after fame,  
and so done press into the learned troop,  
With filled quill to glorify their name,  
which otherwise were penned in shameful coupe.   

But this high object hath abjected me,  
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sort,  
Those little heard-groomes who admired to see,  
when I by Moonshine made the fairies sport.   

Who dares describe the toils of Hercules,  
and puts his hand to fames eternal pen,  
Must invocate the soul of Hercules,  
attended with the troops of conquered men.   

Who writes of thrice renowned Theseus,  
a monster-tamers rare description,  
Trophies the jaws of ugly Cerberus,  
and paints out Styx, and fiery Acheron.   

My Muse may not affect night-charming spells,  
whose force effects th' Olympic vault to quake,  
Nor call those grisly Goblins from their Cells,  
the ever-damned fry of Limbo lake.   

And who erects the brave Pyramids,  
of monarchs or renowned warriors,  
Need bathe his quill for such attempts as these,  
in flowing streams of learned Maros showers.   

For when the great world's conqueror began,  
to prove his helmet and his habergeon,  
The sweat that from the Poets-God Orpheus ran,  
foretold his Prophets had to play upon.   

When Pens and Lances saw the Olympiad prize,  
those chariot triumphs with the Laurel crown,  
Then 'gan the worthies glory first to rise,  
and plumes were veiled to the purple gown.   

The gravest Censor, sagest Senator,  
with wings of justice and Religion,  
Mounted the top of Nimrods' stately Tower,  
soaring unto that high celestial throne:   

Where blessed Angels in their heavenly queares,  
chant Anthems with shrill siren harmony,  
Tuned to the sound of those aye-crouding spheres,  
Which herien their maker's eternity.   

Those who foretell the times of unborn men,  
and future things in foretime augured,  
Have slumbered in that spell-gods darkest den,  
which first inspired his prophesiing head.   

soothsaying Sibels sleepen long agone,  
we have their reed, but few have cond their Art,  
Welch-wisard Merlin, cleaveth to a stone,  
no Oracle more wonders may impart.   

The Infant age could deftly carol love,  
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honour,  
Drew Poets pen, from his sweet lass' glove,  
to chant of slaughtering broils & bloody horror.   

Then Ioues love-theft was privily descried,  
how he played false play in amphitrio's bed,  
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide,  
gave Oenone physic for her maidenhead.   

The tender grass was then the softest bed,  
the pleasantest shades were deemed the stateliest hals,  
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,  
nor painted rags then covered rotten walls.   

Then simple love with simple virtue weighed,  
flowers the favours which true faith revayled,  
Kindness with kindness was again repaid,  
with sweetest kisses covenants were sealed.   

Then beauties self with herself beautified,  
scorned paintings pergit, and the borrowed hair,  
Nor monstrous forms deformities did hide,  
nor foul was varnished with compounded fair.   

The purest fleece than covered purest skin,  
for pride as then with Lucifer remained:  
Deformed fashions now were to begin,  
nor clothes were yet with poisoned liquor stained.   

But when the bowels of the earth were sought,  
and men her golden entrails did espy,  
This mischief then into the world was brought,  
this framed the mint which coined our misery.   

Then lofty Pines were by ambition hewn,  
and men sea-monsters swam the brackish flood,  
In wainscot tubs, to seek out world's unknown,  
for certain ill to leave assured good.   

The starteling steed is managed from the field,  
and serves a subject to the rider's laws,  
He whom the churlish bit did never wield,  
now feels the curb control his angry jaws.   

The hammering Uulcane spent his wasting fire,  
till he the use of tempered metals found,  
His anvil wrought the steeled coats attire,  
and forged tools to carve the foeman's wound.   

The City builder then entrenched his towers,  
and walled his wealth within the fenced town,  
Which afterward in bloody stormy stours,  
kindled that flame which burned his Bulwarks down.   

And thus began th' Exordium of our woes,  
the fatal dumb show of our misery:  
Here sprang the tree on which our mischief grows,  
the dreary subject of world's tragedy.    

Motto.  

Well, shepherd well, the golden age is gone,  
wishes may not revoke that which is past:  
It were no wit to make two griefs of one,  
our proverb saith, Nothing can always last.   

Listen to me my lovely shepherds joy,  
and thou shalt hear with mirth and much glee,  
A pretty Tale, which when I was a boy,  
my toothless Grandam oft hath told to me.    

Corbo.  

Shepheard say on, so may we pass the time,  
There is no doubt it is some worthy rhyme.    

