THE UNKNOWN SHEPHERD'S COMPLAINT. My flocks feed not! My ewes breed not! O, frowning FORTUNE! cursèd fickle Dame! More in women than in men remain! In black, mourn I! All fears scorn I! O, cruel speeding, fraughted with gall! With sighs so deep, procures to weep In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound, through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquished men in bloody fight. Clear wells spring not! Sweet birds sing not! All our pleasure known to us poor Swains, Farewell, sweet Love! thy like ne'er was For sweet content! the cause of all my moan. Poor CORIDON must live alone! Other help for him, I see that there is none! As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap, and birds did sing; She, poor bird, as all forlorn, That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain: 'Ah,' thought I, 'thou mourn'st in vain! None takes pity on thy pain ! Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee! All thy friends are lapped in lead! Careless of thy sorrowing! Whilst, as fickle FORTUNE smiled, Every one that flatters thee, Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind: "If that one be prodigal, "Bountiful!" they will him call; And with suchlike flattering, They have, at commandment! 'He that is thy friend indeed, 'These are certain signs, to know IN PRAISE OF MUSIC AND POETRY. IF Music and sweet Poetry agree, As they must needs, the Sister and the Brother! Then must the love be great 'twixt thee and me, Because thou lov'st the one; and I, the other. DOWLAND to thee is dear! whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; SPENSER, to me! whose deep conceit is such As, passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov'st to hear the sweet melodious sound That PHOEBUS' lute, the Queen of Music, makes! And I, in deep delight am chiefly drowned, When as himself, to singing he betakes! One God is God of both, as Poets feign: One Knight loves both; and both in thee remain! AGAINST THE DISPRAISERS OF POETRY. CHAUCER is dead; and GoWER lies in grave! GEORGE GASCOIGNE, him beforne, was tombed in stone! So that the subject of the same be good, Sith Kings have favoured it, of royal blood. |