Part 5

HOBBINOL. Diggon Davie! I bid her good-day; Or Diggon her is, or I missay. DIG. Her was her, while it was day-light, But now her is a most wretched wight: For day, that was, is wightly past, And now at erst the dark night doth hast. HOB. Diggon, arede who has thee so dight; Never I wist thee in so poor a plight. Where is the fair flock thou wast wont to lead? Or be they chaffred, or at mischief dead? DIG. Ah! for love of that is to thee most lief, Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old grief; Such question rippeth up cause of new woe, For one, opened, might unfold many moe. HOB. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in heart, I know, to keep is a burdenous smart: Each thing imparted is more eath to bear: When the rain is fallen, the clouds waxen clear. And now, sithence I saw thy head last, Thrice three moons be fully spent and past; Since when thou hast measured much ground, And wandered well about the world round, So as thou can many things relate; But tell me first of thy flock's estate. DIG. My sheep be wasted; (woe is me therefore!) The jolly shepheard that was of yore, Is now nor jolly, nor shepheard more. In foreign coasts men said was plenty; And so there is, but all of misery: I deem'd there much to have eked my store, But such eking hath made my heart sore. In those countries, whereas I have been, No being for those that truly mean; But for such, as of guile maken gain, No such country as there to remain; They setten to sale their shops of shame, And maken a mart of their good name: The shepheards there robben one another, And layen baits to beguile their brother; Or they will buy his sheep out of the cote, Or they will carven the shepheard's throat. The shepheard's swain you cannot well ken, But it be by his pride, from other men; They looken big as bulls that be bate, And bearen the crag so stiff and so state, As cock on his dunghill crowing crank. HOB. Diggon, I am so stiff and so stank, that uneath may I stand any more; And now the western wind bloweth sore, That now is in his chief sovereignty, Beating the withered leaf from the tree; Sit we down here under the hill; Then may we talk and tellen our fill, And make a mock at the blustering blast: Now say on, Diggon, whatever thou hast. DIG. Hobbin, ah Hobbin! I curse the stound That ever I cast to have lorn this ground: Well-away the while I was so fond To leave the good, that I had in hond, In hope of better that was uncouth, So lost the dog the flesh in his mouth. My silly sheep (ah! silly sheep!) That here by there I whilome us'd to keep, All were they lusty as thou didest see, Be all starved with pine and penury; Hardly myself escaped thilk pain, Driven for need to come home again. HOB. Ah! fon, now by thy loss art taught That seldom change the better brought: Content who lives with tried state, Need fear no change of frowning Fate; But who will seek for unknown gain, Oft lives by loss, and leaves with pain. DIG. I wot ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitch'd With vain desire and hope to be enrich'd: But, sicker, so it is, as the bright star Seemeth aye greater when it is far: I thought the soil would have made me rich, But now I wot it is nothing sich; For either the shepheards be idle and still, And led of their sheep what way they will, Or they be false, and full of covetise, And casten to compass many wrong emprise: But the more be fraught with fraud and spite, Ne in good nor goodness taken delight, But kindle coals of contest and ire, Wherewith they set all the world on fire; Which when they thinken again to quench, With holy water they do them all drench. They say they con to heaven the highway, But by my soul I dare undersay They never set foot in that same troad, But balk the right way, and strayen abroad. They boast they have the devil at command, But ask them therefore what they have pawn'd: Marry! that great Pan bought with dear borrow, To quit it from the black bower of sorrow. But they have sold thilk same long ago, For they woulden draw with them many moe. But let them gang alone a God's name; As they have brewed, so let them bear blame. HOB. Diggon, I pray thee speak not so dirk; Such mister saying me seemeth to mirk. DIG. Then, plainly to speak of shepheards' most what, Bad is the best; (this English is flat) Their ill haviour gars men missay Both of their doctrine, and their fay. They sayn the world is much war than it wont, All for her shepheards be beastly and blont. Other sayn, but how truly I n'ote, All for they holden shame of their cote: Some stick not to say, (hot coal on their tongue!) That such mischief graseth them among, All for they casten too much of world's care, To deck their dame, and enrich their heir; For such encheason, if you go nigh, Few chimneys reeking you shall espy. The fat ox, that wont lig in the stall, Is now fast stalled in their crumenall. Thus chatten the people in their steads, Alike as a monster of many heads: But they, that shooten nearest the prick, Sayn, other the fat from their beards doen lick: For big bulls of Bashan brace them about, That with their horns butten the more stout; But the lean souls treaden under foot, And to seek redress might little boot; For liker be they to pluck away more, Than ought of the gotten