Came running with the wind, and bore his head
As he had been the king of forefts bred.
Not fwifter comes the meffenger of heaven,
Or winged veffel, with a full gale driven,
Nor the fwift fwallow flying near the ground,
By which the airs diftemp'rature is found:
Nor Mirrha's courfe, nor Daphne's speedy flight,
Shunning the daliance of the god of light,

Than fcem'd the ftag, that had no fooner crofs'd them,

But in a trice their eyes as quickly loft him.

eyes

Were only given to fhew his miferics,

Attended those; and could not once be won
To leave that object whence his tears begun.
O had that man, who (by a tyrant's hand)
Seeing his children's bodies ftrew the fand,
And he next morn for torment's prefs'd to go,
Yet from his eyes not let one fmall tear flow;
But being afk'd how well he bore their lofs,
Like to a man affliction could not cross,
He floutly answer'd: "Happier fure are they
"Than I fhall be by fpace of one short day :'
No more his grief was. But had he been here,
He had been flint had he not spent a tear.
For ftill that man the perfecter is known,.
Who other's forrows feels more than his own.
Remond and Doridon were turning then
Unto the most difconfolate of men,
But that a gallant dame, fair as the morn,
Or lovely blooms the peach-tree that adorn,
Clad in a changing filk, whofe luftre fhone
Like yellow flow'rs and grafs far off, in one;
Or like the mixture nature doth display
Upon the quaint wings of the popinjay.
Her horn about her neck with filver tip,
Too hard a metal for fo foft a lip:
Which it no oft'ner kift, than Jove did frown,
And in a mortal's fhape would fain come down,
To feed upon thofe dainties, had not he
Been ftill kept back by Juno's jealousy.
And ivory dart fhe held of good command;
White was the bone, but whiter was her hand;
Of many pieces was it neatly fram'd

But more the hearts were that her eyes inflam'd.
Upon her head a green light filken cap,
A piece of white lawn fhadow'd either pap,
Between which hillocks many Cupid's lay,
Where with her neck or with her teats they play,
Whilft her quick heart will not with them dif-
penfe,

But heaves her breafts as it would beat them thence,

Phiton.

To pluck a little bough (to fan her face)
From off a thick leav'd afh: (no tree did grace
The low grove as did this, the branches spread,
Like Neptune's trident, upwards from the head.)
No fooner did the grieved fhepherd fee [tree,
The nymph's white hand extended tow'rds the
But rofe and to her ran, yet she had done
E'er he came near, and to the wood was gone;
Yet now approach'd the bough the huntress tore,
He fuck'd it with his mouth, and kift it o'er
A hundred times, and foftly gan it bind
With dock leaves, and a flip of willow rind.
Then round the trunk he wreathes his weak'ned

arms,

And with his fcalding tears the fmooth bark warms,
Sighing and groaning, that the fhepherds by
Forgot to help him, and lay down to cry :
"For 'tis impoffible a man fhould be
"Griev'd to himself or fail of company."
Much the two fwains admir'd, but pity'd more
That he no pow'r of words had to deplore,
Or thew what fad misfortune 'twas befel
To him whom nature (feem'd) regarded well.
As thus they lay; and while the speechless
fwain

His tears and fighs spent to the woods in vain,
One like a wild man overgrown with hair,
His nails long grown, and all his body bare,
Save that a wreath of ivy twift did hide
Thofe parts which nature would not have discry'd,
And the long hair that curled from his head,
A graffy garland rudely covered.

But, thepherds, I have wrong'd you, 'tis now late, For fee our maid ftands hollow ing on yon gate, 'Tis fupper time, with all, and we had need Make hafte away, unless we mean to speed With thofe that kifs the hare's foot: Rheums are bred,

Some fay, by going fupperlefs to bed,
And thofe I love not; therefore ceate my rhyme,
And put my pipes up till another time.

tipheus.

ALAS! that I have done fo great a wrong
Unto the fairest maiden of my song,
Divine Marina, who in Limos' cave
Lies ever fearful of a living grave,
And night and day upon the harden'd stones
Refts, if a reft can be amongst the moans
Of dying wretches; where each minute all
Stand ftill afraid to hear their death's-man call.
Thrice had the golden fun his hot steeds wafh'd
In the weft main, and thrice them fmartly lash'd
Out of his balmy eaft, fince the sweet maid
Had in that difmal cave been fadly laid.
Where hunger pinch'd her fo, fhe need not stand
In fear of murd'ring by a fecond hand :
For through her tender fides fuch darts might pass,
'Gainft which strong walls of stone, thick gates of
brafs

Deny no entrance, nor the camps of kings,

Since fooneft there they bend their flaggy wings.
But heaven, that stands still for the beft's avail,
Lendeth his hand when human helpings fail;
For 'twere impoffible that fuch as the
Should be forgotten of the deity;
Since in the fpacious orb could no man find
A fairer face match'd with a fairer mind.

