The Affectionate Shepherd.

by Richard Barnfield.

PREFACE.

Two copies only of the poem by Barnfield here reprinted, are known to be preserved; one in Sion College Library, and another, formerly in Heber's possession, mentioned in "Bibliotheca Heberiana," iv. 15. Its merits and great rarity have pointed it out as a work deserving to be more known and appreciated. Barnfield is, perhaps, chiefly remembered by his elegant pieces printed in the "Pa.s.sionate Pilgrim," attributed by some to Shakespeare; but Mr. Collier has distinctly proved them to belong to the less eminent poet. The "Affectionate Shepherd" was his first production, as he himself confesses in the preface to his "Cynthia,"

1595, and it has received the well-merited commendation of Warton.

Besides these poems, he is the author of "The Complaint of Poetrie for the death of Liberalitie," 4to. 1598, and others published at the same time, reprints of which are in the British Museum; also "The Encomium of Lady Pecunia, or the Praise of Money," a curious ma.n.u.script in the Ashmolean Museum, and likewise printed in the author's life-time. It should be mentioned that in the original copies of the following tract are a few hexameter verses on the Rape of Helen, which have been omitted as of an inferior kind to the other part of the work, and for still more obvious reasons. The "Affectionate Shepherd" itself will be found remarkably free from the coa.r.s.eness which disfigures so much of the Elizabethan literature,--an additional inducement, if any were necessary, for rescuing it from the liability to destruction which is of course incident to any book of such excessive rarity. Our thanks are due to the Rev. H. Christmas, Librarian of Sion College, for the courtesy and liberality with which he permitted our transcript to be made from a volume of tracts possessing the greatest charm for the bibliographer; for besides the present one, it contains the first edition of Shakespeare's Lucrece, and several other pieces of nearly equal value, in the finest possible condition.

TO THE RIGHT EXCELLENT AND MOST BEAUTIFULL LADY, THE LADIE PENELOPE RITCH.

Fayre lovely ladie, whose angelique eyes Are vestall candles of sweet beauties treasure, Whose speech is able to inchaunt the wise, Converting joy to paine, and paine to pleasure; Accept this simple toy of my soules dutie, Which I present unto thy matchles beautie.

And albeit the gift be all too meane, Too meane an offring for thine ivorie shrine; Yet must thy beautie my just blame susteane, Since it is mortall, but thyselfe divine.

Then, n.o.ble ladie, take in gentle worth This new-borne babe, which here my muse brings forth.

Your Honours most affectionate and perpetually devoted Shepheard:

DAPHNIS.

THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD.

THE TEARES OF AN AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD SICKE FOR LOVE, OR THE COMPLAINT OF DAPHNIS FOR THE LOVE OF GANIMEDE.

Scarce had the morning starre hid from the light Heavens crimson canopie with stars bespangled, But I began to rue th' unhappy sight Of that faire boy that had my hart intangled; Cursing the time, the place, the sense, the sin; I came, I saw, I viewd, I slipped in.

If it be sinne to love a sweet-fac'd boy, Whose amber locks trust up in golden tramels Dangle adowne his lovely cheekes with joy, When pearle and flowers his faire haire enamels; If it be sinne to love a lovely lad, Oh then sinne I, for whom my soule is sad.

His ivory-white and alablaster skin Is staind throughout with rare vermillion red, Whose twinckling starrie lights doe never blin To shine on lovely Venus, Beauties bed; But as the lillie and the blushing rose, So white and red on him in order growes.

Upon a time the nymphs bestird them-selves To trie who could his beautie soonest win; But he accounted them but all as elves, Except it were the faire Queene Guendolen: Her he embrac'd, of her was beloved, With plaints he proved, and with teares he moved.

But her an old man had beene sutor too, That in his age began to doate againe; Her would he often pray, and often woo, When through old age enfeebled was his braine: But she before had lov'd a l.u.s.tie youth, That now was dead, the cause of all her ruth.

And thus it hapned, Death and Cupid met Upon a time at swilling Bacchus house, Where daintie cates upon the boord were set, And goblets full of wine to drinke carouse: Where Love and Death did love the licor so, That out they fall and to the fray they goe.

And having both their quivers at their backe Fild full of arrows; th' one of fatall steele, The other all of gold; Deaths shaft was black, But Loves was yellow: Fortune turnd her wheele, And from Deaths quiver fell a fatall shaft, That under Cupid by the winde was waft.

And at the same time by ill hap there fell Another arrow out of Cupids quiver, The which was carried by the winde at will, And under Death the amorous shaft did shiver: They being parted, Love tooke up Deaths dart, And Death tooke up Loves arrow for his part.

Thus as they wandred both about the world, At last Death met with one of feeble age: Wherewith he drew a shaft and at him hurld The unknowne arrow with a furious rage, Thinking to strike him dead with Deaths blacke dart; But he, alas, with Love did wound his hart!

This was the doting foole, this was the man That lov'd faire Guendolena, Queene of Beautie; Shee cannot shake him off, doo what she can, For he hath vowd to her his soules last duety: Making him trim upon the holydaies, And crownes his love with garlands made of baies.

