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

THE SEVENTH EGLOG.

Borrill an aged shepheard swaine, with reasons doth reprooue, Batte a foolish want on boy, but lately falne in loue.

Batte.

BOrill, why sit'st thou musing in thy coate? like dreaming Merlyn in his drowsie Cell, What may it be with learning thou doest doate, or art inchanted with some Magick spell? Or wilt thou an Hermites life professe? And bid thy beades heare like an Ancoresse?

See how faire Flora decks our fields with flowers, and clothes our groues in gaudie summers greene, And wanton Uer distils rose-water showers, to welcome Ceres, haruests hallowed Queene, Who layes abroad her louely sun-shine haires, Crown'd with great garlands of her golden eares.

Now shepheards layne their blankets all awaie, and in their lackets minsen on the plaines, And at the riuers fishen daie by daie, now none so frolicke as the shepheards swaines, Why liest thou here then in thy loathsome caue, As though a man were buried quicke in graue.

Borrill.

Batte, my coate from tempest standeth free, when stately towers been often shakt with wind, And wilt thou Batte, come and sit with me? contented life here shalt thou onely finde, Here mai'st thou caroll Hymnes, and sacred Psalmes, And hery Pan, with orizons and almes.

And scorne the crowde of such as cogge for pence, and waste their wealth in sinfull brauerie, Whose gaine is losse, whose thrift is levvd expence, and liuen still in golden slauery: Wondring at toyes, as foolish worldlings doone, Like to the dogge which barked at the moone.

Here maist thou range the goodly pleasant field, and search out simples to procure thy heale, What sundry vertues hearbs and flovvres doe yeeld, gainst griefe vvhich may thy sheepe or thee assaile: Here mayst thou hunt the little harmeles Hare, Or else entrap false Raynard in a snare.

Or if thou vvilt in antique Romants reede, of gentle Lords and ladies that of yore, In forraine lands atchieu'd their noble deede, and been renovvnd from East to Westerne shore: Or learne the shepheards nice astrolobie, To knovv the Planets moouing in the skie.

Batte.

Shepheard these things been all too coy for mee, vvhose lustie dayes should still be spent in mirth, These mister artes been better fitting thee, (earth: vvhose drouping dayes are dravving tovvards the VVhat thinkest thou? my iolly peacocks trayne, Shall be acoyd and brooke so foule a stayne?

These been for such as make them votarie, and take them to the mantle and the ring, And spenden day and night in dotarie, hammering their heads, musing on heauenly thing, And vvhisper still of sorrovv in their bed, And done despise all loue and lustie head:

Like to the curre, vvith anger vvell neere vvoode, vvho makes his kennel in the Oxes stall, And snarleth vvhen he seeth him take his foode, and yet his chaps can chevv no hay at all. Borrill, euen so it fareth novv vvith thee, And vvith these vvisards of thy mysterie.

Borrill.

Sharpe is the thorne, full soone I see by thee, bitter the blossome, vvhen the fruite is sovver, And early crook d, that vvill a Camock bee, rough is the vvinde before a sodayne shovver: Pittie thy vvit should be so vvrong mislead, And thus be guyded by a giddie head.

Ah foolish else, I inly pittie thee, misgouerned by thy lewd brainsick will: The hidden baytes, ah fond thou do'st not see, nor find'st the cause which breedeth all thy ill: Thou think'st all golde, that hath a golden shew, And art deceiu'd, for it is nothing soe.

Such one art thou as is the little flie, who is so crowse and gamesome with the flame, Till vvith her busines and her nicetie, her nimble vvings are scorched vvith the same, Then fals she dovvne vvith pitteous buzzing note, And in the fier doth sindge her mourning cote.

Batte.

Alas good man I see thou ginst to raue, thy vvits done erre, and misse the cushen quite, Because thy head is gray and vvordes been graue, Thou think'st thereby to dravv me from delight: What I am young, a goodly Batcheler, And must liue like the lustie limmeter.

Thy legges been crook'd, thy knees done bend for age, and I am svvift and nimble as the Roe, Thou art ycouped like a bird in cage, and in the field I vvander too and froe, Thou must doe penance for thy olde misdeedes, And make amends, vvith Auies and vvith creedes.

For al that thou canst say, I will not let, for why my fancie strayneth me so sore, That day and night, my minde is wholy set on iollie. Loue, and iollie Paramore: Only on loue I set my whole delight, The summers day, and all the winters night.

