Abbildungen der Seite






WIL Sicker, make like account of his brother; Pee. Or thrive in wealth, she shal be mine,

But who shall iudge the wager wonne orlost? Wil. But if thou can her obtaine.
Per. That shall yonder heardgrome and none other, Per. And if for gracelesse griefe I dye,

Which over the pousse hetherward doth post. Wit. Hey, ho, gracelesse griefe !
WIL. But, for the sunnbeame so sore doth us beate, Per. Witnesse she slue me with her eye,
Were not better to shunne the scortching Wila Let thy folly be the priefe.

[swayne ; Per. And you, that sawe it, simple sheepe, Pes. Well agreed, Willie; then set thee downe, Wil. Hey, ho, the fayre flocke!

Sike a song never heardest thou but Colin Per. For priefe thereof, my death shall weepe, sing.

[twayne; Wil. And mone with many a mocke. Cud. Gynne, when ye list, ye jolly shepheardes Pen. So learnd I love on a holy eve,

Sike a judge, as Cuddie, were for a king. WIL Hey, ho, holy-day!
Per. “ It fell upon a holy eve,

Per. That ever since my beart did greve,
Hey, ho, holiday !

WIL. Now endeth our roundelay.”
Per. When holy Fathers wont to sbrieve;

Cud. Sicker, sike a roundle never heard I none; Wil Now giuneth this roundelay.

Little lacketh Perigot of the best,
PER. Sitting upon a hill so hie,

And Willie is not greatly overgone,
Hey, ho, the high bill!

So weren his under-songes well addrest. Per. The while my flocke did feede thereby ; Wil. Heardgrome, I fear me thou have a squint eye; WIL The while the shepheard selfe did spill;

Areede uprightly, who has the victorie. Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,

Cud. Fayth of my soule, I deeme eche have gained; Hey, bo, Bonnibell!

Forthy let the lambe be Willie his owne; Per. Tripping over the dale alone;

And for Perigot, so well hath him payned, WIL Sbe can trip it very well.

To him be the wroughten mazer alone. Pes. Well decked in a frocke of gray,

Per. Perigot is well pleased with the doome,
Hey, ho, gray is greet!

Necan Willie wite the witelesse heardgroome. Per. And in a kirtle of greene saye,

Wil. Never dempt more right of beautie, I weene, WIL. The greene is for maydens meet.

The shepheard of Ida that judged beauties PER A chapelet on her head she wore,

queene. WIL Hey, ho, chapelet !

Cup. But tell me, shepheards, should it not yshend PER. Of sweete violets therein was store,

Your roundels fresh, to heare a dolefull verse She sweeter then the violet.

Of Rosalind (who knowes not Rosalind ?) Pa. My sheepe did leave their wonted food,

That Colin made? ylke can I you rehearse. WIL Hey, ho, seely sheepe!

Per. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a ladde ; Pes. And gazd on her as they were wood,

With mery thing is good to medle sadde. Wood as he that did them keepe.

W11. Fayth of my soule, thou shalt yerouned be Per. As the bonilasse passed bye,

In Colins steede, if thou this song areede; Hey, ho, bonilasse!

For never thing on Earth so pleaseth me Pre. She rovde at mee with glanncing eye,

As him to beare, or matter of his deede. As cleare as the cristall glasse:

Cup. Then listen ech unto my heavie lay, PER. All as the sunny beame so bright,

And tune your pypes as ruthfullas yee may. WIL.

Hey, bo, the sunne-beame! Per. Glaunceth from Phæbus face forthright, “ Ye wastefall woodes! bear witnesse of my woe,

So love into thy heart did streame : Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resounde; Per. Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes, Ye carelesse byrds are privy to my cryes, Hey, ho, the thonder!

Which in your songs were woont to make a part: Per. Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes, Thou, pleasaunt spring, hast luld mee oft asleepe, WIL So cleaves thy soule asonder:

Whose streames my trickling teares did oft augPer. Or as dame Cynthias silver ray,

ment! Hey, ho, the moonelight!

“ Resort of people doth my griefes augment, Per. Upon the glittering wave doth play,

The walled towns doe work my greater woe;
Sach play is a pitteous plight.

