What art thou but th' extremest madness,
Nature's first and only errour,
That consum'st our days in sadness,
By the mind's continual terrour:
Walking in Cimmerian blindness,
In thy courses void of reason,
Sharp reproof thy only kindness,
In thy trust the highest treason?
Both the nymph and ruder swain
Vexing with continual anguish,
Which dost make the old complain,
And the young to pine and languish ;
Who thee keeps his care dpth nurse,
That seducest all to folly,
Blessing, bitterly dost curse,
Tending to destruction wholly,
Thus of thee as I began,
So again, I make an end;
Neither god, neither man,
Neither fairy, neither fiend,"

BATTE.

Now surely, shepherd, here's a goodly song,
Upon my word, I never heard a worse,
Away, old fool, and learn to rule thy tongue,
I would thy clap were shut up in my purse,

It is thy life, if thou may'st scold and brawl,
Though in thy words there be no wit at all.

And for the wrong that thou to love hast done,
I will revenge it, and defer no time,
And in this manner as thou hast begun,
I will recite thee a substantial rhyme;

That to thy teeth sufficiently shall prove,
There is no power to be compar'd to love.

BORRIL.

Come on, good boy, I pray thee let us hear, Much will be said, and ne'er a wit the near.

BATTE.

WHAT is love, but the desire
Of that thing the fancy pleaseth?
A holy and resistless fire,

Weak and strong, alike that ceaseth,
Which not Heaven hath power tą let,
Nor wise Nature cannot smother.
Whereby Phoebus doth beget
On the universal mother,
That the everlasting chain,
Which together all things ty'd,
And unmov'd doth them retain,
And by which they shall abide:
That consent we clearly find,
Which doth things together draw,
And so strong in every kind,
Subjects them to Nature's law,
Whose high virtue number teaches,
In which every thing doth move,
From the lowest depth that reaches,
To the height of Heaven above:
Harmony that wisely found,
When the cunning hand doth strike,
Whereas every amorous sound
Sweetly marries with the like.'
The tender cattle scarcely take
From their dams the fields to prove,
But each seeketh out a mate;
Nothing lives that doth not love:

Ir joys me, Gorbo, yet we meet at last,
'Tis many a month since I the shepherd saw,
Methinks thou look'st as thou wert much aghast
What is't so much that should thy courage awe ?
What, man! have patience, wealth will come and
And to the end the world shall ebb and flow. [go,
The valiant man, whose thoughts be firmly plac'd,
And sees sometime how Fortune lists to rage:
That by her frowns he would not be disgrac'd,
By wisdom his straight actions so doth gage,
That when she fawns, and turns her squinting
He laughs to scorn her loose inconstancy. [eye,
When as the cullian, and the viler clown,
That like the swine on draff sets his desire,
Feeling the tempest, sadly lays him down,
Whilst that blind strumpet treads him in the mire:
Yet tasting weal, the beast will quickly bray,
But feeling woe, as soon consumes away,

CORBO.

Perkin, I thy philosophy approve,
And know who well hath learn'd her sacred ways,
The storms of Fortune not so eas❜ly move,
With her high precepts arm'd at all assays,
When other folk her force may not endure,
Because they want that med'cine for their cure.

Yet altogether blam'd let me not pass,
Though often I, and worthily admire
Wise men disgraced, and the barbarous ass
Unto high place and dignity aspire:

What should I say, that Fortune is to blame?
Or unto what should I impute the shame?"

PERKIN.

Why, she is queen here of this world below, That at her pleasure all things doth dispose, And blind, her gifts as blindly doth bestow Yet where she raises, still she overthrows

Therefore her emblem is a turning wheel, [reel. From whose high top the high'st soon'st downard Gave she her gifts to virtuous men and wise, She would confirm this wordly state so sure, That very babes her godhead would despise, Nor longer here her goverument endure:

Best she may give from whom she eyer takes,
Fools she may mar, for fools she ever makes.
For her own sake we wisdom must esteem,
And not how other basely her regard :
For howsoe'er disgraced she doth seem,
Yet she her own is able to reward,

And none are so essentially high,
As those that on her bounty do rely.

GORBO.

O but, good shepherd, tell me where been they,
That as a god did Virtue so adore?
And for her imps did with such care purvey?
Ah, but in vain, their want we do deplore,

Long time since swaddled in their winding sheet:
And she, I think, is buried at their feet.

