English

Perigot . It fell upon a holy eve,
Willie . Hey, ho, holiday!
Per. When holy fathers wont to shrieve;
Wil. Now ginneth this roundelay.
Per. Sitting upon a hill so high,
Wil. Hey, ho, the high hill!
Per. The while my flock did feed thereby;
Wil. The while the shepherd self did spill;
Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
Wil. Hey, ho, Bonibell!
Per. Tripping over the dale alone,
Wil. She can trip it very well!
Per. Well deckid in a frock of gray,
Wil. Hey, ho, gray is greete!
Per. And in a kirtle of green saye,

ÆGLOGA OCTAVA

ARGUMENT

in this Æglogue is set forth a delectable controversie, made in imitation of that in Theocritus: whereto also Virgile fashioned his third and seventh Æglogue. They choose for umpere of their strife, Cuddie, a neatheards boye, who, having ended their cause, reciteth also himselfe a proper song, whereof Colin, he sayth, was authour.

WILLYE. PERIGOT. CUDDIE.

Wil. Tell me, Perigot, what shalbe the game,

ÆGLOGA SEPTIMA
ARGUMENT
This Æglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepeheardes, and to the shame and disprayse of proude and ambitious pastours: such as Morrell is here imagined to bee.

THOMALIN. MORRELL
Thom. Is not thilke same a goteheard prowde,
That sittes on yonder bancke,
Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde
Emong the bushes rancke?
Mor. What ho! thou jollye shepheards swayne,

Hobbinoll

Lo, Colin, here the place whose pleasant site
From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind.
Tell me, what wants me here to work delight?
The simple air, the gentle warbling wind,
So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find;
The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight;
The bramble bush, where birds of every kind
To the water's fall their tunes attemper right.

Colin

O happy Hobbinoll, I bless thy state!

PALINODE. PIERS.

Pal. Is not thilke the mery moneth of May,
When love lads masken in fresh aray?
How falles it then, we no merrier bene,
Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene?
Our bloncket liveryes bene all to sadde
For thilke same season, when all is yeladd
With pleasaunce: the grownd with grasse, the wods
With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds.
Yougthes folke now flocken in every where,
To gather may buskets and smelling brere:

Ye dainty nymphs, that in this blessed brook
Do bathe your breast,
Forsake your watery bowers, and hither look,
At my request;
And eke you virgins, that on Parnasse dwell,
Whence floweth Helicon the learned well,
Help me to blaze
Her worthy praise,
Which in her sex doth all excel.

Of fair Elisa be your silver song,
That blessed wight;
The flower of virgins, may she flourish long,
In princely plight.
For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot,
Which Pan the shepherds' God of her begot:

Thenot. Hobbinoll.
The. Tell me, good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What! hath some wolfe thy tender lambes ytorne?
Or is thy bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?

Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,
Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?
Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares
Adowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.

Hob. Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,

WILLYE. THOMALIN.

Wil. Thomalia, why sytten we soe,
As weren overwent with woe,
Upon so fayre a morow?
The joyous time now nigheth fast,
That shall alegge this bitter blast,
And slake the winters sorowe.
Tho. Sicker, Willye, thou warnest well:
For winters wrath beginnes to quell,
And pleasant spring appeareth.
The grasse nowe ginnes to be refresht,
The swallow peepes out of her nest,

Ah for pittie! wil rancke winters rage

These bitter blasts never ginne tasswage?
The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde,
All as I were through the body gryde.
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high towers in an earthquake:
They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes,
Perke as peacock: but nowe it avales.
The. Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde,
Of winters wracke, for making thee sadde.
Must not the world wend in his commun course,

A Shepheardes boye (no better do him call),
When Winters wastful spight was almost spent
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock that had bene long ypent:
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now unnethes their feete could them uphold.

All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke;
Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his stile:
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,