The extravagant shepherd, the anti-romance, or, The history of the shepherd Lysis translated out of French.

THE Anti-Romance; OR, THE HISTORY Of the SHEPHERD LYSIS. (Book 1)

The First Book. (Book 1)

FEed on, feed on, dear Sheep, my dear Com∣panions! The Deity which I adore hath undertaken to reduce into these places the felicity of the first Ages: And Love him∣self, who acknowledges a respect to her, stands with his Bow in hand at the entrance of the Woods and Caves, to destroy the Wolves that should assault you. All nature adores Charite: The Sun seeing she gives us more light then himself, hath now no more to doe in our horizon; and 'tis only to see her, that he appears there. But, return, bright Star! if thou wilt not be ecclips'd by her, and so become ridiculous to mortals: Doe not pursue thy own shame and mis∣fortune, but rather cast thy self into the bed which Amphitrite hath prepared for thee, and sleep by the noise of her waves.

These were the words that were overheard one morning, by some that could understand them, in a Meadow upon the River of Sein near St. Cloud. He that spake them drove before him half a dozen mangy Sheep, which were but the refuse of

the Butchers of Poissy. But if his Flock was in so ill a posture, his Habit was so fantastick ••n amends thereof, that it was easily discovered he was some Shepherd of quality. He had a strawn Hat with the edges turn'd up; a Cassock and Breeches of white Taby; a pair of gray Pearly silk-Stockings on, and white Shoos with green Taf∣fata Knots. He wore a Scarf, had a Scrip or a Foyne-skin, and a Sheep-hook as well painted as the Staff of a Master of Ceremonies. So that considering all this equipage, he was almost like Bellerosa, going to represent Myrtil in the Pastoral of the Faith∣full Shepherd. His hair was rather flaxen then red; but naturally curled into so many rings, as sufficed to demonstrate the dryness of his head. His Countenance had some features which rendred it gracefull enough, if his sharp Nose, and his gray Eyes half asquint, and almost buried in his head, had not made him appear somewhat gastly; shewing those that understood any thing of Physiognomy, that his brain was not of the soundest.

A young Gentleman of Paris having perceived him afar off, was somwhat asto∣nish'd at his extraordinary garb; and discontinuing his walk, came and hid himself somwhat near him, behind a haycock; where he was so far from making any noise, that he hardly durst dismiss his breath. He saw him walk with paces so grave and measured as a Swiss-Captain, and heard him pronounce words with such animation as if he had been on a Stage: which made him believe that he conn'd the part of some Stage-play wherein he was to be an Actor, as indeed they had a little before acted one at St. Cloud.

While he was in doubt whether he should discover himself, or let his curiosity be satisfied by other accidents, the Shepherd put himself into more different po∣stures then a Painter puts his boys into when he would represent some great history. Sometimes he leaned on his Sheep-hook, resting his right leg thereon; and some∣times he crossed his arms, lifting up his head towards heaven, as if he begged some∣thing with his eyes. In 〈◊〉〈◊〉, he considered himself all about with certain gestures of admiration; and cry'd out, O God! how am I now assured that I shall please my Beauty in this new habit! Such was the Phrygian Pastor, when he gave sentence up∣on the difference of the three Goddesses. After that, he sate him on the ground; and taking a little Loaf out of his bag, drew out withall divers other things, which he set in order by him, that he might the better consider them. There was a little dry Grass, a withered Pink, some very foul Paper, and a Peece of old worn Leather. Ah precious Reliques! sayes he in the midst of his contemplation, I must have a Box of Chrystal for you, that I may always see you, and not touch you. Then did he fall a eating with such greediness, as if he had been newly come out of a besieged City destitute of provision. Anselme thinking he could not resume all ••hese excel∣lent discourses, and overcome with impatience, rise from the place where he was, to speak to him. As soon as the other had perceived him, he sayes to him, Pan de∣fend thee, courteous Shepherd: wilt thou partake of my Pastoral banquet? I have in my Pocket some Apricocks, whose skin seems to be interlined with Roses: We will here participate with a fraternal concord what the Gods have sent us. I give you thanks, replies Anselme, my stomach is not up so early: But since your courtesie is so great, I presume to ask you what fair things you have there exposed, and why you esteem them so highly as if they were Peeces taken out of the Cabinet of some Antiquary: I had rather for the present that you gave me part of your secret designs, then of your breakfast. I adore thy humour, replies the Shepherd; seeing thou betrayest so much curiosity, thou must needs have a good wit: Sit thee here down by me, and I shall give thee an account of my self. It's a pleasure to discourse of our Loves, while a gentle Zephir breaths yet upon the earth: when the heat shall advance, we will drive our Flocks into the shade.

Anselme hearing all these not so common things, was unspeakably astonish'd, and knew he had found one sick of the strangest folly in the world: So that con∣sidering well that there is nothing gotten of such people but blows, if they are con∣tradicted; and the greatest pleasure that may be, when humour'd, he presently placed himself by him. He resolved within himself to bite his lips, whenever he

should say any thing that were ridiculous, lest he should laugh; and put on a coun∣tenance so modest, that the Shepherd assuring himself that he prepared him a fa∣vourable audience, began to speak thus.

I put up my bread for the present, that I may entertain thee with my sufferings. Discourses are more pleasant then Banquets. Know then that this common Tyrant of our souls, this God that is so little in bulk, and so great in power, (who if he were not, Shepherds might dispute, as to felicity, with the Gods) no sooner observed me in the world, but he destin'd me for one of those Captives which he will have drawn after his triumphal Chariot. Yet he alone could not have robbed me of my Liberty, had he not been seconded by a fair Eye; who conspired with him to make him Master of the Universe. The incomparable Charite receives his pay, or rather he hers, so to perfect the conquest of all hearts. 'Twas in Paris, that Epitome of the World, that I saw that onely Wonder; when I was in a richer habit, but not so noble as this I now have on. She dwelt about the quarter of St. Honore, and that not without reason, seeing she was honoured of all the World. Fortune with her blind eyes denyed me often the means of seeing her; and it was only at some un∣certain hours that I enjoyed that object, in passing by the house, or rather the temple of that Goddess, but wanted the opportunity of tendring my prayers and sacrifices to her. I passed by that way above ten times in an afternoon; and because I should have been ashamed that the neighbours should see me so often, the first time I put on a black Cloak, the second a gray; one while I walked gravely, another with a staff, as if I had been lame, lest I should have been observed. When I would not pass quite through the street, I was content to possess my self of a corner, and see my Mistress afar off, though the most commonly I could perceive but the extremity of her Petticoat. But I did more then all this: when I returned from some part where I had been at supper, I went out of my way three streets, to go into hers; and it satisfied me to consider the walls that kept her in, and to see the candle in her chamber; and if the glass appear'd more obscure in one place then another, I con∣ceived it was she that was near the window, and there I stood for to contemplate that fair shadow so long as it continued. And though all this can be called no other then a false pleasure, yet I was necessitated to continue in this torment a whole year; A torment more cruel then that of Tantalus. But these eight dayes since, I have found the Heavens more favourable to me: Charite is come to dwell here, where I hope to find greater means to acquaint her with my flames. The Shepherd∣esses doe oftentimes retire into the groves, where the Shepherds may entertain them, and yet no envious eye shall discover it, as it falls out in Cities, where a man is spied and suspected by every one. To prosecute therefore my Love with more liberty, I have put on this habit, which I had wish'd long before, and am resolved to pass away my dayes near those fair Rivers with this little Flock. But that I may not conceal any thing from thee, and that I may be known to thee as to a Brother, I tell thee what I would not every body; and that is this, that my own proper name is Lewis, but I have quitted that to take some Shepherd-name. I would have one that came somwhat near my own, that so I might be always known; and sometimes I had a mind to be called Lodovick, sometimes Lysidor, but in the end I have not found any name more fit then Lysis, a name that sounds somwhat, I know not what, that is amorous and gentle. As for Charite, not to dissemble, her true name is Ca∣therine; I heard her so call'd but yesterday by a Nymph. But thou knowest the artifice of Lovers: We say Francina instead of Francis, Diana instead of Anne, Hyanthe instead of Jane, Helene instead of Magdalene, Armida instead of Mary, Eliza instead of Elizabeth. These old names sound far better then the new, in the mouths of the Poets. So after I had taken asunder this name of Catherine for to compose another out of it, I found by way of Anagram that of Chariteé, and there wants only an [n] but all the letters are there. How many Laurels have I deserved for this rare invention, seeing that name is clearly the name of a Shepherdess, and that lately there hath been a Book of Pastorals made, which is so called? Nevertheless I have been content to cut off one letter more, and to call her Charite▪

because the name seems to me more gentile, and more easie to come into verse Wherefore henceforward there shall not be rock nor tree in the Country, where shall not be engraved the names of Lysis and Charite: nay, I wish I could grave them in the heavens, or make the clouds receive the form of our Chara∣cters.

But to satisfie thee more particularly as to the Jewels thou seest me have, cour∣teous Shepherd, know they are things which I look on as most exquisite favours. For the little that I have seen Charite, I doe not think she knows me: she hath not given me any bracelets of her hair, nor cast amorous looks on me. For want of this, I shall not forget my self so far, as not to keep something that comes from her. Yesterday as I came to St. Cloud, I saw her walking with one of her Compani∣ons: In jesting she took a Pink that was in her breast, and cast it at the other whom she met: I was carefull to gather it up, that the rest of my dayes I might have the pleasure to kiss that fair Flower which had touched those fair Apples that are more precious then those of the Hesperides. After that she took out of her pocket a peece of Paper, which she tore all to peeces, and threw away as a thing nothing worth; yet highly estimable to me, who took it up, desiring to preserve whatever comes from her. Presently after she stooped down, somewhat ailing her foot and hindring her to go, and tore off a little peece of the soal of her shoe, which dragg'd along: What grief would have seiz'd me, if I had not obtained that fair peece of Leather, whose service had once been to carry so worthy a body! Fate was favourable to me: Charite and her Companion betook them into a house, so that I being left alone in the street, presumed to take up that rich treasure; and what is more, that my felicity might not be imperfect, I gathered of the Grass which had received the impression of her divine paces. Behold, gentle Shepherd, I have all these things in my custody: Satisfie thy eyes with them, and observe quickly if they have not some extraordinary lustre; for I am going to put them up: 'Tis a prophanation of them, to expose them so long in the aire.

Anselme wondering at the extravagances wherewith Lysis entertained him, could not withhold himself from saying to him; But what, perfect Lover! if Cha∣rite had spat somewhere, or done somewhat less decent, would you be so curious as to keep whatever should come from her? Who doubts it? replies he: ought any thing that is so precious be lost, when it may be recovered? I make a vow from henceforward, to find me out a Cave somewhere hereabouts, where I will preserve all whatever shall come from her; and thither will I go every day, and there spend whole hours in contemplation. You will never have done, sayes Anselme, if you will keep so many things: How is it possible to get all the grass that she shall tread upon? Let me tell you, you shall do well to content your self with some part: but your satisfaction would be far greater, if you could get her Picture, and that would make you remember her better. Ha! that's excellently imagined, replies Lysis. It is true, I have seen in all Books, that Lovers doe always endeavour to have the Pictures of their Mistresses: But how shall I have mine? Where is the Painter so skilfull that can draw it? A mortal man cannot fixtly look on her. There is none but Love that is able to accomplish this work, as he hath already painted her well in my heart: yet I should be well pleased to have her (if it be possible) in another draught, that I might place it upon an Altar, and make it my Idol. Whereupon Anselme told him, that if he knew Charite, he might assure himself that he would draw her Picture so as he should therewith be satisfied. And indeed he spake truth, for from his very childhood he delighted in Painting; An accomplishment that doth a man no hurt, though he doe not make it his profession. Lysis seeing that he proffered him so great a favour, could not imagine that any mortal had so much power and will to succour him; and hereupon embracing his knees, spake to him in these words: Pardon me, O great Divinity of our groves! if ere-while I could not discover who you were: Now doe I perceive well enough that you are the God Pan, that hath disguised himself for to come and assist me in my Loves; and I easily observe somwhat in you more then a Shepherd, seeing your Clothes are not alto∣gether

like mine: Henceforth there shall not pass a day, that I shall forget to pour out wine and milk before your Altars; and every moneth will I offer you sacrifice of the fattest of my Lambs. Consider well what you say, replies Anselme: I am not he whom you conceive me to be; I have no cloven feet, nor any tail behind, nor horns on my head. And thereupon pushing him from him, he was somewhat amazed to see a man make towards them, crying as loud as he could, I have thee Lewis, I have thee; henceforward I will shut thee up, so as thou shalt not any fur∣ther amuse the world with thy follies. Their discourse was interrupted by the arrival of the man: who being near the Shepherd, took him by one arm, and said to Anselme, Sir •• I pray afford me your assistance to convey this young man as far as St. Cloud: You may have discovered that he is not sound in mind: I who am his Guardian, cannot but be more conscientious then to suffer him to wander thus from one place to another; if I were not, I should be accountable to Justice: I intend to bring him back to Paris. Silence, sayes Lysis, Let us stay a little here: Good Cousin Adrian! give me but an houre or two, to shew you my reasons: This courteous Shepherd shall be our Judge: He is so perfect, that I took him but now for the God Pan; and yet I cannot otherwise perswade my self but that he is either Cupid, or Mercury, or some other God in the habit of Man.

At these words the Guardian stayes, as having a desire to hear what he would say. Whereupon the Shepherd resuming the discourse with a tone somwhat elevated, spake to him thus. Is it not a strange blindness to blame the happy condition that I would follow? The name of Shepherd is as ancient as the World, and Pan is the first God to whom men have sacrificed. Heretofore Kings children kept Sheep as I doe; and for to learn how to hold a Scepter, they were before fain to hold a Sheep-hook. The Wooll which we have from time to time at the shearing of our sheep, is like the Revenue that a Prince receives from his Subjects. The Gods themselves have sometimes deigned to come down on earth for to be Shepherds: And if that were not so, they cease not to be such always in heaven; for what are the Stars, but a sort of living creatures which they drive to feed here and there in those vast Plains? But as for us terrestrial Shepherds, what is it that can be compar'd to our glory? Could the world with any shift be without us? The Wooll of our Flocks, doth it not furnish cloathing to all the world? The Tapistry of Temples and Kings Palaces, is it not made of it? Some may tell me, that men may make use of Silk: Is that any noble thing in comparison of the other? It is but the excrement of a vile creature. What if I have made me clothes of it? It is only for every day; I will have others made of Cloth for Holy-dayes. The flesh of our Sheep, is it not the prin∣cipal nourishment of men? If we had none, how should we sacrifice to the Gods? Are not these creatures, think you, acceptable to them, when Jupiter would be adored in one of his Temples under the form of a Ram? and was it not for a Fleece that Jason and the Argonauts went to Colchos? This is to shew you, Cousin Adri∣an, that as our Flocks are very profitable, so is it a great honour to keep them, and that no man indeed should meddle with any other imployment. To what end serve all the Trades in the City? Read the Pastorals of Julietta, and you will find that there was in Arcadia neither Councellors, nor Attornies, nor Sollicitors, nor Mer∣chants; there was nothing but Shepherds: We must be so too here in France, if we desire to be happy. Buy you a Flock, take Shepherds habit, change your Ell for a Sheep-hook, and come your wayes hither to be a Lover: And doe not coun∣sel me to return to Paris, there to execute some Office. You may bring hither my Cousin your wife, and all your Prentises, who will all be glad to become Shepherds: You will find it a greater pleasure here to laugh and dance to the Bagpipe, then to take the pains you doe at Paris, in shewing of Silks and Stuffs.

O heaven! cry'd out Adrian: What hath our race committed, that must be thus expiated? Now I plainly see that the poor Youth hath lost his senses quite and clean. Sir, sayes he to Anselme, I beseech you, seeing he places so much confi∣dence in you, bestow your perswasions to bring him to himself. Whereupon An∣selme taking Adrian aside, tells him, that he had fully discovered his sickness, that

it was requisite to comply a little with him, leaving him there some while longer to entertain himself with his own thoughts; and that in the mean time, he desired to know who he was, if so be he had the leisure to tell him. Adrian answered him, that he would willingly doe it; believing, that when he had acquainted him with the whole life of his Ward, he might be the more able to remove those imagi∣nations which troubled his mind.

Having said so, they retired some distance from Lysis, who being alone set him∣self to ruminate on his Loves, not dreaming any thing of what they went about: And Adrian, who was an honest man, but withall very simple, as most of your Citi∣zens are, and one that knew very little besides his Trade, continued thus his dis∣course with much natural simlicity.

That Young man whom you have now seen, is the Son of a Silk-man, who lived in St. Dennis street: He had no more children; and hath left him so rich, that we all hoped that he would restore our Nobility, and that we should see in our race a Regal Officer, who might be a protection to us. You know, there are many Merchants Sons that are so: And though the Nobility contemn us, yet we are as good men as themselves: They are not able, as we are, to bestow great Offices for their children; and if they are so brave, it only demonstrates their borrowing from us. In the mean time they call us Sires, and they are not mistaken; for indeed we are a sort of petty Kings. But to come to my Tale: Lewis's Father and Mother being dead, I was chosen his Guardian, as being the next of Kindred. He had al∣ready gone through his Studies at the Colledge of Navar, and cost his friends more mony then his weight. He was eighteen years of age, or thereabouts: I told him it was time for him to bethink himself what course of life he would follow; That he was not brought up to Learning, to the end he might idle away his time; and that he was old enough to make his own choise how to dispose of himself. For to try him further, I asked him whether he had any inclination to be a Draper, as I am myself: but he answering me, that he aspired to somewhat more noble, I was not any thing displeas'd at him. He tabled at my house, and I sent him to certain Masters in Paris, who teach the Trade of Councellors. They are a sort of people that are so expert, that when a young man is to be received a Disciple, they undertake to teach him in one moneth all that he hath to answer, as if it were but to teach him to whistle, as one would doe a Starling; so that of an ignorant School-boy, they ever make a learned Lawyer. My Cousin studied a year under them, and was sent thither to no other purpose: yet could he never be perswaded to put on the Long-robe. Instead of Law-books, he bought none but a sort of trashy books called Romances: Cursed be those that have made them! They are worse then Hereticks: The books of Calvin are not so damnable; at least those speak not of any more Gods then one, and the others talk of a great many, as if we still lived in those heathen times which worshipped blocks hewn into the shape of men. It doth not a little disturb the minds of young people, who as in those Books they find nothing so much men∣tioned as playing, dancing, and merry-making with young Gentlewomen, so would they doe the like, and thereby incur the displeasure of their friends. Those Books are good for your medley-Gentlemen of the Country, who have nothing to doe all day, but to walk up and down and pick their nails in an out-chamber: But as for the son of a Citizen, he should not read anything, unless it were the Royal Or∣dinances, the Civility of Children, or Patient Grissel, to make himself merry on Flesh-dayes. This was my advice to Lewis; but he would not believe me: And then you would say I had a fine task to command him to learn by heart the Qua∣drains of Pybrac, or the Tablettes of Matthieu, that he might sometimes rehearse them at the Tables-end when there were Company; alas! he could not endure the speech of it. That put me into such a fury, that I went one day into his chamber, and took all his mischievous books, and burnt them: But he bought him others, and hid them sometimes in his Straw-bed, and sometimes in some other place. I could not hinder his reading of them; if he did it not at home, he did it abroad; sometimes he walked out into the fields with a Book in his breeches. At last being

