Dorus. Cleophila.
Dorus.
Lady reserved by the heavens to doo Pastors Company, honor?
Joyning youre sweete voyce to the Rurall Muse of a Dezart,
Here, yow fully do fynde this straunge operacyon of Love,
Howe, to the woodes Love ronnes, aswell, as ryde to the Pallace,
Neyther hee beares reverence to a Prince, nor pity to a Begger.
But like a poynte in mydst of a Circle, ys still of a nerenes,
All, to a Lesson hee drawes, Nor hilles, nor Caves can avoyde him.
Cleophila.
Worthy Shepearde, by my Songe, to my self all favoure ys hapned,
That to the sacred Muse, my anoyes somewhat bee reveiled,
Sacred Muse, who, in one conteynes, what Nyne doo in all them?
But, O happy bee yow, whiche safe from fyery reflection,
Of Phebus vyolence, in shade of stately Cypres tree,
Or pleasant Mirtle may teache the unfortunate Eccho ,
In these woodes to resounde the renoumed Name of a Goddess .
Happy bee yow that may to the Sainte youre onely Idea ,
Allthough (simply attyrde) youre manly affections utter.
Happy bee those mysshapps, whiche justly proportion holding,
Give righte sounde to the eares, and enter arighte to y e judgment.
But wretched bee the sowles whiche vaylde in a Contrary subject,
Howe muche more wee do Love, so the less oure Loves bee beleeved.
What skill serveth a Sore, of a wrong infirmity judged,
What can Justice availe to a Man that telles not his owne Case?
Yow, thoughe feares do abashe, in youre still possible hopes, bee,
Nature ageanst, wee do seeme to rebell, seeme fooles in a vayne sute,
But, (so unhearde) Condempnd, kept thence, wee doo seeke to abyde in,
Self lost, and wandering, banisshed that place wee do come from.
What meane ys there, alas, wee can hope oure Losse to recover.
What place ys there lefte, wee may hope oure Woes to recomfort?
Unto the heavens, oure winges bee to shorte; The earthe thinckes us a burden.
Ayer wee do still with sighes encrease to the fyer, wee do want none,
And yet, his outeward heate oure teares woulde quenche, but an inward,
Fyer, no Liquor allwayes, Neptunes seate woulde bee dryed up there.
Happy Shepeardes with thanckes to the Goddes, still thinck to bee thanckfull
That to thy advauncement, theyre wisdomes have thee abased.
Dorus.
Unto the Godds, with a thanckfull harte, all thanckes I do render,
That to my advauncement, theyre wisdomes have mee abased,
But, yet alas, O, but yet alas, Oure happes bee but hardd happs,
Whiche must frame Contempt to the highest purchase of honor,
Well may a Pastor playne, but, alas his playntes bee not esteemed,
Silly shepeardes, pore pype, where his harshe sounde testifyes oure woes,
Into the fayre Looker on, pastyme, not passyon enters,
And to the woodes or brookes, who do make suche dreary recitall,
What bee the panges they beare, and whence those panges bee deryved,
Pleasde to receyve that name by rebounding answer of Echo ,
And hope thereby to ease theyre inward horrible anguish,
Then shall those thinges ease, theyre inward horrible anguish,
When Trees daunce to the pype, and swifte streames stay by Musick,
Or when an Echo unmooved begins to singe them a love songe,
Say then what vauntage do wee gett by the trade of a Pastor ?
Synce no estates bee so base, but love vouchsafeth his Arrowe,
Synce no Refuge dothe serve from woundes wee do carry aboute us,
Synce owteward pleasures bee but halting helps to decayed sowles,
Synce that dayly wee may discerne, what fyer wee do burne in,
Farre more happy bee yo w , whose greatnes gettes a free Access,
Whose fayre bodily giftes are framed moste Lovely to eche eye,
Vertue yow have, of vertue yo w have lefte proof to y e whole worlde,
And vertue ys gratefull with beuty and Richenes adurned,
Neyther Doubt yow a whitt, Tyme will youre passion utter,
Hardly remaynes fyer hidd, where skill ys bent to the hyding,
But in a mynde, that woulde his flames shoulde not bee expressed
Nature worcketh ynoughe with a small help, for the Reveiling,
Give therefore to the Muse greate prayse, in whose very likenes,
Yow do aproache to the fruite, youre onely Desyers bee, to gather.
