Shepherd, why creep we in this lowly vein,
As though our Muse no store at all affords,
Whilst others vaunt it with the frolic swain
And strut the stage with reperfumed words?

See how these younkers rave it out in rhyme,
Who make a traffic of their rarest wits,
And in Bellona's buskin tread it fine,
Like Bacchus' priests raging in frantic fits.

Those myrtle groves decayed, done grow again,
Their roots refreshed with Helicona's spring,
Whose pleasant shade invites the homely swain
To sit him down and hear the Muses sing.

Then if thy Muse hath spent her wonted zeal,
With ivy twist thy temples shall be crowned,
Or if she dares hoise up top-gallant sail,
Amongst the rest then may she be renowned.

My boy, these younkers reachen after fame,
And so done press into the learned troop,
With filed quill to glorify their name,
Which otherwise were penned in shameful coop.

But this high object hath abjected me,
And I must pipe amongst the lowly sort,
Those little herd-grooms who admired to see,
When I by moonshine made the fairies sport.

Who dares describe the toils of Hercules
And puts his hand to fame's eternal pen
Must invocate the soul of Hercules,
Attended with the troops of conquered men.

Who writes of thrice-renowned Theseus,
A monster-tamer's rare description,
Trophies the jaws of ugly Cerberus,
And paints out Styx and fiery Acheron.

My Muse may not affect night-charming spells,
Whose force affects th'Olympic vault to quake,
Nor call those grisly goblins from their cells,
The ever-damned fry of Limbo lake.

And who erects the brave Pyramides
Of monarchs or renowned warriors,
Need bathe his quill for such attempts as these
In flowing streams of learned Maro's showers.

For when the great world's conqueror began
To prove his helmet and his habergeon,
The sweat that from the poets'-god Orpheus ran
Foretold his prophets had to play upon.

When pens and lances saw the Olympiad prize,
Those chariot triumphs with the laurel crown,
Then gan the worthies' glory first to rise,
And plumes were vailed to the purple gown.

The gravest censor, sagest senator,
With wings of justice and religion,
Mounted the top of Nimrod's stately tower,
Soaring unto that high celestial throne,

Where blessed angels in their heavenly queres,
Chant anthems with shrill syren harmony,
Tuned to the sound of those air-crowding spheres,
Which herien their maker's eternity.

Those who foretell the times of unborn men
And future things in foretime augured,
Have slumbered in that spell-god's darkest den,
Which first inspired his prophesying head.

Sooth-saying Sybils sleepen long agone,
We have their rede, but few have conned their art;
Welsh-wizard Merlin cleaveth to a stone;
No oracle more wonders may impart.

The infant age could deftly carol love
Till greedy thirst of that ambitious honour
Drew poet's pen from his sweet lass's glove
To chant of slaughtering broils and bloody horror.

Then Jove's love-theft was privily descried,
How he played false play in Amphitrio's bed,
And how Apollo in the mount of Ide
Gave Oenon physic for her maidenhead.

The tender grass was then the softest bed,
The pleasant'st shades were deemed the stateliest halls;
No belly-god with Bacchus banqueted,
Nor painted rags then covered rotten walls.

Then simple love with simple virtue weighed,
Flowers the favours which true faith revealed;
Kindness with kindness was again repaid,
With sweetest kisses covenants were sealed.

Then beauty's self with herself beautified,
Scorned painting's parget and the borrowed hair,
Nor monstrous forms deformities did hide,
Nor foul was varnished with compounded fair.

The purest fleece then covered purest skin,
For pride as then with Lucifer remained;
Deformed fashions now were to begin,
Nor clothes were yet with poisoned liquor stained.

But when the bowels of the earth were sought,
And men her golden entrails did espy,
This mischief then into the world was brought,
This framed the mint which coined our misery.

Then lofty pines were by ambition hewn,
And men sea-monsters swam the brackish flood
In wainscot tubs to seek out worlds unknown,
For certain ill to leave assured good.

The startling steed is managed from the field,
And serves a subject to the rider's laws;
He whom the churlish bit did never wield
Now feels the curb control his angry jaws.