The forest wide is fitter to resound
Pez. The glaunce into my heart did glide,
Hey, ho, the glyder !

The hollow eccho of my carefull cries:
Per. Therewith my soule was sharply gryde,

I hate the house, since thence my love did part,

Whose wailefull want debars mine eyes of sleepe. Wil Such woundes soon wexen wider. Pen. Hasting to raunch the arrowe out,

“ Let stremes of tcares supply the place of sleepe; WIL Hey, bo, Perigot!

Let all, that sweete is, voyd ; and all, that may Pez. I left the head in my heart-root,


[woe WIL It was a desperate shot.

My dole, draw neere ! More meete to waile my Pez. There it ranckleth aye more and more, Bine the wilde woods, my sorows to resound, Hey, bo, the arrow!

Then bed, nor bowre, both which I fill with cries, Pez. Ne can I find salve for my sore,

When I them see so waste, and finde no part
WIL Love is a careless sorrow.
Pan. And though my bale with death I bought, “ Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
Hey, ho, heavie cheere!

In gastfull grove therefore, till my last sleep Pe. Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought, Doo close mine eyes; so shall I not augment So you may buye golde too deere.

With sight of such as chaunge my restlesse woe. Per. But whether in paynefull love I pyne, Help me, vee banefull byrds! whosesbrieking sound Wil Hey, ho, pinching payne!

Is signe of dreery death, my deally cries VOL. IIL.











[ocr errors]



“ Most ruthfully to tune: and as my cryes Sike question rippeth up cause of new woe, (Which of my woe cannot bewray least part) For one, opened, mote unfold many moe. You heare all night, when Nature craveth sleer, Hob, Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in heart, Increase, so let your yrksome yelles augment. I know, to keepe is a burdenous smart: Thus all the nightes in plaintes, the daye in woe, Ech thing imparted is more cath to beare: I vowed have to waste, till safe and sound

When the rayne is fallen, the clouds waxen cleare.

And now, sithence I saw thy head last, “ She home returne, whose voyces silver sound Thrise three moones bene fully spent and past; To cheerefull songes can chaunge my cheerelesse Since when thou hast measured much ground, cries.

And wandred weele about the world round, Hence with the nightingale will I take part, So as thou can many thinges relate; That blessed byrd, that spendes her time of sleepe But tell me first of thy flockes estate. In songes and plaintive pleas, the more t'augment Dig. My sheepe bene wasted; (wae is me thereThe memorie of his misdeede that bred her woe.


The jolly shepheard that was of yore, * And you that feel no woe, when as the sound Is now nor iolly, nor shepheard more. Of these my nightlie cries ye heare apart,

In forreine coastes men sayd was plentie; Let breake your sounder sleepe, and pitie augment.” And so there is, but all of miserie:

I dempt there much to have eeked my store, Per. O Colin, Colin! the shepheardes ioye, But such eeking hath made my heart sore. How I admire ech turning of thy verse ;

In tho countries, whereas I have bene, And Cuddie, freshe Cuddie, the liefest boye, No beeing for those that truly mene;

Ilow dolefully bis dole thou didst rehearse! But for such, as of guile maken gaine, Cup. Then blow your pypes, shepheards, till you No such country as there to remaine; be at hone;

They setten to sale theyr shops of shame, The nigh: higheth fast, yts time to be gone. And maken a mart of theyr good name :

The shepheards there robben one another,

And layen baytes to beguile her brother;
Vincenti gloria victi.

Or they will buye his sheepe out of the cote,
Or they will carven the shepheardes throte.

The shepbeardes swayne you cannot well ken,
Vinto non vitto.

But it be by his pride, from other men;

They looken bigge as bulles that bene bate,

And bearen the cragge so stiffe and so state,
Felice chi puo.

As cocke on his dunghill crowing cranck.

Hob. Diggon, I am so stiffe and so stanck,
That uneth may I stand any more;
And now the westerne winde bloweth sore,

That now is in his chiefe soveraigntee,

Beating the withered leafe from the tree;

Sitte we downe here under the hill;

Tho may we talke and tellen our fill,
And make a mocke at the blustering blast:
Now say on, Diggon, whatever thou hast.

