But ye have surely seene

(Whom we in sorrow misse)

A swaine whom Phoebe thought her love, And Titan deemed his.

"But he is gone; then inwards turne your light,

Behold him there; here never shall you more,
O're-hang this sad plaine with eternall night!
Or change the gaudy greene she whilome wore
To fenny blacke. Hyperion great

To ashy palenesse turne her!
Greene well befits a lover's heate,
But blacke beseemes a mourner.

Yet neither this thou canst,

Nor see his second birth,
His brightnesse blinds thine eye more now,
Then thine did his on Earth.

"Let not a shepheard on our haplesse plaines,
Tune notes of glee, as used were of yore:
For Philarete is dead, let mirthfull straines
With Philarete cease for evermore!

And if a fellow swaine doe live
A niggard of his teares;
The shepheardesses all will give
To store him, part of theirs.

Or I would lend him some,

But that the store I have Will all be spent before I pay

The debt I owe his grave.

"O what is left can make me leave to mone!
Or what remains but doth increase it more?
Looke on his sheepe: alas! their master's gone.
Looke on the place where we two heretofore
With locked armes have vow'd our love,
(Our love which time shall see
In shepheard's songs for ever move,
And grace their harmony)

It solitarie seemes.

Behold our flowrie beds; Their beauties fade, and violets

For sorow hang their heads.

""Tis not a cypresse bough, a count'nance sad,

A mourning garment, wailing elegie,

A standing herse in sable vesture clad,

A toombe built to his name's eternitie,

Although the shepheards all should strive
By yearly obsequies,

And vow to keepe thy fame alive
In spight of destinies

That can suppresse my griefe:

All these and more may be, Yet all in vaine to recompence My greatest losse of thee.

And (full carefull) search'd if one
Of all their flock were hurt or gone,
Or (if in the night-time cul'd)
And had their fleeces pul'd:
'Mongst the rest (not least in care)
Cutty to his fold gan fare;

2

And young Willy (that had given To his flock the latest even Neighbourhood with Cutty's sheepe) Shaking off refreshing sleepe, Hy'd him to his charge that blet, Where he (busied) Cutty met: Both their sheepe told, and none mist Of their number; then they blist Pan, and all the gods of plaines For respecting of their traines Of silly sheepe; and in a song Praise gave to that holy throng. Thus they drave their flocks to graze, Whose white fleeces did amaze All the lillies as they passe Where their usual feeding was. Lillies angry that a creature Of no more eye-pleasing feature Than a sheepe, by nature's duty Should be crown'd with far more beauty Than a lilly; and the powre

Of white in sheepe, outgoe a flowre: From the middle of their sprout (Like a furie's sting) thrust out Dart-like forks in death to steepe them : But great Pan did safely keepe them; And affoorded kind repaire To their dry and wonted laire, Where their masters (that did eye them) Underneath a hawthorne by them, On their pipes thus gan to play, And with rimes weare out the day.

WILLIE.

Cease, Cutty, cease to feed these simple flockes,
And for a trumpet change thine oaten reeds;
O're-looke the vallies as aspiring rockes,
And rather march in steele, then shepheard's weeds.
Beleeve me Cutty! for heroicke deeds
Thy verse is fit; not for the lives of swaines,
(Though both thou canst do well) and none proceeds
To leave high pitches for the lowly plaines:
Take thou a harpe in hand, strive with Arollo;
Thy Muse was made to lead, then scorne to follow.

CUTTY.

Wil'ie, to follow sheepe I neere shall scorne;
Much lesse to follow any deity:

Who 'gainst the Sun (though weakned by the morne)

Would vie with lookes, needeth an eagle's eye,
I dare not search the hidden mysterie
Of tragicke scenes; nor in a buskin'd stile
Through death and horrour march, nor their height
flie,

Whose pens were fed with blood of this faire ile.
It shall content me, on these happy downes
To sing the strife for garlands, not for crownes.

WILLIE.

O who would not aspire, and by his wing
Keep stroke with fame, and of an earthly jar
Another lesson teach the spheres to sing?
Who would a shepheard, that might be a star?
VOL. VI.

