Thelgon.

Too well I know the fisher's thankless pain,
Yet bear it cheerfully, nor dare repine;
To grudge at loss is fond, too fond and vain,
When highest causes justly it assign.

Who bites the stone, and yet the dog condemns,
Much worse is than the beast he so contemns.

Chromis, how many fisher's dost thou know,

That rule their boats, and use their nets aright? That neither wind, nor time, nor tide foreslow?

Such some have been; but ah! by tempest's spight Their boats are lost; while we may sit and moan, That few were such, and now those few are none.

Instead of these, a crew of idle grooms,

Idle and bold, that never saw the seas, Fearless succeed, and fill their empty rooms:

Some lazy live, bathing in wealth and ease; Their floating boats with waves have leave to play, Their rusty hooks all year keep holiday.

Here stray their skiffs, themselves are never here;

Ne'er saw their boats; ill might they fishers be: Meantime some wanton boy the boat doth steer, Poor boat the while! that cares as much as he:

Who in a brook or wherry cannot row,
Now backs the scas, before the seas he know..

Those fisher swains, from whom our trade doth flow, That by the King of Seas their skill was taught,

As they their boats on Jordan wave did row;
And, catching fish, were by a fisher caught;
Ah! blessed chance! much better was their trade,
That being fishers, thus were fishes made.

Those happy swains, in outward shew unblest,
Were scourg'd, were scorn'd, yet was this loss their
gain,

By land, by sea, in life, in death, distrest;

But now with th' King of Seas securely reign;
For that short woe in this base earthly dwelling,
Enjoying joy all excellence excelling.

Then do not thou my boy, cast down thy mind,
But seek to please, with all thy busy care,
The king of seas; so shalt thou surely find

Rest, quiet, joy, in all this troublous fare.
Let not thy net, thy hook, thy singing cease;
And pray those tempests may be turn'd to peace!

Oh, Prince of waters, Sovereign of seas! Whom storms and calms, whom winds and waves obey;

If ever that great fisher did thee please,

Chide thou the winds, and furious waves allay: So, on thy shores the fisher-boys shall sing Sweet songs of peace to our sweet peace's king.

These are very beautiful and pathetic passages, and if we were not assured by the date of publication, that they were written previously to the civil war, might lead us to fear that the poet was a personal sufferer in those disastrous times which he lived to witness. As they are, they prove the ascendency to which the party in opposition to the establishment had then attained, and perhaps may be viewed as prophetic of the calamities that followed.

In the fifth eclogue, Love, the fittest subject for the pastoral muse, whether she sings on the plain or on the ocean, resumes his legitimate station; and in the sixth is suspected by the sagacious Thirsil, to have stolen from him the affection of his friend Thomalin.

A fisher boy that never knew his

peer

In dainty songs, the gentle Thomalin,

With folded arms, deep sighs, and heavy cheer,
Where hundred nymphs and hundred muses inn
Sank down by Thames' brinks; with him his dear,
Dear Thirsil lay; oft times would he begin
To cure his grief, and better way advise :
But still his words, when his sad friend he spies,
Forsook his silent tongue, to speak in wat'ry eyes.

Under a spreading vine they careless lie,

Whose tender leaves, bit with the eastern blast,
But now were born, and now began to die;
The latter, warned by the former's haste,
Thinly for fear salute the envious sky:

There as they sat, Thirsil embracing fast
His loving friend, feeling his panting heart
To give no rest to his increasing smart,

At length thus spake, while sighs words to his grief

impart.

Thirsil.

Thomalin, I see thy Thirsil thou neglectest,

Some greater love holds down thy heart in fear;
Thy Thirsil's love and counsel thou rejectest;
Thy soul was wont to lodge within my ear:
But now that port no longer thou respectest:
Yet hath it still been safely harboured there,
My ear is not acquainted with my tongue,

That either tongue or ear should do thee wrong:
Why then should'st thou conceal thy hidden grief so

long?

Thomalin.

Thirsil, it is thy love that makes me hide

My smother'd grief from thy known faithful ear:
May still my Thirsil safe and merry bide;
Enough is me my hidden grief to bear:

For while thy breast in hav'n doth safely ride,
My greater half with thee rides safely there!

Thirsil.

So thou art well; but still my better part,

My Thomalin, sinks laden with his smart:

Thus thou my finger cur'st, and wound'st my bleeding

heart.

How oft has Thomalin to Thirsil vow'd,

That as his heart so he his love esteem'd :

Where are those oaths? Where is that heart bestow'd Which hides it from that breast which dear it deem'd, And to that heart room in his heart allow'd?

That love was never love but only seem'd! Tell me, my Thomalin, what envious thief

Thus robs thy joy; tell me my liefest lief:

Thou little lov'st me, friend, if more thou lov'st thy grief!

Thomalin.

Thirsil, my joyous spring is blasted quite,
And winter storms prevent the summer ray;
All as this vine, whose green the eastern spite
Hath dyed to black; his catching arms decay,

And letting go their hold for want of might,

Marv'l winter comes so soon, in first of May.
Thirsil.

Yet see, the leaves do freshly bud again;
Thou drooping still dy'st in this heavy strain;
Nor can I see or end or cause of all thy pain.
Thomalin.

No marvel, Thirsil, if thou dost not know.
This grief which in my heart lies deeply drown'd;
My heart itself, though well it feels this woe,

Knows not the woe it feels: the worse my wound,
Which though I rankling find, I cannot shew.

Thousand fond passions in my breast abound; Fear leagu'd to joy, hope, and despair together, Sighs bound to smiles, my heart though prone to either, While both it would obey, 'twixt both, obeyeth neither.

Oft blushing flames leap up into my face,

My guiltless cheek such purple flash admires;
Oft stealing tears slip from mine eyes apace,
As if they meant to quench these causeless fires.
My good I hate; my hurt I glad embrace;

My heart though griev'd, his grief as joy desires: I burn, yet know no fuel to my firing;

My wishes know no want, yet still desiring:

Hope knows not what to hope, yet still in hope expiring.

Thirsil

Too true my fears! alas, no wicked sprite

No writhled witch with spells of pow'rful charms,

Or hellish herbs digg'd in as hellish night,

Gives to thy heart these oft and fierce alarms: