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What time the groues were clad in greene,The Fields drest all in flowers,And that the sleeke-hayred Nimphs were seene,To seeke them Summer Bowers.Forth rou'd I by the sliding Rills,To finde whereCynthiasat,Whose name so often from the hills,The Ecchos wondred at.When me vpon my Quest to bring,10That pleasure might excell,The Birds stroue which should sweetliest sing,The Flowers which sweet'st should smell.Long wand'ring in the Woods (said I)Oh whether'sCynthiagone?When soone the Eccho doth reply,To my last word, goe on.At length vpon a lofty Firre,It was my chance to finde,Where that deare name most due to her,20Was caru'd vpon the rynde.Which whilst with wonder I beheld,The Bees their hony brought,And vp the carued letters fild,As they with gould were wrought.And neere that trees more spacious roote,Then looking on the ground,The shape of her most dainty foot,Imprinted there I found.Which stuck there like a curious seale,30As though it should forbidVs, wretched mortalls, to reueale,What vnder it was hid.Besides the flowers which it had pres'd,Apeared to my vew,More fresh and louely than the rest,That in the meadowes grew:The cleere drops in the steps that stood,Of that dilicious Girle,The Nimphes amongst their dainty food,40Drunke for dissolued pearle.The yeilding sand, where she had troad,Vntutcht yet with the winde,By the faire posture plainely show'd,Where I mightCynthiafinde.When on vpon my waylesse walke,As my desires me draw,I like a madman fell to talke,With euery thing I saw:I ask'd some Lillyes why so white,50They from their fellowes were;Who answered me, thatCynthia'ssight,Had made them looke so cleare:I ask'd a nodding Violet why,It sadly hung the head,It told meCynthialate past by,Too soone from it that fled:A bed of Roses saw I there,Bewitching with their grace:Besides so wondrous sweete they were,60That they perfum'd the place,I of a Shrube of those enquir'd,From others of that kind,Who with such virtue them enspir'd,It answer'd (to my minde).As the base Hemblocke were we such,The poysned'st weed that growes,TillCynthiaby her god-like tuch,Transform'd vs to the Rose:Since when those Frosts that winter brings70Which candy euery greene,Renew vs like the Teeming Springs,And we thus Fresh are scene.At length I on a Fountaine light,Whose brim with Pincks was platted;The Banck with Daffadillies dight,With grasse like Sleaue was matted,When I demanded of that Well,What power frequented there;Desiring, it would please to tell80What name it vsde to beare.It tolde me it wasCynthiasowne,Within whose cheerefull brimmes,That curious Nimph had oft beene knowneTo bath her snowy Limmes.Since when that Water had the power,Lost Mayden-heads to restore,And make one Twenty in an howre,OfEsonsage before.And told me that the bottome cleere,90Now layd with many a fettOf seed-pearle, ere shee bath'd her there:Was knowne as blacke as Jet,As when she from the water came,Where first she touch'd the molde,In balls the people made the sameFor Pomander, and solde.When chance me to an Arbour led,Whereas I might behold:Two blestElizeumsin one sted,100The lesse the great enfold.The place which she had chosen out,Her selfe in to repose;Had they com'n downe, the gods no doubtThe very same had chose.The wealthy Spring yet neuer boreThat sweet, nor dainty flowerThat damask'd not, the chequer'd floreOfCynthiasSummer Bower.The Birch, the Mirtle, and the Bay,110Like Friends did all embrace;And their large branches did display,To Canapy the place.Where she likeVenvsdoth appeare,Vpon a Rosie bed;As Lillyes the soft pillowes weare,Whereon she layd her head.Heau'n on her shape such cost bestow'd,And with such bounties blest:No lim of hers but might haue made120A Goddesse at the least.The Flyes by chance mesht in her hayre,By the bright Radience throwneFrom her cleare eyes, rich Iewels weare,They so like Diamonds shone.The meanest weede the soyle there bare,Her breath did so refine,That it with Woodbynd durst compare,And beard the Eglantine.The dewe which on the tender grasse,130The Euening had distill'd,To pure Rose-water turned was,The shades with sweets that fill'd.The windes were husht, no leafe so smallAt all was scene to stirre:Whilst tuning to the waters fall,The small Birds sang to her.Where she too quickly me espies,When I might plainely see,A thousandCupidsfrom her eyes140Shoote all at once at me.Into these secret shades (quoth she)How dar'st thou be so boldTo enter, consecrate to me,Or touch this hallowed mold.Those words (quoth she) I can pronounce,Which to that shape can bringThee, which the Hunter had who onceSaweDianin the Spring.Bright Nimph againe I thus replie,150This cannot me affright:I had rather in thy presence die,Then liue out of thy sight.I first vpon the Mountaines hie,Built Altars to thy name;And grau'd it on the Rocks thereby,To propogate thy fame.I taught the Shepheards on the Downes,Of thee to frame their Layes:T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes,160With Ditties of thy praise.Thy colours I deuis'd with care,Which were vnknowne before:Which since that, in their braded hayreThe Nimphes and Siluans wore.Transforme me to what shape you can,I passe not what it be:Yea what most hatefull is to man,So I may follow thee.Which when