That pretie Cupid, little god of loue, whose imped wings with speckled plumes been dight, Who striketh men below, and Gods aboue, Rouing at randon with his feathered flight, When louely Uenus sits and giues the ayme, And smiles to see her little Bantlings game.

Vpon my staffe his statue will I carue, his bowe and quiuer on his winged backe, His forked heads, for such as them deserue, and not of his, an implement shall lacke, And Uenus in her Litter all of loue, Drawne with a Swanne, a Sparrow, and a Doue.

And vnder him Thesby of Babylon, and Clcopatra somtime of renovvne: Phillis that died for loue of Demophôon, Then louely Dido Queen of Carthage towne, Which euer held god Cupids lawes so deare, And been canoniz'd in Loues Calendere.

Borrill.

Ah wilfull boy, thy follie now I finde, and hard it is a fooles talke to endure, Thou art as deafe euen as thy god is blinde, sike as the Saint, sike is the seruiture: But wilt thou heare a good olde Minstrels song, A medicine for such as been vvith loue ystong.

Batte.

Borrill, sing on I pray thee let vs heare, that I may laugh to see thee shake thy beard, But take heede Borrill that thy voyce be cleare, or by my hood thou'lt make vs all afeard, Or els I doubt that thou wilt fright our flockes, When they shall heare thee barke so like a foxe.

Borrill.

Oh spight full way ward wretched loue, VVoe to Venus which did nurse thee, Heauens and earth thy plagues do proue, Gods and men haue cause to curse thee. Thoughts griefe, hearts woe, Hopes paine, bodies languish, Enutes rage, sleepes foe, Fancies fraud, soules anguish, Desires dread, mindes madnes, Secrets be wrayer, natures error, Sights deceit, sullens sadnes, Speeches expence, Cupids terror,

Malcontents melancholly, Liues slaughter, deaths nurse, Cares slaue, dotards folly, Fortunes bayte, worlds curse, Lookes theft, eyes blindnes, Selfes will, tongues treason, Paynes pleasure, wrongs kindnes, Furies frensie, follies reason: VVith cursing thee as I began, Cursing thee I make an end, Neither God, neither man, Neither Fayrie, neither Feend.

Batte.

Ah worthy Borrill, here's a goodly song, now by my belt I neuer heard a worse: Olde doting foole, for shame hold thou thy tongue, I would thy clap were shut vp in my purse. It is thy life, if thou mayst scolde and braule: Yet in thy words there is no wit at all.

And for that wrong which thou to loue hast done, I will aueng me at this present time, And in such forte as now thou hast begonne, I will repeat a carowlet in rime, Where, Borrill, I vnto thy teeth will proue, That all my good consisteth in my loue.

Borrill.

Come on good Batte, I pray thee let vs heare? Much will be sayd, and neuer a vvhit the near.

Batte.

Loue is the heauens fayre aspect, loue is the glorie of the earth, Loue only doth our liues direct, loue is our guyder from our birth,

Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie, loue taught mme eyes the way to loue, Loue raysed my conceit so hie, loue framd my hand his arte to proue.

Loue taught my Muse her perfect skill, loue gaue me first to Poesies Loue is the Soueraigne of my will, loue bound me first to loyalty.

Loue was the first that fram'd my speech, loue was the first that gaue me grace: Loue is my life and fortunes leech, loue made the vertuous giue me place.

Loue is the end of my desire, loue is the loadstarre of my loue, Loue makes my selfe, my selfe admire, loue seated my delights aboue.

Loue placed honor in my brest, loue made me learnings fauoret, Loue made me liked of the best, loue first my minde on vertue set.

Loue is my life, life is my loue, loue is my whole felicity, Loue is my sweete, sweete is my loue, I am in loue, and loue in me.

Borrill.

Is loue in thee? alas poore sillie lad, thou neuer couldst haue lodg'd a worser guest, For where he rules no reason can be had, so is he still sworne enemie to rest: It pitties me to thinke thy springing yeares, Should still be spent with woes, with sighes, with teares.

Batte.

Gramercy Borrill for thy company, for all thy iestes and all thy merrie Bourds, I still shall long vntill I be with thee, because I find some wisdome in thy words, But I will watch the next time thou doost ward, (heard. And sing thee such a lay of loue as neuer shepheard