amids thy ioyes Or if thou lt goe vnto the Riuer side To angle for the sweet fresh-water 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 siluer and thy bayts of milke Or if thou lou'st to heare sweet Melodie Or pipe a Round vpon an Oaten Reede Or make thy selfe glad with some myrthfull glee Or play them Musicke whilst thy flocke doth feede To Pans owne Pype I le helpe my louely Lad Pans golden Pype which he of Syrinx had Or if thou dar'st to climbe the highest Trees For Apples Cherries Medlars Peares or Plumbs Nuts Walnuts Filbeards Chest-nuts Ceruices The hoary Peach when snowy winter comes I haue fine Orchards full of mellowed frute Which I will giue thee to obtaine my sute Not proud Alcynous himselfe can vaunt Of goodlier Orchards or of brauer Trees Than I haue 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 lou'st mee for my Coyne till I haue none Leaue Guendolen sweet hart though she be faire Yet is she light not light in vertue shining But light in her behauiour to impaire Her honour in her Chastities 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 sheep-cote shall be strowd with new greene rushes Wee le haunt the trembling Prickets as they rome About the fields along the hauthorne bushes I haue a pie-bald Curre to hunt the Hare So we will liue with daintie forrest fare Nay more than this I haue 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 Lauender incloses There growes the Gilliflowre the Mynt the Dayzie Both red and white the blew-veynd-Violet The purple Hyacinth the Spyke to please thee The scarlet dyde Carnation bleeding yet The Sage the Sauery and sweet Margerum Isop Tyme Eye-bright good for the blinde dumbe The Pinke the Primrose Cowslip and Daffadilly The Hare-bell blue the crimson Cullumbine Sage Lettis Parsley and the milke-white Lilly The Rose and speckled flowre cald Sops in wine Fine pretie King-cups and the yellow Bootes That growes by Riuers and by shallow Brookes And manie thousand moe I cannot name Of hearbs and flowers that in gardens grow I haue for thee and Coneyes that be tame Yong Rabbets white as Swan and blacke as Crow Some speckled here and there with daintie spots And more I haue two mylch and milke-white Goates All these and more I le giue thee for thy loue If these and more may tycethy loue away I haue a Pidgeon-house in it a Doue Which I loue more than mortall tongue can say And last of all I le giue thee a little Lambe To play withall new weaned from her Dam. But if thou wilt not pittie my Complaint My Teares nor Vowes nor Oathes made to thy Beautie What shall I doo But languish die or saint Since thou dost scorne my Teares and my Soules Duetie And Teares contemned Vowes and Oaths must faile For where Teares cannot nothing can preuaile Compare the loue of faire Queene Guendolin With mine and thou shalt ee how she doth loue thee I loue thee for thy qualities diuine But Shee doth loue another Swaine aboue thee I loue thee for thy gifts She for hir pleasure I for thy Vertue She for Beauties treasure And alwaies I am sure it cannot last But sometime Nature will denie those dimples In steed of Beautie when thy Blossom's past Thy face will be deformed full of wrinckles Then She that lou'd thee for thy Beauties sake When Age drawes on thy loue will soone forsake But I that lou'd thee for thy gifts diuine In the December of thy Beauties waning Will still admire with ioy those louely eine That now behold me with their beauties baning Though Ianuarie will neuer come againe Yet Aprill yeres will come in showers of raine When will my May come that I may embrace thee When will the hower be of my soules ioying Why dost thou seeke in mirth still to disgrace mee Whose mirth 's my health whose griefe 's my harts annoying Thy bane my bale thy blisse my blessednes Thy ill my hell thy weale my welfare is Thus doo I honour thee that loue thee so And loue thee so that so doo honour thee Much more than anie mortall man doth know Or can discerne by Loue or Iealozie But if that thou disdainst my louing euer Oh happie I if I had loued neuer Finis Plus fellis quam mellis Amor. The second Dayes Lamentation of the Affectionate Shepheard NExt Morning when the golden Sunne was risen And new had bid good morrow to the Mountaines When Night her siluer light had lockt in prison Which gaue a glimmering on the christall Fountaines Then ended sleepe and then my cares began Eu'n with the vprising of the siluer Swan Oh glorious Sunne quoth I viewing the Sunne That lightenst euerie thing but me alone Why is my Summer season almost done My Spring-time past and Ages Autumne gone My Haruest's come and yet I reapt no corne My loue is great and yet I am forlorne Witnes these watrie eyes my sad lament Receauing cisternes of my ceafeles teares Witnes my bleeding hart my soules intent Witnes the weight distressed Daphnis beares Sweet Loue come ease me of thy burthens paine Or els I die or else my hart is slaine And thou loue-scorning Boy cruell vnkinde Oh let me once againe intreat some pittie May be thou wilt relent thy marble minde And lend thine eares vnto my dolefull Dittie Oh pittie him that pittie craues so sweetly Or else thou shalt be neuer named meekly If thou wilt loue me thou shalt be my Boy My sweet Delight the Comfort of my minde My Loue my Doue my Sollace and my Ioy But if I can no grace nor mercie finde I le goe to