PERKIN.

Nay, stay, good Gorbo, Virtue is not dead,
Nor been her friends gone all that wonned here,
But to a nymph for succour she is fled,
Which her doth cherish, and most holdeth dear,
In her sweet bosom she hath built her nest,
And from the world, there doth she live at rest.

This is that nymph, on that great western waste
Her flocks far whiter than the driven snow,

Fair shepherdess, clear Willy's' banks that grac'd,

Yet she them both for pureness doth out-go:

To whom all shepherds dedicate their lays,
And on her altars offer up their bays.
Sister sometime she to that shepherd was,
That yet for piping never had his peer,
Elphin, that did all other swains surpass,
To whom she was of living things most dear,
And on his death-bed by his latest will,
To her bequeath'd the secrets of his skill.

GORBO.

May we yet hope then in their weaker kind,
That there be some, poor shepherds that respect:
The world else universally inclin'd
To such an inconsiderate neglect,

And the rude times their ord'rous matter fling
Into the sacred and once hallow'd spring.
Women be weak, and subject most to change,
Nor long to any can they stedfast be,
And as their eyes, their minds do ever range,
With every object varying that they see:

Think'st thou in them that possibly can live,
Which Nature most de nieth them to give?

No other is the stedfastness of those
On whom even Nature wills us to rely,
Frail is it that the elements compose,
Such is the state of all mortality,

That as the humour in the blood doth move,
Lastly do hate, what lately they did love.

1 A river running by Wilton, near to the plain of Salisbury.

So did great Olcon, which a Phœbus seem'd,
Whom all good shepherds gladly flock'd about,
And, as a god, of Rowland was esteem'd,
Which to his praise drew all the rural rout:
For, after Rowland, as it had been Pan,
Only to Olcon every shepherd ran.

But he forsakes the herd-groom and his flocks,
Nor of his bag-pipes takes at all no keep,
But to the stern wolf and deceitful fox
Leaves the poor shepherd and his harmless sheep,
And all those rhymes that he of Olcon sung,
The swain disgrac'd, participate his wrong.

PERKIN.

Then since the world's distemp'rature is such,
And man made blind by her deceitful show,
Small virtue in their weaker sex is much,
And to it in them much the Muses owe,
And praising some may happily inflame,
Others in time with liking of the same.
As those two sisters most discreetly wise,
That virtue's hests religious obey,
Whose praise my skill is wanting to comprise,
Th' eld'st of which is that good Panape,

In shady Arden her dear flock that keeps,
Where mournful Ankor for her sickness weeps,
The younger then, her sister not less good,
Bred where the other lastly doth abide,
Modest Idea, flower of womanhood,
That Rowland hath so highly deify'd:

Whom Phoebus' daughters worthily pre er, And give their gifts abundantly to her. Driving her flocks up to the fruitful Mene 3, Which daily looks upon the lovely Stowre, Near to that vale, which of all vales is queen, Lastly, forsaking of her former bow'r :

And of all places holdeth Cotswold dear,
Which now is proud, because she lives it pear,

Then is dear Sylvia one the best alive,
That once in Moreland' by the silver Trent,
Her harmless flocks as harmlessly did drive,
But now allured to the fields of Kent :

The faithfull'st nymph wherever that she won,
That at this day doth live under the Sun.
There now content her calm repose to take,
Near Ravensburn in cottage low she lies,
The perfect clearness of whose lovely eyes
Hath oft enforc'd the shepherds to forsake

Their flocks, and folds, and on her set their keep, Yet her chaste thoughts still settled on her sheep. Then that dear nymph that in the Muses joys, That in wild Charnwood with her flocks doth go, Mirtilla, sister to those hopeful boys, My loved Thyrsis, and sweet Palmer:

That oft to Soar the southern shepherds bring, Of whose clear waters they divinely sing.

2 A river in the confines of Warwick and Leicestershire, in some parts dividing the shires. 3 A mountain near Cotswold.

4 The vale of Eusham.

A part of Staffordshire, famous for breeding cattle.

⚫ A river falling at Dartford into the Thames. A forest in Leicestershire.

! A river under the same forest.

So good she is, so good likewise they be,
As none to her might brother be but they,
Nor none a sister unto them, but she,
To them for wit few like, I dare will say:
In them as Nature truly meant to show,
How near the first, she in the last could go.