at a loss of all patience, I intreated him in the name of all his good kinsfolks and friends, to tell me what profession he would be of. He answered me, that I should let him alone, that the hour to think of that was not yet come; and that in the mean time he would be a Stage-player, saying it was a Profession that payed no duties, and yet was very noble, seeing that although a Stage-player were of all qualities and conditions one after another, yet did he not purchase any of them. This resolution of his I thought would have broke my heart, for I have ever loved him as much as if he had been mine own child: but I found out at last, that all that he had told me was only in jest. Yet he continued his pernicious reading, wherein he passed over whole moneths, without ever going out of the house, unless it were one half houre on Sunday to go to Mass. He always locked himself up in his cham∣ber, and came not to meals with me but once a day. I went ofttimes to listen at his door, and I could hear him make such Love-discourses, as if he were speaking to some fair Lady, and then a little after, he answered himself for her, counterfeit∣ing his voice. You see now how he hath pass'd his time at my house till this year, which is his five and twentieth, wherein he hath made appear that his mind is more fraught with hurtful imaginations then ever. My wife had about a moneth since pre∣sented the consecrated bread in our Parish; the Beadle that oversees that work had brought her back the wrought cloth it was carried in: He got hold of it, and having wrapp'd himself about with it, as the School-boys doe who represent Shepherds in the Colledge-Comedies, he began to repeat verses in my chamber, beholding him∣self in the Looking-glass, to see if he acted his his part handsomly. I came to him while he was in this posture, and jeered him so much, as if he had own'd any shame, he had repented him of what he had done. It hath been his study ever since, how to counterfeit the Shepherd; and instead of a Sheep-hook he took sometimes a Besom∣staff, and sometimes a Rasp; most commonly he took a Fork I had in my back-shop, which was somewhat more commmodious for him, because it was of a good length; and he hath broke me two or three, by leaning negligently his leg thereupon for to personate the Passionate Shepherd, as he once had observed at Bourgundy-House. At last he found out the means to make him the habit which he now hath on, and hath stollen away from me to come hither, where he intends to play the Shepherd in good earnest, and act Comedies in the midst of the field. 'Twere at least some∣what better if he were at my house then in this place, where his follies will be be∣trayed to all the world. Thus far therefore have I gone: I learned he was come into these quarters, and that he retired last night to a poor Countrymans house, who hath help'd him to buy some sheep, and hath suffered him to go abroad in his new habit, without crossing him in any thing. My intention is to carry him back, and lock him up in some place, where he may see nothing at all, untill this humour be over.

You will get nothing by that, saith Anselme, you must not go that way to work: For suppose he were in some place where there were no Books that could give any entertainment to his Extravagances, he knows enough already for to feed himself in them, and in a Chamber that were no longer then a Perch, his mind would travel 500 leagues in half an hour; 'twere in this solitude that his imagination would be in continual imployment. 'Tis better to let him enjoy company; for he will divert and rid himself of many errors, which haply had not possest his thoughts but for want of knowing how men live in the world. Let me have the tuition of him a little; I have a house at St. Cloud that is at yours and his service, and I will entertain him the best I can.

Adrian thanked Anselme for his courtesie, and told him, that come what will on't, he would let him try, if he could prevail any thing with his Cousin. While they were engaged in this discourse, they came still nearer and nearer St. Cloud, and Anselme drew Adrian with some importunity thither for to dine at his house, telling him, that Lysis must be left in the fields till night, to see if his patience would hold out to stay there without the diversion of any company.

While they were absent, the new Shepherd made his meal on the fruits wherewith

he was furnished, and went and drunk at the River. Divers Country-people went near by him, but there was not one that had the boldness to speak to him; they all took him for an Apparition.

It was at length tedious to him, not to have any body to talk with: And see∣ing a Flock of Sheep at some pretty distance from him, he drove his towards that side, to pass away the time with him that kept them: Though it was a lusty Country-fellow, and that he observed his habit to be much different from his: Yet he stick'd not to approach him, with a gesture as courteous as if it had been Celadon or Sylvander. Courteous Shepherd! sayes he, Tell me what are thy occupations here? Doest thou think on the cruelty of Clorinda? How long is it since thou hast made any Song for her? Prethee shew me some of thy Verses.

The other Shepherd, who understood no more of these Elegancies, then if he had spoken to him in some barbarous tongue, was very much amaz'd at his mode, not knowing what kind of person he was. However comprehending his discourse the best he could: I know not what you tell me of Cock d' Inde; As for a Song, I bought one the other day at Paris at the New-bridge end; And 〈◊〉〈◊〉 for Verses, if you mean those at the beginning of Mass, I think I can tell one or two. Lysis smi∣ling at this answer with a kind of disdain, which in him was a somewhat natural gracefulness, said to him, How Shepherd? dost not thou know yet what Verses are? Must not all Shepherds be Poets? Hast thou observed any in the histories that have not been so? Hast not thou observed that they ought to make Verses in talking; and that it should be as easie for them, as Prose to other people? Otherwise how could they express their sufferings to their Shepherdesses upon all occasions by a Son∣net, Roundelay, or a Madrigal handsomly sung? But it may be thou art of the number of those insensible ones who despise Love and the Moses. Can I say thou art happy, if thou art of that humour? Yes, I may, for thou art not therefore exposed as I am to the charms of a cruel Deity. Alas! tell me, dost not thou know the fair Charite? No indeed, answers the Shepherd, I do not know those people you name to me. What, thou hast not seen her then, replies Lysis? Not that Charite, that can no more hide her self then the Sun? No, no, it is apparent: For if thou hadst once met her, thou wouldst not have been any longer insensible. Avoid her still, that thou mayst continue happy. She is at the present at St. Cloud, where with her looks she commits murthers: she takes men and chains them up, puts them on the rack, and plucks their hearts out of their breasts without ever opening them: she doth not feed on any thing but Hearts, and carrouses in nothing but Tears. Alas, said the Shepherd, (making the sign of the Cross) it seems you speak to me of a Witch! She may well be a Witch, answers Lysis, seeing one gesture, or one word of hers charms all that is near her. All those that have seen her, languish for her: she bewitches the Flocks, the Dogs, the Wolves, nay even the Rocks, which she makes follow her; the Plants doe not escape her, and it is only she that causes the buds of the Roses to shoot forth, and afterwards causes them to wither away through the same heat that produced them. Ah! how shall I have a care not to appear before her, said the Shepherd; for I am not such a one as the most part of the Citizens of Paris take me to be: They think I am a Wizard, as all those Shepherds are that live far hence: for I should not have the power to defend my self from the wicked woman you talk of; I doe not know how they make Characters; I cannot save my self any way but by flight. Stupid fellow! replies Lysis, dost thou think to avoid what all the world must suffer? This great Universe which thou seest will not be ruin'd but by Charite. Thou knowest how that in the time of Deucalion all the Earth was overwhelmed with water: there must shortly happen another end that shall be quite contrary, all must be destroyed by fire, and this Charite is born to turn all to ashes. What! thou wonderest at what I say? How! knowest thou not that I who am but her slave, have so much fire within my breast, that with one sigh I could burn up all this grass; and that besides that, I could drown all this Country by a deluge that should issue out of my eyes, were it not that the heat is more predominant in me.

The Shepherd, who saw that Lysis animated his discourse with a serious manner of speaking, gave credit to all these miracles; and though he was as much con∣founded as if he had already seen the end of the world, yet had he the courage to ask him who he was? I am a body without a soul, answers Lysis: I doe not live, since I have seen Charite; and shall not rise again, untill her favours shall oblige me thereto. Thou to whom I have the first of any communicated my secrets, go and acquaint the Shepherds of thy village, to make their vows and offerings to my Enchantress, to the end that if she will doe them no good, she may doe them no hurt. Farewell friend! and make thy profit of my admonitions.

Having said so, he quitted the Shepherd; who was so much astonished both at the fashion of the man, and his discourse, that he certainly believed that it was a spirit had appeared to him; and he thought it very long that the time of departing was not come, that he might go and communicate this strange news to all of his acquaintance.

