Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat: While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glittering with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef: With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With several dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty1. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer; Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats2, Then to the maids with wheaten hats: To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blithe. Feed, and grow fat; and as ye eat Be mindful that the labouring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat. And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, though they're hang'd up now. And, you must know, your lord's word's true, Feed him ye must, whose food fills you;
And that this pleasure is like rain,
1 frumenty, wheat boiled with milk and raisins. 2 fats, vats.
Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again.
An imitation of Marlowe's poem, No. xxxv.
LIVE, live with me, and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee What sweets the country can afford Shall bless thy bed and bless thy board. The soft, sweet moss shall be thy bed With crawling woodbine overspread; By which the silver-shedding streams Shall gently melt thee into dreams. Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown Made of the fleece's purest down. The tongues of kids shall be thy meat, Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat The paste of filberts for thy bread, With cream of cowslips buttered;
Thy feasting tables shall be hills
With daisies spread and daffodils, Where thou shalt sit, and red-breast by For meat shall give thee melody.
I'll give thee chains and carcanets1 Of primroses and violets.
A bag and bottle thou shalt have, That richly wrought, and this as brave; So that as either shall express The wearer's no mean shepherdess. At shearing-times, and yearly wakes2,
2 wakes, feasts of the Vigilia, or dedication of a church.
When Themilis his pastime makes, There thou shalt be; and be the wit, Nay, more, the feast, and grace of it. On holidays, when virgins meet To dance the heyes1 with nimble feet, Thou shalt come forth, and then appear The queen of roses for that year; And having danced, 'bove all the best, Carry the garland from the rest. In wicker baskets maids shall bring To thee my dearest shepherling, The blushing apple, bashful pear,
And shame-faced plum, all simpering there. Walk in the groves, and thou shalt find The name of Phyllis in the rind Of every straight and smooth-skin tree; Where kissing that, I'll twice kiss thee. To thee a sheep-hook I will send, Be-prank'd with ribbons to this end; This, this alluring hook might be Less for to catch a sheep than me. Thou shalt have possets, wassails fine, Not made of ale, but spicèd wine, To make thy maids and self free mirth, All sitting near the glittering hearth. Thou shalt have ribands, roses, rings, Gloves, garters, stockings, shoes, and strings Of winning colours, that shall move Others to lust, but me to love.
These, nay, and more, thine own shall be
If thou wilt love, and live with me.
1 the heyes, or the hay, a country dance.
FOR a kiss or two, confess,
What doth cause this pensiveness,
Thou most lovely neat-herdess?
Who so lonely on the hill?
Why thy pipe by thee so still,
That erewhile was heard so shrill? Tell me, do thy kine now fail To full fill the milking-pail? Say, what is 't that thou dost ail?
None of these; but out, alas! A mischance is come to pass, And I'll tell thee what it was: See, mine eyes are weeping-ripe.
Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.
I have lost my lovely steer,
That to me was far more dear
Than these kine which I milk here:
Broad of forehead, large of eye
Party-colour'd like a pie;
Smooth in each limb as a die;
Clear of hoof, and clear of horn:
Sharply pointed as a thorn,
With a neck by yoke unworn;
From the which hung down by strings,
Balls of cowslips, daisy rings, Interplaced with ribbonings: Faultless every way for shape; Not a straw could him escape; Ever gamesome as an ape, But yet harmless as a sheep. Pardon, Lacon, if I weep;
Tears will spring where woes are deep. Now, ah me! ah me! Last night
Came a mad dog and did bite,
Aye, and kill'd my dear delight.
But I'll be brief.
Hence I must, for time doth call
Me, and my sad playmates all,
To his evening funeral.
Live long, Lacon, so adieu!
Mournful maid, farewell to you;
Earth afford ye flowers to strew.
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