Dic. Hobbin, ah Hobbin! I curse the stound

That ever I cast to have lorne this ground:

Wel-away the while I was so fond
Herein Diggon Davie is devised to be a shepheard To leave the good that I had in hond,

that, in hope of more gaine, drove his sheepe In hope of better that was uncouth;
into a farre countrey. The abuses whereof, and So lost the dogge the flesh in his mouth.
loose living of popish prelates, by occasion of My seely sheepe (ah! seely sheepe!)
Hobbinols demaund, he discourseth at large.

That here by there I wilone usde to keepe,
All were they lustie as thou diddest see,
Bene all starved with pyne and penuree;

Hardly my selfe escaped thilke paine,

Driven for neede to come home againe.

Hob. Ah! fon, now by thy losse art taught

That seldom chaunge the better brought: Discon Davie! I bid her god day;

Content who lives with tryed state, Or Diggon her is, or I missay.

Neede feare no chaunge of frowning Fate; Dig. Her was her, while it was day-light, But who will seeke for unknowne gayne, But nowe her is a most wretched wight:

Oft lives by losse, and leaves with payne. For day, that was, is wightly past,

DIG. I wote ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitcht And now at earst the dirke night doth hast. With vayne desire and hope to be enricht:

Hob. Diggon, areede who has thee so dight; But, sicker, so it is, as the bright starre Never I wist thee in so poore a plight.

Seemeth ave greater when it is farre: Where is the fayre flocke thou was woont to lead ? | I thought the soyle would have made me rich, Or bene they chaffred, or at mischiefe dead ! But now I wote it is nothing sich;

Dic. Ah! for love of that is to thee most leefe, For eyther the shepheards bene ydle and still, Hobbinoll, I pray thee gall not my olde greefe; And ledde of tbeyr sheepe wbat way they will,



Or they bene false, and full of covetise,

Never was wolf seene, many nor some, And casten to compasse mapy wronge emprise : Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendome; But the more bene fraight with fraud and spight, But the fewer wolves (the sooth to saine) Ne in good nor goodnes taken delight,

The more bene the foxes that bere remaine. But kindle coales of conteck and yre,

Dio. Yes, but they gang in more secret wise, Wherewith they set all the world on fire; And with sheeps clothing doen hem disguise. Which when they thinken againe to quench, They walke not widely as they were wont, With holy water they doen hem all drench. Por feare of raungers and the great hunt, They saye they con to Heaven the high-way, But prively prolling to and froe, Bat by my soule I dare undersaye

Enaunter they moucht be inly knowe. They never sette foote in that same troad,

Hos. Or privie or pert if any bin, But balke the right way, and strayen abroad. We han great bandogs wil teare their skin. They bust they han the Devill at commaund, Dio. In deede thy Ball is a bold bigge cur, But aske hem therefore what they han paund: And could make a jolly hole in their fur: Marrie! that great Pan bought with deare borrow, But not good dogs hem needeth to chace, To quite it from the blacke bowre of sorrow. But heedy shepheards to discerne their face; But they had sold thilke same long egoe,

For all their craft is in their countenaunce, For they woulden draw with hem many moe. They bene so grave and full of maintenaunce. But let hem gange alone a Gods name;

But shall I tell thee what my self knowe As they ban brewed, so let hem beare blame. Chaunced to Roffin not long vgoe?

Hob. Diggon, I praye thee speake not so dirke; HoB. Say it out, Diggon, whatever it hight, Such myster saying me seemeth to-mirke. For not but well mought bim betight:

Dig. Then, plainly to speake of shepheards moste He is so meeke, wise, and merciable, Badde is the best; (this English is flat.) (what, | And with his word his work is convenable. Their ill haviour garres men missay

Colin Clout, I weene, be his selfe boye, Both of theyr doctrine, and theyr fay.