she heard full pearly floods,170I in her eyes might view:(Quoth she) most welcome to these Woods,Too meane for one so true.Here from the hatefull world we'll liue,A den of mere dispight:To Ideots only that doth giue,Which be her sole delight.To people the infernall pit,That more and more doth striue;Where only villany is wit,180And Diuels only thriue.Whose vilenesse vs shall neuer awe:But here our sports shall be:Such as the golden world first sawe,Most innocent and free.Of Simples in these Groues that growe,Wee'll learne the perfect skill;The nature of each Herbe to knoweWhich cures, and which can kill.The waxen Pallace of the Bee,190We seeking will surpriseThe curious workmanship to see,Of her full laden thighes.Wee'll suck the sweets out of the Combe,And make the gods repine:As they doe feast inIouesgreat roome,To see with what we dine.Yet when there haps a honey fall,Wee'll lick the sirupt leaues:And tell the Bees that their's is gall,200To this vpon the Greaues.The nimble Squirrell noting here,Her mossy Dray that makes,And laugh to see the lusty DeereCome bounding ore the brakes.The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand,And when it takes the Bee,Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand,The Innocent to free.Sometime weele angle at the Brooke,210The freckled Trout to take,With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke,Which him our prey shall make.Of medling with such subtile tooles,Such dangers that enclose,The Morrall is that painted Fooles,Are caught with silken showes.And when the Moone doth once appeare,Weele trace the lower grounds,WhenFayriesin their Ringlets there220Do daunce their nightly rounds.And haue a Flocke of Turtle Doues,A guard on vs to keepe,A witnesse of our honest loues,To watch vs till we sleepe.Which spoke I felt such holy firesTo ouerspred my breast,As lent life to my Chast desiresAnd gaue me endlesse rest.ByCynthiathus doe I subsist,230On earth Heauens onely pride,Let her be mine, and let who list,Take all the world beside.
What time the groues were clad in greene,The Fields drest all in flowers,And that the sleeke-hayred Nimphs were seene,To seeke them Summer Bowers.
Forth rou'd I by the sliding Rills,To finde whereCynthiasat,Whose name so often from the hills,The Ecchos wondred at.
When me vpon my Quest to bring,10That pleasure might excell,The Birds stroue which should sweetliest sing,The Flowers which sweet'st should smell.
Long wand'ring in the Woods (said I)Oh whether'sCynthiagone?When soone the Eccho doth reply,To my last word, goe on.
At length vpon a lofty Firre,It was my chance to finde,Where that deare name most due to her,20Was caru'd vpon the rynde.
Which whilst with wonder I beheld,The Bees their hony brought,And vp the carued letters fild,As they with gould were wrought.
And neere that trees more spacious roote,Then looking on the ground,The shape of her most dainty foot,Imprinted there I found.
Which stuck there like a curious seale,30As though it should forbidVs, wretched mortalls, to reueale,What vnder it was hid.
Besides the flowers which it had pres'd,Apeared to my vew,More fresh and louely than the rest,That in the meadowes grew:
The cleere drops in the steps that stood,Of that dilicious Girle,The Nimphes amongst their dainty food,40Drunke for dissolued pearle.
The yeilding sand, where she had troad,Vntutcht yet with the winde,By the faire posture plainely show'd,Where I mightCynthiafinde.
When on vpon my waylesse walke,As my desires me draw,I like a madman fell to talke,With euery thing I saw:
I ask'd some Lillyes why so white,50They from their fellowes were;Who answered me, thatCynthia'ssight,Had made them looke so cleare:
I ask'd a nodding Violet why,It sadly hung the head,It told meCynthialate past by,Too soone from it that fled:
A bed of Roses saw I there,Bewitching with their grace:Besides so wondrous sweete they were,60That they perfum'd the place,
I of a Shrube of those enquir'd,From others of that kind,Who with such virtue them enspir'd,It answer'd (to my minde).
As the base Hemblocke were we such,The poysned'st weed that growes,TillCynthiaby her god-like tuch,Transform'd vs to the Rose:
Since when those Frosts that winter brings70Which candy euery greene,Renew vs like the Teeming Springs,And we thus Fresh are scene.
At length I on a Fountaine light,Whose brim with Pincks was platted;The Banck with Daffadillies dight,With grasse like Sleaue was matted,
When I demanded of that Well,What power frequented there;Desiring, it would please to tell80What name it vsde to beare.
It tolde me it wasCynthiasowne,Within whose cheerefull brimmes,That curious Nimph had oft beene knowneTo bath her snowy Limmes.
Since when that Water had the power,Lost Mayden-heads to restore,And make one Twenty in an howre,OfEsonsage before.
And told me that the bottome cleere,90Now layd with many a fettOf seed-pearle, ere shee bath'd her there:Was knowne as blacke as Jet,
As when she from the water came,Where first she touch'd the molde,In balls the people made the sameFor Pomander, and solde.
When chance me to an Arbour led,Whereas I might behold:Two blestElizeumsin one sted,100The lesse the great enfold.
The place which she had chosen out,Her selfe in to repose;Had they com'n downe, the gods no doubtThe very same had chose.