Caucasus to ease my smart And let a Vulture gnaw vpon my hart Yet if thou wilt but show me one kinde looke A small reward for my so great affection I le graue thy name in Beauties golden Booke And shrowd thee vnder Hellicons protection Making the Muses chaunt thy louely prayse For they delight in Shepheards lowly layes And when th' art wearie of thy keeping Sheepe Vpon a louely Downe to please thy minde I le giue thee fine ruffe-footed Doues to keepe And pretie Pidgeons of another kinde A Robbin-red-brest shall thy Minstrell bee Chirping thee sweet and pleasant Melodie Or if thou wilt goe shoote at little Birds With bow and boult the Thrustle-cocke and Sparrow Such as our Countrey hedges can afford's I haue a fine bowe and an yuorie arrow And if thou misse yet meate thou shalt lacke I le hang a bag
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 liues 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 trauell 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 waues their rigorous rage did stay When being within their cruell powers of late The Seas did seeme to pittie his estate But yet he neuer can recouer health Because his ioy was drowned with his wealth The painfull Plough-swaine and the Husband-man Rise vp 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 vpon their Morrowes busines Thus euerie man is troubled with vnrest From rich to poore from high to low degree Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest That neither cares for wealth nor pouertie But laughs at Fortune and her foolerie That giues rich Churles great store of golde and fee And lets poore Schollers liue in miserie O fading Branches of decaying Bayes Who now will water your dry-wither'd Armes Or where is he that sung the louely Layes Of simple Shepheards in their Countrey Farmes Ah he is dead the cause of all our harmes And with him dide my ioy 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 Englands glory SYDNEY The Wonder of the wise and sage SYDNEY The Subiect of true Vertues story This Syren Starre this Wonder and this Subiect Is dumbe dim gone and mard by Fortunes Obiect And thou my sweete Amintas vertuous minde Should I forgetthy Learning or thy Loue Well might I be accounted but vnkinde Whose pure affection I so oft did proue Might my poore Plaints hard stones to pitty moue 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 Hauen of eternall rest And let me to my former matter come Prouing by Reason Shepheards 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 ioy 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 euery 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 Iawes Of rau'ning Woolues and Lyons bloudy Pawes His Field his Realme his Subiects 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 lustines Vntill his Master finde out some redres Also if any proue 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 Mastiue Currre be kild And if not claimd within a twelue-months space 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 beforc'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 siluer Ladon To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption Another while he wooes his Country Wench With Chaplets crownd and gaudy girlonds dight Whose burning Lust her modest eye doth quench Standing amazed at her heauenly sight Beauty doth rauish Sense with sweet Delight Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed Browe When Sun-bright smiles melts flakes of driuen snowe Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day And when Night comes drawes homeward to his Coate Singing a Ijgge 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 louely Lasse with Garlands Crownd With whoopping heigh-ho singing Care away Thus doth he passe the merry month of May And all th'yere after in delight and ioy Scorning a King he cares for no annoy What though with simple cheere he homely sares He liues content a King can doo no more Nay not so much for Kings haue manie cares But he hath none except it be that sore Which yong and old which vexeth ritch and poore The pangs of Loue. O! who can vanquish Loue That conquers Kingdomes and the Gods aboue Deepe-wounding Arrow hart-consuming Fire Ruler of Reason slaue 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 ioy By thee Amyntas wept incessantly By thee good Rowland liu'd in great annoy O cruell peeuish 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 loues no ill but onely thee He hath no care but onely by thy causing Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shasts at mee Giue me some respite some short time of pausing Still my sweet Loue 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 fauour show me both thy Darts That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming A free consent is priuiledgd 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 loue when I am old I know not how to flatter fawne or smyle Then stay thy hand O cruell Bow-man hold For if thou strik'ft me with thy dart of gold I sweare to thee by Ioues immortall curse I haue more in my hart than in my purse The more I weepe the more he bends his Brow For in my hart a golden Shaft I finde Cruell vnkinde and wilt thou leaue me so Can no remorce nor pittie moue thy minde Is Mercie in the Heauens so hard to finde Oh then it is no meruaile that on earth Of kinde