GORBO.

Shepherd, their praise thou dost so clearly sing, That even when groves their nightingales shall Nor valleys heard with rural notes to ring: [want, And every where when shepherds shall be scant: Their names shall live from meniory unraz'd, Of many a nymph and gentle shepherd prais'd.

THE NINTH ECLOGUE.

?

LATE 'twas in June, the fleece when fully grown,
In the full compass of the passed year,
The season well by skilful shepherds known,
That them provide immediately to sheer.
Their lambs late wax'd so lusty and so strong,
That time did them their mothers' teats forbid,
And in the fields the common flocks among,
Eat of the same grass that the greater did,
When not a shepherd any thing that could,
But greas'd his start-ups black as autumn's sloe,
And for the better credit of the wold,
In their fresh russets every one doth go.
Who now a posy pins not in his cap?
And not a garland baldric-wise doth wear
Some, of such flowers as to his hand doth hap;
Others, such as a secret meaning bear:
He from his lass him lavender hath sent,
Showing her love, and doth requital crave;
Him rosemary his sweet heart, whose intent
Is that he her should in remembrance have,
Roses, his youth and strong desire express;
Her sage, doth show his sov'reignty in all;
The July-flower declares his gentleness;
Thyme, truth; the pansy, heart's-ease maidens
In cotes such simples, simply in request,
Wherewith proud courts in greatness scorn to mell,
For country toys become the country best,
And please poor shepherds, and become them well.
When the new-wash'd flock from the river's side,
Coming as white as January's snow,

[call:

The ram with nosegays bears his horns in pride,
And no less brave the bell-wether doth go.
After their fair flocks in a lusty rout,
Came the gay swains with bag-pipes strongly blown,
And busied, though this solemn sport about,
Yet had each one an eye unto his own.
And by the ancient statutes of the field,
He that his flocks the earliest lamb should bring,
(As it fell out then, Rowland's charge to yield)
Always for that year was the shepherds' king.

And to the same down solemnly they sit,
In the fresh shadow of their summer bowers,
With sundry sweets them every way to fit,
The neighb'ring vale despoiled of her flowers,
And whilst together merry thus they make,
The Sun to west a little 'gan to lean,
Which the late fervour soon again did slake,
When as the nymphs came forth upon the plain.

Here might you many a shepherdess have seen,
Of which no place, as Cotswold, such doth yield,
Some of it native, some for love I ween,
Thither were come from many a fertile field.
There was the widow's daughter of the glen,
Dear Rosalynd, that scarcely brook'd compare,
The moor and maiden, so admir'd of men,
Bright Goldy-Locks, and Phillida the fair.
Lettice and Parnell, pretty lovely peats,
Cusse of the fold, the virgin of the well,
Fair Ambry with the alabaster teats,
And more, whose names were here too long to tell,
Which now came forward following their sheep,
Their batt'ning flocks on grassy leas to hold,
Thereby from skathe and peril them to keep,
Till evening come, that it were time to fold.
When now, at last, as lik'd the shepherds' king,
(At whose command they all obedient were)
Was pointed, who the roundelny should sing,
And who again the under-song should bear.
The first whereof he Batte doth bequeath,
A wittier wag on all the wold's not found;
Gorbo, the man, that him should sing beneath,
Which his loud bag-pipe skilfully could sound.
Who, amongst all the nymphs that were in sight,
Batte his daintie Daffadil there miss'd,
Which, to inquire of, doing all his might,
Him his companion kindly doth assist.

BATTE.

GORO, as thon cam'st this way,
By yonder little hill,

Or, as thou, through the fields didst stray,
Saw'st thou my Daffadil?

She's in a frock of Lincoln green,
Which colour likes her sight,
And never hath her beauty seen,
But through a veil of white.

Than roses richer to behold,
That trim up lovers' bowers,
The pansy and the marigold,
Tho' Phoebus' paramours.

GORBO. Thou well describ'st the daffadil,

It is not full an hour,

Since by the spring, near yonder hill,

I saw that lovely flower.

BATTE. Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet,

Nor news of her didst bring,

And yet my Daffadil's more sweet

Than that by yonder spring.

GORBO. I saw a shepherd that doth keep

In yonder field of lillies,

Was making (as he fed his sheep)
A wreath of daffadillies.