English

Half way the hill, near to those aged trees,
Whose insides are as hives for lab'ring bees,
(As who should say, before their roots were dead,
For good work's sake and alms they harboured
Those whom nought else did cover but the skies:)
A path, untrodden but of beasts, there lies,
Directing to a cave in yonder glade,
Where all this forest's citizens for shade
At noon-time come, and are the first, I think,
That (running through that cave) my waters drink:
Within this rock there sits a woful wight,

Marine the fair, hearing his wooing tale,
Perceived well what wall his thoughts did scale;
And answer'd thus: I pray, Sir Swain, what boot
Is it to me to pluck up by the root
My former love, and in his place to sow
As ill a seed, for anything I know?
Rather 'gainst thee I mortal hate retain,
That seek'st to plant in me new cares, new pain.
Alas! th'hast kept my soul from death's sweet bands
To give me over to a tyrant's hands,
Who on his racks will torture by his power
This weaken'd, harmless body, every hour.

Once in the shade, when she by sleep repos'd,
And her clear eyes 'twixt her fair lids enclos'd,
The shepherd swain began to hate and curse
That day unfortunate, which was the nurse
Of all his sorrows. He had given breath
And life to her which was his cause of death.
O Æsop's snake, that thirstest for his blood,
From whom thyself receiv'd'st a certain good.
Thus oftentimes unto himself alone
Would he recount his grief, utter his moan;
And after much debating, did resolve
Rather his grandame Earth should clean involve

A shepherd (near this flood that fed his sheep,
Who at this chance left grazing and did weep)
Having so sad an object for his eyes,
Left pipe and flock, and in the water flies,
To save a jewel, which was never sent
To be possess'd by one sole element:
But such a work Nature dispos'd and gave,
Where all the elements concordance have.
He took her in his arms, for pity cried,
And brought her to the river's further side:
Yea, and he sought by all his art and pain,
To bring her likewise to herself again:

Maybe he takes delight to see in me
The burning rage of hellish jealousy;
Tries if in fury any love appears;
And bathes his joy within my flood of tears.
But if he lov'd to soil my spotless soul,
And me amongst deceived maids enrol,
To publish to the world my open shame:
Then, heart, take freedom; hence, accursed flame;
And, as queen-regent, in my heart shall move
" Disdain, that only over-ruleth Love: "
By this infranchis'd sure my thoughts shall be,
And in the same sort love, as thou lov'st me.

I THAT whilere near Tavy's straggling spring
Unto my seely sheep did use to sing,
And play'd to please myself on rustic reed,
Nor sought for bay (the learned shepherd's meed),
But as a swain unkent fed on the plains,
And made the Echo umpire of my strains:
Am drawn by time (although the weak'st of many)
To sing those lays as yet unsung of any.
What need I tune the swains of Thessaly?
Or, bootless, add to them of Arcadie?
No, fair Arcadia cannot be completer;
My praise may lessen, but not make thee greater.

The times are swoll'n so big with nicer wits,
That nought sounds good but what Opinion strikes
Censure with Judgment seld together sits;
And now the man more than the matter likes.

The great rewardress of a poet's pen,
Fame, is by those so clogg'd she seldom flies;
The Muses sitting on the graves of men,
Singing that Virtue lives and never dies,

Are chas'd away by the malignant tongues
Of such, by whom Detraction is ador'd:
Hence grows the want of ever-living songs,
With which our isle was whilom bravely stor'd.

LORD Z OUCH , S T. M AUR and C ANTELUPE ,

and one of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council.

H ONOUR'S bright ray,
More highly crown'd with virtue than with years,
Pardon a rustic Muse that thus appears
In shepherd's grey,
Entreating your attention to a lay
Fitting a sylvan bower, not courtly trains;
Such choicer ears,
Should have Apollo's priests, not Pan's rude swains.
But if the music of contented plains
A thought uprears

Dear Horace, you've been paraphrased
So often and so badly,
By men who ponderously praised
And took your verses sadly —

I wonder whether you, whose heart
Was light as any thistle,
Would not approve my simpler art,
And like my penny whistle.

You have been " done " so many times
In fashion fine and futile,
You might esteem my tinkling rimes
And listen to me tootle.

I PSARUM tribadum tribas, Philaeni,
Recte, quam futuis, uocas amicam.