The wealthy Spring yet neuer boreThat sweet, nor dainty flowerThat damask'd not, the chequer'd floreOfCynthiasSummer Bower.
The Birch, the Mirtle, and the Bay,110Like Friends did all embrace;And their large branches did display,To Canapy the place.
Where she likeVenvsdoth appeare,Vpon a Rosie bed;As Lillyes the soft pillowes weare,Whereon she layd her head.
Heau'n on her shape such cost bestow'd,And with such bounties blest:No lim of hers but might haue made120A Goddesse at the least.
The Flyes by chance mesht in her hayre,By the bright Radience throwneFrom her cleare eyes, rich Iewels weare,They so like Diamonds shone.
The meanest weede the soyle there bare,Her breath did so refine,That it with Woodbynd durst compare,And beard the Eglantine.
The dewe which on the tender grasse,130The Euening had distill'd,To pure Rose-water turned was,The shades with sweets that fill'd.
The windes were husht, no leafe so smallAt all was scene to stirre:Whilst tuning to the waters fall,The small Birds sang to her.
Where she too quickly me espies,When I might plainely see,A thousandCupidsfrom her eyes140Shoote all at once at me.
Into these secret shades (quoth she)How dar'st thou be so boldTo enter, consecrate to me,Or touch this hallowed mold.
Those words (quoth she) I can pronounce,Which to that shape can bringThee, which the Hunter had who onceSaweDianin the Spring.
Bright Nimph againe I thus replie,150This cannot me affright:I had rather in thy presence die,Then liue out of thy sight.
I first vpon the Mountaines hie,Built Altars to thy name;And grau'd it on the Rocks thereby,To propogate thy fame.
I taught the Shepheards on the Downes,Of thee to frame their Layes:T'was I that fill'd the neighbouring Townes,160With Ditties of thy praise.
Thy colours I deuis'd with care,Which were vnknowne before:Which since that, in their braded hayreThe Nimphes and Siluans wore.
Transforme me to what shape you can,I passe not what it be:Yea what most hatefull is to man,So I may follow thee.
Which when she heard full pearly floods,170I in her eyes might view:(Quoth she) most welcome to these Woods,Too meane for one so true.
Here from the hatefull world we'll liue,A den of mere dispight:To Ideots only that doth giue,Which be her sole delight.
To people the infernall pit,That more and more doth striue;Where only villany is wit,180And Diuels only thriue.
Whose vilenesse vs shall neuer awe:But here our sports shall be:Such as the golden world first sawe,Most innocent and free.
Of Simples in these Groues that growe,Wee'll learne the perfect skill;The nature of each Herbe to knoweWhich cures, and which can kill.
The waxen Pallace of the Bee,190We seeking will surpriseThe curious workmanship to see,Of her full laden thighes.
Wee'll suck the sweets out of the Combe,And make the gods repine:As they doe feast inIouesgreat roome,To see with what we dine.
Yet when there haps a honey fall,Wee'll lick the sirupt leaues:And tell the Bees that their's is gall,200To this vpon the Greaues.
The nimble Squirrell noting here,Her mossy Dray that makes,And laugh to see the lusty DeereCome bounding ore the brakes.
The Spiders Webb to watch weele stand,And when it takes the Bee,Weele helpe out of the Tyrants hand,The Innocent to free.
Sometime weele angle at the Brooke,210The freckled Trout to take,With silken Wormes, and bayte the hooke,Which him our prey shall make.
Of medling with such subtile tooles,Such dangers that enclose,The Morrall is that painted Fooles,Are caught with silken showes.
And when the Moone doth once appeare,Weele trace the lower grounds,WhenFayriesin their Ringlets there220Do daunce their nightly rounds.
And haue a Flocke of Turtle Doues,A guard on vs to keepe,A witnesse of our honest loues,To watch vs till we sleepe.
Which spoke I felt such holy firesTo ouerspred my breast,As lent life to my Chast desiresAnd gaue me endlesse rest.
ByCynthiathus doe I subsist,230On earth Heauens onely pride,Let her be mine, and let who list,Take all the world beside.