Lysis pursuing his way, came somewhat near the side of a Mountain: where cal∣ing to mind that in the Books he had read, the Shepherds did interrogate the Eccho in such places as that, his resolution was to imitate them, and to consult that Oracle which he thought as infallible as that of Delphos. Languishing Nymph! sayes he with a shrill voice, I have erewhiles discovered my torment to all these desarts, hast thou heard it? There was presently an Eccho that answered, heard it. He was so ravished to hear that voice, that he continued in this manner. What shall I doe for to asswage my misery? tell me, seeing I have already related my chance. The Eccho answered, dance. Sing then, or whistle, or play on the Tabor, if thou wilt have me dance, replies the Shepherd: but let us not fall out, friendly Nymph! How is it that I must take my Mistress, that my flames may be slaked? Eccho, naked. What shall I doe, if I see one of her breasts uncovered? shall I touch it, seeing haply she will be angry if I undertake it? Eccho, take it. That I take it, that's very well spoken: I will go and see her immediately, that my pain may find some allay. Eccho, away. Farewell then, my Faithfull one, till the next time: I'll go seek Cha∣rite where she doth stay. Eccho, stay. Why so? thou bidst me be gone, and that I should find comfort readily. Eccho, I ly. I think thou art a fool: thou assuredst me but now I happiness should ken? Eccho, when? Just now, sycophant, hast thou forgotten? and dost not think Charite's heart and mine the same chain must under∣go? Eccho, No. Thou prophesiest false: my Mistress shall give thee the lye, and make a fool of thee. Eccho, of thee. Of me! I believe not: what! she will dis∣dain me: for such mishaps tell me some remedy. Eccho, dy. What kind of death shall I choose, there being no succour if her goodness doth not accord? Eccho, A cord. Ah cruel one! thou art deceived, or haply thou wouldst speak of the cord of Cupids bow, that will send me an arrow will make me dye an easie death: Is not that thy meaning? Eccho, No, no, I mean a halter to hang thee. This answer, which was very lively, extreamly surprised Lysis. Ha! what pleasant Eccho is this? says he: she repeats not my last syllables, but says others.

As he had spoken these words, Anselme came from behind a long wall where he had lurk'd, and presented himself to him. 'Twas he that had all the time playd the Eccho: but he did not discover any thing at all to him, though the other did somewhat suspect him, and question'd him divers times. So that Lysis who was per∣swasible to any thing, told him, that if it were not he that had answered him, he had found a place where the Eccho shewed her self very merry; and that in all the Books of Pastorals, he had never read of her ever being in such a good hu∣mour. I do not know, says he, whence it comes, she nothing but jeers now. Is there not some impatience troubles her? Is she not still in love with Narcissus, having found Charite more beautifull then he? But rather on the contrary, hath not she greater cause to grieve, seeing Charite is not of her own sex, from whom she can expect no satisfaction? Or perhaps doth she not dote on her, and that at the pre∣sent she is somwhat extravagant? For my part, I believe it, or else she must be drunk. Certainly 'tis so, says Anselme, and laughs! The Nymph Eccho comes

from a collation at the Tavern in the Heaume, where she had drunk a little too much Suresne wine. But what an error are you guilty of, to believe that the Eccho which answered you was the same Nymph that was in love with Narcissus? There are few rocks and other places in the world where there is any hollowness, but there are such voices as these: whereas she that was in love with that fair huntsman, who loved none but himself, lives only in a rock of Beotia, where her languishing hath made her so lean, that there remained of her no more then the bones, which were turned into stones, and speech, which is heard there to this day. She could not an∣swer us at that distance; it must needs be, that in France and other Countries there are some Demy-goddesses which drive the same Trade as she. Do not believe that, replies Lysis: she hath a ready spirit, and hears well when one calls her, she comes presently in what place soever it be. But sometimes, says Anselme, she returns our last words without ever being called, and it is possible she may be called in fifty places at the same time, how could she answer all? But I will explain this to you: Know that there were many Nymphs which were called Eccho. First of all there was she that loved Narcissus, which for certain was changed into Voice, and an∣swers those that travel in the Country where she was metamorphosed. Beside that there was one, an excellent Musitian, and which we may rank among the antient Pan∣tomimes who counterfeited the speech of all men, the cry of all beasts, and the chirp∣ing of all birds: Pan fell in love with her, but could not obtain what he desired; she most unworthily scorn'd him, and what is more, boasted she understood Musick better then he. That anger'd him so much, that he incited all the Shepherds to kill her: They cut her body into infinite peeces, which they scattered through all the world, lest they might be recomposed again. But the Muses which had been her friends, ordered that they should all imitate all manner of sounds, as she did while she lived. Pan was thereby sufficiently punished: for whereas before she sham'd him but in one place, she doth it now every where; and counterfeits not only the sound of his Bagpipe, but also that of divers other instruments whereon he could never play: Thence it comes, that there are few places where there is not a Voice that answers us. But there is another thing worth your observation, which I am going to tell you. In one of the Fortunate Islands there was sometimes a very learn∣ed Fairie, which having the tuition of the persons of divers Princes and Knights that were her friends, found out a means to assist them suddenly in all manner of dangers, and yet not go out of her palace: she by the assistance of some spirits con∣geal'd a great quantity of Air, whereof she made many Conduits which she dispo∣sed into divers Cities, Mountains and Rivers, making them invisible to all people; and when she was to acquaint those she affected with any thing, she acquainted them by that means, so that in a small time she gave them to know what was to come, and gave them wholsom advices, and they could also answer her the same way. But she departing the world, there was no body could make use of her secret, though divers Magycians had try'd what they could doe in it. It is therefore come to pass, through the injury of time, that by little and little her long Conduits have been spent and broken to peeces in divers places; and when men speak now, the voice is carried thither, but it presently comes out again through the holes, as if it were some broken water-pipe, without going much further: If there be any places where the voice is return'd to seven times, the reason is because it goes out of one pipe into another near it. Let us now put all this together, that in one place the Eccho of Narcissus answers us, and in infinite others the members of the Eccho of the God Pan, or the Channels of the Conduits. You would have me believe that, says Lysis: I shall sooner believe that I flie like Daedalus: Ovid never spoke any thing of this, you have it out of some Apocryphal book: As long as the Destinies shall be imployed to spin out the thread of my dayes, I shall credit what the good old Authors say.

Anselme, who was a very understanding person, and took it a kind of recreation to contradict Lysis, resumed the discourse to this effect. Doe not you now run into a new folly in speaking of the Destinies? You believe they have nothing else to do

but to spin out your life: must they not also spin mine and all other mens? In what manner do you dispose of them? Tell me how they are all imployed. The first holds the Distaff which hath the Flax on it, sayes Lysis, she wets her fingers and twists the thread: The second turns the Spindle to wind it upon: And the third is to cut it with the Scissers. Very good, says Anselme, is not that a strange absurdity? The Destinies being always a spinning as long as the life of a man lasts, can hold but one spindlefull at a time, and yet there are a hundred thousand lives that last at the same time. Is it not the same case as that of the Nymph Eccho, which you think answers all the world? He who first advanced these two things, had he not a hol∣lowness in his brain? and so many Poets as there have been since, have they not been blinded and besotted to follow him without any examination? Take another doctrine that I shall teach you. The Destinies, whether they are in heaven or in hel, are indeed charg'd with the ordering of our dayes to come, which fate hath pre∣scribed; but they have neither Flax nor Spindle: They have a great Pannier, where there are almost as many Silk-worms as there are men living on earth; all the threads of them are drawn and placed on a pair of windles: The first turns it, that it may be made into skains; the second comes and cuts sometimes one, some∣times another, with the shears; and the third makes provision of new ones, in stead of those that are finish'd or cut. Now the threads which are drawn from one only worm, are to wind the lives of those that are of the same linage; and when there is no more silk about the Bottom, it signifies that race is at an end. There is yet an∣other thing to be considered, and that is, That for to determine a life 'tis not ab∣solutely necessary that the thread should be cut, it happens often that it breaks, and then it is that we d••e before our time by some accident which our horoscope did not seem to portend. But it is to be observ'd that they are always the finest threads which break, as it happens here on earth that the men of the most piercing wits live shortest.

I never heard any thing of all you have said, then cry••d out Lysis. You are an Heretick in Poetry; you falsifie the texts of Homer and Virgil, and entertain us with corrupt doctrine. Go elswhere, and seek such minds as you shall be able to seduce: I am too firm in what I believe, to be shaken by your opinions, which possibly are pump'd out of some modern Author, who is not followed by any other.

You are angry already, sayes Anselme, but there is a great deal more to come: Assure your self, that neither in what you have said, nor in what I have, there is any thing of truth. There is no such thing as a Nymph Eccho that answers us: 'tis our own voice, which retained in some concavity, returns again, as the light of the sun is retorted by the reflexion of the place where it casts its rayes. Nor is there any Parque or Destiny: and it is only the pleasure of God, that makes our lives longer or shorter. But we will dismiss that point for the present, and talk of some∣thing whence there shall not arise so much contestation between us. Lysis, who would not seek the occasion of a quarrel with a person whom he had much need of, was very well pleased to change discourse, and thereupon asked where his Cousin was. Anselme told him that he had left him at his house, where he had met a certain friend that staid him: but that he would neither sup nor lodg there, though he had much intreated him; and that he was desirous to go to the Inn where he had set up his horse in the morning. Lysis swore by the god Pan that he would not go seek him there, and that he would go back into a little Hut which he had chosen for his habitation: conceiving that Adrian would doe nothing but importune him to re∣turn into the City. Anselme answered him, that haply his perswasions might be so effectual with him, as that they should induce him to turn Shepherd: He saw some likelihood of it: yet would he not return so soon, saying the sun was yet too high, and that Shepherds ought not to retire till Vesper which is their star began to appear.