Cleophila.
First shall fertile groundes not yeelde increase of a good seede,
First the Rivers shall Cease to repay theyre Floodes to the Occean,
Firste may a Trusty grayhound transforme him self to a Tyger,
First shall vertue bee vice, and Beuty bee coumpted a Blemish,
Ere that I leave with songe of prayse, her prayse to solempnish,
Her prayse, whence to the worlde all prayse had his beginning,
But, yet, well I do fynde eche man moste wyse in his owne Case,
None can speake of a wounde with skill, yf hee have not a wound felt,
Greate to thee, my estate faynes, thy estate ys blest by my judgment,
And yet neyther of us are blest, deemeth his owne self,
For yet, weighe this, alas, greate ys not greate, to the greater,
What, (Judge yow) dothe a hillock shewe, by the lofty Olympus
Suche this smalle greatenes dothe seeme comparde to the greatest,
When Cædars to the grounde bee opprest by the weighte of an Emmott
Or when a Riche Rubyes just pryce, by the worthe of a Wallnutt,
Or to the Sunne for wonders seeme smalle sparckes of a Candle,
Then by my highe Cædar , Riche Ruby , and onely shyning Sunne ,
Vertue, Riches, Beautyes of myne shall greate bee reputed,
Oh no, no hardy Shepearde, Worthe can never enter a Tytle,
Where proofes justly do teache (thus machte) suche worthe to bee nought worthe
Lett not a puppitt abuse thy spirit, Kinges Crownes do not help them,
From the Cruell heade ache, nor shooes of golde, do the goute heale,
And precyous Cowches full ofte are shakte with a fever.
Yf then a bodily evell in a bodily glose bee not hidden,
Shall suche morning Dewes bee an ease to the heate of a Loves fyer.
Dorus.
O glittering miseryes of Man, yf this bee the fortune,
Of those fortune lulles, so smalle rest restes in a Kyngdome,
What Merveyle thoughe a Prince transforme him self to a Pastor?
Come from Marble bowers, many tymes the gay harber of anguish,
Unto a silly Cabban, thoughe weyke, yet stronger ageanst wooes,
Now, by the wordes, I begin (moste famous Lady) to gather,
Comforte into my sowle I do fynde, I do fynde, what a blessing,
Ys chaunced to my lyfe, that from suche muddy abundance,
Of Carcking Agonyes, (w ch still to estates bee adherent,)
Desteny keepes mee aloof, for, yf all this estate to thy vertue,
Joynde by thy beuty adournd, bee no meanes this greef to abolish
Yf neyther by that help thow canst clyme up to thy fancy,
Nor yet fancy so drest, do receyve a plausible hearing,
Then, doo I thincke in deede, that better yt ys, to bee private,
In sorowes tormentes then tyed to the pompes of a Pallace,
Nurse inwarde Maladyes, w ch have not scope, to bee breathed oute,
But perforce disgest all bitter Joyces of horror,
In sylence, from a Mans owne self, with Company robbed,
Better yet do I live, that thoughe by my thoughtes I bee plunged,
Into my Lyves bondage, yet may disburden a passyon,
(Opprest with Ruynous Conceiptes) by the help of an oute Crye,
Not limitted to a whispering note, the Lament of a Courtyer,
But, some tymes to the woodes, some tymes to the heavens do decypher,
With boulde Clamoure, unhearde, unmarckte what I seeke, what I suffer,
And when I meete these Trees in the earthes fayre Livery cloathed,
Ease I do feele, (suche ease as falles to one wholly diseazed)
For, that I fynde in them parte of my estate represented,
Lawrell shewes what I seeke, by the Myrhe ys shewed how I seeke yt,
Ollyve payntes mee the peace, that I must aspire to the Conquest
Myrtle makes my Request, my Request ys crowned w th a Willowe ,
Cyprus promyseth help, but a help, where comes no recomfort,
Sweet Jenuper saith thys, though I burne, I burne in a sweete fyer,
Ewe dothe make mee bethinck, what kynde of Bowe the Boy holdeth,
Whiche shootes strongly withoute any Noyse, & deadly withoute smarte,
Firre trees greate and greene, fixte on a hye hill but a barren,
Like to my Noble thoughtes still newe well plaste, too mee fruitless,
Figg that yeeldes moste pleasaunt fruite, his shadowe ys hurtfull,
Thus bee her giftes moste sweete, thus more daunger to bee nere her,
But in a Palme , when I marcke, howe hee dothe ryse under a burden,
And may not I (say I then) gett up, thoughe greefes bee so weighty;
Pyne ys a Mast to a Shipp, to my shipp, shall hope for a Mast serve,
Pyne ys hye, Hope ys as hye, sharpe leavde, sharp yt bee my hopes buddes.
