By this, the night, (with darknes over-spred), Had drawne the curtaines of her cole-blacke bed; And Cynthia, m.u.f.fling her face with a clowd, (Lest all the world of her should be too proud) Had taken conge of the sable night, (That wanting her cannot be halfe so bright.)

When I, poore forlorn man and outcast creature, (Despairing of my love, despisde of beautie), Grew malecontent, scorning his lovely feature, That had disdaind my ever zealous dutie: I hy'd me homeward by the moone-shine light, Foreswaring love, and all his fond delight.

FINIS.

THE SHEPHEARDS CONTENT, OR THE HAPPINES OF A HARMLES LIFE. WRITTEN UPON OCCASION OF THE FORMER SUBJECT.

Of all the kindes of common countrey life, Methinkes a shepheards life is most content; His state is quiet peace, devoyd of strife; His thoughts are pure from all impure intent, His pleasures rate sits at an easie rent; He beares no mallice in his harmles hart, Malicious meaning hath in him no part.

He is not troubled with th' afflicted minde, His cares are onely over silly sheepe; He is not unto jealozie inclinde, (Thrice happie man) he knowes not how to weepe; Whilst I the treble in deepe sorrowes keepe.

I cannot keepe the meane; for why (alas) Griefes have no meane, though I for meane doe pa.s.se.

No briefes nor semi-briefes are in my songs, Because (alas) my griefe is seldome short; My p.r.i.c.k-song's alwayes full of largues and longs, (Because I never can obtaine the port Of my desires: hope is a happie fort).

p.r.i.c.k song (indeed) because it p.r.i.c.ks my hart; And song, because sometimes I ease my smart.

The mightie monarch of a royall realme, Swaying his scepter with a princely pompe, Of his desires cannot so steare the healme, But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe; When as he heares the shrilly sounding trumpe Of forren enemies, or home-bred foes, His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.

Or when bad subjects gainst their soveraigne (Like hollow harts) unnaturally rebell, How carefull is he to suppresse againe Their desperate forces, and their powers to quell With loyall harts, till all againe be well.

When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more, To keepe them under, than it was before.

Thus is he never full of sweete content, But either this or that his joy debars: Now n.o.blemen gainst n.o.blemen are bent, Now gentlemen and others fall at jarrs: Thus is his countrey full of civill warrs; He still in danger sits, still fearing death, For traitors seeke to stop their princes breath.

The whylst the other hath no enemie, Without it be the wolfe and cruell fates, (Which no man spare): when as his disagree, He with his sheephooke knaps them on the pates, Schooling his tender lambs from wanton gates.

Beasts are more kinde than men, sheepe seeke not blood, But countrey caytives kill their countreyes good.

The courtier he fawns for his princes favour, In hope to get a princely ritch reward; His tongue is tipt with honey for to glaver, Pride deales the deck, whilst chance doth choose the card; Then comes another and his game hath mard, Sitting betwixt him and the morning sun; Thus night is come before the day is done.

Some courtiers, carefull of their princes health, Attend his person with all dilligence; Whose hand's their hart, whose welfare is their wealth, Whose safe protection is their sure defence, For pure affection, not for hope of pence: Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde, Of him that is to vertue still inclinde.

The skilfull scholler, and brave man at armes, First plies his booke, last fights for countries peace; Th' one feares oblivion, th' other fresh alarmes: His paines nere ende, his travailes never cease; His with the day, his with the night increase: He studies how to get eternall fame, The souldier fights to win a glorious name.

The knight, the squire, the gentleman, the clowne, Are full of crosses and calamities, Lest fickle fortune should begin to frowne, And turne their mirth to extreame miseries, Nothing more certaine than incertainties!

Fortune is full of fresh varietie, Constant in nothing but inconstancie.

The wealthie merchant that doth crosse the seas, To Denmarke, Poland, Spaine, and Barbarie, For all his ritches, lives not still at ease; Sometimes he feares ship-spoyling pyracie, Another while deceipt and treacherie Of his owne factors in a forren land; Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand.

Well is he tearmd a merchant-venturer, Since he doth venter lands, and goods and all; When he doth travell for his traffique far, Little he knowes what fortune may befall, Or rather, what mis-fortune happen shall: Sometimes he splits his ship against a rocke, Loosing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stocke.

And if he so escape with life away, He counts himselfe a man most fortunate, Because the waves their rigorous rage did stay, (When being within their cruell powers of late, The seas did seeme to pittie his estate).

But yet he never can recover health, Because his joy was drowned with his wealth.

The painfull plough-swaine, and the husband-man, Rise up each morning by the breake of day, Taking what toyle and drudging paines they can, And all is for to get a little stay; And yet they cannot put their care away: When night is come, their cares begin afresh, Thinking upon their morrowes busines.

Thus everie man is troubled with unrest, From rich to poore, from high to low degree: Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest, That neither cares for wealth nor povertie, But laughs at Fortune, and her foolerie, That gives rich churles great store of golde and fee, And lets poore schollers live in miserie.

