Idea the shepheards garland Fashioned in nine eglogs. Rowlands sacrifice to the nine Muses.

THE SECOND EGLOG.

Wynken of mans frayle wayning age declares the simple truth, And doth by Rowlands harmes reprooue Mottos vnbrideled youth.

Motto.

MIght my youths mirth delight thy aged yeeres, My gentle shepheard father of vs all, Wherewith I why lome Ioy'd my louely feeres, Chanting sweete straines of heauenly pastorall.

Now would I tune my miskins on this Greene, And frame my muse those vertues to vnfold, Of that sole Phenix Bird, my liues sole Queene: Whose locks done staine, the three times burnisht gold.

But melancholie grafted in thy Braine, My Rimes seeme harsh, to thy vnrelisht taste, Thy droughthy wits, not long refresht with raigne, Parched with heat, done wither now and waste.

Wynken.

Indeed my Boy, my wits been all forlorne, My flowers decayd, with winter-withered frost, My clowdy set eclips'd my cherefull morne, That Iewell gone wherein I ioyed most.

My dreadful thoughts been drawen vpon my face, In blotted lines with ages iron pen, The lothlie morpheu saffroned the place, Where beuties damaske daz'd the eies of men.

A cumber-world, yet in the world am left, A fruitles plot, with brambles ouergrowne, Misliued man of my vvorlds ioy bereft, Hart-breaking cares the ofspring of my mone.

Those daintie straines of my vvell tuned reed, Which manie a time haue pleasd my vvanton eares, Nor svveet, nor pleasing thoughts in me done breed, But tell the follies of my vvandring yeares.

Those poysned pils been biding at my hart, Those loathsome drugs of my youths vanitie, Svveete seem'd they once, ful bitter novv and tart, Ay me consuming corosiues they be.

Motto.

Euen so I vveene, for thy olde ages feuer, Deemes svveetest potions bitter as the gall, And thy colde Pallat hauing lost her sauour, Receiues no comfort in a cordiall.

VVynken.

As thou art novv, vvas I a gamesome boy, Though staru'd vvith vvintred eld as thou do'st see, And vvell I knovv thy svvallovv-vvinged ioy, Shalbe forgotten as it is in me.

When on the Arche of thine eclipsed eies, Time hath ingrau'd deepe characters of death, And sun-burnt age thy kindlie moisture dries, Thy vvearied lungs be niggards of thy breath,

Thy bravvne-falne armes, thy camock-bended backe, The time-plovv d furrovves in thy fairest field, The Southsaiers of natures vvofull vvrack, When blooming age must stoupe to starued eld,

When Lillie vvhite is of a tavvnie die, Thy fragrant crimson turn'd ash-coloured pale, Thy skin orecast vvith rough embroderie, And cares rude pencell, quite disgrac'd thy sale,

When dovvne-beds heat must thavve thy frozen cold, And luke-vvarme brothes recure Phlebotomie, And vvhen the bell is readie to be tol'd, To call the vvormes to thine Anatomie: Remember then my boy, vvhat once I said to thee.

Now am I like the knurrie-bulked Oke, Whome wasting eld hath made a toombe of dust, Whose windvfallen branches fold by tempest stroke, His barcke consumes with canker wormed rust

And though thou seemst like to the bragging bryer, As gay as is the mornings Marygolde, Yet shortly shall thy sap be drie and seere, Thy gaudy Blossomes blemished with colde.

Euen such a wanton, an vnruly swayne, was little Rowland, vvhen of yore as he, Vpon the Beechen tree on yonder playne, Carued this rime of loues Idolatrie.

The Gods delight, the heauens hie spectacle, Earths greatest glory, worlds rarest miracle.

Fortunes fayr'st mistresse, vertues surest guide, Loues Gouernesse, and natures chiefest pride.

Delights owne darling, honours cheefe defence, Chastities choyce, and wisdomes quintessence.

Conceipts sole Riches thoughts only treasure, Desires true hope, loyes sweetest pleasure.

Mercies due merite, valeurs iust reward, Times fayrest fruite, fames strongest guarde.

Yea she alone, next that eternall he, The expresse Image of eternitie.

Motto.

Oh diuine loue, which so aloft canst raise, And lift the minde out of this earthly mire, And do'st inspire the pen with so hie prayse, As with the heauens doth equal mans desire.

Thou lightning flame of sacred Poesie, Whose furie doth incense the swelling braines, As drawes to thee by heauen-bred Sympathie, The sweete delights of highest soaring vaines:

Who doth not helpe to deck thy holy Shrine, With Mirtle, and triumphant Lawrell tree? Who will not say that thou art most diuine? Or who doth not confesse thy deitie?

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.

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.

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.

Motto.

Woe's me for him that pineth so in payne, Alas poore Rowland, how it pities me, So faire a baite should breed so foule a bayne, Or humble shewes should couer crueltie.

VVinken

Beware by him thou foolish wanton svvayne, By others harmes thus maist thou learne to heede, Beautie and wealth been fraught vvith hie disdaine, Beleeue it as a Maxim of thy Creede.

Motto.

If that there be such woes and paines in loue, Woe be to him that list the same to proue.

VVynken.

Yes thou shalt find, if thou desir'st to proue, There is no hell, vnto the paines in loue.