Elme embraste by a Vyne , embracyng fancy revyveth,
Popler chaungeth his hewe from a rysing Sunne to a setting,
Thus to my sonne do I yeelde, suche beames her lookes do aforde mee,
Oulde aged Oke cutt downe, of newe worcke serves to y e buylding,
So my Desyers by my feare cutt downe, bee the frames of her Honor,
Asshe makes speares whiche shieldes do resist, her force no Repulse takes,
Palmes do rejoyce to bee joynde by the Matche of a Male to a female,
And shall sensive thinges bee so senceles, as to resist sence?
Thus bee my thoughtes dispearst, thus thincking nurseth a thincking,
Thus bothe Trees and eche thing else bee the Bookes of a fancy.
But to the Cedar , Queene of Woodes, when I lifte my beteared eyes,
Then do I shape to my self, that forme whiche raignes so w th in mee,
And thincke there shee do dwell, and here what playntes I do utter,
When that Noble Topp dothe nodd, I beleeve shee salutes mee,
When by the Wynde yt maketh a Noyse, I do thinck shee dothe answer,
Then kneeling to the grounde ofte thus do I speake to y t Image,
Onely Jewell, O onely Jewell, whiche onely deservest,
That Mens hartes bee thy seate, and endles fame bee thy servaunt
O descend for a while from this greate heighte, to beholde mee,
But noughte else do beholde, else ys nought worthe the beholding
Save what a worck by thy self ys wraughte, and since I am altered
Thus by thy worck disdayne not that, whiche ys by thy self done,
In meane Caves ofte tresure abydes, to an Hostry a Kinge comes,
And so behynde foule Cloudes full ofte fayre starres do lye hidden.
Cleophila.
Hardy Shepeard, suche as thy merites, suche may bee her Insighte,
Justly to graunte thy rewarde, suche envy I beare to thy fortune,
But to my self, what wishe can I make for a salve to my sorowes,
Whome bothe Nature seemes to debarr from meanes to bee helped,
And yf a meane were founde, fortune y e whole Course of yt hinders,
Thus plagued how can I frame to my sore, any hope of amendement?
Whence may I shewe to my mynde, any lighte of a possible escape,
Bounde and bounde by so noble bandes, as lothe to bee unbounde,
Jaylor I am to my self, Prison and Prisoner to my owne self,
Yet bee my hopes thus plaste, here fixed lives all my recomforte,
That that dere Dyamond where wisdome holdeth a sure seate,
(Whose force had suche force so to transforme, nay to reforme mee,)
Will at lengthe perceyve these flames by her beames to bee kyndled,
And will pity the wounde festered so straungely within mee,
O bee yt so, graunte suche an event O goddes that event give.
And for a sure sacrifice I doo dayly oblation offer,
Of my owne harte, where thoughtes bee the Temple, sight ys an Alter,
But, Cease worthy Shepearde, now Cease, wee do weary the hearers,
With Monefull melodyes, for ynoughe oure greeves bee reveiled,
Yf by the partyes meant, oure meaninges rightly bee marcked,
And sorowes do require some respite unto the sences.