Though Lysis said this, yet Anselme ceased not endeavouring to get him away immediately to St. Cloud, as he had promis'd Adrian: but he therein lost his labour,

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this Shepherd made a great conscience of violating any Pastoral customs. Anselme therefore being resolved to pass away the time with him, they entertained them∣selves upon divers subjects: And among other things, Lysis not being able to for∣get his Love, stumbled on this. But thou comest from that St. Cloud, gentle Shepherd! hast not thou seen the beautifull Catherine du Verger? And presently correcting himself, and stamping on the ground with his foot, Ah! unhappy man that I am, I have named her! wo is me, I have named her! ah indiscreet shepherd that I am! A Lover! whom respect obliges to silence: must I, ah! must I discover a fire which should always be covered with its own ashes?

What, is it du Verger that you love there? says Anselme: I swear I was almost in suspect of it. But why would you conceal it so much? should not I have discover'd it at last? You have asked me for a Picture of your Mistress, could I draw it with∣out knowing her? Thou art in the right, replies Lysis, with a countenance not so sad: And prethee, if I had not named that Fair one, what other couldst thou con∣ceive capable to enslave me? However I must tell thee, that I should have been glad that none knew my flame, before her who hath caused it. That Beauty it seems is yet ignorant of the hurt she hath done you, says Anselme. Dost thou think other∣wise? answers Lysis. Yet I am sure my eyes have spoken enough of it; and all the times that I have pass'd before her, I have sigh'd so loud, that I believe I might have been heard to the other world. Henceforward, to give her clearer testimonies of my love, I will always wear of her Colours, if I can learn what they are. Dost not thou know them? I do, answers Anselme, I may very well know them, for I do much frequent Madam Angelica's, whose servant she is. A servant! replies Lysis all in a fury: what unworthy name is that for her that is the ••••stress of the whole world! Say that she is a Companion of the Nymph Angelica. I will indeed, Master Lewis, I shall not fail henceforth, replies Anselme. How's that! says Lysis, retiring three steps backward: wilt thou never make an end of affronting me? Knowest thou not that I am call'd the Shepherd Lysis? and that these names of Sir, Master, and My Lord, are only for those despicable people that live in Cities? I beg your pardon, says Anselme, my tongue goes before my wit: For to appease you, I am to give you to understand that the Shepherdess Charite, who is no more call'd Ca∣therine du Verger, Companion, and not servant of the Nymph, not the Lady Angelica, and Mistress of the Shepherd Lysis, and not of Master Lewis, hath chosen Red as her most favourite colour: she hath shoo-strings of it, and she hath Lace of the same colour at her Busk, and 'tis not Carnation I am sure of it; if you will not believe it, go and see.

Whereupon Lysis putting on a countenance inclining to a smile, came and em∣braced Anselme, and said to him, I believe thee, courteous Shepherd, my only assist∣ance! I thank thee for this signal favour thou dost me! And as by chance the Sun being near setting appeared all red, and made the clouds all about appear so too, the Shepherd beholding it presently cry'd out, It is easily seen that the incomparable Charite loves red: The heaven, which honours her, will not be adorned with any other colour; and if it be considered well, I believe Nature, which is not pleased but in pleasing her, communicates redness to all things that are subject to her: It will be found that this year there are more red Flowers then yellow, or white, or blue: There hath not been such plenty of any Fruit as of Strawberries and Cherries; and there hath been great scarcity of Apples, unless it be those which are of a vermilion colour. I meditate thereon somwhat that is excellent and rare, such as never fell into the brains of Sylvander, the most knowing Shepherd of Lignon. But it's enough! let us return to the village, it is now time; for if I should stay here any longer, I should fear the loss of some of my sheep, being not yet provided of a Dog for to keep them. Let us go: behold the Sun lies him down in the waters.

Anselme, who desired nothing so much as to get him away, seeing him in a good humour, led him into the way to St Cloud: And to try the subtilty of his spirit, said to him as they went along, But Shepherd! you have a strange opinion con∣cerning the Sun: you think he goes to bed in the sea, and that he reposes him∣self

there till the morrow that he shall rise for to continue his wonted journy. That indeed is it that I believe of it, answers Lysis, and who doth not the like betrayes much ignorance. Consider then a little thus thing, replies Anselme: Behold, the Sun sets on that side, and to morrow he will rise on the other, which is quite op∣posite: how is that done? There is as much way for to go thither, as he had di∣spatch'd before when he was above us: In what manner can he doe it, if he rest himself upon a bed in the sea which the Nereides had prepared for him, or if he stay a banqueting with Neptune, as I believe you imagine? The bed or chair wherein he is, doe they go forward while he stirs not out of the same place? But besides that, how does he go to his Orient? is it athwart the Earth that he returns thither? is that pierced through to make him a passage? We must grant it is so, answers Lysis: and though I have heard much talk of the Antipodes, I do not believe there are any other then those we see when we look into a Well. I have not so great ap∣petite to your new Maxims, as that for them to discredit so many good Authors, from whom I learn that the Sun passes over the night in the sea: It's a thing so universally received, that the Poets of this age doe not stick to avow it, though they would dissent from all that their Predecessors have said. I will contest no further with you, replies Anselme, Clear but my mind of one doubt: If the Sun be all night in the sea, hidden in some cave, how can he communicate his light to the Moon? for they say, that if she be sometimes full, and sometimes in her increase, tis accord∣ing as the Sun enlightens her. Oh the blind minds of mortals! says Lysis: Is it not sufficiently known, that whereas there hath never been but one Sun in the hea∣ven, there hath always been an infinite number on earth? and that at present there is one that hath more light then a hundred thousand others, which is the divine Charite? Tis from her that the Moon borrows her light, and she is much more Sun then the Sun himself on high: so that when the Marigold beholds her, it looks straight up, and is ravished into an extasie: It does not know on which side it should direct its yellow and languishing leaves, and which is the true Sun, that it might follow it. Truly, says Anselme, this is such a new Astrologie, as Sacrobosco never imagined: And you are able to comment on the Great Shepherds Calendar: you can give the reason of Ecclipses, Comets, and Meteors, and all other natural effects, without having recourse to any thing but your Mistress.

As this dispute ended, they entred St. Cloud, and were presently at the Inn where Adrian was lodg'd, which was just at the Towns end: There was a world of peo∣ple met them, all being astonished at the strange habit of Lysis, and at the sheep which he drove before him: but no body durst say any thing to him, seeing him with Anselme, who was there much respected, as being a person of quality. Adrian who waited for them at the Inne-gate, received them very courteously, being very joyfull that his Cousin came with so good a will. The first thing that Lysis did, was to provide a Stable for his Flock: there was one presently assigned him, where he locks it up, and afterwards returns to Anselme, who was talking with Adrian; and taking him aside, put him in mind of drawing the Picture of Charite, seeing he knew her, and had the means to see her often. Anselme assured him that he had already a Copper-peece for that purpose, and that he would not rest till he had fallen in hand with it. But I suppose it a very hard peece of work, says Lysis: For as a man cannot behold the Sun but in a glass, so a man cannot see Charite but in what re∣presents her. Open my breast, second Apelles! take out my Heart, her Figure is therein engraved, That shall be thy Original. But what doe I say! I have no heart at all: and though I had, thou wouldst not commit that cruelty. Take example from every thing that approaches the beauty of my Mistress: I will teach thee how thou must guide thy self in they work: Make first those fine twists of gold which a∣dorn her head, those inevitable snares, those hooks, those charms, and those chains which surprise hearts: Next paint me that Forehead, where Love is as it were seat∣ed in his Throne; below that put those two Bowes of Ebony, and under them those two Suns which perpetually dart forth arrows and flames: And then in the midst shall rise up that fair Nose, which like a little Mountain separates the

Cheeks, and that not without reason, seeing they continually striving which should be the fairest, would sometimes or other fall out, if they were not separated. Thou shalt make those pretty Cheeks, intermingled with Lilies and Roses: And then that little Mouth, whereof the Lips are branches of Coral. If it were decent to leave them half open, thou shouldst draw her Teeth, which are two rowes of fine Pearl. But content thy self with this, and afterwards there is only the Neck to doe, and her fair snowy Bosom.