Now doth he stroke his beard, and now againe He wipes the drivel from his filthy chin; Now offers he a kisse, but high Disdaine Will not permit her hart to pity him: Her hart more hard than adamant or steele, Her hart more changeable than Fortunes wheele.

But leave we him in love up to the eares, And tell how Love behav'd himselfe abroad; Who seeing one that mourned still in teares, A young man groaning under Loves great load, Thinking to ease his burden, rid his paines, For men have griefe as long as life remaines.

Alas, the while that unawares he drue The fatall shaft that Death had dropt before, By which deceit great harme did then insue, Stayning his face with blood and filthy goare: His face, that was to Guendolen more deere Than love of lords, or any lordly peere.

This was that faire and beautifull young man, Whom Guendolena so lamented for; This is that Love whom she doth curse and ban, Because she doth that dismall chaunce abhor: And if it were not for his mothers sake, Even Ganimede himselfe she would forsake.

Oh would shee would forsake my Ganimede, Whose sugred love is full of sweete delight, Upon whose forehead you may plainely reade Loves pleasure grav'd in yvorie tables bright: In whose faire eye-b.a.l.l.s you may clearely see Base Love still staind with foule indignitie.

Oh would to G.o.d he would but pitty mee, That love him more than any mortall wight!

Then he and I with love would soone agree, That now cannot abide his sutors sight.

O would to G.o.d, so I might have my fee, My lips were honey, and thy mouth a bee!

Then shouldst thou sucke my sweete and my faire flower, That now is ripe and full of honey-berries; Then would I leade thee to my pleasant bower, Fild full of grapes, of mulberries, and cherries: Then shouldst thou be my waspe or else my bee, I would thy hive, and thou my honey, bee.

I would put amber bracelets on thy wrests, Crownets of pearle about thy naked armes: And when thou sitst at swilling Bacchus feasts My lips with charmes should save thee from all harmes: And when in sleepe thou tookst thy chiefest pleasure, Mine eyes should gaze upon thine eyelids treasure.

And every morne by dawning of the day, When Phoebus riseth with a blushing face, Silva.n.u.s chappel-clarkes shall chaunt a lay, And play thee hunts-up in thy resting place: My coote thy chamber, my bosome thy bed Shall be appointed for thy sleepy head.

And when it pleaseth thee to walke abroad, Abroad into the fields to take fresh ayre, The meades with Floras treasure should be strowde, The mantled meaddowes, and the fields so fayre.

And by a silver well with golden sands Ile sit me downe, and wash thine yvory hands.

And in the sweltring heate of summer time, I would make cabinets for thee, my love; Sweet-smelling arbours made of eglantine Should be thy shrine, and I would be thy dove.

Cool cabinets of fresh greene laurell boughs Should shadow us, ore-set with thicke-set eughes.

Or if thou list to bathe thy naked limbs Within the cristall of a pearle-bright brooke, Paved with dainty pibbles to the brims, Or cleare, wherein thyselfe thyselfe mayst looke; Weele goe to Ladon, whose still trickling noyse Will lull thee fast asleepe amids thy joyes.

Or if thoult goe unto the river side, To angle for the sweet freshwater fish, Arm'd with thy implements that will abide, Thy rod, hooke, line, to take a dainty dish; Thy rods shall be of cane, thy lines of silke, Thy hooks of silver, and thy bayts of milke.

Or if thou lov'st to hear sweet melodie, Or pipe a round upon an oaten reede, Or make thyselfe glad with some myrthfull glee, Or play them musicke whilst thy flocke doth feede.

To Pans owne pype Ile helpe my lovely lad, Pans golden pype, which he of Syrinx had.

Or if thou darst to climbe the highest trees For apples, cherries, medlars, peares, or plumbs, Nuts, walnuts, filbeards, chestnuts, cervices, The h.o.a.ry peach, when snowy winter comes; I have fine orchards full of mellowed frute, Which I will give thee to obtaine my sute.

Not proud Alcynous himselfe can vaunt Of goodlier orchards or of braver trees Than I have planted; yet thou wilt not graunt My simple sute, but like the honey bees Thou suckst the flowre till all the sweet be gone, And loost mee for my coyne till I have none.

Leave Guendolen, sweet hart; though she be faire, Yet is she light; not light in vertue shining, But light in her behaviour, to impaire Her honour in her chast.i.ties declining; Trust not her teares, for they can wantonnize, When teares in pearle are trickling from her eyes.

If thou wilt come and dwell with me at home, My sheepcote shall be strowed with new greene rushes: Weele haunt the trembling p.r.i.c.kets as they rome About the fields, along the hauthorne bushes; I have a pie-bald curre to hunt the hare, So we will live with daintie forrest fare.

Nay, more than this, I have a garden plot, Wherein there wants nor hearbs, nor roots, nor flowers; Flowers to smell, roots to eate, hearbs for the pot, And dainty shelters when the welkin lowers: Sweet-smelling beds of lillies, and of roses, Which rosemary banks and lavender incloses.