(Ah, for Colin! he whilome my joye:) Tbey sayne the world is much war then it wont, Shepheards sich, God mought us many send, All for her shepheardes bene beastly and blont. That doen so carefully thevr Hocks tend. Other sayne, but howe truely I n'ote,

Dic. Thilke same shepheard monght I well marke, All for they holden shame of their cote:

He bas a dogge to bite or to barke;
Some sticke not to say, (hote cole on her tongue !) Never had shepheard so keene a cur,
That sike mischiefe graseth hem emong,

That waketh and if but a leafe stur.
All for they casten too much of worldes care, Whilome there wonned a wicked wo'fe,
To deck her dame, and enrich her heire ;

That with many a lambe had gutted his gulfe. For such encheason, if you goe nie,

And ever at night wont to repayre Fewe chimnies reeking you shall espie.

Unto the flocke, when the welkin shone fayre, The fat oxe, that wont ligge in the stall,

Yclad in clothing of seely sheepe, Is nowe fast stalled in her crumeuall.

When the good olde man used to sleepe; Tous chatten the people in their steads,

Tho at midnight he would barke and ball, Ylike as a monster of many beads :

(For he had eft learned a currës call) But they, that stooten nearest the pricke,

As if a woolfe were emong the sheepe: Sayne, other the fat from their beards doen lick: With that the shepheard would breake his sleepe, For bigge bulles of Basan brace hem about, And send out Lowder (for so bis dog hote) That with their hornes butten the more stoute ; To raunge the fields with wide open throte. But the leane soules treaden under foot,

Tho, when as Lowder was far away, And to seeke redresse mought little boote; This wolvish sheepe woulde catchen his pray, For liker bene they to pluck away more,

A lambe, or a kid, or a weanell wast; Then ought of the gotten good to restore :

With that to the wood would hee speede him fast.
For they bene like fowle wagmoires overgrast, Long time he used this slippery pranck,
That, if thy galage once sticketh fast,

Ere Roffy could for his labour himn thanck.
The more to winde it out thou dost swinck, At end, the shepheard his practise spyed,
Tbou mought aye deeper and deeper sinck. (For Rosly is wise, and as Argus eyed,)
Yet better leave off with a little losse,

And, when at even he came to the flocke,
Then by much wrestling to leese the grosse.

Fast in their foldes he did them locke, Hoe. Nowe, Diggon, I see thou speakest too And tooke out the woolfe in his counterfeit cote, Better it were a little to feine,

[plaine, And let out the sheepes bloud at his throte. And cleanely cover that cannot be cured ;

Hob. Marry, Diggon, what should him affraye Such ill, as is forced, mought needes bee endured. To take his owne where ever it laye? But of sike pastoures bowe done the flocks creepe? For, had his wesand been a little widder,

Dic. Sike as the shepheards, sike bene hersheepe, He woulde have devoured both bidder and shidFor they nill listen to the shepheards voice;

der. But if be call hem, at their good choice

Dio. Mischiefe light on him, and Gods great They wander at will and stay at pleasure,

curse, And to their folds yeade at their owne leasure. Too good for bim had bene a great deale worse; But they had be better come at their call;

For it was a perilous beast above all, For many han unto mischiefe fall,

And eke had hee cond the shepheards call, And bene of ravenous wolves yrent,

And oft in the night came to the sheepcute,
All for they nould be buxome and bent. [ing; And called Lowder, with a hollow throte,

Hoz. Fie on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leas- As if the olde man selfe had beene:
Well is knowne that, sith the Saxon king, The dogge his maisters voice did it weene,

[ocr errors]


Yet halfe in doubt be opened the dore,

The English Poet, which booke being lately And ranne out as he was wont of yore.

come to my handes, I minde also by Gods grace,
No sooner was out, but, swifter then thought, upon further advisement, to publish.
Fast by the hyde the wolfe Lowder caught;
And, had not Roffy renne to the steven,
Lowder had bene slaine tbilke same even.

Hob. God shield, man, hee should so ill have
All for he did bis devoyre belive. [tbrive,
If sike bene wolves, as thou hast told,

Cuddig, for shame, holde up thy heavie head,
How mought we, Diggon, hem behold ?