O, fading branches of decaying bayes, Who now will water your dry-wither'd armes?

Or where is he that sung the lovely layes Of simple shepheards in their countrey-farmes?

Ah! he is dead, the cause of all our harmes: And with him dide my joy and sweete delight; The cleare to clowdes, the day is turnd to night.

SYDNEY, the syren of this latter age; SYDNEY, the blasing-starre of England's glory; SYDNEY, the wonder of the wise and sage; SYDNEY, the subject of true vertues story: This syren, starre, this wonder, and this subject, Is dumbe, dim, gone, and mard by fortune's object.

And thou, my sweete Amintas, vertuous minde, Should I forget thy learning or thy love, Well might I be accounted but unkinde, Whose pure affection I so oft did prove, Might my poore plaints hard stones to pitty move!

His losse should be lamented of each creature, So great his name, so gentle was his nature.

But sleepe his soule in sweet Elysium, (The happy haven of eternall rest); And let me to my former matter come, Proving, by reason, shepheard's life is best, Because he harbours vertue in his brest; And is content, (the chiefest thing of all), With any fortune that shall him befall.

He sits all day lowd-piping on a hill, The whilst his flocke about him daunce apace, His hart with joy, his eares with musique fill: Anon a bleating weather beares the bace, A lambe the treble, and to his disgrace Another answers like a middle meane, Thus every one to beare a part are faine.

Like a great king he rules a little land, Still making statutes and ordayning lawes, Which if they breake, he beates them with his wand; He doth defend them from the greedy jawes Of rav'ning woolves, and lyons bloudy pawes.

His field, his realme; his subjects are his sheepe; Which he doth still in due obedience keepe.

First he ordaines by act of parlament, (Holden by custome in each country towne), That if a sheepe (with any bad intent) Presume to breake the neighbour hedges downe, Or haunt strange pastures that be not his owne, He shall be pounded for his l.u.s.tines, Untill his master finde out some redres.

Also if any prove a strageller From his owne fellowes in a forraine field, He shall be taken for a wanderer, And forc'd himselfe immediatly to yeeld; Or with a wyde-mouth'd mastive curre be kild; And if not claimd within a twelve month's s.p.a.ce, He shall remaine with land-lord of the place.

Or if one stray to feede far from the rest, He shall be pincht by his swift pye-bald curre; If any by his fellowes be opprest, The wronger, (for he doth all wrong abhorre), Shall be well bangd so long as he can sturre, Because he did anoy his harmeles brother, That meant not harme to him nor any other.

And last of all, if any wanton weather, With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine, He shall be forc'd t' abide cold frosty weather, And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine, Till his new fleece begins to grow againe: And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goe Without a new coate all the winter throw.

Thus doth he keepe them still in awfull feare, And yet allowes them liberty inough; So deare to him their welfare doth appeare, That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough, He combs and trims them with a rampicke bough, Washing them in the streames of silver Ladon, To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.

Another while he wooes his country wench, With chaplet crownd and gaudy girlonds dight, Whose burning l.u.s.t her modest eye doth quench; Standing amazed at her heavenly sight, Beauty doth ravish sense with sweet delight, Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed browe, When sun-bright smiles melt flakes of driven snowe.

Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day, And when night comes drawes homeward to his coate, Singing a jigge or merry roundelay, For who sings commonly so merry a noate, As he that cannot chop or change a groate?

And in the winter nights his chiefe desire, He turnes a crabbe or cracknell in the fire.

He leads his wench a country horne-pipe round, About a may-pole on a holy-day, Kissing his lovely la.s.se with garlands crownd, With whoopping heigh-ho singing care away.

Thus doth he pa.s.se the merry month of May, And all th' yere after, in delight and joy; Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.

What though with simple cheere he homely fares, He lives content; a king can doo no more, Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares, But he hath none, except it be that sore Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore, The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love?

That conquers kingdomes, and the G.o.ds above.

Deepe-wounding arrow, hart-consuming fire, Ruler of reason, slave to tyrant beautie, Monarch of harts, fuell of fond desire, Prentice to folly, foe to fained duetie.

Pledge of true zeale, affections moitie, If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee, Alas! how can a silly soule resist thee?

By thee great Collin lost his libertie, By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his joy; By thee Amyntas wept incessantly, By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy; O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy, How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?

If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee.

A shepheard loves no ill, but onely thee; He hath no care, but onely by thy causing: Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shafts at mee?

Give me some respite, some short time of pausing: Still my sweet love with bitter lucke th'art sawcing: Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might, Kill mightie kings, and not a wretched wight.

Yet, O enthraller of infranchizd harts, At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming, Doo me this favour, show me both thy darts, That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming, A free consent is priviledgd from blaming.

Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden arrow, That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow.

But let mee feele the force of thy lead pyle, What should I doo with love when I am old?