A little robin-redbreast, one clear morn,
Sat fweetly finging on a well-leav'd thorn:
Whereat Marina rose, and did admire
He durft approach from whence all else retire:
And pitying the fweet bird, what in her lay
She fully trove to fright him thence away.

Poor harmless wretch (quoth fhe) go feek fume fpring,

And to her sweet fall with thy fellows fing;
Fly to the well-replenish'd groves, and there
Do entertain each fwain's harmonious ear;
Traverse the winding branches; chant fo free,
That every lover fall in love with thee;
And if thou chance to fee that lovely boy
(To look on whom the filvans count a joy),
He whom I lov'd no fooner than I loft,
Whofe body all the graces hath engroft,
To him untold (if that thou dar'ft to be
So near a neighbour to my tragedy),
As far as can thy voice (in plaints fo fad,
And in so many mournful accents clad,
That, as thou fing'ft upon a tree thereby,
He may fome small time weep, yet know not why),
How I in death was his, though pow'rs divine
Will not permit that he in life be mine.
Do this, thou loving bird; and haste away
Into the woods: But if fo be thou ftay
To do a deed of charity on me

When my poor foul fhall leave mortality,
By cov'ring this poor body with a fheet
Of green leaves, gather'd from a valley sweet;
It is in vain: thefe harmless limbs must have
Than in the caitif's womb, no other grave.
Hence then sweet robin; left in ftaying long
At once thou chance forego both life and fong.
With this the hufh'd him thence, he fung no more,
But ('fraid the fecond time) flew tow'rds the fhore.

Within as short time as the swiftest swain Can to our may-pole run and come again, The little redbreaft to the prickled thorn Return'd, and fung there as he had beforne. And fair Marina to the loop-hole went, Pitying the pretty bird, whofe punishment Limos would not defer if he were spy'd. No fooner had the bird the maiden ey'd, But leaping on the rock, down from a bough He takes a cherry up (which he but now Had thither brought, and in that place had laid, Till to the cleft his fong had drawn the maid), And flying with the small em in his bill (A choicer fruit, than hangs on Bacchus' * hill), In fair Marina's bofom took his reft, A heavenly feat fit for fo fweet a guest: Where Citherea's doves might billing fit, And gods and men with envy look on it;

Where rofe two mountains, whofe rare sweets to crop,

Was harder than to reach Olympus' top:
For thofe the gods can; but to climb thefe hills,
Their pow'rs no other were than mortal wills.
Here left the bird the cherry, and anon
For fook her bofom, and for more is gone,
Making fuch speedy flights into the thick,
That the admir'd he went and came fo quick.
Then, left his many cherries fhould distaste,
Some other fruit he brings than he brought last.
Sometime of ftrawberries a little stem,

1

Oft changing colours as he gath'red them : [fus'd,
Some green, fome white, fome red on them in-
Thefe lov'd, thofe fear'd, they blufh'd to be fo us'd.
The peafcod green, oft with no little toil,
He'd feek for in the fatteft fertil'ft foil,
And rend it from the flalk to bring it to her,
And in her bofom for acceptance woo her.
No berry in the grove or foreft grew,
That fit for nourishment the kind bird knew,
Nor any pow's full herb in open field,
To ferve her brood the teeming earth did yield,
But with his utmeft industry he fought it,
And to the cave for chafte Marina brought it.
So from one well-ftor'd garden to another,
To gather fimples runs a careful mother,
Whofe only child lies on the fhaking bed
Grip'd with a fever (fometime honoured
In Rome as if a † god), nor is the bent
To other herbs than thofe for which she went.
The feather'd hours five times were overtold,
And twice as many floods and ebbs had roll'd
The small fands out and in, fince fair Marine
(For whofe long lofs a hundred fhepherds pine),
Was by the charitable robin fed:

For whom (had the not fo been nourished),
A hundred doves would search the fun-burnt hills,
Or fruitful vallies lac'd with filver rills,
To bring her olives. Th' eagle, ftrong of fight,
To countries far remote would bend her flight,
And with unwearied wing ftrip through the fky
To the choice plots of Gaul and Italy,

• Citharon in Boetia.

And never lin till homeward the escape
With the pomegranate, lemon, orange, grape,
Or the lov'd citron, and attain'd the cave.
The well-plum'd gofhawk (by th' Egyptians grave
Us'd in miftick characters for speed),
Would not be wanting at fo great a need,
But from the well-ftor'd orchards of the land
Brought the fweet pear (once by a curfed hand
At Swinfted us'd with poifon, for the fall
Of one who on thefe plains rul'd lord of all).
The fcentful ofprey by the rock had fish'd,
And many a pretty fhrimp in fcallops difh'd
Some way convey'd her; no one of the foal
That haunt the waves, but from his lurking hole
Had pull'd the cray-fish, and with much ado
Brought that the maid, and perrywinkles too.
But thefe for others might their labours fpare,
And not with robin for their merit fhare.

Yet as a herdefs in a fummer's day,
Heat with the glorious fun's all-purging ray,
In the calm evening (leaving her fair flock),
Betakes herself unto a froth-girt rock,
On which the headlong Tavy throws his waves,
(And foams to fee the ftones neglect his braves.)
Where fitting to undo her bufkins white,
And wash her neat legs (as her use each night),
Th' enamour'd flood before the can unlance them,
Rolls up his waves as haft'ning to embrace them;"
And though to help them some small gale do blow,
And one of twenty can but reach her fo,
Yet will a many little furges be

Flashing upon the rock full bufily,
And do the beft they can to kifs her feet,
But that their power and will, not equal meet:
So as the for her nurfe look'd tow'rds the land,
(And now beholds the trees that grace the strand,
Then looks upon a hill whofe fliding fides
A goodly flock, like winter's cov'ring hides,
And higher on fome fìone that jutteth out,
Their careful mafter guiding his trim rout
By fending forth his dog (as thepherds do),
Or piping fat, or clouting of his fhoe.
Whence, nearer hand drawing her wand'ring fight,
(So from the earth fteals the all-quick'ning light),
Beneath the rock, the waters, high, but late
(I know not by what fluice or emptying gate),
Where at a low ebb; on the fand the fpics
A bufy bird that to and fro ftill flies,
Till pitching where a hateful oyster lay,
Opening his clofe jaws (clofer none than they
Unless the griping fift, or cherry lips
Of happy lovers in their melting fips.)
Since the decreafing waves had left him there
He gapes for thirst, yet meets with nought but air,
And that fo hot; e'er the returning tide,
He in his fhell is likely to be fry'd;
The wary bird a pretty pebble takes,
And claps it 'twixt the two pearl hiding flakes

One writes that King John was poifon'd at Swinfed, with a dife of pears; others there, in a cup of wine; fome that be died at Newark of the flux; a

an ague. Among fo many doubts, I leave you to believe the author moft in credit with our bef of antiquaries.

Of the broad yawning oyfter, and the then
Securely picks the fifh out (as fome men
A trick of policy thruft, 'tween two friends,
Sever their pow'rs, and his intention ends)
The bird thus getting that for which the firove,
Brought it to her, to whom the queen of love
Serv'd as a foil, and Cupid could no other,
But flie to her mistaken for his mother.
Marina from the kind bird took the neat,
And (looking down) the faw a number great
Of birds, each one a pebble in his bill,

Would do the like, but that they wanted fkill:
Some threw it in teo far, and fome too fhort;
This could not bear a stone fi: for such sport,
But harmlefs wretch putting in one too small,
The oyster fhuts and takes his head withall.
Another bringing one too smooth and round,
(Unhappy bird that thine own death haft found)
Lays it fo little way in his hard lips,

That with their fudden clofe, the pebble flips
So ftrongly forth (as when your little ones
Do 'twixt their fingers flip their cherry stones)
That it in paffage meets the breast or head
Of the poor wretch, and lays him there for dead.
A many striv'd, and gladly would have done
As much or more than he which first begun,
But all in vain, fcarce one of twenty could
Perform the deed, which they full gladly would.
For this not quick is to that act he goth,
That wanteth fkill, this cunning, and fome both :
Yet none a will, for (from the cave) fhe fees
Not in all-lovely May th' induftrious bees
More busy with the flow'rs could be, then thefe
Among the fhell-fifh of the working feas.

