The Sixt Eglogue
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,
The whil'st we passe this weary Winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making Rime.
W INKEN .
A wo's me, G ORBO , mirth is farre away,
Nor may it sojourne with sad discontent,
O! blame me not (to see this dismall Day)
Then, though my poore Heart it in pieces rent.
My tune is turn'd into a Swanlike song,
That best becomes me drawing to my death,
Till which, me thinks, that every houre is long,
My brest become a Prison to my Breath.
Nothing more lothsome then the cheerefull Light,
Com'n is my Night, when once appeares the Day:
The blessed Sunne is odious to my sight,
Nor sound me liketh, but the Shreech Owles Lay.
G ORBO .
What, mayst thou be that old W INKEN D E Word ,
That of all Shepheards wert the Man alone,
Which once with laughter shook'st the Shepheards Boord,
With thine owne madnesse lastly overthrowne?
I thinke, thou dot'st in thy declining Age,
Or for the loosenesse of thy Youth art sorry,
And therefore vow'st some solemne Pilgrimage,
To holy Hayles , or P ATRICKS Purgatorie.
Come, sit we downe under this Hawthorne Tree,
The Morrowes Light shall lend us Day enough,
And let us tell of G AWEN , or Sir G UY .
Of R OBIN -H OOD , or of old C LEMA C LOUGH .
Or else some Romant unto us areede,
By former Shepheards taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy Love, or of thy Lasses truth.
W INKEN .
Shepheard, no, no, that World with me is past,
Merry was it, when we those Toyes might tell:
But 'tis not now as when thou saw'st me last,
A great mischance me since that time befell.
E LPHIN is dead, and in his Grave is laid,
O! to report it, how my Heart it grieveth!
Cruell, that Fate, that so the Time betraid,
And of our Joyes untimely us depriveth.
G ORBO .
Is it for him thy tender Heart doth bleed?
For him that living was the Shepheards pride:
Never did Death so mercilesse a deed,
Ill hath he done, and ill may him betyde:
Nought hath he got, nor of much more can boast,
Nature is paid the utmost of her due,
P AN hath receiv'd so dearly that him cost.
O Heavens, his Vertues did belong to you.
Doe not thou then uncessantly complaine,
Best doth the meane befit the Wise in mourning:
And to recall that, labour not in vaine,
Which is by Fate prohibited returning.
W INKEN .
Wer't for the best this present World affords,
Shepheard, our sorrowes might be easly cast,
But, oh, his losse requireth more then Words,
Nor it so slightly can be over-past.
When his fayre Flocks he fed upon the Downes,
The poorest Shepheard suffered not annoy:
Now are we subject to those beastly Clownes,
That all our mirth would utterly destroy.
Long after he was shrowded in the Earth,
The Birds for sorrow did forbeare to sing,
Shepheards forwent their wonted Summers mirth,
Winter therewith outwore a double Spring.
That, had not Nature lastly call'd to mind,
The neere approching of her owne decay,
Things should have gone contrary unto kind,
And to the Chaos all was like to sway.
The Nymphs forbare in silver Springs to looke,
With sundry Flowers to brayd their yellow Haire,
And to the Desarts sadly them betooke,
So much opprest, and over-come with care.
And for his sake the early wanton Lambs,
That 'mongst the Hillocks wont to skip and play,
Sadly ran bleating from their carefull Dams,
Nor would their soft Lips to the Udders lay.
The Groves, the Mountaynes, and the pleasant Heath,
That wonted were with Roundelayes to ring,
Are blasted now with the cold Northerne breath,
That not a Shepheard takes delight to sing.
Who would not die when E LPHIN now is gone?
Living, that was the Shepheards true delight.
With whose blest Spirit (attending him alone)
Vertue to Heaven directly tooke her flight.
Onely from Fooles he from the World did flie,
Knowing the Time strange Monsters forth should bring,
That should his lasting Poesie denie,
His Worth and Honour rashly censuring:
Whil'st he aloft with glorious Wings is borne,
Singing with Angels in the gorgeous Skie,
Laughing even Kings and their delights to scorne,
And all those Sots that them doe Deifie.
And learned Shepheard, thou to time shalt live,
When their false Names are utterly forgotten,
And Fame to thee Eternitie shall give,
When with their Bones their Sepulchers are rotten.
Nor mournefull Cypres, nor sad Widdowing Yeaw,
About thy Tombe to prosper shall be seene,
But Bay and Mirtle which be ever new,
In spight of Winter flourishing and greene.
Summers long'st Day shall Shepheards not suffice,
To sit and tell full Stories of thy prayse,
Nor shall the longest Winters Night comprize
Their sighes for him, the subject of their Layes.
And, gentle Shepheards (as sure some there bee)
That living yet, his Vertues doe inherit,
Men from base envy and detraction free,
Of upright Hearts, and of as humble Spirit:
Thou, that downe from the goodly Westerne waste,
To drinke at Avon driv'st thy Sunned Sheepe,
Good M ELIBEUS , that so wisely hast
Guided the Flocks delivered thee to keepe.
