English

What time the wearie weather-beaten Sheepe,
To get them Fodder, hie them to the Fold,
And the poore Heards that lately did them keepe,
Shuddred with keenenesse of the Winters cold:
The Groves of their late Summer pride forlorne,
In mossie Mantles sadly seem'd to mourne.

That silent time, about the upper World,
P HoeBUS had forc'd his fierie-footed Teame,
And downe againe the steepe Olympus whurld,
To wash his Chariot in the Westrene streame,

Late 'twas in June , the Fleece when fully growne,
In the full compasse of the passed yeere,
The Season well by skilfull Shepheards knowne,
That them provide immediately to sheere.

Their Lambes late wax't so lusty and so strong,
That time did them their Mothers Teats forbid,
And in the fields the common flocks among,
Eate of the same Grasse that the greater did.

When not a Shepheard any thing that could,
But greaz'd his start-ups blacke as Autumns Sloe,
And for the better credit of the Wold,

It joyes me, GORBO, yet we meet at last,
'Tis many a Mon'th since I the Shepheard saw,
Me thinkes thou look'st as thou wert much agast,
What is 't so much that should thy courage awe?
What, man? Have Patience, Wealth will come and go,
And to the end the World shall ebbe and flow.

The valiant man, whose thoughts be firmly placed,
And sees sometime how Fortune list to rage,
That by her frownes he would not be disgraced,
By Wisdome his straight Actions so doth gage,

B ATTE .

Borril, why sitt'st thou musing in thy Cote,
Like dreaming Merlin in his drowsie Cell?
With too much Learning doth the Shepheard dote?
Or art inchanted with some Magike spell?
A Hermits life, or mean'st thou to professe?
Or to thy Beades, fall like an Anchoresse?

See how faire Flora decks our Fields with Flowres,
And clothes our Groves in gawdy Summers greene,
And wanton V ER distils her selfe in Showres,

G ORBO .

Well met, good W INKEN , whither dost thou wend?
How hast thou far'd, old Shepheard, many a yeere?
His dayes in darknesse, thus can W INKEN spend,
Who I have knowne for piping had no Peere?

Where be those faire Flocks thou wert wont to guide?
What, be they dead, or hapt on some mischance?
Or mischiefe thee their Master doth betyde?
Or Lordly Love hath cast thee in a trance?

What Man, let's still be merry while we may,
And take a Truce with Sorrow for a time,

Come, let us frollike merrily, my Swaine,
Let's see what Spirit there quickens yet in thee,
If there so much be left but as a Graine,
Of the great stock of antike Poesie,
Or living but one slip of PHoeBUS sacred Tree.

Or if reserv'd from Times devouring rage,
With his sad Ruines scorning once to fall,
Any Memoriall left thee as a gage:
Or the delight of simple Pastorall,

Motto .

Shepheard, why creepe we in this lowly vaine,
As though our store no better us affords?
And in this season when the stirring Swaine
Makes the wide fields sound with great thundring words?

Not as 'twas wont, now rurall be our Rimes,
Shepheards of late are waxed wondrous neate.
Though they were richer in the former Times,
We be inraged with more kindly heate.

The with'red Laurell freshly growes againe,
Which simply shaddow'd the Pierian Spring,
Which oft invites the solitary Swaine,

Perkin .

Rowland, for shame awake thy drowsie Muse,
Time playes the Hunt's-Up to thy sleepy head;
Why lyest thou here, whil'st we are ill bestead,
Foule idle Swayne?

Who ever heard thy Pipe and pleasing vaine,
And now doth heare this scurvy Minstralsy,
Tending to nought, but beastly Ribauldry
That doth not Muse?

Then slumber not with dull E NDYMION ,
But tune thy Reed to dapper Virelayes,
And sing awhile of blessed Beta 's prayse,
Of none but Shee:

Motto .

Might my youth's Mirth, become thy aged yeeres,
My gentle Shepheard, Father of us all,
Wherewith I wonted to delight my Pheeres,
When to their Sports they pleased me to call.

Now would I tune my Miskins on this Greene,
And frame my Verse, the Vertues to unfold
Of that sole Phaenix Bird, my lives sole Queene,
Whose Lockes doe staine the three-times burnisht Gold.

But melancholy settled in thy spleene,
My Rimes seeme harsh to thy unrellish'd taste,

Phaebus full out his yeerely course had runne,
(The wofull Winter labouring to out-weare)
And though 'twas long first, yet at length begunne,
To heave himselfe up to our Hemispheare,
For which pleas'd Heaven to see this happie houre,
O'rcome with Joy wept many a silver showre.

When Philomel , the augure of the Spring,
Whose Tunes expresse a Brothers trayt'rous Fact,
Whilst the fresh Groves with her complaints doe ring,
To CINTHIA her sad Tragedie doth act.