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Dorilvsin sorrowes deepe,Autumne waxing olde and chill,As he sate his Flocks to keepeVnderneath an easie hill:Chanc'd to cast his eye asideOn those fields, where he had scene,BrightSirenaNatures pride,Sporting on the pleasant greene:To whose walkes the Shepheards oft,10Came her god-like foote to finde,And in places that were soft,Kist the print there left behinde;Where the path which she had troad,Hath thereby more glory gayn'd,Then in heau'n that milky rode,Which with NectarHebestayn'd:But bleake Winters boystrous blasts,Now their fading pleasures chid,And so fill'd them with his wastes,20That from sight her steps were hid.Silly Shepheard sad the while,For his sweetSirenagone,All his pleasures in exile:Layd on the colde earth alone.Whilst his gamesome cut-tayld Curre,With his mirthlesse Master playes,Striuing him with sport to stirre,As in his more youthfull dayes,Dorilvshis Dogge doth chide,30Layes his well-tun'd Bagpype by,And his Sheep-hooke casts aside,There (quoth he) together lye.When a Letter forth he tooke,Which to himSirenawrit,With a deadly down-cast looke,And thus fell to reading it.Dorilvsmy deare (quoth she)Kinde Companion of my woe,Though we thus diuided be,40Death cannot diuorce vs so:Thou whose bosome hath beene still,Th' onely Closet of my care,And in all my good and ill,Euer had thy equall share:Might I winne thee from thy Fold,Thou shouldst come to visite me,But the Winter is so cold,That I feare to hazard thee:The wilde waters are waxt hie,50So they are both deafe and dumbe,Lou'd they thee so well as I,They would ebbe when thou shouldst come;Then my coate with light should shine,Purer then the Vestall fire:Nothing here but should be thine,That thy heart can well desire:Where at large we will relate,From what cause our friendship grewe,And in that the varying Fate,60Since we first each other knewe:Of my heauie passed plight,As of many a future feare,Which except the silent night,None but onely thou shalt heare;My sad hurt it shall releeue,When my thoughts I shall disclose,For thou canst not chuse but greeue,When I shall recount my woes;There is nothing to that friend,70To whose close vncranied brest,We our secret thoughts may send,And there safely let it rest:And thy faithfull counsell may,My distressed case assist,Sad affliction else may swayMe a woman as it list:Hither I would haue thee haste,Yet would gladly haue thee stay,When those dangers I forecast,80That may meet thee by the way,Doe as thou shalt thinke it best,Let thy knowledge be thy guide,Liue thou in my constant breast,Whatsoeuer shall betide.He her Letter hauing red,Puts it in his Scrip againe,Looking like a man halfe dead,By her kindenesse strangely slaine;And as one who inly knew,90Her distressed present state,And to her had still been true,Thus doth with himselfe debate.I will not thy face admire,Admirable though it bee,Nor thine eyes whose subtile fireSo much wonder winne in me:But my maruell shall be now,(And of long it hath bene so)Of all Woman kind that thou100Wert ordain'd to taste of woe;To a Beauty so diuine,Paradise in little done,O that Fortune should assigne,Ought but what thou well mightst shun,But my counsailes such must bee,(Though as yet I them conceale)By their deadly wound in me,They thy hurt must onely heale,Could I giue what thou do'st craue110To that passe thy state is growne,I thereby thy life may saue,But am sure to loose mine owne,To that ioy thou do'st conceiue,Through my heart, the way doth lye,Which in two for thee must claueLeast that thou shouldst goe awry.Thus my death must be a toy,Which my pensiue breast must couer;Thy beloued to enioy,120Must be taught thee by thy Louer.Hard the Choise I haue to chuse,To my selfe if friend I be,I must mySirenaloose,If not so, shee looseth me.Thus whilst he doth cast about,What therein were best to doe,Nor could yet resolue the doubt,Whether he should stay or goe:In those Feilds not farre away,130There was many a frolike Swaine,In fresh Russets day by day,That kept Reuells on the Plaine.NimbleTom, sirnam'd theTup,For his Pipe without a Peere,And could tickleTrenchmorevp,As t'would ioy your heart to heare.Ralphas much renown'd for skill,That theTabertouch'd so well;For hisGittern, littleGill,140That all other did excell.RockandRolloeuery way,Who still led the Rusticke Ging,And could troule a Roundelay,That would make the Feilds to ring,Collinon hisShalmeso cleare,Many a high-pitcht Note that had,And could make the Eechos nereShout as they were wexen mad.Many a lusty Swaine beside,150That for nought but pleasure car'd,HauingDorilvsespy'd,And with him knew how it far'd.Thought from him they would remoue,This strong melancholy fitt,Or so, should it not behoue,Quite to put him out of 's witt;Hauing learnt a Song, which heSometime to Sirena sent,Full of Iollity and glee,160When the Nimph liu'd neere toTrentThey behinde him softly gott,Lying on the earth along,And when he suspected not,Thus the Iouiall Shepheards song.Neare to the SiluerTrent,Sirenadwelleth:Shee to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth:By which theMuseslate,170And the neateGraces,Haue for their greater stateTaken their places:Twisting anAnadem,Wherewith to Crowne her,As it belong'd to themMost to renowne her.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let the Swanes sing her,180And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.TagusandPactolusAre to thee Debter,Nor for their gould to vsAre they the better:Henceforth of all the rest,Be thou the Riuer,Which as the daintiest,Puts them downe euer,190For as my precious one,O'r thee doth trauell,She to Pearl ParragonTurneth thy grauell.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.Our mournefullPhilomell,200That rarest Tuner,Henceforth inAperillShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complaineFrom the thicke Couer,Redoubling euery straineOuer and ouer:For when my Loue too longHer Chamber keepeth;As though it suffered wrong,210The Morning weepeth.