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النشر الإلكتروني

The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse,
Bright day's-eyes and the lips of cows;
The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holyday.

Third Nymph.

Drop, drop, you violets; change your hues,
Now red, now pale, as lovers use;
And in your death go out as well

As when you lived unto the smell:

That from your odour all may say,
This is the shepherd's holyday.

XCV. EARINE.

The first scene of The Sad Shepherd, a pastoral drama introducing Robin Hood. It appears to have been left unfinished at the poet's death, and was published as a fragment in the folio of 1641.

Eglamour speaks.

ERE she was wont to go! and here! and here!

HE

Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:
The world may find the spring by following her,
For other print her airy steps ne'er left.
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!
But like the soft west wind she shot along,

And where she went, the flowers took thickest root,
As she had sow'd them with her odorous foot.

XCVI. ÆGLAMOUR'S LAMENT.

From The Sad Shepherd, Act i. Sc. 2.

T will be rare, rare, rare!

An exquisite revenge! but peace, no words! Not for the fairest fleece of all the flock:

If it be known afore, 't is all worth nothing!
I'll carve it on the trees, and in the turf,
On every green sward, and in every path,
Just to the margin of the cruel Trent.
There will I knock the story in the ground
In smooth great pebble, and moss fill it round,
Till the whole country read how she was drown'd;
And with the plenty of salt tears there shed
Quite alter the complexion of the spring.
Or I will get some old, old grandam thither,
Whose rigid foot but dipp'd into the water
Shall strike that sharp and sudden cold throughout,
As it shall lose all virtue; and those nymphs,
Those treacherous nymphs pull'd in Earine,
Shall stand curl'd up like images of ice,

And never thaw! mark, never! a sharp justice!
Or stay, a better! when the year's at hottest,
And that the dog-star foams, and the stream boils,
And curls, and works, and swells ready to sparkle,
To fling a fellow with a fever in,

To set it all on fire till it burn

Blue as Scamander, 'fore the walls of Troy,
When Vulcan leap'd into him to destroy him.
Robin. A deep hurt fantasy!

Æg. Do you not approve it?

Rob. Yes, gentle Æglamour, we all approve, And come to gratulate your just revenge: Which, since it is so perfect, we now hope You'll leave all care thereof, and mix with us,

In all the proffer'd solace of the spring.

Eg. A spring, now she is dead! of what? of thorns, Briars and brambles? thistles, burs and docks? Cold hemlock, yew? the mandrake, or the box? These may grow still; but what can spring beside? Did not the whole earth sicken when she died?

As if there since did fall one drop of dew
But what was wept for her! or any stalk
Did bear a flower, or any branch a bloom,
After her wreath was made! In faith, in faith,
You do not fair to put these things upon me,
Which can in no sort be: Earine,

Who had her very being and her name,1
With the first knots or buddings of the spring,
Born with the primrose, or the violet,
Or earliest roses blown; when Cupid smiled,
And Venus led the Graces out to dance,
And all the flowers and sweets in Nature's lap
Leap'd out and made their solemn conjuration,
To last but while she lived! Do not I know
How the vale wither'd the same day? how Dove,
Dean, Eye, and Erwash, Idel, Snite, and Soare,
Each broke his urn and twenty waters more,

That swell'd proud Trent, shrunk themselves dry? that since No sun or moon or other cheerful star,

Look'd out of heaven, but all the cope was dark,

As it were hung so for her exequies!

And not a voice or sound to ring her knell;

But of that dismal pair, the screeching-owl,

And buzzing hornet! Hark! hark! hark! the foul
Bird! how she flutters with her wicker wings!

Peace! you shall hear her screech.

Clarion. Good Karolin, sing,

Help to divert this fantasy.

Kar. All I can.

Though I am young and cannot tell
Either what death or love is well,
Yet, I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts:

1 her name: Earine is derived from the Greek čap, spring.

And then again, I have been told,
Love wounds with heat, as death with cold;
So that I fear they do but bring
Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin we it call

One thing to be blown up or fall;
Or to our end, like way may have
By flash of lightning, or a wave:
So love's inflamèd shaft or brand
May kill as soon as death's cold hand,
Except love's fires the virtue have
To fright the frost o: of the grave.

Æg. Do you think so? are you in that good heresy, I mean, opinion? if you be, say nothing.

I'll study it as a new philosophy,

But by myself alone: now you shall leave me.
Some of these nymphs here will reward you; this,
This pretty maid, although but with a kiss.
Lived my Earine, you should have twenty:

For every line here, one; I would allow them

From mine own store, the treasure I had in her:
Now I am poor as you.

XCVII. KAROL'S KISS.

From The Sad Shepherd, Act ii. Sc. 2.

Amie speaks.

Karol, Karol! call him back again.

Lionel. Her thoughts do work upon her in her slumber, And may express some part of her disease.

Robin. Observe, and mark, but trouble not her

ease.

Amie. Oh, oh!

Marian. How is it, Amie?

Mellifleur. Wherefore start you?

Amie. O Karol! he is fair and sweet.

Maud. What then?

Are there not flowers as sweet and fair as men?

The lily is fair, and rose is sweet.

Amie. Ay, so!

Let all the roses and the lilies go:

Karol is only fair to me.

Mar. And why?

Amie. Alas, for Karol, Marian, I could die!

Karol, he singeth sweetly too.

Maud. What then?

Are there not birds sing sweeter far than men?

Amie. I grant the linnet, lark, and bull-finch sing,

But best the dear good angel of the spring,

The nightingale.

Maud. Then why, then why, alone, Should his notes please you?

Amie. I not long agone

Took a delight with wanton kids to play,
And sport with little lambs a summer's-day,
And view their frisks: methought it was a sight
Of joy to see my two brave rams to fight!
Now Karol only all delight doth move,
All that is Karol, Karol I approve!
This very morning but I did bestow
-It was a little 'gainst my will I know—
A single kiss upon the silly swain,

And now I wish that very kiss again.

His lip is softer, sweeter than the rose,

His mouth and tongue with dropping honey flows; The relish of it was a pleasing thing.

Maud. Yet, like the bees, it had a little sting.

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