English

Now he that guides the chariot of the sun,
Upon th' ecliptic circle had so run,
That his brass-hoof'd fire-breathing horses wan
The stately height of the meridian:
And the day-lab'ring man (who all the morn
Had from the quarry with his pickaxe torn
A large well-squared stone, which he would cut
To serve his stile, or for some water-shut)
Seeing the sun preparing to decline,
Took out his bag, and sat him down to dine:
When by a sliding, yet not steep descent,
I gain'd a place, ne'er poet did invent

Thence to the city once I thought to go,
But somewhat in my mind this thought had thrown,
It was a place wherein I was not known,
And therefore went unto these homely towns,
Sweetly environ'd with the daisied downs.
Upon a stream washing a village end
A mill is plac'd, that never difference kenn'd
'Twixt days for work, and holy-tides for rest,
But always wrought and ground the neighbours' grist.
Before the door I saw the miller walking,
And other two (his neighbours) with him talking:
One of them was a weaver, and the other

In winter's time, when hardly fed the flocks,
And icicles hung dangling on the rocks;
When Hyems bound the floods in silver chains,
And hoary frosts had candied all the plains;
When every barn rung with the threshing flails,
And shepherds' boys for cold 'gan blow their nails:
Wearied with toil in seeking out some one
That had a spark of true devotion,
It was my chance (chance only helpeth need)
To find an house ybuilt for holy deed,
With goodly architect, and cloisters wide,
With groves and walks along a river's side;

Maiden, arise, replied the new-born maid:
" Pure Innocence the senseless stones will aid. "
Nor of the fairy troop, nor Muses nine,
Nor am I Venus, nor of Proserpine:
But daughter to a lusty aged swain,
That cuts the green tufts off th' enamell'd plain;
And with his scythe hath many a summer shorn
The plough'd-lands lab'ring with a crop of corn;
Who from the cloud-clipt mountain by his stroke
Fells down the lofty pine, the cedar, oak:
He opes the flood-gates as occasion is,
Sometimes on that man's land, sometimes on this.

When she was born, Nature in sport began
To learn the cunning of an artisan,
And did vermilion with a white compose,
To mock herself and paint a damask rose.
But scorning Nature unto Art should seek,
She spilt her colours on this maiden's cheek.
Her mouth the gate from whence all goodness came,
Of power to give the dead a living name.
Her words embalmed in so sweet a breath,
That made them triumph both on Time and Death;
Whose fragrant sweets, since the chameleon knew,
And tasted of, he to this humour grew,

Riot he hight; whom some curs'd fiend did raise,
When like a chaos were the nights and days:
Got and brought up in the Cimmerian clime,
Where sun nor moon, nor days, nor nights do time:
As who should say, they scorn'd to show their faces
To such a fiend should seek to spoil the Graces.
At sight whereof Fida, nigh drown'd in fear,
Was clean dismay'd when he approached near;
Nor durst she call the deer, nor whistling wind her,
Fearing her noise might make the monster find her;
Who slyly came, for he had cunning learn'd him,

Happy ye days of old, when every waste
Was like a Sanctuary to the chaste;
When incests, rapes, adulteries, were not known;
All pure as blossoms which are newly blown.
Maids were as free from spots, and soils within,
As most unblemish'd in the outward skin.
Men every plain and cottage did afford,
As smooth in deeds, as they were fair of word.
Maidens with men as sisters with their brothers,
And men with maids convers'd as with their mothers;
Free from suspicion, or the rage of blood.

Remond, that by the dog the master knew,
Came back, and angry bade him to pursue.
Dory (quoth he), if your ill-tutor'd dog
Have nought of awe, then let him have a clog.
Do you not know this seely timorous deer,
(As usual to his kind) hunted whilere
The sun not ten degrees got in the signs,
Since to our maids, here gathering columbines,
She weeping came, and with her head low laid
In Fida's lap, did humbly beg for aid.
Whereat unto the hounds they gave a check,
And saving her, might spy about her neck

O true delight, enharbouring the breasts
Of those sweet creatures with the plumy crests.
Had Nature unto man such simpl'ess given,
He would, like birds, be far more near to heaven.
But Doridon well knew (who knows no less?)
" Man's compounds have o'erthrown his simpleness. "
Noontide the Morn had woo'd, and she 'gan yield,
When Doridon (made ready for the field)
Goes sadly forth (a woful shepherd's lad)
Drowned in tears, his mind with grief yclad,

Under the hollow hanging of this hill
There was a cave cut out by Nature's skill:
Or else it seem'd the mount did open's breast,
That all might see what thoughts he there possess'd.
Whose gloomy entrance was environ'd round
With shrubs that cloy ill husbands' meadow-ground:
The thick-grown hawthorn and the binding briar,
The holly that out-dares cold winter's ire:
Who all entwin'd, each limb with limb did deal,
That scarce a glimpse of light could inward steal.
An uncouth place, fit for an uncouth mind,