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanes sing her,And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.Oft have I seene the SunneTo doe her honour.Fix himselfe at his noone,To look vpon her,220And hath guilt euery Groue,Euery Hill neare her,With his flames from aboue,Striuing to cheere her,And when shee from his sightHath her selfe turned,He as it had beene night,In Cloudes hath mourned.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,230Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.The Verdant Meades are seene,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant Greene,Straight to renewe them,And euery little GrasseBroad it selfe spreadeth,Proud that this bonny Lasse240Vpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweeteIn this large CinctureBut it upon her feeteLeaueth some Tincture.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanes sing her,And with thy Musick,Along let them bring her.250The Fishes in the Flood,When she doth Angle,For the Hooke striue a goodThem to intangle;And leaping on the LandFrom the cleare water,Their Scales vpon the sand,Lauishly scatter;Therewith to paue the mouldWhereon she passes,260So her selfe to behold,As in her glasses.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Ranke,Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.When shee lookes out by night,The Starres stand gazing,Like Commets to our sight270Fearefully blazing,As wondring at her eyesWith their much brightnesse,Which to amaze the skies,Dimming their lightnesse,The raging Tempests are Calme,When shee speaketh,Such most delightsome balmeFrom her lips breaketh.Cho.On thy Banke,280In a Rancke, &c.In all ourBrittany,Ther's not a fayrer,Nor can you fitt any:Should you compare her.Angels her eye-lids keepeAll harts surprizing,Which looke whilst she doth sleepeLike the Sunnes rising:She alone of her kinde290Knoweth true measureAnd her vnmatched mindIs Heauens treasure:Cho.On thy Bancke,In a RanckeLet thy Swanes sing her,And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.FayreDoueandDarwinecleereBoast yee your beauties,300ToTrentyour Mistres hereYet pay your duties,My Loue was higher borneTow'rds the full Fountaines,Yet she dothMoorlandscorne,And thePeakeMountaines;Nor would she none should dreame,Where she abideth,Humble as is the streame,Which by her slydeth,310Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swannes sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.Yet my poore RustickeMuse,Nothing can moue her,Nor the means I can vse,Though her true Louer:Many a long Winters night,320Haue I wak'd for her,Yet this my piteous plight,Nothing can stirre her.All thy Sands siluerTrentDowne to theHumber,The sighes I haue spentNeuer can number.Cho.On thy BankeIn a Ranke,Let thy Swans sing her330And with their MusickeAlong let them bring her.Taken with this suddaine Song,Least for mirth when he doth lookHis sad heart more deeply stong,Then the former care he tooke.At their laughter and amaz'd,For a while he sat aghastBut a little hauing gaz'd,Thus he them bespake at last.Is this time for mirth (quoth he)340To a man with griefe opprest,Sinfull wretches as you be,May the sorrowes in my breast,Light vpon you one by one,And as now you mocke my woe,When your mirth is turn'd to moane;May your like then serue you so.When one Swaine among the restThus him merrily bespake,350Get thee vp thou arrant beastFits this season loue to make?Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,Clap thy Curre and set him on,For our fields 'tis time to stand,Or they quickly will be gon.Rougish Swinheards that repineAt our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,Sweare that they will bring their Swine,And will wroote vp all our Downes:360They their Holly whips haue brac'd,And tough Hazell goades haue gott;Soundly they your sides will baste,If their courage faile them not.Of their purpose if they speed,Then your Bagpypes you may burne,It is neither Droane nor ReedShepheard, that will serue your turne:AngryOlconsets them on,And against vs part doth take370Euer since he was out-gone,Offring Rymes with us to make.Yet if so our Sheepe-hookes hold,Dearely shall our Downes be bought,For it neuer shall be told,We our Sheep-walkes sold for naught.And we here haue got vs Dogges,Best of all the Westerne breed,Which though Whelps shall lug their Hogges,Till they make their eares to bleed:380Therefore Shepheard come away.When asDorilvsarose,Whistles Cut-tayle from his play,And along with them he goes.
Dorilvsin sorrowes deepe,Autumne waxing olde and chill,As he sate his Flocks to keepeVnderneath an easie hill:Chanc'd to cast his eye asideOn those fields, where he had scene,BrightSirenaNatures pride,Sporting on the pleasant greene:To whose walkes the Shepheards oft,10Came her god-like foote to finde,And in places that were soft,Kist the print there left behinde;Where the path which she had troad,Hath thereby more glory gayn'd,Then in heau'n that milky rode,Which with NectarHebestayn'd:But bleake Winters boystrous blasts,Now their fading pleasures chid,And so fill'd them with his wastes,20That from sight her steps were hid.Silly Shepheard sad the while,For his sweetSirenagone,All his pleasures in exile:Layd on the colde earth alone.Whilst his gamesome cut-tayld Curre,With his mirthlesse Master playes,Striuing him with sport to stirre,As in his more youthfull dayes,Dorilvshis Dogge doth chide,30Layes his well-tun'd Bagpype by,And his Sheep-hooke casts aside,There (quoth he) together lye.When a Letter forth he tooke,Which to himSirenawrit,With a deadly down-cast looke,And thus fell to reading it.Dorilvsmy deare (quoth she)Kinde Companion of my woe,Though we thus diuided be,40Death cannot diuorce vs so:Thou whose bosome hath beene still,Th' onely Closet of my care,And in all my good and ill,Euer had thy