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

THE FOVRTH EGLOG.

Wynken be wayleth Elphinslosse, the God of Poesie, with Rowlands rime ecleepd the tears of the greene Hawthorne tree.

Gorbo.

WEll met good wynken, whither doest thou wend? How hast thou far'd sweet shepherd many a yeer? May vvynken thus his daies in darkenes spend? Who I haue knowne for piping had no peere?

Where been those fayre flocks thou wert wont to guide? What? been they dead? or hap'd on some mischance, Or mischiefe hath their master else betide, Or Lordly Loue hath cast thee in a trance.

What man? lets still be merie whilst we may, And take a truce with sorrow for a time, And let vs passe this wearie winters day, In reading Riddles, or in making rime.

VVynken.

Ah woe's me Gorbo, mirth is farre away, Mirth may not soiourne with black malcontent, The lowring aspect of this dismall day, The winter of my sorrow doth augment.

My song is now a swanne-like dying song, And my conceipts, the deepe conceipts of death, My heart becom'n a very hell of wrong, My breast the irksome prison of my breath.

I loth my life, I loth the dearest light, Com'n is my night, when once appeeres the day, The blessed sunne seemes odious in my sight, No song may like me but the shreech-owles lay.

Gorbo.

What mayst thou be, that old vvynkin de word, Whose thred-bare wits o'rworne with melancholly, Once so delightsome at the shepheards boord, But now forlorne with thy selues self-wild folly.

I think thou dot'st in thy gray-bearded age, Or brusd with sinne, for thy youths sin art sory, And vow'st for thy? a solemne pilgrimage, To holy Hayles or Patricks Purgatory.

Come sit we downe vnder this Hawthorne tree. The morrowes light shall lend vs daie enough, And tell a tale of Gawen or Sir Guy, Of Robin Hood, or of good Clema Clough.

Or else some Romant vnto vs areed, Which good olde Godfrey taught thee in thy youth, Of noble Lords and Ladies gentle deede, Or of thy loue, or of thy lasses truth.

VVinken

Gorbo, my Comfort is accloyd with care, A new mishap my wonted ioyes hath crost: Then meruaile not although my musicke iarre, When she the Author of her mirth hath lost,

Elphin is dead, and in his graue is laid, Our liues delight whilst louely Elphin liued, What cruell fate hath so the time berraid, The widow world of all her ioyes depriued.

O cursed death, Liues fearsull enemie, Times poysned sickle: Tyrants reuenging pride: Thou blood-sucker, Thou childe of infamie: Deuouring Tiger: slaughtering homicide: Ill hast thou done, and ill may thee betide.

Naught hast thou got, the earth hath wonne the most, Nature is payd the interest of her due, Pan hath receau'd, what him so dearly cost, O heauens his vertues doe belong to you.

A heauenly clowded in a humaine shape, Rare substance, in so rough a barcke Iclad, Of Pastorall, the liuely springing sappe, Though mortall thou, thy fame immortall made.

Spel-charming Prophet, sooth-diuining seer, ô heauenly musicke of the highest spheare, Sweet sounding trump, soule-rauishing desire, Thou stealer of mans heart, inchanter of the eare.

God of Inuention, Ioues deere Mercury, Ioy of our Lawrell, pride of all our ioy: The essence of all Poets diuinitie, Spirit of Orpheus: Pallas louely boy.

But all my words shalbe dissolu'd to teares, And my tears fountaines shall to riuers grow: These Riuers to the floods of my dispaires, And these shall make an Ocean of my woe.

His rare desarts, shall kindle my desire, With burning zeale, the brands of mine vnrest, My sighes in adding sulphure to this fire, Shall frame another AEtna in my breast.

Planets reserue your playnts till dismall day, The ruthles rockes but newly haue begonne, And when in drops they be dissolu'd away, Let heauens begin to weepe when earth hath done.

Then tune thy pipe and I will sing alaye, Vpon his death by Rowland of the rocke, Sitting with me this other stormy day, In you sayre field attending on our flock.

Gorbo.

This shall content me VVynken wondrous well, And in this mistie wether keepe vs waking, To heare ofhim, who whylome did excell, In such a song of learned Rowlands making.

Melpomine put on thy mourning Gaberdine, And set thy song vnto the dolefull Base, And with thy sable vayle shadow thy face, with weeping verse, attend his hearse, VVhose blessed soule the heauens doe now enshrine.

Come Nymphs and with your Rebecks ring his knell, VVarble forth your wamenting harmony, And at his drery fat all obsequie, with Cypres bowes, maske your fayre Browes, And beat your breasts to chyme his burying peale.

Thy birth-day was to all our ioye, the euen, And on thy death this dolefull song we sing, Sweet Child of Pan, and the Castalian spring, vnto our endles mone, from vs why art thou gone, To fill vp that sweete Angels quier in heauen.

O whylome thou thy lasses dearest loue, VVhen with greene Lawrell she hath crowned thee, Immortall mirror of all Poesie: the Muses treasure, the Graces pleasure, Reigning with Angels now in heauen aboue.

Our mirth is now depriu'd of all her glory, Our Taburins in dolefull dumps are drownd. Our viols want their sweet and pleasing sound, our melodie is mar'd and we of ioyes debard, Oh wicked world so mutable and transitory.

O dismall day, bereauer of delight, O stormy winter sourse of all our sorrow, ô most vntimely and eclipsed morrow, to rob vs quite of all delight, Darkening that starre which euer shone so bright:

Oh Elphin, Elphin, Though thou hence be gone, In spight of death yet shalt thou liue for aye, Thy Poesie is garlanded with Baye: and still shall blaze thy lasting prayse: VVhose losse poore shepherds euer shall bemone.

Come Girles, and with Carnations decke his graue, VVith damaske Roses and the hyacynt: Come with sweete VVilliams, Marioram and Mynt, with precious Balmes, with hymnes and psalmes, His funerall deserues no lesse at all to haue.

But see where Elphin sits in fayre Elizia, Feeding his flocke on yonder heauenly playne, Come and behold, yon louely shepheards swayne, piping his fill, on yonder hill, Tasting sweete Nectar, and Ambrosia.

Gorbo.

Oh how thy plaints (sweete friend) renew my payne, In listning thus to thy lamenting cries: That from the tempest of my troubled brayne, See how the floods been risen in mine eyes.

And being now a full tide of our teares, It is full time to stop the streame of griefe, Lest drowning in the floods of our despaires, We want our liues, wanting our soules reliefe.

But now the sunne beginneth to decline, And whilest our woes been in repeating here, Yon little eluish moping Lamb of mine, Is all betangled in yon crawling Brier.

Optima prima ferè manibus rapiuntur auaris: Implentur numer is deteriora suis.