Limos had all this while been wanting thence,
And but jutt heav'n preferv'd pure innocence
By the two birds, her life to air had flit
Ere the curft caitif fhould have forced it.

The first night that he left her in h ́s den Не got to fhore, and near th' abodes of men That live as we by tending of their flocks, To interchange for Ceres' golden locks, Or with the neat-herd for his milk and cream: Things we refpect more than the diadem His choice-made difhes; O the golden age Met all contentment in no furplufage Of dainty viands, but (as we do ftill) Drank the pure water of the crystal rill, Fed on no other meats than those they fed, Labour, the fallad that their flomachs bred, Nor fought they for the down of filver fwans, Nor thofe fow thiftle locks each small gale fans, But hides of beafts which when they liv'd they kept,

Serv'd them for bed and cov'ring when they flept. If any fofter lay, 'twas (by the lofs

Of fome rock's warmth) on thick and fpongy

mofs,

Or on the ground: fome fimple wall of clay
Parting their beds from where their cattle lay.
And on fuch palates one man clipped then
More golden flumbers than this age again.
That time phyficians triv'd not or if any,
I dare fay, all yet then were thrice as many
As now profef'd, and more; for every man

Was his own patient and phyfician.
None had a body then fo weak and thin,
Bankrupt of nature's flore, to feed the fin
Of an infatiate female, in whose womb
Could nature all hers paft, and all to come
Infufe, with virtue of all drugs befide,

She might be try'd, but never satisfy'd.
To pleafe which orke her husband's weaken'd peace
Must have his cullis mix'd with ambergrease,
Pheasant and partridge into jelly turn'd,
Grated with gold, feven times refin'd and burn'3,
With duft of orient pearl, richer the east
Yet ne'er beheld: (O Epicurean feast!)
This is his breakfaft; and his meal at night
Poffets no lefs provoking appetite,
Whole dear ingredients valu'd are at more
Than all his ancestors were worth before.
When fuch as we, by poor and fimple fare,
More able liv'd and dy'd not without heir,
Sprung from our own loins, and a spotlefs bed
Of any other pow'r unfeconded:
When th' other's ffue like a man fall'n fick,
Or through the fever, gout, or lunatic,
Changing his doctors oft, cach as his notion
Preferibes a fev'ral diet, fev'ral potion,
Meeting his friend (who meet we now-a-days
That hath not fome receipt for each disease?)
He tells him of a plaifter, which he takes;
And finding after that, his torment flakes,
(Whether because the humour is outwrought,
Or by the skill which his phyfician brought,
It makes no matter :) for he furely thinks
None of their purges, nor their diet drinks
Have made him found; but his belief is faft
That med'cine was his health which he took lafti
So (by a mother) being taught to call
One for his father, though a fon to all.
His mother's often 'fcapes, (though truly known)
Cannot divert him; but will ever own

For his begetter, him, whofe name and rents
He must inherit Such are the defcents
Of thefe men; to make up whofe limber heir
As many as in him, must have a fhate;
When he that keeps the laft yet least ado,
Fathers the peoples child, and gladly too.

Happier thofe times were, when the flaxen clue
By fair Arachne's hand the Lydians knew,
And fought not to the worm for filken threads,
To roll their bodies in, or drefs their heads.
When wife Minerva did th' Athenians learn
To draw their milk-white fleeces into yarn;
And knowing not the mixtures which began
(Of colours) from the Babylonian,

Nor wool in Sardis dy'd, more various known
By hues, than Iris to the world hath fhewn :
The bowels of our mother were not ript
For mader-pits, nor the fweet meadows ftript
Of their choice beauties, nor for Ceres' load
The fertile lands burden'd with needlefs wood.
Through the wide feas no winged pine did go
To lands unknown for ftaining indigo;
Nor men in fcorching climates meor'd their keel
To traffick for the coftly cochineal.
Unknown was then the Phrygian broidery,
The Iyrian purple, and the fearlet dye,

Such as their fheep clad, fuch they wove and wore
kuffet or white, or thofe mix'd, and no more:
Except fometimes to bravery inclin'd)
Then dy'd them yellow caps with aider rind.
The Grecian mantle, Tufcan robes of state,
Tiffue nor cloth of gold of highest rate,
They never faw; only in pleafant woods,
Or by th' embordered margin of the floods,
The dainty nymphs they often did behold

Clad in their light filk robes, stitch'd oft with gold.