Forget not E LPHIN , and thou gentle Swayne,
That dost thy Pipe by silver Doven sound,
A LEXIS that dost with thy Flocks remayne,
Farre off within the Calydonian Ground,
Be mindfull of that Shepheard that is dead,
And thou too long that I to Pipe have taught,
Unhappy R OWLAND that from me art fled:
And sett'st old W INKEN and his words at nought:
And like a gracelesse and untutor'd Lad,
Art now departed from my aged sight,
And needsly to the Southerne Fields wilt gad,
Where thou dost live in thriftlesse vaine delight.
Thou wanton Boy, as thou canst pipe aswell,
As any he, a Bag-pipe that doth beare,
Still let thy Rounds of that good Shepheard tell,
To whom thou hast beene evermore so deare.
Many, you seeming, to excell in Fame,
And say as they, that none can pipe so hie,
Scorning well-neere a Shepheards simple Name,
So puff'd and blowne with Worldly vanitie:
Many, you seeming, to excell in Fame,
And say as they, that none can pipe so hie,
Scorning well-neere a Shepheards simple Name,
So puff'd and blowne with Worldly vanitie:
And all those Toyes that vainely you allure,
Shall in the end no other guerdon have,
But living shall you mickle wo procure,
And lastly bring you to an unknowne Grave.
Then, gentle Shepheards, wheresoere you rest,
In Hill or Dale, however that you bee,
Whether with Love or Worldly care opprest,
Or be you Bond, or happily bee Free:
The closing Evening 'ginning to be darke,
When as the small Birds sing the Sunne to sleepe,
You fold your Lambs; or, with the earely Larke,
Into the faire Fields drive your harmelesse Sheepe:
Still let your Pipes be busied in his prayse,
Untill your Flocks be learnt his losse to know,
And tattling Eccho many sundrie wayes,
Be taught by you to warble forth our wo.
G ORBO .
Cease, Shepheard, cease, from further plaints refrayne,
See but of one, how many doe arise,
That by the Tempest of my troubled Brayne,
The Floud's alreadie swelling up mine Eyes.
And now the Sunne beginneth to decline:
Whil'st we in woes the time away doe weare
See where yon little moping Lambe of mine,
It selfe hath tangled in a crawling Breere
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,
The whil'st we passe this weary Winters day,
In reading Riddles, or in making Rime.
W INKEN .
A wo's me, G ORBO , mirth is farre away,
Nor may it sojourne with sad discontent,
O! blame me not (to see this dismall Day)
Then, though my poore Heart it in pieces rent.
My tune is turn'd into a Swanlike song,
That best becomes me drawing to my death,
Till which, me thinks, that every houre is long,
My brest become a Prison to my Breath.
Nothing more lothsome then the cheerefull Light,
Com'n is my Night, when once appeares the Day:
The blessed Sunne is odious to my sight,
Nor sound me liketh, but the Shreech Owles Lay.
G ORBO .
What, mayst thou be that old W INKEN D E Word ,
That of all Shepheards wert the Man alone,
Which once with laughter shook'st the Shepheards Boord,
With thine owne madnesse lastly overthrowne?
I thinke, thou dot'st in thy declining Age,
Or for the loosenesse of thy Youth art sorry,
And therefore vow'st some solemne Pilgrimage,
To holy Hayles , or P ATRICKS Purgatorie.
Come, sit we downe under this Hawthorne Tree,
The Morrowes Light shall lend us Day enough,
And let us tell of G AWEN , or Sir G UY .
Of R OBIN -H OOD , or of old C LEMA C LOUGH .
Or else some Romant unto us areede,
By former Shepheards taught thee in thy youth,
Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede,
Or of thy Love, or of thy Lasses truth.
W INKEN .
Shepheard, no, no, that World with me is past,
Merry was it, when we those Toyes might tell:
But 'tis not now as when thou saw'st me last,
A great mischance me since that time befell.
E LPHIN is dead, and in his Grave is laid,
O! to report it, how my Heart it grieveth!
Cruell, that Fate, that so the Time betraid,
And of our Joyes untimely us depriveth.
G ORBO .
Is it for him thy tender Heart doth bleed?
For him that living was the Shepheards pride:
Never did Death so mercilesse a deed,
Ill hath he done, and ill may him betyde:
Nought hath he got, nor of much more can boast,
Nature is paid the utmost of her due,
P AN hath receiv'd so dearly that him cost.
O Heavens, his Vertues did belong to you.
Doe not thou then uncessantly complaine,
Best doth the meane befit the Wise in mourning:
And to recall that, labour not in vaine,
Which is by Fate prohibited returning.
W INKEN .