equall share:Might I winne thee from thy Fold,Thou shouldst come to visite me,But the Winter is so cold,That I feare to hazard thee:The wilde waters are waxt hie,50So they are both deafe and dumbe,Lou'd they thee so well as I,They would ebbe when thou shouldst come;Then my coate with light should shine,Purer then the Vestall fire:Nothing here but should be thine,That thy heart can well desire:Where at large we will relate,From what cause our friendship grewe,And in that the varying Fate,60Since we first each other knewe:Of my heauie passed plight,As of many a future feare,Which except the silent night,None but onely thou shalt heare;My sad hurt it shall releeue,When my thoughts I shall disclose,For thou canst not chuse but greeue,When I shall recount my woes;There is nothing to that friend,70To whose close vncranied brest,We our secret thoughts may send,And there safely let it rest:And thy faithfull counsell may,My distressed case assist,Sad affliction else may swayMe a woman as it list:Hither I would haue thee haste,Yet would gladly haue thee stay,When those dangers I forecast,80That may meet thee by the way,Doe as thou shalt thinke it best,Let thy knowledge be thy guide,Liue thou in my constant breast,Whatsoeuer shall betide.He her Letter hauing red,Puts it in his Scrip againe,Looking like a man halfe dead,By her kindenesse strangely slaine;And as one who inly knew,90Her distressed present state,And to her had still been true,Thus doth with himselfe debate.I will not thy face admire,Admirable though it bee,Nor thine eyes whose subtile fireSo much wonder winne in me:But my maruell shall be now,(And of long it hath bene so)Of all Woman kind that thou100Wert ordain'd to taste of woe;To a Beauty so diuine,Paradise in little done,O that Fortune should assigne,Ought but what thou well mightst shun,But my counsailes such must bee,(Though as yet I them conceale)By their deadly wound in me,They thy hurt must onely heale,Could I giue what thou do'st craue110To that passe thy state is growne,I thereby thy life may saue,But am sure to loose mine owne,To that ioy thou do'st conceiue,Through my heart, the way doth lye,Which in two for thee must claueLeast that thou shouldst goe awry.Thus my death must be a toy,Which my pensiue breast must couer;Thy beloued to enioy,120Must be taught thee by thy Louer.Hard the Choise I haue to chuse,To my selfe if friend I be,I must mySirenaloose,If not so, shee looseth me.Thus whilst he doth cast about,What therein were best to doe,Nor could yet resolue the doubt,Whether he should stay or goe:In those Feilds not farre away,130There was many a frolike Swaine,In fresh Russets day by day,That kept Reuells on the Plaine.NimbleTom, sirnam'd theTup,For his Pipe without a Peere,And could tickleTrenchmorevp,As t'would ioy your heart to heare.Ralphas much renown'd for skill,That theTabertouch'd so well;For hisGittern, littleGill,140That all other did excell.RockandRolloeuery way,Who still led the Rusticke Ging,And could troule a Roundelay,That would make the Feilds to ring,Collinon hisShalmeso cleare,Many a high-pitcht Note that had,And could make the Eechos nereShout as they were wexen mad.Many a lusty Swaine beside,150That for nought but pleasure car'd,HauingDorilvsespy'd,And with him knew how it far'd.Thought from him they would remoue,This strong melancholy fitt,Or so, should it not behoue,Quite to put him out of 's witt;Hauing learnt a Song, which heSometime to Sirena sent,Full of Iollity and glee,160When the Nimph liu'd neere toTrentThey behinde him softly gott,Lying on the earth along,And when he suspected not,Thus the Iouiall Shepheards song.
Neare to the SiluerTrent,Sirenadwelleth:Shee to whom Nature lentAll that excelleth:By which theMuseslate,170And the neateGraces,Haue for their greater stateTaken their places:Twisting anAnadem,Wherewith to Crowne her,As it belong'd to themMost to renowne her.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let the Swanes sing her,180And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.
TagusandPactolusAre to thee Debter,Nor for their gould to vsAre they the better:Henceforth of all the rest,Be thou the Riuer,Which as the daintiest,Puts them downe euer,190For as my precious one,O'r thee doth trauell,She to Pearl ParragonTurneth thy grauell.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.
Our mournefullPhilomell,200That rarest Tuner,Henceforth inAperillShall wake the sooner,And to her shall complaineFrom the thicke Couer,Redoubling euery straineOuer and ouer:For when my Loue too longHer Chamber keepeth;As though it suffered wrong,210The Morning weepeth.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanes sing her,And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.
Oft have I seene the SunneTo doe her honour.Fix himselfe at his noone,To look vpon her,220And hath guilt euery Groue,Euery Hill neare her,With his flames from aboue,Striuing to cheere her,And when shee from his sightHath her selfe turned,He as it had beene night,In Cloudes hath mourned.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,230Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.
The Verdant Meades are seene,When she doth view them,In fresh and gallant Greene,Straight to renewe them,And euery little GrasseBroad it selfe spreadeth,Proud that this bonny Lasse240Vpon it treadeth:Nor flower is so sweeteIn this large CinctureBut it upon her feeteLeaueth some Tincture.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swanes sing her,And with thy Musick,Along let them bring her.
250The Fishes in the Flood,When she doth Angle,For the Hooke striue a goodThem to intangle;And leaping on the LandFrom the cleare water,Their Scales vpon the sand,Lauishly scatter;Therewith to paue the mouldWhereon she passes,260So her selfe to behold,As in her glasses.Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Ranke,Let thy Swanns sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.