When Anselme had heard this fine discourse, as he was a person of the greatest courtesie in the world, so he presently conceived an excellent Invention as to this Picture: and being impatient till he were at his own house to fall about it, he took leave of Lysis. When he was departed, Adrian believing that the folly of his Cousin proceeded from over-fasting, had a mind to make him good cheer, and asked him if he could not feed on a dish of Carps and Pikes, because it was Saturn-day. He con∣sidered a little thereupon, and smiling to himself said, The time is come that I shall doe the gallantry which I erewhile boasted I would: I will outvie the fidelity of Sirenus and Celadon, and doe a thing that shall be eternally memorable. No, no, Cousin, I am not for the Fish you have named: Let me have a Dish of Gurnards, some Salmon, some Shrimps, and some Beetroot or Carrets: And for, Fruits, give me only Cherries, and Apples of Calleville. And doe not believe that this is with∣out mysteries: I will eat nothing but what is red, because the fair Charite loves no colour but that. Alas! what excellent mysterie is this? says Adrian: What shall we doe, if we cannot find what you now ask for? I will rather starve then eat any thing else, answers Lysis: the Dy is already cast for't, I am resolv'd. And so going into the Kitchin; Dear Comus, God of banquetting! says he to the Cook, Let me have what I have called for. Adrian being gone in with him, gave order for the providing of Beet-roots and Crabs, for to please him; and so led him into a Chamber where the cloth was laid. When he was there, he considered it all over; and finding all painted with red, he thought in himself it was very well; but that he would not lie there, unless they brought in another Bed, because that which was there was green: He went into another chamber, where finding a red one, he said he would have it removed into his own chamber. Adrian, who would not they should be at the pains to take it down, began to contradict him, and would have him to supper without any further troubling himself about that. But he told him, he would by no means hear of it, and so made unto him this fair complaint: How? Cousin, are you so barbarously minded, that you will not grant a Lover a small sa∣tisfaction that he desires? Ha! I see now you have a heart of stone, and that a fair Eye never touched you: Would you have me commit this crime, to make use of any other colour then that of my Mistress? I will dye rather then offend that fair one: if I have a thought guilty of it, it is a Traitor. But what do I dream on, stupid man that I am! I wear the same colour as the bed in my chamber, which I will presently be rid of: shall it be said that I preserve it? No, no, my fortitude shew thy self! While he said this, he took his Sho••-strings, which were green, and cast them out at the window: As for Garters, he had not any, for his Breeches came down below the calf of his leg. Alas, what folly is this! says Adrian: why doe you cast away those Strings, which might well have served one of my little children? Now you talk of Love, we shall have somwhat to doe with you: if you will have all red, you must always have Dyers at your breech, or else you must have your train after you like some great man. Cannot one sleep as well in a green bed as another? O Cousin! says Lysis, how extreamly are you mistaken! and all because you have not read good Authors: I am confident you never medled with my Astraea, and that you ne∣ver read any thing but your Shop-books. Cannot you judge by what charms I am forced to have an aversion to this green bed? Besides that it is not of my Mistresses colour, doe not you see that green is despised for many reasons? As long as Fruits are green, they are not fit to be eaten; while the Wheat is green, it is not ready for the sickle: Those which are defeated in a business, wear the green Bonnet; and out of a certain contempt, all your Close-stool cushions are of green Serge. But that

which is most considerable, Green is the colour which the Turks honour, and we must hate what those people love, as being bruit beasts who know nothing of Love, or a Shepherds life. As for red, the amiable colour, the flesh and blood which sustain our life are of it, the lips and cheeks of Charite wear it. That is the reason I desire that even my Sheets, my Table-cloaths, my Napkias, my Shirts, and my Handkerchiffs might be red, if possible.

As he said so, there stood behind him a little Bar-boy, that had a Napkin on his arm, and a little light Cap on: who asked him, Sir! would not you have a red Nose too? We have good wine in the house to paint it withall. At which Lysis smiling, answered, Thou wouldst laugh, little Foot-boy of Ganymedes! Observe what I say, and bring me somebody to change the Bed. This is handsom: For Gods sake, says Adrian, let him have his will.

There came presently two Servant-maids, who took down the Cuatains and Val∣lands of both Beds, and put the red into the Shepherds chamber. In the mean while he fat down at the Table with his Cousin, and Supper was brought in: There were some Beet-roots fryed, and some cold in a Sallad, whereof Lysis fill'd his belly: but as for the Crabs, seeing that within they were all white, and were only red without, he left them for Adrian. There waited at the Table a good big Servant-maid, who took the pot and the glass for to give him to drink: but he perceiving it was white∣wine that she fill'd, Take it away, says he, Nymph of the Kitchin! it is not of Cha∣rite's colour: Give me some Claret, fair Goddess of the Pottage-pot! or else we shall not be good friends. Nay, for this time he is somwhat in the right, sayes Adrian: Evening red, and morning gray, denotes the Pilgrim a fair day. Men say that in re∣lation to the weather: but for my part, I apply it also to wine. Yet doe not cast away that wine, I pray, as you did your Shoo-strings: we must not abuse Gods creatures. When Adrian had spoken thus, they took order that Claret-wine should be brought him, whereof Lysis drank with much satisfaction.

Supper ended, he began to walk up and down without saying ought to any body; and at length his Cousin prevail'd so far with him, that he put off his cloaths and went to bed. A while after Adrian went out of that chamber, making all fast, and went to bed in another. His Ward had found him so much trouble, that he fell a∣sleep as soon as his head was laid on the pillow: but it was not so with the amorous Shepherd, who imagined that his eyes were little stars upon earth, and that they ought to twinkle all night like those in heaven.

But he was not the only man that was awake that night in St. Cloud: there were a many more, to whom his company had been very serviceable. That Shepherd whom he had spoken to in the fields, had acquainted his Master, who was a stupid Country-Clown, with all the strange discourses which had passed between them. This fellow went and related all again to nine or ten of his own quality, and the re∣port thereof seiz'd a many zealous devout women. All the superstitious multitude address'd themselves to the Shepherd, who repeated the same things divers times from point to point: He not being wanting as to the relation, nor they as to audience. He told them, that he who had come to him was so beautifull and so brave, that he took him at first for an Angel: but that having foretold him so much mischief, he took him for some Devil, who had gotten some sheep, and had a sheep-hook in his hand, so to appear less terrible, and make him believe he was of his condition. In fine, all that we can judge of what he hath said to me, (goes he on) is, That that cursed Woman, which is here for to massacre all men, and bring the world to an end, can be no other then the wife of Antichrist, and I believe that he whom I have spoken with is Antichrist himself, for he boasts that he can doe great matters. As the Shep∣herd had said thus, there was one Country-fellow more resolute then the rest, who drew aside some of his companions, and remonstrated to them, how that that man should not be credited so lightly, though he had always been of a good reputation; and that the honestest men did sometimes lye, whether out of hope of gain, or other∣wise. Upon that account they all went to him, and made a world of questions to him for to try him. He seeing that they did not sufficiently credit his discourses, began to

weep of very grief, making this complaint. Alas, my good friends! what have I done to you, that you should doubt of what I tell you? I would to God it were not so true! but I never lyed less in my life.

Presently a woman of the village, who thought herself the most knowing among them, interrupted him, and said, Alack my friend Richard! tell me all: Sayest thou not that this old she-Devil must kill all the men? Doubtless, replies the Shepherd: I have been told nothing that she should doe to the women. Alack! what great pitty it is, replies the woman: what shall we doe here by our selves? what's a wo∣man without a man? she is but a Spindle without Flax, or like an Oven without an Oven-fork. 'Twere better she should take some of both, and that the shortest cut were drawn who should be eaten first. To these fair complaints the other Gossips added others, and that with so much weeping and sobbing, that the whole house where they were did eccho again.

The Shepherd Richard thinking to comfort them, bid them not be so much trou∣bled; that they should not be long without Husbands, for they should go after them, seeing the world was shortly to end. But shall that be by fire, says the master of the house, shall we all burn together? If I should put wet sheets on the top of my house as I did when my neighbours house was a fire, should not I save my self? I fear me, says Richard, that we must be destroyed by water: methinks the vision threatened such a thing. And as he spoke the word, a light appeared in the sky, which smit the sight of all that were present, and immediately it began to rain. Ah! we need no more doubt of it, cry'd out a Waterman, behold the deluge approaches: I will go to the river with a horse, for to draw my Boat ashore; if I can, I'll bring it up to the top of my chimney, where I will expect till the water rise to that height, and that it carry me where God pleases.

As he had done saying so, yet without any great desire to doe it, the Master of the house's Son approving the invention, would needs practise somewhat that were like it. 'Twas a Lad of some sixteen years of age, of whom it might have been said that there were wiser at six. Having gotten a great washing-tub, he made a shift to get it up to the top of the house, and placed himself in it as if it had been a Boat. All this he did without speaking ought to any body, for fear some body should dispute with him for the safety of this fine Vessel. In the mean while the women altogether com∣fortless, resolved among themselves to go to Mount Valerian to the Hermites, and the men would doe the like, saying that the water could not so soon rise to the top of that mountain, and that till then they should be safe enough.

Thereupon they had an infinity of excellent considerations: A Churchwarden of the Parish that was there, came and made this complaint. Alas! to what purpose have we so much troubled our selves, my good Parishioners, about the repairing and adorning of our Church? is it not so much lost, seeing Antichrist will convert it into stables? Ah! how should we have spared that pains, if we had known the world should end so soon? I who have quite new built my house, and have fasted so much to spare somewhat, had it not been better that I had enjoyed what God hath sent me? Ah! how doth man purpose, and God dispose! And you that dress the Vineyards, and have planted so many Stocks, you shall not drink of the wine, but the dog of Antichrist shall devour it. Ought I not to think that he will shortly come, seeing that when I went a while since to Paris with some Apricocks to my Land∣lord, I heard his coming cry'd openly upon the New-bridge by the Almanack-sellers? I wish now I had bought the book of it: I remember I heard two or three leafs of it read by one that held it: 'Twas the most terrible thing that can be imagined, and it must needs have been some new Prophet that had composed it. In fine, the time of our ruine is come upon us: And yet my Gossip, the Mistress of the house, sticks not to be just now driving a buck, and dreams not that the Linnen she washes is only to wipe the mustaches of the great Tyrant that we expect.