See learned Cutty, on yond mountaines are Cleere springs arising, and the climbing goat That can get up, hath water cleerer farre Than when the streames doe in the vallies float. What mad-man would a race by torch-light run, That might his steps have usher'd by the Sunne? We shepheards tune our layes of shepheards' loves, Or in the praise of shady groves, or springs; We seldome heare of Cytherea's doves, Except when some more learned shepheard sings; An equall meed have to our sonetings: A belt, a sheep hooke, or a wreath of flowres, Is all we seeke, and all our versing brings; And more deserts than these are seldome ours. But thou, whose Muse a falcon's pitch can sore, Maist share the bayes even with a conqueror.

CUTTY.

Why doth not Willy then produce such lines Of men and armes as might accord with these?

WILLIE.

'Cause Cuttie's spirit not in Willie shines,
Pan cannot weild the club of Hercules,

Nor dare a merlin on a heron seise.
Scarce know I how to fit a shepheard's care;
Farre more unable shaft I be to please

In aught, which none but semi-gods must heare;
When by thy verse (more able) time shall see
Thou canst give more to kings, than kings to
thee.

CUTTY.

But (wel-a-day) who loves the Muses now? Or helpes the climber of the sacred hill? None leane to them; but strive to disalow All heavenly dewes the goddesses distil.

WILLIE.

Let earthly minds base mucke for ever fill,
Whose musicke onely is the chime of gold,
Dease be their eares to each harmonious quill!
As they of learning thinke, so of them hold.

And if there's none deserves what thou canst doo,
Be then the poet and the patron too.

tell thee Cutty, had I all the sheepe
With thrice as many moe, as on these plaines,
Or shepheard, or faire maiden sits to keepe,
I would them all forgoe, so I thy straines
Could equalize. O how our neatest swaines
Doe trim themselves, when on a holy-day
They haste to heare thee sing, knowing the traines
Of fairest nymphs will come to learne thy lay.
Well may they run and wish a parting never,
So thy sweet tong might charme their eares
for ever.

And though I say't, hath better tricks in store Than both of yours, or twenty couple more. How often have the maidens strove to take him, When he hath crost the plaine to barke at crowes? How many lasses have I knowne to make him Garlands to gird his necke, with which he goes Vaunting along the lands so wondrous trim, That not a dog of yours durst barke at him. And when I list (as often-times I use) To tune a horne pipe, or a morris-dance, The dogge (as he by nature could not choose) Seeming asleepe before, will leap and dance.

Upon our plaines, or in some uncouth cell? That heares not what to Hobbinol befell; Phillis the faire, and fairer is there none, To-morrow must be linkt in marriage bands, 'Tis I that must undoe her virgin zone. Behold the man, behold the happy hands.

The garland given for throwing best the barre, I know not by what chance or luckie starre, Was chosen late

To be the mate

Unto our lady of our gleesome May,
And was the first that dane'd each holy-day;
None would he take but Phillis forth to dance;
Nor any could with Phillis dance but hee,
On Palinode she thenceforth not a glance
Bestowes, but hates him and his poverty,
Cladon had sheape and lims for stronger lode
Then ere she saw in simple Palinode:
He was the man

Must clip ber than;

For him she wreathes of flowers and chaplets made; To strawberries invites him in the shade,

In shearing time,

And in the prime,

Would helpe to clip his sheep, and gard his lambs:
And at a need lend him her choicest rams,
And on each stocke
Work such a clocke
With twisted colored thred as Lot a swaine
On all these downes could show the like againe.
But, as it seemes, the well grew dry at last,
Her fire unquench'd, and she uath Cladon lost:
Nor was I sorry; nor doe wish to taste
The flesh whereto so many flies have cleft.
Oh, Hobbino!! canst thou imagine she
That hath so oft heen tride, so oft misdone,
Can from all other men be true to thee?
Thou know'st with me, with Clado, she hath gone
Beyond the limites that a maiden may,
And can the name of wife those rovings stay?
She hath not augat
That's hid, unsonght;

These eies, these hands, so much know of that

woman,

[common?

As more thou canst not: can that please that's

No: should I wed,

My marriage bed,