And let us cast with what delight to chace Dic. How, but, with heede and watchfullnesse, And weary this long lingring Phæbus race. Forstallen hem of their wilinesse :

Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade For-thy with shepheard sittes not play,

In rimes, in ridles, and in bydding base; Or sleepe, as some doen, all the long day; Nowe they in thee, and thou in sleepe arte, deade. But ever liggen in watch and ward, From sodaine force their flocks for to gard.

Cup. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne, Hob. Ah ! Diggon, thilke sarne rule were too That all mine oten reedes ben rent and wore, straight,

And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store, All the cold season to watch and waite:

Yet little good bath got, and much lesse gayne. We bene of flesh, men as other bee,

Such pleasaunce makes the grashopper so poore, Why should we be bound to such miseree? And ligge so layd, when winter doth her straine. What-ever thing lacketh chaungeable rest, Mought needes decay, when it is at best.

The dapper ditties, that I wont devise, Dig. Ah! but, Hobbinoll, all this long tale To feede youthes fansie, and the flocking fry, Nought easeth the care that doth mee forhaile; Delighten much; what I the bett forthy? What shall I doe? what way shall I wend, They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise: My piteous plight and losse to amend ?

I beate the bush, the byrdes to them do flie: Ah! good Hobbinoll, mought I thee pray

What good thereof to Cuddie can arise? Of ayde or counsell in my decaye.

Hob. Now by my soule, Diggon, I lament Piers. Cuddie, the praise is better then the price, The haplesse mischiefe that has thee hent; The glory eke much greater then the gayne : Nethelesse thou seest my lowly saile,

O what an honour is it, to restraine That froward Fortune doth ever availe:

The lust of lawlesse youth with good advice, But, were Hobbinoll as God mought please, Or pricke them foorth with pleasaunce of thy vaine, Diggon should soone finde favour and ease: Whereto thou list tbeir trained willes entice! But if to my cotage thou wilt resort, So as I can I will thee comfort;

Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame, There mayst thou ligge in a vetchy bed,

O how the rural routes to thee do cleave! Till fairer Fortune show forth his head.

Seemeth thou doest theyr soule of sense bereave, Dig. Ah! Hobbinoll, God mought it thee requite; All as the shepheard that did fetch his dame Diggon on fewe such friendes did ever lite.

From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave;

His musickes might the hellish hound did tame.
Inopem me copia fecit.

Cup. So praysen babes the peacocks spotted trayne,
And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye;
But who rewardes him ere the more forthy,
Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine?
Sike praise is smoke, that sheddeth in the skie;

Sike words bene winde, and wasten soone in vaine.

Piers. Abandon then the base and viler clowne;
Lift up thy selfe out of the lowly dust,
And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts;
Turne thee to those that weld the awfull crowne,

To doubted knights, whose woundlesse armour rusts,

And helmes unbruzed wexen daylie browne. lu Caddie is set out the perfect patern of a poet, There may thy Muse display her fluttring wing,

which, finding no maintenance of his state and And stretch her selfe at large from east to west; studies, complaineth of the contempt of poetrie, Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest, and the causes thereof: specially having bene Or, if thee please in bigger notes to sing, in all ages, and even amongst the most barta- Advannce the worthy whom shee loveth best, rous, alwaies of singular account and honour, That first the white beare to the stake did bring. and being indeed so worthie and commendable ån art; or rather no art, but a divine gift and And, when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds heavenly instinct not to be gotten by labour and Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string, learning, but adorned with both; and poured of love and lustihead tho maist thou sing, into the witte by a certaine enthousiasmos and And carroll lowde, and leade the inillers rounde, celestiall inspiration, as the author hereof else All were Elisa one of thilk same ring; where at large discourseth in his booke called So mought our Cuddies name to Heaven sounde.





Cup. In deede the Romash Tityrus, I heare, left his oaten reede,

But ah! my courage cooles ere it be warme: Through his Mecænas

Forthy content us in this humble shade, Whereon hee earst had taught his flocks to feede,

Where no such troublous tydes han us assayde; And laboured lands to yeeld the timely eare,

Here we our slender pires may safely charme. Aod eft did sing of warres and deadly dreede, Piers. And, when my gates shall han theyr bellyes So as the Heavens did quake his verse to beare.


