So may the heauens reade wonders in my hart.
Behold the Clowdes which haue eclips’d my sunne,
And view the crosses which my course doth let,
Till mee, if euer since the world begunne,
So faire a Morning had so foule a set?
And by all meanes, let black vnkindnes proue,
The patience of so rare diuine a loue.
Amour 50.
When first I ended, then I first began,
The more I trauell, further from my rest,
Where most I lost, there most of all I wan,
Pyned with hunger, rysing from a feast.
Mee thinks I flee, yet want I legs to goe,
Wise in conceite, in acte a very sot,
Rauisht with ioy, amidst a hell of woe,
What most I seeme, that surest am I not.
I build my hopes, a world aboue the skye,
Yet with the Mole, I creepe into the earth,
In plenty, am I staru’d with penury,
And yet I surfet in the greatest dearth.
I haue, I want, dispayre, and yet desire,
Burn’d in a Sea of Ice, & drown’d amidst a fire.
Amour 51.
Goe you my lynes, Embassadors of loue,
With my harts trybute to her conquering eyes,
From whence, if you one teare of pitty moue
For all my woes, that onely shall suffise.
When you Minerua in the sunne behold,
At her perfection stand you then and gaze,
Where, in the compasse of a Marygold,
Meridianis sits within a maze.
And let Inuention of her beauty vaunt,
When Dorus sings his sweet Pamelas loue,
And tell the Gods, Mars is predominant.
Seated with Sol, and weares Mineruas gloue.
And tell the world, that in the world there is
A heauen on earth, on earth no heauen but this.
FINIS.
THE EIGHTH EGLOG.
Good Gorbo of the golden world,
and Saturns raigne doth tell,
And afterward doth make reporte,
of bonnie Dowsabell.
Motto.
SHEPHEARD why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
as though our muse no store at all affordes,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolicke swayne,
and strut the stage with reperfumed wordes.
See how these yonkers raue it out in rime,
who make a traffique of their rarest wits,
And in Bellonas buskin tread it fine,
like Bacchus priests raging in franticke fits.
Those mirtle Groues decay’d, done growe againe,
their rootes refresht with Heliconas spring,
Whose pleasant shade inuites the homely swayne,
to sit him downe and heare the Muses sing.
Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeale,
with Iuie twist thy temples shall be crownd,
Or if she dares hoyse vp top-gallant sayle,
Amongst the rest, then may she be renownd.
Gorbo.
My boy, these yonkers reachen after fame,
and so done presse into the learned troupe,
With filed quill to glorifie their name,
which otherwise were pend in shamefull coupe.
But this hie obiect hath abiected me,
and I must pipe amongst the lowly sorte,
Those little heard-groomes who admir’d to see,
when I by Moone-shine made the fayries sporte.
Who dares describe the toyles of Hercules,
and puts his hand to fames eternall penne,
Must inuocate the soule of Hercules,
attended with the troupes of conquered men.
Who writes of thrice renowmed Theseus,
a monster-tamers rare description,
Trophies the iawes of vglie Cerberus,
and paynts out Styx, and fiery Acheron.
My Muse may not affect night-charming spels,
whose force effects th’Olympicke vault to quake,
Nor call those grysly Goblins from their Cels,
the euer-damned frye of Limbo lake.
And who erects the braue Pyramides,
of Monarches or renowned warriours,
Neede bath his quill for such attempts as these,
in flowing streames of learned Maros showres
For when the great worlds conquerer began,
to proue his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the Poets-God Orpheus ran,
foretold his Prophets had to play vpon.
When Pens and Launces sawe the Olympiad prize,
those chariot triumphes with the Lawrell crowne,
Then gan the worthies glorie first to rise,
and plumes were vayled to the purple gowne.
The grauest Censor, sagest Senator,
with wings of Iustice and Religion,
Mounted the top of Nimrods statelie Tower,
soring vnto that hie celestiall throne:
Where blessed Angels in their heauenly queares,
chaunt Anthemes with shrill Syren harmonie,
Tun’d to the sound of those aye-crouding sphears,
Which herien their makers eternitie.
Those who foretell the times of vnborne men,
and future things in foretime augured,
Haue slumbred in that spell-gods darkest den,
which first inspir’d his prophesiyng head.
Sooth-saying Sibels sleepen long agone,
we haue their reede, but few haue cond their Arte,
Welch-wisard Merlyn, cleueth to a stone,
no Oracle more wonders may impart.