When shee lookes out by night,The Starres stand gazing,Like Commets to our sight270Fearefully blazing,As wondring at her eyesWith their much brightnesse,Which to amaze the skies,Dimming their lightnesse,The raging Tempests are Calme,When shee speaketh,Such most delightsome balmeFrom her lips breaketh.Cho.On thy Banke,280In a Rancke, &c.
In all ourBrittany,Ther's not a fayrer,Nor can you fitt any:Should you compare her.Angels her eye-lids keepeAll harts surprizing,Which looke whilst she doth sleepeLike the Sunnes rising:She alone of her kinde290Knoweth true measureAnd her vnmatched mindIs Heauens treasure:Cho.On thy Bancke,In a RanckeLet thy Swanes sing her,And with their Musick,Along let them bring her.
FayreDoueandDarwinecleereBoast yee your beauties,300ToTrentyour Mistres hereYet pay your duties,My Loue was higher borneTow'rds the full Fountaines,Yet she dothMoorlandscorne,And thePeakeMountaines;Nor would she none should dreame,Where she abideth,Humble as is the streame,Which by her slydeth,310Cho.On thy Bancke,In a Rancke,Let thy Swannes sing her,And with their Musicke,Along let them bring her.
Yet my poore RustickeMuse,Nothing can moue her,Nor the means I can vse,Though her true Louer:Many a long Winters night,320Haue I wak'd for her,Yet this my piteous plight,Nothing can stirre her.All thy Sands siluerTrentDowne to theHumber,The sighes I haue spentNeuer can number.Cho.On thy BankeIn a Ranke,Let thy Swans sing her330And with their MusickeAlong let them bring her.
Taken with this suddaine Song,Least for mirth when he doth lookHis sad heart more deeply stong,Then the former care he tooke.At their laughter and amaz'd,For a while he sat aghastBut a little hauing gaz'd,Thus he them bespake at last.Is this time for mirth (quoth he)340To a man with griefe opprest,Sinfull wretches as you be,May the sorrowes in my breast,Light vpon you one by one,And as now you mocke my woe,When your mirth is turn'd to moane;May your like then serue you so.When one Swaine among the restThus him merrily bespake,350Get thee vp thou arrant beastFits this season loue to make?Take thy Sheephooke in thy hand,Clap thy Curre and set him on,For our fields 'tis time to stand,Or they quickly will be gon.Rougish Swinheards that repineAt our Flocks, like beastly Clownes,Sweare that they will bring their Swine,And will wroote vp all our Downes:360They their Holly whips haue brac'd,And tough Hazell goades haue gott;Soundly they your sides will baste,If their courage faile them not.Of their purpose if they speed,Then your Bagpypes you may burne,It is neither Droane nor ReedShepheard, that will serue your turne:AngryOlconsets them on,And against vs part doth take370Euer since he was out-gone,Offring Rymes with us to make.Yet if so our Sheepe-hookes hold,Dearely shall our Downes be bought,For it neuer shall be told,We our Sheep-walkes sold for naught.And we here haue got vs Dogges,Best of all the Westerne breed,Which though Whelps shall lug their Hogges,Till they make their eares to bleed:380Therefore Shepheard come away.When asDorilvsarose,Whistles Cut-tayle from his play,And along with them he goes.
Decorative
A Paradice on earth is found,Though farre from vulgar sight,Which with those pleasures doth aboundThat itEliziumhight.Where, in Delights that neuer fade,The Muses lulled be,And sit at pleasure in the shadeOf many a stately tree,Which no rough Tempest makes to reele10Nor their straight bodies bowes,Their lofty tops doe neuer feeleThe weight of winters snowes;In Groues that euermore are greene,No falling leafe is there,ButPhilomel(of birds the Queene)In Musicke spends the yeare.TheMerlevpon her mertle Perch,There to theMavissings,Who from the top of some curld Berch20Those notes redoubled rings;There Daysyes damaske euery placeNor once their beauties lose,That when proudPhœbushides his faceThemselues they scorne to close.The Pansy and the Violet here,As seeming to descend,Both from one Root, a very payre,For sweetnesse yet contend,And pointing to a Pinke to tell30Which beares it, it is loath,To iudge it; but replyes for smellThat it excels them both.Wherewith displeasde they hang their headsSo angry soone they growAnd from their odoriferous bedsTheir sweets at it they throw.The winter here a Summer is,No waste is made by time,Nor doth the Autumne euer misse40The blossomes of the Prime.The flower that Iuly forth doth bringIn Aprill here is seene,The Primrose that puts on the SpringIn Iuly decks each Greene.The sweets for soueraignty contendAnd so abundant be,That to the very Earth they lendAnd Barke of euery Tree:Rills rising out of euery Banck,50In wild Meanders strayne,And playing many a wanton pranckVpon the speckled plaine,In Gambols and lascivious GyresTheir time they still bestowNor to their Fountaines none retyres,Nor on their course will goe.Those Brooks with Lillies brauely deckt,So proud and wanton made,That they their courses quite neglect:60And seeme as though they stayde,FaireFlorain her state to vieweWhich through those Lillies looks,Or as