good to restore: For they be like foul quagmires overgrass'd, That, if thy galage once sticketh fast, The more to wind it out thou dost swink, Thou must aye deeper and deeper sink. Yet better leave off with a little loss, Than by much wrestling to lose the gross. HOB. Now, Diggon, I see thou speakest too plain; Better it were a little to feign, And cleanly cover that cannot be cured; Such ill, as is forced, must needs be endured. But of such pastors how do the flocks creep? DIG. Such as the shepheards, such be their sheep, For they nill listen to the shepheard's voice; But if he call them, at their good choice They wander at will and stay at pleasure, And to their folds yede at their own leisure. But they had be better come at their call; For many have unto mischief fall, And been of ravenous wolves yrent, All for they nould be buxom and bent. HOB. Fie on thee, Diggon, and all thy foul leasing; Well is known that, sith the Saxon king,[15] Never was wolf seen, many nor some, Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendom; But the fewer wolves (the sooth to sayn) The more be the foxes that here remain. DIG. Yes, but they gang in more secret wise, And with sheeps' clothing doen them disguise. They walk not widely as they were wont, For fear of rangers and the great hunt, But privily prowling to and fro, Enaunter they might be inly know. HOB. Or privy or pert if any bin, We have great bandogs will tear their skin. DIG. Indeed thy Ball is a bold big cur, And could make a jolly hole in their fur: But not good dogs them needeth to chase, But heedy shepheards to discern their face; For all their craft is in their countenance, They be so grave and full of maintenance. But shall I tell thee what myself know Chanced to Roffin not long ago? HOB. Say it out, Diggon, whatever it hight, For not but well might him betight: He is so meek, wise, and merciable, And with his word his work is convenable. Colin Clout, I ween, be his self boy, (Ah, for Colin! he whilome my joy:) Shepheards such, God might us many send, That doen so carefully their flocks tend. DIG. Thilk same shepheard might I well mark, He has a dog to bite or to bark; Never had shepheard so keen a cur, That waketh and if but a leaf stur. Whilome there wonned a wicked wolf, That with many a lamb had gutted his gulf, And ever at night wont to repair Unto the flock, when the welkin shone fair, Yclad in clothing of silly sheep, When the good old man used to sleep; Then at midnight he would bark and bawl, (For he had eft learned a currës call,) As if a wolf were among the sheep: With that the shepheard would break his sleep, And send out Lowder (for so his dog hote) To range the fields with wide open throat. Then, when as Lowder was far away, This wolvish sheep would catchen his prey, A lamb, or a kid, or a weanel wast; With that to the wood would he speed him fast. Long time he used this slippery prank, Ere Roffy could for his labour him thank. At end, the shepheard his practice spied, (For Roffy is wise, and as Argus eyed,) And, when at even he came to the flock, Fast in their folds he did them lock, And took out the wolf in his counterfeit coat, And let out the sheep's blood at his throat. HOB. Marry, Diggon, what should him affray To take his own where ever it lay? For, had his weasand been a little widder, He would have devoured both hidder and shidder. DIG. Mischief light on him, and God's great curse, Too good for him had been a great deal worse; For it was a perilous beast above all, And eke had he cond the shepheard's call, And oft in the night came to the sheep-cote, And called Lowder, with a hollow throat, As if the old man self had been: The dog his master's voice did it ween, Yet half in doubt he opened the door, And ran out as he was wont of yore. No sooner was out, but, swifter than thought, Fast by the hide the wolf Lowder caught; And, had not Roffy run to the steven, Lowder had been slain thilk same even. HOB. God shield, man, he should so ill have thrive, All for he did his devoir belive. If such be wolves, as thou hast told, How might we, Diggon, them behold? DIG. How, but, with heed and watchfulness, Forstallen them of their wiliness: Forthy with shepheard sits not play, Or sleep, as some doen, all the long day; But ever liggen in watch and ward, From sudden force their flocks for to guard. HOB. Ah! Diggon, thilk same rule were too strait, All the cold season to watch and wait: We be of flesh, men as other be, Why should we be bound to such misery? Whatever thing lacketh changeable rest, Must needs decay, when it is at best. DIG. Ah! but, Hobbinol, all this long tale Nought easeth the care that doth me forhaile; What shall I do? what way shall I wend, My piteous plight and loss to amend? Ah! good Hobbinol, might I thee pray Of aid or counsel in my decay? HOB. Now by my soul, Diggon, I lament The hapless mischief that has thee hent; Natheless thou seest my lowly sail, That froward Fortune doth ever availe: But, were Hobbinol as God might please, Diggon should soon find favour and ease: But if to my cottage thou wilt resort, So as I can I will thee comfort; There mayst thou lig in a vetchy bed, Till fairer Fortune shew forth his head. DIG. Ah! Hobbinol, God may it thee requite; Diggon on few such friends did ever light.