The Infant age could deftly caroll loue,
till greedy thirst of that ambitious honor,
Drew Poets pen, from his sweete lasses gloue,
to chaunt of slaughtering broiles & bloody horror.
Then Ioues loue-theft was priuily discri’d,
how he playd false play in Amphitrios bed,
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide,
gaue Oenon phisick for her maydenhead.
The tender grasse was then the softest bed,
the pleasant’st shades were deem’d the statelyest hals,
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,
nor paynted ragges then couered rotten wals.
Then simple loue with simple vertue way’d,
flowers the fauours which true fayth reuayled,
Kindnes with kindnes was againe repay’d,
with sweetest kisses couenants were sealed.
Then beauties selfe with her selfe beautified,
scornd payntings pergit, and the borrowed hayre,
Nor monstrous formes deformities did hide,
nor foule was vernisht with compounded fayre.
The purest fleece then couered purest skin,
for pride as then with Lucifer remaynd:
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
nor clothes were yet with poysned liquor staynd.
But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
and men her golden intrayles did espie,
This mischiefe then into the world was brought,
this fram’d the mint which coynd our miserie.
Then lofty Pines were by ambition hewne,
and men sea-monsters swamme the brackish flood,
In waynscot tubs, to seeke out worlds vnknowne,
for certain ill to leaue assured good.
The starteling steede is manag’d from the field,
and serues a subiect to the riders lawes,
He whom the churlish bit did neuer weeld,
now feels the courb controll his angrie iawes.
The hammering Vulcane spent his wasting fire,
till he the vse of tempred mettals found,
His anuile wrought the steeled cotes attire,
and forged to
oles to carue the foe-mans wound.
The Citie builder then intrencht his towres,
and wald his wealth within the fenced towne,
Which afterward in bloudy stormy stours,
kindled that flame which burnt his Bulwarks downe.
And thus began th’ Exordium of our woes,
the fatall dumbe shewe of our miserie:
Here sprang the tree on which our mischiefe growes,
the drery subiect of worlds tragedie.
Motto.
Well, shepheard well, the golden age is gone,
wishes may not reuoke that which is past:
It were no wit to make two griefes of one,
our prouerb sayth, Nothing can alwayes last.
Listen to me my louely shepheards ioye,
and thou shalt heare with mirth and mickle glee,
A pretie Tale, which when I was a boy,
my toothles Grandame oft hath tolde to me.
Corbo.
Shepheard say on, so may we passe the time,
There is no doubt it is some worthy ryme.
Motto.
Farre in the countrey of Arden,
There wond a knight hight Cassemen,
as bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eger bent,
In battell and in Tournament,
as was the good sir Topas.
He had as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabell,
a mayden fayre and free:
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was ycond the leyre,
of mickle curtesie.
The silke wel couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine Marchpine,
and with the needle werke,
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His Mattens on a holyday,
and sing a Psalme in Kirke.
She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well be seeme a mayden Queene,
which seemly was to see.
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
y wrought full featuously.
Her feature all as fresh aboue,
As is the grasse that growes by Doue,
as lyth as lasse of Kent:
Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on peakish hull,
or Swanne that swims in Trent.
This mayden in a morne betime,
Went forth when May was in her prime,
to get sweete Ce•ywall,
The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,
The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,
to deck her summer hall.
Thus as she wandred here and there,
Y picking of the bloomed Breere,
she chanced to espie
A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like Chanteclere he crowed crancke,
and pip’d with merrie glee:
He leard his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
to feede about him round:
Whilst he full many a caroll sung,
Vntill the fields and medowes rung,
and that the woods did sound:
In fauour this same shepheards swayne,
was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,
which helde prowd Kings in awe:
But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,
Y like that gentle Abel he,
whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,
which was of the finest loke,
that could be cut with sheere,
His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of Cordiwin,
his hood of Meniueere.
His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
his breech of Coyntrie blew:
Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks,
so like a louer true.
And pyping still he spent the day,
So mery as the Popingay:
which liked Dowsabell,
That would she ought or would she nought,
This lad would neuer from her thought:
she in loue-longing fell,
At length she tucked vp her frocke,
White as the Lilly was her smocke,
she drew the shepheard nie,
But then the shepheard pyp’d a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,
to heare his melodie.
Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,
That haue a iolly shepheards swayne,
the which can pipe so well.
Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away,
in loue of Dowsabell.
Of loue fond boy take thou no keepe,
Quoth she, looke well vnto thy sheepe,
lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, so had I done full well,
Had I not seene fayre Dowsabell,
come forth to gather Maye.
With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheekes were like the Roses red,
but not a word she sayd.
With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
and on the ground him layd.
Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leaue my summer hall vndight,
and all for long of thee.
My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
except thou fauour me.
Sayth she yet leuer I were dead,
Then I should lose my maydenhead,
and all for loue of men:
Sayth he yet are you too vnkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde,
to loue vs now and then:
And I to thee will be as kinde,
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
of curtesie the flower:
Then will I be as true quoth she,
As euer mayden yet might be,
vnto her Paramour:
With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,
and him she sweetely kist.
With that the shepheard whoop’d for ioy,
Quoth he, ther’s neuer shepheards boy,
that euer was so blist.
Gorbo.
Now by my sheep-hooke here’s a tale alone,
Learne me the same and I will giue thee hier,
This were as good as curds for our Ione,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.
Motto.
Why gentle hodge I will not sticke for that,
when we two meeten here another day,
But see whilst we haue set vs downe to chat,
yon tikes of mine begin to steale away.
And if thou wilt but come vnto our greene,
on Lammas day when as we haue our feast,
Thou shalt sit next vnto our summer Queene,
and thou shalt be the onely welcome guest.
THE NINTH EGLOG.
When cole-blacke night with sable vaile
eclipsd the gladsome light,
Rowland in darkesome shade alone,
bemoanes his wofull plight.
WHAT time the wetherbeaten flockes,
forsooke the fields to shrowd them in the folde,
The groues dispoyl’d of their fayre summer lockes,
the leaueles branches nipt with frostie colde,
The drouping trees their gaynesse all agone,
In mossie mantles doe expresse their moane.
When Phoebus from his Lemmans louely bower,
throughout the sphere had ierckt his angry Iades,
His Carre now pass’d the heauens hie welked Tower,
gan dra
gge adowne the occidentall slades,
In silent shade of desart all alone,
Thus to the night, Rowland bewrayes his moane.
Oh blessed starres which lend the darknes light,
the glorious paynting of that circled throane,
You eyes of heauen, you lanthornes of the night,
to you bright starres, to you I make my moane,
Or end my dayes, or ease me of my griefe,
The earth is frayle, and yeelds me no reliefe.
And thou fayre Phebe, cleerer to my sight,
then Tytan is when brightest he hath shone,
Why shouldst thou now shut vp thy blessed light,
and sdayne to looke on thy Endymion?
Perhaps the heauens me thus despight haue done,
Because I durst compare thee with their sunne.
If drery sighes the tempests of my brest,
or streames of teares from floods of weeping eyes,
If downe-cast lookes with darksome cloudes opprest,
or words which with sad accents fall and rise,
If these, nor her, nor you, to pittie moue,
There’s neither helpe in you, nor hope in loue.
Oh fayr’st that liues, yet most vnkindest mayd,
ô whilome thou the ioy of all my flocke,
Why haue thine eyes these eyes of mine betrayd,
Vnto thy hart more hard then flintie rocke,
And lastly thus depriu’d me of their sight,
From whome my loue deriues both life and light.
Those dapper ditties pend vnto her prayse,
and those sweete straynes of tunefull pastorall,
She scorneth as the Lourdayns clownish layes,
and recketh as the rustick madrigall,
Her lippes prophane Ideas sacred name,
And sdayne to read the annals of her fame.
Those gorgeous garlands and those goodly flowers,
wherewith I crown’d her tresses in the prime,
She most abhors, and shuns those pleasant bowers,
made to disport her in the summer time:
She hates the sports and pastimes I inuent,
And as the toade, flies all my meriment.
With holy verses heryed I her gloue,
and dew’d her cheekes with fountaines of my teares,
And carold her full many a lay of loue,
twisting sweete Roses in her golden hayres.
Her wandring sheepe full safely haue I kept,
And watch’d her flocke full oft when she hath slept.
Oenon neuer vpon Ida hill,
so oft hath cald on Alexanders name,
As hath poore Rowland with an Angels quill,
erected trophies of Ideas fame:
Yet that false shepheard Oenon fled from thee,
I follow her that euer flies from me.
Ther’s not a groue that wonders not my woe,
Michael Drayton- Collected Poetical Works Page 19