These words were heard with as much attention as if they had been prophesies; and yet the Mistress of the house for sook not her Bucking-tub: she was a woman so resolved, that when she once began a thing, she would go through with it. The rain

which fell down abundantly did not strike so much fear into her as the others; and being oblig'd to be still stooping near the fire, she thought not of any thing but her work. But she had put into the fire a certain sort of wood that crackled after a strange manner, and a great coal flew out of the fire and lighted on her coat: Presently after feeling the heat, she cry'd out, Ah! I burn, I burn! the world will be destroy'd by fire. He who was most amaz'd was her son, who was upon the top of the house, where he had been sufficiently wet, and held his hands together, shaking his teeth in expectation of what should happen. Assoon as he heard them cry, that the world was not to perish by water but by fire, his transportation was so strange, that he cast himself down together with the Tub, which staid not much after him, but soon tumbled down: And if by chance there had not been a dunghil in the yard, whereon he fell, he had without dispute broke his neck. His fall was easily perceiv'd, and every one hearing him cry, they went to succour him, but they found he had more fear then receiv'd hurt. All being entred into the house, one of the Village spake these sententious words: What doe we fear so much? if we dye not to day, we shall dye to morrow, it is the way we must go sooner or later: Let us not climb up on the tops of our houses, nor yet to the mountains, and leave all at random: Hang all! we should be more jovial: It is enough that the Pedees of Antichrist have the vintage of this year, let us not leave them the wine we have al∣ready, let us rather drink it (my dear friends!) when we have taken a little of it, we shall know no more care, we shall not think so much on our sorrows, and we shall die more gently.

This advice being approved, the good man of the house went himself down into the Cellar, and all the rest follow'd him with tankerds and pitchers; and having struck out the heads of the Pipes, they drank so much, that they in a manner knew not what they did. Afterwards they brought to the women what wine, remain'd, and they in like manner invited one the other to drink, saying at every word, Ah! we'll burst rather then leave a drop to the fornicator Antichrist. So all the wine was drunk: which now failing, and not raining so much, it began to dawn. Their fear began then to diminish a little, and they were so bold as to go into the street, where they perceiv'd that all the water ran along the channel, which soon smother'd all further fear of the deluge. But the wine flying up into their brains, furnish'd them with a new resolution: And the most witty among them, laughing at the fear passed, tels them, that he could not conceive for what reason they should be so fear∣ful, and how they could imagine the end of the world to be so neer: For (continued he) we fear the Deluge and Antichrist both together: If all the Earth were de∣stroy'd, what should that false Prophet have to doe here? You see that all this can∣not stand together: and seeing he must come at least seven years before the end of the world, as I believe I have heard affirmed, we have yet some time to live.

These words were approved by all the rout, only there was a little grambling at him that said them, because he had so long studied for this fine advice. Thereupon those that were most drunk went and slept; and the rest hearing the last toll to Mattins, went to the celebration of a low Mass. Lysis his Landlord, who was a very good Catholick, was there also. When they had done their prayers, they came and acquainted him with what news they had. That Shepherd whom Lysis had so terrified, describ'd his habit and countenance, so that the Inne-keeper knew whom they would speak of, and laughing said, Alas, my friends, you are of a very easie belief, to have credited what hath been told you not by an Angel, nor yet an evil spirit, nor yet a wise man, but the most fool of all men, and who the last night lodg'd at my house: I well know his madness, and by and by you shall see the truth of it. As he spake thus, there were others in the Church, who said it was true, that such a one as the Shepherd had described lodg'd in his house, and that the last night they had seen him go in there. The Country-people were hereby convinced they had been deceiv'd, and were so asham'd of it, that they would have given somwhat they had not spoken of the fear they had been in the night before. The Parson who

saw them talking with great attention, would needs know what the matter was: which when they had related to him, he made a good exhortation to those stray'd sheep, and shew'd them how that they should not believe Impostors; and that though there be nothing more certain then the last Judgment, yet there is nothing more uncertain then the time it shall be. Which done, he dismiss'd them in peace with his benediction.

Being returned to the house where they had spent the night, they awoke those that slept, and among the rest the good man of the house, whom they communi∣cated with what they had learn'd. When he saw it was a Fool had caused all this their fear, and that his Shephered had been the first deceiv'd, and had afterwards de∣ceiv'd the rest, he became furiously angry, and stirr'd up all the company against him, so that they began to beat the poor fellow, and had murther'd him with their fists, if he had not somwhat appeased them by his sad complaints, making it appear above all things that he had done nothing maliciously, and that all the hurt they had received was that they had had a sleepless night of it; and that he was the cause of that good work they had done in serving of God, which was meritorious, and whereof they should one day receive the comfort. 'Tis true, replies his master: but thou dost not withall say that all my good wine is by that means gone, Nor doe I mean to lose it, I intend those that have drunk it shall return it me. While he spake that, he who had drunk the best part was disgorging behind the door: 'Tis not in that manner (continues he) that I would have it returned; you must all come to proportion, of the Judge shall hear of it: Will you have me now drink nothing but water, or that I send to the Tavern for dash'd wine? You must every one of you presently carry me to your houses, and give me of yours. He had no sooner ended this discourse, but his wife pursues with the choisest injuries all those that had drunk of their wine: So that to avoid the tempest, which was more heavy then that of the night, they left them there and went to their homes.

The report of the Adventure was presently spread abroad, and especially among the Citizens of Paris who were at St. Cloud. They wish'd the day somwhat further spent, that they might see those that had been so neatly deceiv'd. They came to high Mass: which ended, and they gone out of the Church, they were infinitely jeer'd. Yet I know not which prevail'd more with them, whether the indignation of having been so troubled all night, and of seeing themselves still assaulted by so many abuses, or the joy of being assured that the world should not end so soon as they had believed, and that they had time enough for the Vintage. Anselme and Adrian were at Church, and were extremely astonish'd at the troubles which Lysis had already caused in St. Cloud. But that need not seem so strange: For per∣sons of greater understanding then the people of a Country-village might be de∣ceiv'd, if they were soberly entertained with the extravagances of Poetry; and there would be many who would innocently believe what should be told them of the fire, ice, chains, and so many other imaginary punishments of passionate persons. An∣selme asked Adrian where he had left his Cousin? He answer'd, that he was a-bed, but that he had barracado'd himself in his chamber; and when he had asked him whether he would go to Mass, he told him that he would rest himself yet a while: so that he had left him, knowing that sleep would doe him no hurt. Anselme was of opinion that they should go and see whether he would rise: And in this delibe∣ration they walked to the Inne, and went to Lysis's chamber-door. Adrian opened it with the Key, but it was bolted within. Anselme spoke, and pray'd the amorous Shepherd to let him in. Knowing presently the voice of his best friend, he opened to him: And having bidden good morrow to his Cousin and him, he put on his cloaths, telling them for excuse for his not being more early, that all night he had not put his eyes together, and that he began to be sleepy at the break of day. How∣ever that is not well done, Cousin, sayes Adrian: there is no more Masses to be said and you cannot hear any to day. Think you that God hath any need of those fancies wherewith you entertain your self? Yet this is past, and there is no remedy: But what (when I think on't) if you went to Church, would you go in that mask∣ing

habit which you put on? Think you that there are any Masks, or that they act Comedies in a consecrated place? Away with it presently, I will send for another for you. I will never put on any other then this, says Lysis: And I pray content your self that I do not, as I did yesterday, desire one all red. Then turning him to Anselme, he cry'd out, O dear friend! what have I not done since I saw thee! Know then that I have gone through the noblest adventure in the world, and that I give checkmate to all the Lovers in Europe. The last night I ate nothing but what was red, and all my thoughts have been red. Am I not as good as my word, as to what I boasted to thee? 'Tis enough to have shewn by one time, that it came from my invention to doe it: Henceforward I will eat of any thing, and will not be any more scrupulous as to colour; it shall suffice me to wear always about me some little red Riband, in remembrance of Charite. But when I think on't, what an ample sub∣ject will there be here to exercise the pen that shall write my history! where could he have found a more noble matter? By this means shall not his discourse have those ornaments which are not seen in other books?

Having finish'd this discourse, he sent to the Mercers for red Ribaning, and put some to his shoes instead of the green which he had cast away: And when he was all cloath'd, he asked Anselme whether he would come along with him into the fields, for he was going to lead out his Flock to graze. I pray stir not hence, says Adrian, but let us dine: Besides you are out of the story; here is no Flock for you, I have sold it to the master of the house, who causes all to be kill'd, and perhaps you shall eat your share of them. Lysis thereupon look'd into the Yard, and saw a man cutting the throat of one of his sheep: which put him into such a choler, that he cry'd out presently, Ah cruel Cousin! what have I done to thee, that thou shouldst deal thus with me! Thou hast sold my dear Flock to these Barbarians, and there they massacre it. Ah innocent sheep! you will be no more the witnesses of my Loves. Alas! how was I delighted in your company! Yet I should be com∣forted, if they made you dye upon some noble occasion: And if they offered you up at the Altar of some God, that is the worst could happen to you, nay you should have been reserved for a Sacrifice; you should have had the honour at least to die within some stately Temple, whereas now you die on a dunghill in a filthy yard. Ah Butcher! ah Executioner! stay the fury of thy knife, leave me some to com∣fort me. Ah! I see that thou never wert a Shepherd, and that thou never readst the Apotegms of Erasmus, where it is written, That the good Shepherd shears, but doth not fley his sheep. Ah poor Innocents! that I have not here a Chalmia, to celebrate your death in sad and Elegiack Verses!