Remorce there is so great a dearth How happie were a harmles Shepheards life If he had neuer knowen what Loue did meane But now fond Loue in euery place is rife Staining the purest Soule with spots vncleane Making thicke purses thin fat bodies leane Loue is a fiend a fire a heauen a hell Where pleasure paine and sad repentance dwell There are so manie Danaes now a dayes That loue for lucre paine for gaine is sold No true affection can their fancie please Except it be a Ioue to raine downe gold Into their laps which they wyde open hold If legempone comes he is receau'd When Uix haud habeo is of hope bereau'd Thus haue I showed in my Countrey vaine The sweet Content that Shepheards still inioy The mickle pleasure and the little paine That euer doth awayte the Shepheards Boy His hart is neuer troubled with annoy He is a King for he commaunds his Sheepe He knowes no woe for he doth seldome weepe He is a Courtier for he courts his Loue He is a Scholler for he sings sweet Ditties He is a Souldier for he wounds doth proue He is the same of Townes the shame of Citties He scornes false Fortune but true Vertue pitties He is a Gentleman because his nature Is kinde and affable to euerie Creature Who would not then a simple Shepheard bee Rather than be a mightie Monarch made Since he inioyes such perfect libertie As neuer can decay nor neuer fade He seldome sits in dolefull Cypresse shade But liues in hope in ioy in peace in blisse Ioying all ioy with this content of his But now good-fortune lands my little Boate Vpon the shoare of his desired rest Now must I leaue awhile my rurall noate To thinke on him whom my soule loueth best He that can make the most vnhappie blest In whose sweete lap I le lay me downe to sleepe And neuer wake till Marble-stones shall weepe FINIS SONNET Loe here behold these tributarie Teares Paid to thy faire but cruell tyrant Eyes Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares Nipt with the fresh of thy Wraths winter dyes Here on Loues Altar I doo offer vp This burning hart for my Soules sacrifice Here I receaue this deadly-poysned Cu Of Circe charm'd wherein deepe Magickelyes Then Teares if you be happie Teares indeed And Hart if thou be lodged in his brest And Cup if thou canst helpe despaire with speed Teares Hart and Cup conioyne to make me blest Teares moue Hart win Cup cause ruth loue desire In word in deed by moane by zeale by fire FINIS THE COMPLAINT OF CHASTITIE Briefely touching the cause of the death of Matilda Fitzwalters an English Ladie sometime loued of King Iohn after poysoned The Storie is at large written by Michael Dreyton YOV modest Dames inricht with Chastitie Maske your bright eyes with Vestaes sable Vaile Since few are left so faire or chast as shee Matter for me to weepe you to bewaile For manie seeming so of Vertue faile Whose louely Cheeks with rare vermilion tainted Can neuer blush because their faire is painted O faire-foule Tincture staine of Woman-kinde Mother of Mischiefe Daughter of Deceate False traitor to the Soule blot to the Minde Vsurping Tyrant of true Beauties seate Right Cousner of the eye lewd Follies baite The flag of filthines the sinke of shame The Diuells dye dishonour of thy name Monster of Art Bastard of bad Desier Il-worshipt Idoll false Imagerie Ensigne of Vice to thine owne selfe a lier Silent Inchaunter mindes Anatomie Sly Bawd to Lust Pandor to Infamie Slaunder of Truth Truth of Difsimulation Staining our Clymate more than anie Nation What shall I say to thee thou scorne of Nature Blacke spot of sinne vylde lure of lecherie Iniurious Blame to euerie faemale creature Wronger of time Broker of trecherie Trap of greene youth false Womens witcherie Hand-maid of pride high-way to wickednesse Yet path-way to Repentance nerethelesse Thou dost entice the minde to dooing euill Thou setst dissention twixt the man and wife A Saint in show and yet indeed a deuill Thou art the cause of euerie common strife Thou art the life of Death the death of Life Thou doost betray thy selfe to Infamie When thou art once discerned by the eye Ah little knew Matilda of thy being Those Times were pure from all impure complection Then Loue came of Desert Desire of seeing Then Vertue was the mother of Affection But Beautie now is vnder no subiection Then women were the same that men did deeme But now they are the same they doo not seeme What faemale now intreated of a King With gold and iewels pearles and precious stones Would willingly refuse so sweete a thing Onely for a little show of Vertue ones Women haue kindnes grafted in their bones Gold is a deepe-perswading Orator Especially where few the fault abhor But yet shee rather deadly poyson chose Oh cruell Bane of most accursed Clime Than staine that milke-white Mayden-virgin Rose Which shee had kept vnspotted till that time And not corrupted with this earthly slime Her soule shall liue inclosd eternally In that pure shrine of Immortality This is my Doome and this shall come to passe For what are Pleasures but still-vading ioyes Fading as flowers brittle as a glasse Or Potters Clay crost with the least annoyes All things in this life are but trifling Toyes But Fame and Vertue neuer shall decay For Fame is Toomblesse Vertue liues for aye FINIS Hellens Rape OR A light Lanthorne for light Ladies Written in English Hexameters LOuely a Lasse so loue da Lasse