The hammering Vulcan spent his wasting fire,
Till he the use of tempering metals found;
His anvil wrought the steeled coat's attire,
And forged tools to carve the foe-man's wound.

The city-builder then entrenched his towers,
And walled his wealth within the fenced town,
Which afterward in bloody stormy stours
Kindled that flame which burnt his bulwarks down.

And thus began th'exordium of our woes,
The fatal dumb-show of our misery;
Here sprang the tree on which our mischief grows,
The dreary subject of world's tragedy.

Well, shepherd, well, the golden age is gone,
Wishes may not revoke that which is past.
It were no wit to make two griefs of one;
Our proverb saith, nothing can always last.

Listen to me, my lovely shepherd's joy,
And thou shalt hear with mirth and mickle glee
A pretty tale which, when I was a boy,
My toothless grandame oft hath told to me.

Shepherd, say on, so we may pass the time:
There is no doubt it is some worthy rhyme.

Far in the country of Arden,
There wonned a knight hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent,
In battle and in tournament,
As was the good sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleped Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free;
And for she was her father's heir,
Full well she was yconned the leir
Of mickle courtesy.

The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine marchpine,
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matin on a holyday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.

She ware a frock of frolic green,
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Ywrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent;
Her skin as soft as Lemster wool,
As white as snow on Peakish hull,
Or swan that swims in Trent.

This maiden, in a morn betime,
Went forth when May was in her prime,
To get sweet setywall,
The honey suckle, the harlock,
The lily and the lady-smock,
To deck her summer hall.

Thus as she wandered here and there,
Ypicking of the bloomed brere,
She chanced to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank;
Like Chanticleer he crowed crank,
And piped with merry glee.

He leered his sheep, as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round;
Whilst he full many a carol sung,
Until the fields and meadows rung
And that the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine,
Which held proud kings in awe;
But meek he was as lamb mought be,
Ylike that gentle Abel he,
Whom his lewd brother slaw.

This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloak,
Which was of the finest lock
That could be cut with shear.
His mittens were of bauzon's skin,
His cockers were of cordiwin,
His hood of miniver.

His awl and lingel in a thong,
His tar-box on his broad belt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue;
Full crisp and curled were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.

And piping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popinjay;
Which liked Dowsabell;
That would she aught, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought;
She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frock;
White as a lily was her smock;
She drew the shepherd nigh:
But then the shepherd piped a-good,
That all his sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melody.

‘Thy sheep’, quoth she, ‘cannot be lean,
That have a jolly shepherd's swain,
The which can pipe so well’.
‘Yea, but’, saith he, ‘their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away,
In love of Dowsabell’.

‘Of love, fond boy, take thou no keep’,
Quoth she, ‘look well unto thy sheep,
Lest they should hap to stray.’
Quoth he, ‘So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabell
Come forth to gather May.’

With that she gan to vail her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said.
With that the shepherd gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.

Saith she, ‘I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer hall undight,
And all for love of thee.’
‘My cote’, saith he, ‘nor yet my fold,
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.’

Saith she, ‘Yet liever I were dead
Than I should lose my maidenhead,
And all for love of men.’
Saith he, ‘Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.

‘And I to thee will be as kind
As Colin was to Rosalinde,
Of courtesy the flower.’
‘Then will I be as true’, quoth she,
‘As ever maiden yet might be
Unto her paramour.’

With that she bent her snow-white knee,
Down by the shepherd kneeled she,

And him she sweetly kissed.
With that the shepherd whooped for joy:
Quoth he, ‘There's never shepherd boy
That ever was so blest.’

Now by my sheep-hook here's a tale alone.
Learn me the same and I will give thee hire.
This were as good as curds for our Joan,
When at a night we sitten by the fire.

Why, gentle hodge, I will not stick for that,
When we two meeten here another day.
But see, whilst we have set us down to chat,
Yon tikes of mine begin to steal away.

And if thou wilt but come unto our green
On Lammas day when as we have our feast,
Thou shalt sit next unto our summer Queen,
And thou shalt be the only welcome guest.