MARIAN .

Young Colin Clout , a lad of peerless meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed;
In ev'ry wood his carrols sweet were known,
At ev'ry wake his nimble feats were shown.
When in the ring the rustick routs he threw,
The damsels pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger smites the breast of ev'ry maid,
But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain,
The Parson's maid, and neatest of the plain.
Marian , that soft could stroke the udder'd cow,

Hobnelia seated in a dreary Vale,
In pensive Mood rehears'd her piteous Tale,
Her piteous Tale the Winds in Sighs bemoan,
And pining Eccho answers Groan for Groan.

I rue the Day, a rueful Day I trow,
The woful Day, a Day indeed of Woe!
When Lubberkin to Town his Cattle drove,
A Maiden fine bedight he hapt to love;
The Maiden fine bedight his Love retains,
And for the Village he forsakes the Plains.
Return, my Lubberkin, these Ditties hear;
Spells will I try, and Spells shall easy my Care.

Near to the silver Trent
— Sirena dwelleth;
She to whom Nature lent
— All that excelleth;
By which the Muses late
— And the neat Graces
Have for their greater state
— Taken their places,
Twisting an anadem
— Wherewith to crown her,
As it belonged to them
— Most to renown her.
— On thy bank ,
— In a rank ,
— Let thy swans sing her ,
And with their music
— Along let them bring her .

Tagus and Pactolus
— Are to thee debtor,
Nor for their gold to us

Philos of his dog doth brag
For having many feats:
The while the cur undoes his bag,
And all his dinner eats.

JOCKIE

The other day it fell,
Leaving my sheep to graze on yonder plain,
I went to fill my bottle at the well,
And, ere I could return, two lambs were slain.

PHILOS

Then was thy dog ill-taught, or else asleep;
Such curs as those shall never watch my sheep.

thomalin:Where is every piping lad
That the fields are not yclad
With their milk-white sheep?
Tell me: is it holiday,
Or if in the month of May
Use they long to sleep?

piers:Thomalin, 'tis not too late,
For the turtle and her mate
Sitten yet in nest:
And the thrustle hath not been
Gath'ring worms yet on the green,
But attends her rest.
Not a bird hath taught her young,
Nor her morning's lesson sung
In the shady grove:
But the nightingale in dark
Singing woke the mounting lark:
She records her love.

S EE'ST thou not in clearest dayes,
Oft thicke fogs cloud Heav'ns rayes.
And that vapours which doe breathe
From the earths grosse wombe beneath,
Seeme not to us with black steames,
To pollute the Sunnes bright beames,
And yet vanish into ayre,
Leaving it (unblemisht) faire?
So (my Willy ) shall it bee
With Detractions breath on thee.
It shall never rise so hie,
As to staine thy Poesie.
As that Sunne doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten Vale:
Poesie so sometime draines,

philarete:
The Argument
Philaret on Willy cals,
To sing out his Pastorals.
Warrants Fame shall grace his Rimes,
Spight of Envy and the Times;
And shewes how in care he uses,
To take comfort from his Muses.

philarete:Prethee Willy tell me this,
What new accident there is,
That thou (once the blythest Lad)
Art become so wondrous sad?
And so careless of thy quill,
As if thou had'st lost thy skill?
Thou wert wont to charme thy flocks,
And among the massy rocks
Hast so chear'd me with thy song,

1

When you shall see me in the toils of Time,
My lauded beauties carried off from me,
My eyes no longer stars as in their prime,
My name forgot of maiden fair and free;

When, in your being, heart concedes to mind,
And judgement, though you scarce its process know,
Recalls the excellencies I once enshrined,
And you are irked that they have withered so:

Remembering mine the loss is, not the blame,

Natures bright eye-sight, and the Nights faire soule,
That with thy triple forehead dost controule
Earth, seas, and hell: and art in dignitie
The greatest, and swiftest Planet in the skie:
Peacefull, and warlike, and the powre of fate,
In perfect circle of whose sacred state,
The circles of our hopes are compassed:
All wisedome, beautie, maiestie and dread,
Wrought in the speaking pourtrait of thy face:
Great Cynthia, rise out of thy Latmian pallace,
Wash thy bright bodie, in th'Atlanticke streames,

All souls that struggle and aspire,
All hearts of prayer by thee are lit;
And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire
On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.

Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st,
Wide as our need thy favors fall;
The white wings of the Holy Ghost
Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.