Motto.  

far in the country of Arden,  
There word a knight hight Cassemen,  
as bold as Isenbras:  
Fell was he and eager bent,  
In battle and in Tournament,  
as was the good sir Topas.  
He had as antic stories tell,  
A daughter cleped Dowsabell,  
a may den fair and free:  
And for she was her father's heir,  
Full well she was ycond the leyre,  
of much courtesy.  
The silk well couth she twist and twine,  
And make the fine Marchpine,  
and with the needle work,  
And she couth help the priest to say  
His Matins on a holiday,  
and sing a Psalm in Kirke.  
She ware a frock of frolic green,  
Might well be seem a maiden Queen,  
which seemly was to see.  
A hood to that so neat and fine,  
In colour like the colombine,  
ywrought full featuously.  
Her feature all as fresh above,  
As is the grass that grows by Dove,  
as lieth as lass of Kent:  
Her skin as soft as Lemster wool,  
As white as snow on peakish hull,  
or Swan that swims in Trent.  
This maiden in a morn betime,  
Went forth when May was in her prime,  
to get sweet Cerywall,  
The honeysuckle, the Harlocke,  
The Lily and the Lady-smocke,  
to deck her summer hall.  
Thus as she wandered here and there,  
Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,  
she chanced to espy  
A shepherd sitting on a bank,  
Like Chanteclere he crowed crank,  
and piped with merry glee:  
He leard his sheep as he him list,  
When he would whistle in his fist,  
to feed about him round:  
Whilst he full many a carol sung,  
Until the fields and meadows rung,  
and that the woods did sound:  
In favour this same shepherds swain,  
was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,  
which held proud Kings in awe:  
But meek he was as Lamb mought be,  
Ylike that gentle Abel he,  
whom his lewd brother slaw.  
This shepherd ware a sheep grey cloak,  
which was of the finest look,  
that could be cut with shear,  
His mittens were of Bauzens skin,  
His cockers were of Cordiwin,  
his hood of Meniveere.  
His all and lingell in a thong,  
His tarbox on his broad belt hung,  
his breech of Coyntrie blew:  
Full crisp and curled were his locks,  
His brows as white as Albion rocks,  
so like a lover true.  
And piping still he spent the day,  
So merry as the Popingay:  
which liked Dowsabell,  
That would she ought or would she nought,  
This lad would never from her thought:  
she in love-longing fell,  
At length she tucked up her frock,  
White as the Lily was her smock,  
she drew the shepherd nigh,  
But then the shepherd piped a good,  
That all his sheep for sook their food,  
to hear his melody.  
Thy sheep quoth she cannot be lean,  
That have a jolly shepherds swain,  
the which can pipe so well.  
Yea but (saith he) their shepherd may,  
If piping thus he pine away,  
in love of Dowsabell.  
Of love fond boy take thou no keep,  
Quoth she, look well unto thy sheep,  
lest they should hap to stray.  
Quoth he, so had I done full well,  
Had I not seen fair Dowsabell,  
come forth to gather may.  
With that she 'gan to vail her head,  
Her cheeks were like the Roses red,  
but not a word she said.  
With that the shepherd 'gan to frown,  
He threw his pretty pipes adown,  
and on the ground him laid.  
Saith she, I may not stay till night,  
And leave my summer hall undight,  
and all for long of thee.  
My Coat saith he, nor yet my fold,  
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,  
except thou favour me.  
Saith she yet liefer I were dead,  
Then I should lose my maidenhead,  
and all for love of men:  
Saith he yet are you too unkind,  
If in your heart you cannot find,  
to love us now and then:  
And I to thee will be as kind,  
As Colin was to Rosalinde,  
of courtesy the flower:  
Then will I be as true quoth she,  
As ever maiden yet might be,  
unto her Paramour:  
With that she bent her snow-white knee,  
Down by the shepherd kneeled she,  
and him she sweetly kissed.  
With that the shepherd whooped for joy,  
Quoth he, there's never shepherds boy,  
that ever was so blessed.    

Gorbo.  

Now by my sheephook here's a tale alone,  
Learn me the same and I will give thee hire,  
This were as good as curds for our jone,  
When at a night we sitten by the fire.    

Motto.  

Why gentle hodge I will not stick for that,  
when we two meeten here another day,  
But see whilst we have set us down to chat,  
yond tikes of mine begin to steal away.   

