Conspire in one to make contented blisse:
No wayling there nor wretchednesse is heard,
No bloodie issues nor no leprosies,
No griesly famine, nor no raging sweard,
The shepheards there abroad may safely lie,
On hills and downes, withouten dread or daunger:
No ravenous wolves the good mans hope destroy,
Nor outlawes fell affray the forest raunger.
And poets wits are had in peerlesse price:
Religion hath lay powre to rest upon her,
Advancing vertue and suppressing vice.
For end, all good, all grace there freely growes,
For God his gifts there plenteously bestowes,
But gracelesse men them greatly do abuse.”
“But say on further (then said Corylas)
The rest of thine adventures, that betyded.”
(Quoth he) as that same shepheard still us guyded,
Untill that we to Cynthiaes presence came:
Whose glorie greater then my simple thought,
I found much greater then the former fame;
But if I her like ought on earth might read,
I would her lyken to a crowne of lillies,
Upon a virgin brydes adorned head,
With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;
In winch all colours of the rainbow bee;
Or like faire Phebes garlond shining new,
In which all pure perfection one may see.
But vaine it is to thinke, by paragone
Her power, her mercy, and her wisdome, none
Can deeme, but who the Godhead can define.
Why then do I, base shepheard, bold and blind,
Presume the things so sacred to prophane?
The image of the heavens in shape humane.”
With that Alexis broke his tale asunder,
Saying; “By wondring at thy Cynthiaes praise,
Colin, thy selfe thou mak’st us more to wonder,
But let us heare what grace she sliewed thee,
And how that shepheard strange thy cause advanced.”
“The Shepheard of the Ocean (quoth he)
Unto that goddesse grace me first enhanced,
That she thenceforth therein gan take delight;
And it desir’d at timely houres to heare,
All were my notes but rude and roughly dight;
For not by measure of her owne great mynd,
But ioyd that country shepheard ought could fynd
Worth harkening to, emongst the learned throng.”
“Why? (said Alexis then) what needeth shee
That is so great a shepheardesse her selfe,
To heare thee sing, a simple silly elfe?
Or be the shepheards which do serve her laesie,
That they list net their mery pipes applie?
Or be their pipes untunable and craesie,
“Ah! nay (said Colin) neither so, nor so:
For better shepheards be not under skie,
Nor better hable, when they list to blow
Their pipes aloud, her name to glorifie
In faithful service of faire Cynthia:
And there is Corydon though meanly waged,
Yet hablest wit of most I know this day.
And there is sad Alcyon bent to mourne,
Whose gentle spright for Daphnes death doth tourn
Sweet layes of love to endlesse plaints of pittie.
Ah! pensive boy, pursue that brave conceipt
In thy sweet Eglantine of Meriflure;
That may thy muse and mates to mirth allure.
There eke is Palin worthie of great praise,
Albe he envie at my rustick quill:
And there is pleasing Alcon, could he raise
And there is old Palemon free from spight,
Whose carefull pipe may make the hearer rew:
Yet he him selfe may rewed be more right,
That sung so long untill quite hoarse he grew.
In all this skill, though knowen yet to few;
Yet, were he knowne to Cynthia as he ought,
His Elsëis would be redde anew.
Who lives that can match that heroick song,
O dreaded Dread, do not thy selfe that wrong,
To let thy fame lie so in hidden shade:
But call it forth, O call him forth to thee,
To end thy glorie which he hath begun:
No braver poeme can be under sun.
Nor Po nor Tyburs swans so much renowned,
Nor all the brood of Greece so highly praised,
Can match that muse when it with bayes is crowned,
And there is a new shepheard late up sprong,
The which doth all afore him far surpasse;
Appearing well in that well tuned song,
Which late he sung unto a scornfull lasse.
As daring not too rashly mount on hight,
And doth her tender plumes as yet but trie
In loves soft laies and looser thoughts delight.
Then rouze thy feathers quickly, Daniell,
But most, me seemes, thy accent will excell
In tragick plaints and passionate mischance.
And there that Shepheard of the Ocean is,
That spends his wit in loves consuming smart:
That can empierce a princes mightie hart.
There also is (ah no, he is not now!)
But since I said he is, he quite is gone,
Amyntas quite is gone, and lies full low,
Helpe, O ye shepheards, helpe ye all in this,
Helpe Amaryllis this her losse to mourne:
Her losse is yours, your losse Amyntas is,
Amyntas, floure of shepheards pride forlorne:
That ever piped in an oaten quill:
Both did he other, which could pipe, maintaine,
And eke could pipe himselfe with passing skill.
And there, though last not least, is Aetion,
Whose muse, full of high thoughts invention,
Doth like himselfe heroically sound.
All these, and many others mo remaine,
Now, after Astrofell is dead and gone:
