Would helpe to clip his sheepe, and gard his lambs :
And at a need lend him her choicest rams,
And on each stocke
Work such a clocke
With twisted colored thred; as not a swaine
On all these downcs could show the like againe.
But, as it seemes, the well grew dry at last,
Her fire unquench'd, and she hath Cladon lost:
Nor was I sorry; nor doe wish to taste
The flesh whereto so many flies have cleft.
Oh, Hobbinol! canst thou imagine she
That hath so oft been tride, so oft misdone,
Can from all other men be true to thee?
Thou know'st with me, with Cladon, she hath gone.
Beyond the limites that a maiden may,

And can the name of wife those rovings stay?
She hath not aught
That's hid, unsought;

These eies, these hands, so much know of that

And all that it containes, should as my heart
Be knowne but to myselfe; if we impart
What golden rings
The Fairy brings,

We loose the jem, nor will they give us more:
Wives loose their value, if once knowne before:
Behold this violet that cropped lyes,

I know not by what hand first from the stem,
With what I plucke myselfe shall I it prise?
I scorne the otlals of a diadem.

A virgin's bed hath millions of delights,

If than goods parents please she know no more:
Nor hath her servants, nor her favourites,
That waite her husband's issuing at dore:
She that is free both from the act and eie,
Onely deserves the due of chastitie.
But Phillis is

WILLIE, well met, now whiles thy flocks do feed
So dangerlesse, and free from any feare;
Lay by thy hooke, and take thy pleasant reed,
And with thy melodie reblesse mine eare,

Which (upon Lammas last) and on this plaine,
Thou plaidst so sweetly to thy skipping traine.

WILLIE.

1, Cutty, then I plaid unto my sheepe
Notes apt for them, but farre unfit for thee;
How should my layes (alas!) true measure keepe
With thy choice eares, or make thee melodie?
For in thy straine thou do'st so farre exceed,
Thou canst not rellish such my homely reede.

CUTTY.

Thy nicenesse shows thy cunning, nothing more, Yet since thou seem'st so lowly in thy thought, (Who in thy pastorall veine, and learned lore, Art so much prais'd, so farre and neere art sought) Lend me thine eares, and thou shalt heare me sing

In praise of shepheards, and of thee, their king.

My loved Willie, if there be a man
That never heard of a browne-colour'd swan,
Whose tender pinions, scarcely fledg'd in show,
Could make his way with whitest swans in Po:
Or if there be among the spawne of earth,
That thinkes so vilely of a shepheard's birth,
That though he tune his reed in meanest key,
Yet in his braine holds not Heaven, earth, and sea :
Then let him know, thou art that young brown swan,
That through the winding streames of Albion
Taking thy course, dost seeme to make thy pace
With flockes full plum'd, equall in love and grace;
And thou art he (that tho' thy humble straines
Do move delight to those that love the plaines :)
Yet to thyselfe (as to thy sort) is given

A Jacob's staffe, to take the height of Heaven;
And with a naturall cosmography

To comprehend the Earth's rotunditie:
Besides, the working plummet of thy braine

Can sound the deepes and secrets of the maine:
For if the shepheard a true figure be
Of contemplation, (as the learn'd agree)
Which, in his seeming rest. doth (restlesse) move
About the center, and to Heav'n above?
And in his thought is onely bounded there,
Sees Nature's chaine fast'ned to Jove's high chaire,
Then thou (that art of Pan the sweetest swaine,
And far transcending all his lowly traine)
In thy discoursive thought, dost range as farre,
Nor canst thou erre, led by thine owne faire starre.
Thought hath no prison, and the mind is free
Under the greatest king and tyranny.

Tho' low thou seem'st, thy genius mounts the hill,
Where heavenly nectar doth from Jove distil;
Where bayes still grow, (by thunder not struck
down)

The victor's garland, and the poet's crown;
And underneath the horse-foote-fount doth flow,
Which gives wit verdure, and makes learning

grow.

To this faire hill (from stormes and tempests free)
Thou oft repair'st for truthe's discovery;
A prospect, upon all time's wand'ring mazes,
Displaying vanity, disclosing graces:
Nay, in some cliffe it leads the eye beyond
The time's horizon, stripping sea and land.
And farther (not obscurely) doth divine
All future times: here doe the Muses shine,
Here dignitie with safetie doe combine,
Pleasure with merit makes a lovely twine.
Vitam vitalem they shall ever leade,

Here admiration without envic's wonne,
All in the light, but in the heate sit none.
And to this mount thou dost translate thine essence,
Altho' the plaines contain thy corporal presence;
Where tho' poore people's miserie thou show,
That under griping lords they undergoe,
And what content they (that do lowest lie)
Receive from good men, that do sit on hie.
And in each witty ditty (that surpasses) [lasses;
Dost, for thy love, make strife 'mongst country
Yet in thy humble straine, fame makes thee rise,
And strikes thy mounting forehead 'gainst the skies.
To memorize thy name? Would I could praise
Renowned friend, what trophie may 'I raise
(In any meane) thy worth; strike Envy dumbe,
But I die here; thou liv'st in time to come:
States have their period, statues lost with rust;
Soules to Elizium, Nature yeelds to dust;
All monuments of armes and power decay,
But that which lives to an eternall day,
Letters preserve; nay, gods with mortall men
Do sympathize by vertue of the penne,
And so shalt thou. Sweet Willie, then proceede,
And in eternall merit fame thy reede.
Pan to thy fleeced numbers give increase,
Let faire Feronia (goddesse of the woods)
And Pales to thy love-thoughts give true peace;
Preserve thy yong plants, multiply thy buds;
And whiles thy rams doe tup, thy ewes do twyn,
Doe thou in peacefull shade (from men's rude dyn)
Adde pinyons to thy fame: whose active wit
With Hermes' winged cap doth suite most fit.