The arras hangings round their comely halls,
Wanted the cerite's web and minerals:

Green boughs of trees with fatt'ning acorns lade, Hung full with flow's and garlands quaintly made,

Their homely cots dec'kd trim in low degree,
As now the court with richest tapiary.

Instead of cushions wrought in windows lay'n,
They pick'd the cockle from their fields of grain,
Sleep-bringing poppy (by the ploughmen late
Not without caufe to Ceres' confecrate)
For being round and ful! at his half birth
fignify'd the perfect orb of earth;
And by his inequalities when blown,

The earth's low vales and higher hills were shown,
By multitude of grains it held within,

Of men and beafts the number noted been;
And she since taking care all earth to please,
Had in her * Thefmophoria offer'd these.
Or cause that feed our elders us'd to cat,
With honey mix'd (and was their after meat)
Or fince her daughter that the lov'd fo well

By him that in th' infernal fhades doth dwell, And on the Stygian banks for ever reigns (Troubled with horrid cries and noife of chains) (Faire Proferpina) was rapt away; And the in plaints, the night; in tears, the day Had long time spent; when no high power could give her

Any redrefs; the poppy did relieve her :
For eating of the feeds they fleep procur'd, "
Ad fo beguil'd thofe griefs the long endur'd.
Or rather lince her love (then happy man)
Micon (yclep'd) the brave Athenian,
Had been transform'd into this gentle flow'r
And his protection kept from Flora's pow'r).
The daily fcatter'd on each mead and down,
A golden tuft within a filver crown

Fair fall that dainty flow'r and may there be
No thepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
The primrofe, when with fix leaves gotten grace
Maids as a true love in their bofoms place;
The fpotlefs lily, by whofe pure leaves be
Noted, the chaite though's of virginity;
Carnations fweet with colour like the fire,
The fir Imprefa's før e:-fiam'd defire;
The harebell for the stainless azur'd hue,

Claims to be worn of none but thofe are true;

The rofe, like ready youth, enticing ftands,
And would be cropt if it might choose the hands;
The yellow kingcup, Flora them affign'd
To be the badges of a jealous mind;

The orange tawny marigold: the night
Hides not her colours from a fearching fight.
To thee then dearest friend (my fongs chief mate)
This colour chiefly I appropriate,

That spite of all the mifts oblivion can
Or envious frettings of a guilty man,

Retain't thy worth; nay, mak'it it more in prize,
Like tennis balls thrown down hard, highest rise.
The columbine in tawny often taken,

Is then afcrib'd to fuch as are forsaken;
Flora's choice buttons of a ruffet dye
Is hope even in the depth of mifery.
The panfy, thiftle, all with prickles fet,
The cowflip, honeyfuckle, violet,

And many hundreds more that grac'd the meads,
Gardens and groves (where beauteous Flora treads)
Were by the thepherds daughters (as yet are
Us'd in our cots) brought home with fpecial

care:

For bruifing them they not alone would quell
But rot the reft, and spoil their pleasing smell.
Much like a lad, who in his tender prime
Sent from his friends to learn the ufe of time,
As are hi, mates, or good or bad, so he
Thrives to the world, and fuch his actions be.

As in the rainbow's many coloured hew
Here fee we watched deepen'd with a blue,
There a dark tawny with a purple mix'd,
Yellow and flame, with itreaks of green betwixt,
A bloody ftream into a blushing run
And ends ftill with the colour which begun,
Drawing the deeper to a lighter stain,
Bringing the lightest to the deep'ft again,
With fuch rare art each mingleth with his fellow,
The blue with watchet, green andred with yellow;
Like to the changes which we daily see
About the dove's neck with variety,
Where none can fay (though he it strict attends)
Here one begins; and there the other ends:
So did the maidens with their various flow'rs
Deck up their windows, and make neat their
bow'rs:

Ufing fuch cunning as they did difpofe
The ruddy piny with the lighter rose,

The monks-hood with the buglofs, and entwine
The white, the blue, the flesh-like columbine
With pinks, fweet-williams; that far off the eye
Could not the manner of their mixtures fpy.

Then with thofe flow'rs they most of all did prize

(With all their fskill and in most curious wife
On tufts of herbs or rufhes) would they frame
A dainty border round the shepherd's name.
Or poefies make, fo quaint, fo apt, so tare,
As if the mufes only lived there :

And that the after world should strive in vain
What they then did to counterfeit again.
Nor will the needle nor the loom e'er be
So perfect in their belt embroidery,
Nor fuch compofures make of filk and gold,
As theirs, when nature all her cunning told.