Cuddie shall have a kidde to store his farme.
But ah! Mecænas is yclad in claye,
And great Augustus long ygoe is dead,
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead,
That matter made for poets on to playe:

Agitante calescimus illo, &c.
For ever, who in derring-doe were dread,
The loftie verse of hem was loved aye.
But after Vertue gan for age to stoupe,
And mightie manhood brought a bedde of ease,

The vaunting poets found pought worth a pease
To put in preace among the learned troupe;

Tho gan the streames of tlowing wittes to cease,
And sunnebright honour pend in shamefull coupe.
And if that any buddes of poesie,
Yet of the old stocke, gan to shoote againe,
Or it mens follies mote to-force to fain,

In this xi aeglogue hee bewaileth the death of And rolle with rest in rymes of ribaudrie;

some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Or, as it sprung, it wither must againe;

Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altoTom Piper makes us better melodie.

gither unknowne, albeit of himselfe I often re

quired the same. This aeglogue is made in imiPrers. Opierlesse Po'esie! where is then thy place? tation of Marot his song, which he made upon If nor in princes pallace thou doest sit,

the death of Loyes the French queen; but farre (And yet is princes pallace the most fit)

passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other Ne brest of baser birth doth thee embrace,

the aeglogues of this book. Then make thee wings of thine aspiring wit, And, whence thou camst, flie backe to Heaven apace. (D. Ah! Percy, it is all-to weake and wanne,

THENOT. So high to sore and make so large a flight; Her peeced pypeons bene not so in plight: Por Colin fits such famous flight to scanne; Colin, my deare, when shall it please thee sing, He, were he not with love so ill bedight,

As thou wert wont, songes of some ioui aunce? Would mount as high and sing as soote as swanne. Thy Muse too long slombreth in sorrowing,

Lulled asleepe through Loves misgovernaunce. Piegs. Ah: fon; for love does teach him climbewo Now somewhat sing, whose endlesse sovenaunce And lyftes him up out of the loathsome myre; [nie, Einong the shepherds swaines may aye remaine, Sucb immortal mirror, as he doth admire,

Whether thee list thy loved lass advannce, Would rayse ones minde above the starrie skie, Or honor Pan with himnes of higher vaine. And cause a caytive courage to aspire;

Col. Thenot, now nis the time of merrimake, For loftie love doth loath a lowly eye.

Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play;

Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Crd. All otherwise the state of poet stands; Or sommer shade, under the cocked hay,
For lordly Love is such a tyranne fell,

But nowe sadde winter welked bath the day,
That, where he rules, all power he doth expell; And Phæbus, wearie of his yearly taske,
The Faunted verse a vacant head demaundes, Ystabled bath his steedes in lowly lay,
He wont with crabbed Care the Muses dwell: And taken up his youe in fishes haske:
Uawisely weaves, that takes two webbes in hand. Thilk sollein season sadder plight doth aske,

And loatheth sike delights as thou dorst prayse:
Who ever castes to compasse wightie prise, The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne maske,
And thinkes to throwe out thundring words of threat, As she was wont in youngth and sommer-dayes;
Lat powte in lavish cups and thriftie bittes of But if thou algate lust light virelayes,

And looser songs of love to underfong,
Por Bacchus fruite is friend to Phoebus wise; Who but thy self dcserves sike poets praise ?
Apd, wben with wine the braine begins to sweat, Relieve thy oaten pypes that sleepen lung.
The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.

Tue. The nightingale is sovereigne of song,

Before him sits the titmouse silent bre; Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rime should rage; And I, unfit to thrust in skilfull throng,

if my temples were distain'd with wine, Should Colin make iudge of my fooleree: And girt in girlonds of wilde yvie twine,

Nay, better learne of hem that learned bee, How I could reare the Muse on stately stage, And han bene watered at the Muses well; And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,

The kindely dewe drops from the higher tree, With queiat Bellona in her equipage!

And wets the little plants that lowly dwell:



« ZurückWeiter »