How to begin, then know how to liave donne.
For everie gift, and everie goodly meed,
Which she on me bestowd, demaunds a day;
And everie day, in which she did a deed,
Her words were like a streame of bonny fleeting,
The which doth softly trickle from the hive:
Hable to melt the hearers heart unweeting,
And eke to make the dead againe alive.
Which load the bunches of the fruitfull vine;
Offring to fall into each mouth that gapes,
And fill the same with store of timely wine.
Her lookes were like beames of the morning sun,
When first the fleecie cattell have begun
Upon the perled grasse to make their feast.
Her thoughts are like the fume of franckincence,
Which from a golden censer forth doth rise,
In rolling globes up to the vaulted skies.
There she beholds, with high aspiring thought,
The cradle of her owne creation,
Emongst the seats of angels heavenly wrought,
“Colin, (said Cuddy then) thou hast forgot
Tliy selfe, me seemes, too much, to mount so hie:
Such loftie flight base shepheard seemeth not,
From flocks and fields, to angels and to skie.”
Lifts me above the measure of my might
That being fild with furious insolence,
I feele my selfe like one yrapt in spright
For when I thinke of her, as oft I ought,
And, when I speake of her what I have thought,
I cannot thinke according to her worth.
Yet will I thinke of her, yet will I speake,
So long as life my limbs doth hold together,
Her name recorded I will leave for ever.
Her name in every tree I will endosse,
That, as the trees do grow, her name may grow:
And in the ground each where will it engrosse,
The speaking woods, and murmuring waters fall,
Her name He teach in knowen termes to frame:
And eke my lambs, when for their dams they call,
He leach to call for Cynthia by name.
Amongst the shepheards daughters dancing rownd,
My layes made of her shall not be forgotten,
But sung by them with flowry gyrlonds crownd.
And ye, who so ye he, that shall survive,
Be witnesse of her bountie here alive,
Which she to Colin her poore shepheard shewed.”
Much was the whole assembly of those heards
Moov’d at his speech, so feelingly he spake:
Till Thestylis at last their silence brake,
Saying: “Why Colin, since thou foundst such grace
With Cynthia and all her noble crew;
Why didst thou ever leave that happie place,
And back returnedst to this baraein soyle,
Where cold and care and penury do dwell,
Here to keep sheepe, with hunger and with toyle?
Most wretched he, that is and cannot tell.”
That may that blessed presence still enioy,
Of fortune and of envy uncomptrold,
Which still are wont most happie states t’ annoy:
But I, by that which little while I prooved,
The which in court continually hooved,
And followd those which happie seemd to bee.
Therefore I, silly man, whose former dayes
Had in rude fields bene altogether spent,
Nor trust the guile of fortunes blandishment;
But rather chose back to my sheep to tonrne,
Whose utmost hardnesse I before had tryde,
Then, having learnd repentance late, to mourne
“Shepheard, (said Thestylis) it seems of spight
Thou speakest thus gainst their felicitie,
Which thou envíest, rather then of right
That ought in them blameworthie thou doest spie.”
To quite them ill, that me demeand so well:
But selfe-regard of private good or ill
Moves me of each, so as I found, to tell
And eke to warne yong shepheards wandring wit,
Abandon quiet home to seeke for it,
And leave their lambes to losse misled amisse.
For, sooth to say, it is no sort of life,
For shepheard fit to lead in that same place,
To thrust downe other into foule disgrace,
Himselfe to raise: and he doth soonest rise
That best can handle his deceitfull wit
In subtil shifts, and finest sleights devise,
Through leasings lewd, and fained forgerie;
Or else by breeding him some blot of blame,
By creeping close into his secrecie;
To which him needs a guilefull hollow hart,
A filed toung, furnisht with tearmes of art,
No art of schoole, but courtiers schoolery.
For arts of schoole have there small countenance,
Counted but toyes to busie ydle braines;
But to be instruments of others gaines.
Ne is there place for any gentle wit,
Unlesse, to please, it selfe it can applie;
But shouldred is, or out of doore quite shyt,
For each mans worth is measured by his weed,
As harts by hornes, or asses by their eares:
Yet asses been not all whose eares exceed,
Nor yet all harts that homes the highest beares.
Nor haughtie words most full of highest thoughts
But are like bladders blowen up with wynd,
That being prickt do vanish into noughts.
Even such is all their vaunted vanitie,
Such is their glorie that in simple eie
Seeme greatest, when their garments are most gay.
So they themselves for praise of fooles do sell.
And all their wealth for painting on a wall;
And purchase highest rowmes in bowre and hall:
Whiles single Truth and simple Honestie
Do wander up and downe despys’d of all;
Their plaine attire such glorious gallantry