DIGGON'S EMBLEME. _Inopem me copia fecit._ (Plenty has made me poor.)

[Illustration: OCTOBER AEGLOGA DECIMA

CUDDIE'S EMBLEME]

OCTOBER. ÆGLOGA DECIMA. ARGUMENT.

In Cuddie is set out the perfect pattern of a Poet, which, finding no maintenance of his state and studies, complaineth of the contempt of Poetry, and the causes thereof: specially having been in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, always of singular account and honour, and being indeed so worthy and commendable an art; or rather no art, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct not to be gotten by labour and learning, but adorned with both; and poured into the wit by a certain Enthousiasmos and celestial inspiration, as the Author hereof elsewhere at large discourseth in his book called _The English Poet_, which book being lately come to my hands, I mind also by God's grace, upon further advisement, to publish.

PIERS. CUDDIE.

PIERS. Cuddie, for shame, hold up thy heavy head, And let us cast with what delight to chase And weary this long ling'ring Phœbus' race. Whilome thou wont the shepheards' lads to lead In rhymes, in riddles, and in bidding base; Now they in thee, and thou in sleep, art dead.

CUD. Piers, I have piped erst so long with pain, That all mine oaten reeds be rent and wore, And my poor Muse hath spent her spared store, Yet little good hath got, and much less gain. Such pleasance makes the grasshopper so poor, And lig so laid, when winter doth her strain.

The dapper ditties, that I wont devise, To feed youth's fancy, and the flocking fry, Delighten much; what I the bett forthy? They have the pleasure, I a slender prise: I beat the bush, the birds to them do fly: What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?

PIERS. Cuddie, the praise is better than the price, The glory eke much greater than the gain: O what an honour is it, to restrain The lust of lawless youth with good advice, Or prick them forth with pleasance of thy vein, Whereto thou list their trained wills entice!

Soon as thou 'ginn'st to set thy notes in frame, O how the rural routs to thee do cleave! Seemeth thou dost their soul of sense bereave, All as the shepheard that did fetch his dame From Pluto's baleful bower withouten leave; His music's might the hellish hound did tame.

CUD. So praisen babes the peacock's spotted train, And wondren at bright Argus' blazing eye; But who rewards him e'er the more forthy, Or feeds him once the fuller by a grain? Such praise is smoke, that sheddeth in the sky; Such words be wind, and wasten soon in vain.

PIERS. Abandon then the base and viler clown; Lift up thyself out of the lowly dust, And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts; Turn thee to those that wield the awful crown, To doubted knights, whose woundless armour rusts, And helms unbruised waxen daily brown.

There may thy Muse display her flutt'ring wing, And stretch herself at large from east to west; Whither thou list in fair Elisa[16] rest, Or, if thee please in bigger notes to sing, Advance the Worthy whom she loveth best, That first the White Bear to the stake did bring.

And, when the stubborn stroke of stronger stounds Has somewhat slack'd the tenor of thy string, Of love and lustihead then mayst thou sing, And carol loud, and lead the Miller's round, All were Elisa one of thilk same ring; So might our Cuddie's name to heaven sound.

CUD. Indeed the Romish Tityrus, I hear, Through his Mecænas left his oaten reed, Whereon he erst had taught his flocks to feed, And laboured lands to yield the timely ear, And eft did sing of wars and deadly dreed So as the heavens did quake his verse to hear.

But ah! Mecænas is yclad in clay, And great Augustus long ago is dead, And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead, That matter made for poets on to play: For ever, who in derring-do were dread, The lofty verse of them was loved aye.

But after Virtue gan for age to stoop, And mighty Manhood brought a bed of ease, The vaunting poets found nought worth a pease To put in press among the learned troop; Then gan the streams of flowing wits to cease, And sunbright honour penn'd in shameful coop.

And if that any buds of Poesy, Yet of the old stock, gan to shoot again, Or it men's follies must to-force to feign, And roll with rest in rhymes of ribaudry; Or, as it sprung, it wither must again; Tom Piper makes us better melody.