CHRISTOPHER BROOKS.

THIRSIS AND ALEXIS.

THIRSIS.

ALEXIS, if thy worth doe not disdaine The humble friendship of a nucaner swaine; Or some more needfull businesse of the day Urge thee to be too hasty on thy way; Come (gentle shepheard) rest thee here by me, Under the shadow of this broad-leav'd tree: For though I seeme a stranger, yet mine eye Observes in thee the markes of curtisie: And if my judgement erre not, noted too More than in those that more would seeme to doc: Such vertues thy rude modesty doth hide, Which by thy proper luster I espi'd; And tho' long mask't in silence they have beene, I have a wisedom thro' that silence seene: Yea, I have learned knowledge from thy tongue, And beard when thou hast in concealment sung: Which me the bolder and more willing made Thus to invite thee to this homely shade. And tho' (it may be) thou couldst never spye Such worth in me to make me known thereby, In thee I doe; for here my neighbouring sheepe Upon the border of these downes I keepe: Where often thou at pastorals and playes Hast grac'd our wakes on sommer holy-dayes: And many a time with thee at this cold spring Met I, to heare your learned shepherds sing, Saw them disporting in the shady groves, And in chast sonnets wooe their chaster loves: When I, endued with the meanest skill,

Where (cause but little cunning I had got) Perhaps thou saw'st me, tho' thou knew'st me not.

ALEXIS.

Yes, Thirsis, I doe know thee and thy name,
Nor is my knowledge grounded all on fame;
Art not thou he, that but this other yeare,
Scard'st all the wolves and foxes in the sheere?
And in a match at foot-ball lately try'd,
(Having scarce twenty satyres on thy side)
Held'st play: and, tho' assailed, kept'st thy stand
'Gainst all the best try'd ruffians in the land:
Didst thou not then in doleful sonnets mone,
When the beloved of great Pan was gone;
And, at the wedding of faire Thame and Rhyne,
Sing of their glories to thy Valentine?

I know it, and I must confesse that long
In one thing I did doe thy nature wrong:
For till I markt the aime thy satyrs had,
I thought them overbold, and Thirsis mad;
But, since I did more neerely on thee looke,
I soon perceiv'd that I had all mistooke:
I saw that of a cynicke thou mad'st show,
Where since I find that thou wert nothing so,
And that of many thou much blame hadst got,
When as thy innocence deserv'd it not.
But this too good opinion thou hast seem'd
To have of me (not so to be esteem'd)
Prevailes not aught to stay him who doth feare,
He rather should reproofes than praises heare;
'Tis true I found thee plaine and honest too,
Which made me like, then love, as now I do;
And, Thirsis, though a stranger, this I say,
Where I do love, I am not coy to stay.

THIRSIS.

Thankes, gentle swayne, that dost so soone unfold
What I to thee as gladly would have told,
And thus thy wonted curtesie exprest
In kindly entertaining this request:
Sure I should injury my owne content,
Or wrong thy love, to stand on complement,
Who hast acquaintance in one word begunne
As well as I could in an age have done :
Or by an over-weaning slownesse marre
What thy more wisedoine hath brought on so farre,
Then sit thou downe, and I'le my minde declare
As frely as if we familiars were:

And if thou wilt but daigne to give me eare,
Something thou maist for thy more profit heare.

ALEXIS.

Willingly, Thirsis, I thy wish obey,

THIRSIS.

Then know, Alexis, from that very day,
When as I saw thee at that shepheard's coate,
Where each, I thinke, of other tooke first noate,
I meane that pastor who by Tavie's springs,
Chaste shepheards' loves in sweetest numbers sings,
And with his musicke (to his greater fame)
Hath late made proud the fairest nimphes of Thame.
E'ne then, me thought, I did espy in thee
Some unperceiv'd and hidden worth to be,
Which in thy more apparent virtues shin'd,
And among many I in thought devin'd,
By something my conceit had understood,
That thou wert markt one of the Muses' brood,
That made me love thee: and that love I beare
Begat a pitty, and that pitty care:

Pitty I had to see good parts conceal'd,
Care I had how to have that good reveal'd,
Since 'tis a fault admitteth no excuse

To possesse much, and yet put nought in use:
Hereon I vow'd, (if we two ever met)

The first request that I would strive to get [skill,
Should be but this, that thou wouldst show thy
How thou couldst tune thy verses to thy quill:
And teach thy Muse, in some well-framed song,
To show the art thou hast supprest so long:
Which, if my new acquaintance may obtaine,
Thirsis will ever honour this daie's gaine.

So let them; why should we their hate esteeme?
Is't not enough we of ourselves can deeme?
'Tis more to their disgrace that we scorne them,
Than unto us that they our art contemne;
Can we have better pastime than to see
Our grosse heads may so much deceived be,
As to allow those doings best, where wholly
We scoffe them to their face, and flout their folly?
Or to behold blacke Envy in her prime
Die selfe-consum'd, whilst we vie lives with time?
And, in despight of her, more fame attaine
Than all her malice can wipe out againe.

ALEXIS.

Yea, but if I apply me to those straines,
Who should drive forth my flockes unto the plaines,
Which whilst the Muses rest, and leasure crave,
Must watering, folding, and attendance have?
For if I leave with wonted care to cherish
Those tender heards, both I and they should perish.