The Affectionate Shepherd Part 4

I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle; Then stay thy hand, O cruell bowman, hold!

For if thou strik'st me with thy dart of gold, I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse, I have more in my hart than in my purse.

The more I weepe, the more he bends his brow, For in my hart a golden shaft I finde.

Cruell, unkinde, and wilt thou leave me so?

Can no remorce nor pittie move thy minde?

Is mercie in the heavens so hard to finde?

Oh, then it is no mervaile that on earth Of kinde remorce there is so great a dearth.

How happie were a harmles shepheards life, If he had never knowen what love did meane; But now fond Love in every place is rife, Staining the purest soule with spots uncleane, Making thicke purses thin, fat bodies leane.

Love is a fiend, a fire, a heaven, a h.e.l.l, Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell!

There are so manie Danaes now a dayes, That love for lucre, paine for gaine is sold; No true affection can their fancie please, Except it be a Jove, to raine downe gold Into their laps, which they wyde open hold: If _legem pone_ comes, he is receav'd, When _Vix haud habeo_ is of hope bereav'd.

Thus have I showed, in my countrey vaine, The sweet content that shepheards still injoy; The mickle pleasure and the little paine That ever doth awayte the shepheards boy: His hart is never troubled with annoy; He is a king, for he commands his sheepe; He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.

He is a courtier, for he courts his love; He is a scholler, for he sings sweet ditties; He is a souldier, for he wounds doth prove; He is the fame of townes, the shame of citties: He scornes false fortune, but true vertue pitties.

He is a gentleman, because his nature Is kinde and affable to everie creature.

Who would not then a simple shepheard bee, Rather than be a mightie monarch made?

Since he injoyes such perfect libertie As never can decay, nor never fade: He seldome sits in dolefull cypresse shade, But lives in hope, in joy, in peace, in blisse, Joying all joy with this content of his.

But now good fortune lands my little boate Upon the sh.o.a.re of his desired rest: Now must I leave awhile my rurall noate, To thinke on him whom my soule loveth best; He that can make the most unhappie blest; In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe, And never wake till marble stones shall weepe.

FINIS.

SONNET.

Loe here behold these tributarie teares Paid to thy faire but cruell tyrant eyes; Loe here the blossome of my youthfull yeares, Nipt with the fresh of thy wraths winter, dyes!

Here on Loves altar I doo offer up This burning hart for my soules sacrifice; Here I receave this deadly-poysned cu[p]

Of Circe charm'd, wherein deepe magicke lyes.

Then teares, if you be happie teares indeed, And hart, if thou be lodged in his brest, And cup, if thou canst helpe despaire with speed, Teares, hart, and cup, conjoine to make me blest!

Teares move, hart win, cup cause, ruth, love, desire, In word, in deed; by moane, by zeale, by fire.

FINIS.

THE COMPLAINT OF CHASt.i.tIE, BRIEFELY TOUCHING THE CAUSE OF THE DEATH OF MATILDA FITZWALTERS, AN ENGLISH LADIE, SOMETIME LOVED OF KING JOHN, AFTER POYSONED. THE STORIE IS AT LARGE WRITTEN BY MICHAEL DREYTON.

You modest dames, inricht with chast.i.tie, Maske your bright eyes with Vestaes sable vaile, Since few are left so faire or chast as shee, Matter for me to weepe, you to bewaile!

For manie seeming so, of Vertue faile, Whose lovely cheeks, with rare vermilion tainted, Can never blush, because their faire is painted.

O faire-foule tincture, staine of woman kinde, Mother of Mischiefe, daughter of Deceate, False traitor to the soule, blot to the minde, Usurping tyrant of true beauties seate!

Right cousner of the eye, lewd follies baite, The flag of filthines, the sinke of shame, The divells dye, dishonour of thy name!

Monster of art, b.a.s.t.a.r.d of bad desier, Il-worshipt idoll, false imagerie!

Ensigne of vice, to thine owne selfe a lier, Silent inchaunter, mindes anatomie, Sly bawd to l.u.s.t, pandor to infamie, Slaunder of Truth, truth of dissimulation, Staining our clymate more than anie nation!

What shall I say to thee, thou scorne of Nature, Blacke spot of sinne, vylde lure of lecherie, Injurious blame to everie faemale creature, Wronger of time, broker of trecherie, Trap of greene youth, false womens witcherie, Handmaid of pride, highway to wickednesse, Yet pathway to repentance nere the lesse?

Thou dost entice the minde to dooing evill, Thou setst dissention twixt the man and wife; A saint in show, and yet indeed a devill, Thou art the cause of everie common strife; Thou art the life of Death, the death of Life!

Thou doost betray thyselfe to infamie, When thou art once discerned by the eye.

Ah, little knew Matilda of thy being, Those times were pure from all impure complection; Then Love came of Desert, Desert of seeing, Then Vertue was the mother of Affection, But Beautie now is under no subjection; Then women were the same that men did deeme, But now they are the same they doo not seeme.

What faemale now intreated of a king With gold and jewels, pearles and precious stones, Would willingly refuse so sweete a thing, Onely for a little show of Vertue ones?

Women have kindnes grafted in their bones.

Gold is a deepe-perswading orator, Especially where few the fault abhor.

But yet shee rather deadly poyson chose, Oh cruell bane of most accursed clime!

Than staine that milk-white mayden virgin rose, Which shee had kept unspotted till that time, And not corrupted with this earthly slime.

Her soule shall live, inclosd eternally In that pure shrine of immortality!

This is my doome, and this shall come to pa.s.se, For what are pleasures but still vading joyes?

Fading as flowers, brittle as a gla.s.se, Or potters clay, crost with the least annoyes?

All things in this life are but trifling toyes, But Fame and Vertue never shall decay, For Fame is toomblesse, Vertue lives for aye!

FINIS.