PIERS. O peerless Po'sy! where is then thy place? If nor in princes' palace thou dost sit, (And yet is princes' palace the most fit,) Ne breast of baser birth doth thee embrace, Then make thee wings of thine aspiring wit, And, whence thou cam'st, fly back to heaven apace.

CUD. Ah! Percy, it is all-to weak and wan, So high to soar and make so large a flight; Her pieced pinions be not so in plight: For Colin fits such famous flight to scan; He, were he not with love so ill bedight, Would mount as high and sing as sweet as swan.

PIERS. Ah! fon; for Love does teach him climb so high, And lifts him up out of the loathsome mire; Such immortal mirror, as he doth admire, Would raise one's mind above the starry sky, And cause a caitiff courage to aspire; For lofty love doth loathe a lowly eye.

CUD. All otherwise the state of Poet stands; For lordly Love is such a tyrant fell, That, where he rules, all power he doth expel; The vaunted verse a vacant head demands, Ne wont with crabbed care the Muses dwell: Unwisely weaves, that takes two webs in hand.

Who ever casts to compass weighty prize, And thinks to throw out thund'ring words of threat, Let pour in lavish cups and thrifty bits of meat, For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phœbus wise; And, when with wine the brain begins to sweat, The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.

Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage; O if my temples were distain'd with wine, And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine, How I could rear the Muse on stately stage, And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine, With quaint Bellona in her equipage!

But ah! my courage cools ere it be warm: Forthy content us in this humble shade, Where no such troublous tides have us assay'd; Here we our slender pipes may safely charm. PIERS. And, when my goats shall have their bellies laid, Cuddie shall have a kid to store his farm.

CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.[17] _Agitante calescimus illo, etc._

[Illustration: NOVEMBER AEGLOGA UNDECIMA

COLIN'S EMBLEME]

NOVEMBER. ÆGLOGA UNDECIMA. ARGUMENT.

In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book.

THENOT. COLIN.

THENOT. Colin, my dear, when shall it please thee sing, As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance? Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing, Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance. Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance Among the shepheards' swains may aye remain, Whether thee list thy loved lass advance, Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein. COL. Thenot, now n'is the time of merrimake, Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play; Such mirth in May is meetest for to make, Or summer shade, under the cocked hay. But now sad winter welked hath the day, And Phœbus, weary of his yearly task, Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay, And taken up his inn in Fishes'[18] hask: Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask, And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise: The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask, As she was wont in youth and summer-days; But if thou algate lust light virelays, And looser songs of love to underfong, Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise? Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long. THE. The nightingale is sovereign of song, Before him sits the titmouse silent be; And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng, Should Colin make judge of my foolery. Nay, better learn of them that learned be, And have been watered at the Muses' well; The kindly dew drops from the higher tree, And wets the little plants that lowly dwell: But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill, Accord not with thy Muse's merriment, To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill, And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment; For dead is Dido,[19] dead, alas! and drent, Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheen: The fairest may she was that ever went, Her like she has not left behind, I ween: And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen, I shall thee give yond cosset for thy pain; And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been As those that did thy Rosalind complain, Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain. Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt: Then up, I say, thou jolly shepheard swain, Let not my small demand be so contempt. COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt; But ah! too well I wot my humble vein, And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt; Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain.

"Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine, Such cause of mourning never hadst afore; Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme! Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more; For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore. Dido, my dear, alas! is dead, Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead. O heavy herse! Let streaming tears be poured out in store; O careful verse!

"Shepheards, that by your flocks of Kentish downs abide, Wail ye this woful waste of Nature's wark; Wail we the wight, whose presence was our pride; Wail we the wight, whose absence is our cark; The sun of all the world is dim and dark; The earth now lacks her wonted light, And all we dwell in deadly night. O heavy herse! Break we our pipes, that shrill'd as loud as lark; O careful verse!

"Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we so long?) Whose better days Death hath shut up in woe? The fairest flower our garland all among Is faded quite, and into dust ygo. Sing now, ye shepheards' daughters, sing no moe The songs that Colin made you in her praise, But into weeping turn your wanton lays. O heavy herse! Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago: O careful verse!

"Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade, And lieth buried long in Winter's bale; Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd, It flow'reth fresh, as it should never fail? But thing on earth that is of most avail, As virtue's branch and beauty's bud, Reliven not for any good. O heavy herse! The branch once dead, the bud eke needs must quail; O careful verse!