Wynken.
A foolish boy, full ill is he repayed,
For now the wanton pines in endles paine,
And sore repents what he before missaide,
So may they be which can so lewdly faine.
Idea the shepheards garland Fashioned in nine eglogs. Rowlands sacrifice to the nine Muses.
About this Item
- Title
- Idea the shepheards garland Fashioned in nine eglogs. Rowlands sacrifice to the nine Muses.
- Author
- Drayton, Michael, 1563-1631.
- Publication
- Imprinted at London :: [By T. Orwin] for Thomas Woodcocke, dwelling in Pauls Churchyarde, at the signe of the black Beare,
- 1593.
- Rights/Permissions
-
To the extent possible under law, the Text Creation Partnership has waived all copyright and related or neighboring rights to this keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above, according to the terms of the CC0 1.0 Public Domain Dedication (http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/). This waiver does not extend to any page images or other supplementary files associated with this work, which may be protected by copyright or other license restrictions. Please go to http://www.textcreationpartnership.org/ for more information.
- Cite this Item
-
"Idea the shepheards garland Fashioned in nine eglogs. Rowlands sacrifice to the nine Muses." In the digital collection Early English Books Online. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A20823.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed April 30, 2024.
Pages
Page 10
Now hath this yonker torne his tressed lockes,
And broke his pipe which sounded erst so sweete,
Forsaking his companions and their flocks,
And casts his gayest garland at his feete.
And being shrowded in a homely cote,
And full of sorrow as a man might be,
He tun'd his Rebeck with a mournfull note,
And thereto sang this dolefull elegie.
Tell me fayre flocke (if so you can conceaue)
The sodaine cause of my night-sunnes eclipse,
If this be wrought me my light to bereaue,
By Magick spels, from some inchanting lips
Or vgly Saturne from his combust sent,
This fat all presage of deaths dreryment.
Oh cleerest day-starre, honored of mine eyes,
Yet sdaynst mine eyes should gaze vpon thy light,
Bright morning sunne, who with thy sweet arise,
Expell'st the clouds of my harts lowring might,
Goddes reiecting sweetest sacrifice,
Of mine eyes teares ay offered to thine eyes.
Page 11
May purest heauens scorne my soules pure desires?
Or holy shrines hate Pilgrims orizons?
May sacred temples gaynsay sacred prayers?
Or Saints refuse the poores deuotions?
Then Orphane thoughts with sorrow be you waind,
VVhen loues Religion shalbe thus prophayn'd.
Yet needes the earth must droupe with visage sad;
VVhen siluer dewes been turn'd to bitter stormes,
The Cheerefull Welkin once in sables clad,
Her frownes foretell poore humaine creatures harmes.
And yet for all to make amends for this,
The clouds sheed teares and weepen at my misse.