Cease your complaints, sayes Anselme, taking him aside: You must not afflict your self so much for the death of Beasts. We are not Disciples of Pythagoras, nor doe we believe as he did, that the soul of our Grandfather is in the body of a Calf. Why doe Shepherds breed up Sheep, but to sell them? we may have others in stead of those: And if we should have none at all, is it a prodigie to see a Shepherd without a Flock? it suffices that he sometimes hath had one. A Gentleman that hath had Souldiers under his conduct, is still called Captain, though his Troops be disbanded, because he hath shew'd himself capable of being so. You speak well, says Lysis: And when I think on't, I saw you yesterday in the fields that you had no Flock, yet I call'd you Shepherd: I have always believ'd you to be one, for you speak with a Courtezy, which is not common but to us. Anselme unwilling to humour him then, said to him, You were mistaken in calling me Shepherd, for I am not one; and there is no person of quality in the Country that is so, unless it be you. I doe not desire you should call me otherwise then Anselme; and for my qualities, there is not any one I more esteem then that of your Friend and Servant. Have you not seen that they are only Country-Clowns that keep Sheep all hereabouts? I grant what you say, courteous Anselme! says Lysis: but my design should be to restore to its splendor that happy condition, and to cause that the most noble and rich personages should not disdain it; to the end that men may no longer study how to plead and wage war, and that they should speak no more

of any thing but Love. Would not you willingly second me in it? When men shall see us both of an opinion, will not every one imitate us? Let us now talk a little of this, now the time is propitious, and that Adrian is gone down to see if dinner be ready. That I may conceal nothing from you, replies Anselme, know that it would be very ill look'd upon to turn Shepherds in a place so neer Paris as this, whither all the Parisians ordinarily come. We are not far enough from ambition and avarice to lead such an innocent life: were it not for that, I should be of the design. Is there so much to do, says Lysis? For to shorten the pains which we shall have to perswade a people to receive new customs, let us go into a place where those which we would follow have been already practised: There are many Countries in the world where men live in a Pastoral way: Let us go into Arcadia, gentle Anselme! it is a Country much esteem'd by the Gods, they ordinarily live there among men. We must pass the Sea to go thither, says Anselme, and I doe not love to see ships but in the haven; I would not be in a place whence a man cannot come away when he pleases, nor get on a horse which a man can lead by the tail. When one is there, he is much the bet∣ter to say, I shake, I am afraid, I am ill at the heart! I would return to our house! No body hears you; or if any do, they abuse you. Let us go then, replies Lysis, into the Plains of Leon, along the River Ezla, where the disgraced Sirenus hath shed so many tears. That is yet too far, says, Anselme: and besides, we shall not agree well with the arrogant humour of the Spaniards. You will then stay in France, says Lysis: Well then, there is nothing but may be done. I know many Provinces where there are brave Shepherds. I have lately read a book called the Pastorals of Vesper, wherein are describ'd the Loves of certain Shepherds of Tourain? Shall we go into that Country? they say it is the Garden of France. Yet let me tell you, these Shep∣herds whose history I have seen live a little too rustickly for us: There is nothing commendable in them, unless it be that they love faithfully. What doe I dream on all this while, or have I reserved it as the best till last! 'Tis into the Country of For∣rests that we must go, near the antient City of Lyons on the west-side: There we shall find the Druid Adamas, who dispenses with much of his gravity, the better to entertain strangers: We shall see Celadon, Sylvander, and Lycidas, and Astraea, Diana, and Phillis. I leave it to you to imagine how much we shall be taken with their conversation, seeing the relation of their History is so noble, that in reading it I have often wept for joy. But how confident am I to refute the reasons of the in∣constant Hylas, and dispute against him with more heat then Sylvander! And if he do not confess himself vanquish'd by my words, I swear to you that I shall not ab∣stain from blows; for I should not brook it, that that little Rascal should deride the fidelity of Thyrsis. Moreover I shall not appear there as a stranger; for I know all that is past there these many years, and the Shepherds shall not relate their Loves to me. It is more then three years that I conceiv'd my self among them, for I was in a company where the young men and maids took their names out of Astraea, and our entertainment was a perpetual Pastoral: insomuch that I may truly say that it was there I went to School to learn to be a Shepherd.

Anselme hearing this discourse, had much ado to keep from laughing, yet could he not but make Lysis this answer: I am willing to go into Forrests, I know that the sojourn wil be very delightful, and I doubt not but we shall find there abundance of Shepherds and Shepherdesses: but as for those whom you name, it is most certain we shall not meet them there; they lived in the time of Mercueur, reckon how long it may be since they are dead. How say you! replies Lysis: doe you affirm that in jest, or for want of judgment? The Author of the Pastorals of Forrests, doth he not dedicate an Epistle in the beginning of his first book to the Shepherdess Astraea, and in the second another to the Shepherd Celadon? Doth he not speak to them as to persons yet alive? Besides, do you not see that their history is not yet finish'd? Celadon hath not obtain'd the favour of his Mistress: He personates Alexis in the fourth and last book of him, who hath begun to put down his adventures in writing: For as to what may be in the Books which others have written of it since, or may do hereafter, as if they proceeded from the true Historian of Lignon, I am not obliged

to believe them. I think, if Celadon had married Astraea, or had dyed, as you say, the Author of this History would have mentioned it; and that is it confirms my belief the more.

It must be suppos'd that Anselme would have been much to blame, if he had en∣deavoured to deprive Lysis of such a rare and excellent opinion, therefore did he not attempt it, but humour'd him in it, to make more sport with him; affirming that all he said did more and more heighten his desire to be a Shepherd as he was, but that there was one thing troubled his mind extremely, which was, That if they should go to Forrests, they must quit the conversation of the fair Charite, without which Lysis could not live. He answered, that he had much considered it; but that he hoped the first time he should speak to her, he would use such a charming perswasion to her, that she should consent to go with them and turn Shepherdess. Anselme said that were very well, if it could be obtained. And thereupon in comes Adrian, with the people of the house after him bringing up Dinner. He bade Lysis make haste to dine, that he might take him along with him to Paris, saying that his house was all in disorder when he was not at home, considering his wife was not of the best hous∣wifes; the Prentises were in league with the Servant-Maid, who would give them the key of the Cellar to drink up his wine; and if she would not give it them, they would go down half way the well, and pass through a little window which was there for to visit his Pipes. Lysis answered, There needed not so many words; that he might go if he would; that as for his part, he would not live any longer under his tuition, and that he was big enough to be without Guardian or Curator. Adrian be∣lieving he would stay there and continue in his follies, told him that if he would not go by fair means, he would carry him away by foul; that it was not so hard a mat∣ter to find a Coach, wherein he should be chained and fetter'd; and that when they were at Paris, he would clap him in prison at St. Martins, where he should be whipt every day; or else send him to the Almshouse, to keep company with such fools as they dispose thither. At that Lysis was extremely angry, and his Cousin was no less: but Anselme by his prudence reconciled all; telling Adrian in particular, that as he had already remonstrated, the disposition of the Young-man could not be o∣vercome by rigor, and that it were better to humour him. So that he conjur'd him to leave him to his custody a moneth or two, and he would desire nothing for his entertainment. Adrian believing it was necessary, for the dis-shepherding of him, that he should be with some honest man which would acquaint him with the world, consented to leave him to his care, seeing he was willing to venture the trouble of his importunity; and promised him a world of services in requital.

Anselme having obtain'd his desire, sate at Table with them, and there was no dispute while they were at dinner: Only Adrian told Lysis, that he had resolved to leave him with Anselme, and charg'd him to obey him in all things as his master and benefactor. He promis'd him he would not fail, and seem'd very joyfull to be left in so good company. After dinner the Merchant took horse; and leave taken, return'd to Paris. He was in hope the good disposition of Anselme would conduce much to reform that of Lysis; and he gave all the kindred this account of him, that they should have more comfort for the time to come, then they had had before. Yet Anselme transported with the impetuosities of Youth, which loves nothing so much as to pass away the time merrily, would not task himself so soon to take away his fancies; and in himself accused Adrian of a great injustice in desiring to deprive the world of the most excellent Fool that ever was; believing that if he should restore him to his understanding, it would have been a hard matter to reduce him to his folly. He resolved therefore to make sport with him as long as he should remain in the Country, being rich enough to give him his entertainment. And as our con∣tentment is never perfect, if our friends are ignorant we receive it, and do not par∣take of it, he resolved to recommend to all his Acquaintance this gentle Personage, when he thought it convenient. Having made him quit the Inne, he led him through a many streets, to bring him to his own house. They were met by some who knew what had happened to the Country-people, who had so much fear'd the end of the

world. They saw well enough that Lysis was he that had been the cause of it. His extraordinary habit which had been described to them, easily discovered him. The novelty of his clothing, and of his proportion'd gate, obliged to follow him all the Townsmen of S. Cloud, who were then in the streets. They who had already seen him ran a great way before, that they might see him pass by again: the Boys throug'd at his heels, making a noise as those of Paris do at the riding of a man beaten by his wife. Anselme could not make them be quiet; and they had not so good luck as they had had the day before, when they were not followed by any, it being a working day. This malicious rout cast stones at Lyfis; so that receiving some hurt by one in his back, he could endure no longer, and turning back with his hat in his hand to∣wards those that followed him, he said, Sirs! leave off your conduct of me, I pro∣test you shall go no further; I beseech you no further ceremony; I take the favour for received.

These words amaz'd both great and small, who understood no more the one then the other; and with the menaces which Anselme us'd at the same time, it prevail'd with them to retire. Anselme admired the natural ingenuity of Lysis; and this was haply one of the best things had ever been heard from him. Being come home, he assign'd him a pretty Chamber; and having left him certain Books, he desired him to pass away the afternoon in reading, while he in the mean time would go visit certain persons whither he thought not fit to bring him along.

The End of the First Book.