And if thou wilt but come unto our green,  
on Lammas day when as we have our feast,  
Thou shalt sit next unto our summer Queen,  
and thou shalt be the only welcome guest.     

THE NINTH EGLOG.  

When coal-black night with sable vail  
eclipsed the gladsome light,  
Rowland in darksome shade alone,  
bemoanes his woeful plight.   

WHat time the weather-beaten flocks,  
forsook the fields to shroud them in the fold,  
The groves despoiled of their fair summer locks,  
the leafless branches nipped with frosty cold,  
The drooping trees their gayness all agone,  
In mossy mantles do express their moan.   

When Phoebus from his Lemen lovely bower,  
throughout the sphere had jerked his angry jades,  
His Car now passed the heavens hie welked Tower,  
'gan drag adown the occidental slades,  
In silent shade of desert all alone,  
Thus to the night, Rowland bewrays his moan.   

Oh blessed stars which lend the darkness light,  
the glorious painting of that circled throne,  
You eyes of heaven, you lanterns of the night,  
to you bright stars, to you I make my moan,  
Or end my days, or ease me of my grief,  
The earth is frail, and yields me no relief.   

And thou fair Phebe, clearer to my sight,  
than Titan is when brightest he hath shone,  
Why shouldst thou now shut up thy blessed light,  
and sdayne to look on thy Endymion?  
Perhaps the heavens me thus despite have done,  
Because I durst compare thee with their sun.   

If dreary sighs the tempests of my breast,  
or streams of tears from floods of weeping eyes,  
If downcast looks with darksome clouds oppressed,  
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,  
If these, nor her, nor you, to pity move,  
There's neither help in you, nor hope in love.   

Oh fayr'st that lives, yet most unkindest maid,  
o whilom thou the joy of all my flock,  
Why have thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayed,  
Unto thy heart more hard than flinty rock,  
And lastly thus deprived me of their sight,  
From whom my love derives both life and light.   

Those dapper ditties penned unto her praise,  
and those sweet strains of tuneful pastoral,  
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish lays,  
and recketh as the rustic madrigal,  
Her lips profane Ideas sacred name,  
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.   

Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,  
wherewith I crowned her tresses in the prime,  
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,  
made to disport her in the summer time:  
She hates the sports and pastimes I invent,  
And as the toad, flies all my merriment.   

With holy verses heryed I her glove,  
and dewed her cheeks with fountains of my tears,  
And carold her full many a lay of love,  
twisting sweet Roses in her golden hairs.  
Her wandering sheep full safely have I kept,  
And watched her flock full oft when she hath slept.   

Oenone never upon Ids' hill,  
so oft hath called on Alexander's name,  
As hath poor Rowland with an Angel's quill,  
erected trophies of Ideas fame:  
Yet that false shepherd Oenone fled from thee,  
I follow her that ever flies from me.   

there's not a grove that wonders not my woe,  
there's not a river weeps not at my tale:  
I hear the echoes (wandering too and fro)  
resound my grief in every hill and dale,  
The beasts in field, with many a woful groan,  
The birds in air help to express my moan.   

Where been those lines? the heralds of my heart,  
my plaints, my tears, my vows, my sighs, my prayers?  
o what availeth faith, or what my Arts?  
o love, o hope, quite turned into despairs:  
She stops her ears as Adder to the charms,  
And lets me lie and languish in my harms.   

All is agone, such is my endless grief,  
And my mishaps amended nought with moan,  
I see the heavens will yield me no relief:  
what helpeth care, when cure is past and gone,  
And tears I see, do me avail no good,  
But as great showers increase the rising flood.   

With folded arms, thus hanging down his head,  
he gave a groan as though his heart had broke,  
Then looking pale and wan as he were dead,  
he fetched a sigh, but never a word he spoke:  
For now his heart waxed cold as any stone,  
Was never man alive so woe begun.   

With that fair Cynthia stoups her glittering veil,  
and dives adown into the Ocean flood,  
The eastern brow which erst was wan and pale,  
now in the dawning blusheth red as blood:  
The whistling Lark ymounted on her wings,  
To the grey morrow, her good morrow sings.   

When this poor shepherd Rowland of the Rock,  
whose fainting legs his body scarce upheld,  
Each shepherd now returning to his flock,  
alone poor Rowland fled the pleasant field,  
And in his Coat got to a vechie bed:  
Was never man alive so hard bestead.     

Imprinted at London for Thomas woodcock, dwelling in Paul's Churchyard, at the sign of the black Bear. 1593.