those Lillies leand to shewTheir beauties to the brooks.ThatPhœbusin his lofty race,Oft layes aside his beamesAnd comes to coole his glowing faceIn these delicious streames;Oft spreading Vines clime vp the Cleeues,70Whose ripned clusters there,Their liquid purple drop, which driuesA Vintage through the yeere.Those Cleeues whose craggy sides are cladWith Trees of sundry sutes,Which make continuall summer glad,Euen bending with their fruits,Some ripening, ready some to fall,Some blossom'd, some to bloome,Like gorgeous hangings on the wall80Of some rich princely Roome:Pomegranates,Lymons,Cytrons, soTheir laded branches bow,Their leaues in number that outgoeNor roomth will them alow.There in perpetuall Summers shade,ApolloesProphets sit,Among the flowres that neuer fade,But flowrish like their wit;To whom the Nimphes vpon their Lyres,90Tune many a curious lay,And with their most melodious QuiresMake short the longest day.Thethrice three Virginsheavenly Cleere,Their trembling Timbrels sound,Whilst the three comely Graces thereDance many a dainty Round,Decay nor Age there nothing knowes,There is continuall Youth,As Time on plant or creatures growes,100So still their strength renewth.The Poets Paradice this is,To which but few can come;The Muses onely bower of blisseTheir DeareElizium.Here happy soules, (their blessed bowers,Free from the rude resortOf beastly people) spend the houres,In harmelesse mirth and sport,Then on to theElizianplaines110Apollodoth invite youWhere he prouides with pastorall straines,In Nimphals to delight you.
A Paradice on earth is found,Though farre from vulgar sight,Which with those pleasures doth aboundThat itEliziumhight.
Where, in Delights that neuer fade,The Muses lulled be,And sit at pleasure in the shadeOf many a stately tree,
Which no rough Tempest makes to reele10Nor their straight bodies bowes,Their lofty tops doe neuer feeleThe weight of winters snowes;
In Groues that euermore are greene,No falling leafe is there,ButPhilomel(of birds the Queene)In Musicke spends the yeare.
TheMerlevpon her mertle Perch,There to theMavissings,Who from the top of some curld Berch20Those notes redoubled rings;
There Daysyes damaske euery placeNor once their beauties lose,That when proudPhœbushides his faceThemselues they scorne to close.
The Pansy and the Violet here,As seeming to descend,Both from one Root, a very payre,For sweetnesse yet contend,
And pointing to a Pinke to tell30Which beares it, it is loath,To iudge it; but replyes for smellThat it excels them both.
Wherewith displeasde they hang their headsSo angry soone they growAnd from their odoriferous bedsTheir sweets at it they throw.
The winter here a Summer is,No waste is made by time,Nor doth the Autumne euer misse40The blossomes of the Prime.
The flower that Iuly forth doth bringIn Aprill here is seene,The Primrose that puts on the SpringIn Iuly decks each Greene.
The sweets for soueraignty contendAnd so abundant be,That to the very Earth they lendAnd Barke of euery Tree:
Rills rising out of euery Banck,50In wild Meanders strayne,And playing many a wanton pranckVpon the speckled plaine,
In Gambols and lascivious GyresTheir time they still bestowNor to their Fountaines none retyres,Nor on their course will goe.
Those Brooks with Lillies brauely deckt,So proud and wanton made,That they their courses quite neglect:60And seeme as though they stayde,
FaireFlorain her state to vieweWhich through those Lillies looks,Or as those Lillies leand to shewTheir beauties to the brooks.
ThatPhœbusin his lofty race,Oft layes aside his beamesAnd comes to coole his glowing faceIn these delicious streames;
Oft spreading Vines clime vp the Cleeues,70Whose ripned clusters there,Their liquid purple drop, which driuesA Vintage through the yeere.
Those Cleeues whose craggy sides are cladWith Trees of sundry sutes,Which make continuall summer glad,Euen bending with their fruits,
Some ripening, ready some to fall,Some blossom'd, some to bloome,Like gorgeous hangings on the wall80Of some rich princely Roome:
Pomegranates,Lymons,Cytrons, soTheir laded branches bow,Their leaues in number that outgoeNor roomth will them alow.
There in perpetuall Summers shade,ApolloesProphets sit,Among the flowres that neuer fade,But flowrish like their wit;
To whom the Nimphes vpon their Lyres,90Tune many a curious lay,And with their most melodious QuiresMake short the longest day.
Thethrice three Virginsheavenly Cleere,Their trembling Timbrels sound,Whilst the three comely Graces thereDance many a dainty Round,
Decay nor Age there nothing knowes,There is continuall Youth,As Time on plant or creatures growes,100So still their strength renewth.
The Poets Paradice this is,To which but few can come;The Muses onely bower of blisseTheir DeareElizium.
Here happy soules, (their blessed bowers,Free from the rude resortOf beastly people) spend the houres,In harmelesse mirth and sport,
Then on to theElizianplaines110Apollodoth invite youWhere he prouides with pastorall straines,In Nimphals to delight you.