Wer't for the best this present World affords,
Shepheard, our sorrowes might be easly cast,
But, oh, his losse requireth more then Words,
Nor it so slightly can be over-past.
When his fayre Flocks he fed upon the Downes,
The poorest Shepheard suffered not annoy:
Now are we subject to those beastly Clownes,
That all our mirth would utterly destroy.
Long after he was shrowded in the Earth,
The Birds for sorrow did forbeare to sing,
Shepheards forwent their wonted Summers mirth,
Winter therewith outwore a double Spring.
That, had not Nature lastly call'd to mind,
The neere approching of her owne decay,
Things should have gone contrary unto kind,
And to the Chaos all was like to sway.
The Nymphs forbare in silver Springs to looke,
With sundry Flowers to brayd their yellow Haire,
And to the Desarts sadly them betooke,
So much opprest, and over-come with care.
And for his sake the early wanton Lambs,
That 'mongst the Hillocks wont to skip and play,
Sadly ran bleating from their carefull Dams,
Nor would their soft Lips to the Udders lay.
The Groves, the Mountaynes, and the pleasant Heath,
That wonted were with Roundelayes to ring,
Are blasted now with the cold Northerne breath,
That not a Shepheard takes delight to sing.
Who would not die when E LPHIN now is gone?
Living, that was the Shepheards true delight.
With whose blest Spirit (attending him alone)
Vertue to Heaven directly tooke her flight.
Onely from Fooles he from the World did flie,
Knowing the Time strange Monsters forth should bring,
That should his lasting Poesie denie,
His Worth and Honour rashly censuring:
Whil'st he aloft with glorious Wings is borne,
Singing with Angels in the gorgeous Skie,
Laughing even Kings and their delights to scorne,
And all those Sots that them doe Deifie.
And learned Shepheard, thou to time shalt live,
When their false Names are utterly forgotten,
And Fame to thee Eternitie shall give,
When with their Bones their Sepulchers are rotten.
Nor mournefull Cypres, nor sad Widdowing Yeaw,
About thy Tombe to prosper shall be seene,
But Bay and Mirtle which be ever new,
In spight of Winter flourishing and greene.
Summers long'st Day shall Shepheards not suffice,
To sit and tell full Stories of thy prayse,
Nor shall the longest Winters Night comprize
Their sighes for him, the subject of their Layes.
And, gentle Shepheards (as sure some there bee)
That living yet, his Vertues doe inherit,
Men from base envy and detraction free,
Of upright Hearts, and of as humble Spirit:
Thou, that downe from the goodly Westerne waste,
To drinke at Avon driv'st thy Sunned Sheepe,
Good M ELIBEUS , that so wisely hast
Guided the Flocks delivered thee to keepe.
Forget not E LPHIN , and thou gentle Swayne,
That dost thy Pipe by silver Doven sound,
A LEXIS that dost with thy Flocks remayne,
Farre off within the Calydonian Ground,
Be mindfull of that Shepheard that is dead,
And thou too long that I to Pipe have taught,
Unhappy R OWLAND that from me art fled:
And sett'st old W INKEN and his words at nought:
And like a gracelesse and untutor'd Lad,
Art now departed from my aged sight,
And needsly to the Southerne Fields wilt gad,
Where thou dost live in thriftlesse vaine delight.
Thou wanton Boy, as thou canst pipe aswell,
As any he, a Bag-pipe that doth beare,
Still let thy Rounds of that good Shepheard tell,
To whom thou hast beene evermore so deare.
Many, you seeming, to excell in Fame,
And say as they, that none can pipe so hie,
Scorning well-neere a Shepheards simple Name,
So puff'd and blowne with Worldly vanitie:
Many, you seeming, to excell in Fame,
And say as they, that none can pipe so hie,
Scorning well-neere a Shepheards simple Name,
So puff'd and blowne with Worldly vanitie:
And all those Toyes that vainely you allure,
Shall in the end no other guerdon have,
But living shall you mickle wo procure,
And lastly bring you to an unknowne Grave.
Then, gentle Shepheards, wheresoere you rest,
In Hill or Dale, however that you bee,
Whether with Love or Worldly care opprest,
Or be you Bond, or happily bee Free:
The closing Evening 'ginning to be darke,
When as the small Birds sing the Sunne to sleepe,
You fold your Lambs; or, with the earely Larke,
Into the faire Fields drive your harmelesse Sheepe:
Still let your Pipes be busied in his prayse,
Untill your Flocks be learnt his losse to know,
And tattling Eccho many sundrie wayes,
Be taught by you to warble forth our wo.
G ORBO .
Cease, Shepheard, cease, from further plaints refrayne,
See but of one, how many doe arise,
That by the Tempest of my troubled Brayne,
The Floud's alreadie swelling up mine Eyes.
And now the Sunne beginneth to decline:
Whil'st we in woes the time away doe weare
See where yon little moping Lambe of mine,
It selfe hath tangled in a crawling Breere
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