vain,

hat once fea-beat will to fea again :
o loytring live you little heard-grooms,
eeping your beafts in the budded brooms;
nd when the fhining fun laugheth once,
ou deemen the fpring is come at once:
ho gin you, fond Flies! the cold to scorn,
nd, crowing in pipes made of green corn,
ou thinken to be lords of the year;

ut eft when ye count you freed from fear,
omes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,
all of wrinkles and frosty furrows,

rerily fhooting his stormy dart,

'hich cruddles the blood and pricks the heart:
hen is your carelefs courage accoyd,
our careful herds with cold be annoyed:
hen pay you the price of your furquedry,
'ith weeping, and wailing, and mifery,

CUD. Ah! foolish old Man! I fcorn thy fkill, hat wouldst me my fpringing youth to fpill; deem thy brain emperished be

hrough rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;
Or liker thy head very totty is,

o on thy corb fhoulder it leans amifs.
low thy felf hath loft both lop and top,
As my budding branch thou wouldeft crop,
at were thy years green, as now been mine,
o other delights they would encline:
ho wouldeft thou learn to carol of love,
and hery with hymns thy laffes glove;
ho wouldeft thou pipe of Phillis' praise,
ut Phillis is mine for many days;
wone her with a girdle of gelt,
mboft with bugle about the belt:

ach an one fhepherds would make full fain ;
ach an one would make thee young again..
THE. Thou art a foD, of thy love to boft;
ll that is lent to love will be loft.

CUD. Seeft how brag yond bullock bears, • fmirk, fo fmooth, his pricked ears? lis horns been as brade as rainbow bent, His dewlap as lythe as lafs of Kent; ee how he venteth into the wind, Veenest of love is not his mind? eemeth thy flock thy counsel can, jo luftlefs been they, fo weak, fo wan; Cloathed with cold, and hoary with froft, Thy flock's father his courage hath loft. Thy ewes, that wont to have blown blags, Like wailful widdows hangen their crags; 1 he rather lambs been starved with cold, All for their mafter is luftlefs and old.

THE. Cuddy, I wot thou kenft little good, So vainly to advance thy headless hood; For youth is a bubble blown up with breath, Whofe wit is weakness, whofe wage is death, Whole way is wilderness, whofe inn penaunce, And ftoop gallant age, the hoft of grievaunce. But fhall I tell thee a tale of truth, Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth, Keeping his fheep on the hills of Kent? CUD. To naught more, Thenot, my mind is bent

They been fo well thewed, and so wife, What ever that good old man bespake.

THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,

And fome of love, and fome of chivalry,

But none fitter than this to apply.

Now liften a while and hearken the end.

There grew an aged tree on the green,
A goodly Oak fometime had it been,
With arms full ftrong and largely difplay'd,
But of their leaves they were difaray'd:
The body big and mightily pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;
Whilom had been the king of the field,
And mochel maft to the husband did yield,
And with his nuts larded many fwine,
But now the gray mofs marred his rine,
His bared boughs were beaten with ftorms,
His top was bald, and wasted with worms,
His honour decay'd, his braunches fere.

Hard by his fide grew a bragging Breere,
Which proudly thruft into th' element,
And feemed to threat the firmament:
It was embellifht with bloffoms fair,
And thereto aye wonted to repair
The fhepherd's daughters to gather flowres,
To paint their garlands with his colowres,
And in his fmall bushes ufed to fhroud,
The fweet nightingale finging fo loud,
Which made this foolish Breere wex fo bold?
That on a time he caft him to scold,
And fneb the good Oak, for he was old.

Why ftand's there (quoth he) thou brutish
block?

Nor for fruit nor for fhadow ferves thy ftock;
Seeft how fresh my flowres been spread,
Died in lilly white and crimfon red,
With leaves engrained in lufty green,
Colours met to cloath a maiden queen?
Thy wafte bignefs but cumbers the ground,
And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:
The mouldy mofs, which thee accloyeth,
My cinamon fmell too much annoyeth :
Wherefore foon 1 rede thee hence remove,
Left thou the price of my displeasure prove.
So fpake this bold Breere with great difdain,
Little him anfwer'd the Oak again,
But yielded, with fhame and grief adaw'd,
That of a weed he was over-craw'd.

It chaunced after upon a day,
The hufband-man's felf to come that way,
Of custom to furview his ground,
And his trees of ftate in compass round:
Him when the spightful Breere had espyed,
Caufclefs complained, and loudly cryed
Unto his lord ftirring up ftern ftrife:

O my liege Lord: the god of my life,
Pleafeth you pond your fuppliant's plaint,
Caufed of wrong and cruell constraint,
Which I your poor vaffal daily endure;
And but your goodness the fame recure,
Am like for defperate dole to die,
Through feloncus force of mine enemy.

Greatly aghaft with this pitcous plea,
Him refted the good man on the lea,
And bad the Breere in his plaint proceed.
With painted words tho gan this proud weed
(As moft ufen ambitious folk)

His colour'd crime with craft to cloke.

Ah, my Sovereign! lord of creatures all, Thou placer of plants both humble and tall, Was not I planted of thine own hand, To be the primrose of all thy land, With flowring blossoms to furnish the prime, And scarlet berrics in fommer-time? How falls it then that this faded Oak, Whose body is fere, whofe branches broke, Whose naked arms ftretch unto the fire, Unto fuch tyranny doth aspire, Hindring with his fhade my lovely light, And robbing me of the fweet fun's fight? So beat his old boughs my tender side, That oft the bloud fpringeth from woundes wide; Untimely my flowers forced to fall, That been the honour of your coronal; And oft he lets his canker-worms light Upon my branches, to work me more fpight; And oft his hoary locks down doth caft, Wherewith my fresh flowrets been defast: For this, and many more fuch outrage, Craving your godlyhead to affuage The rancorous rigour of his might; Nought afk I, but onely to hold my right, Submitting me to your good fufferaunce, And praying to be garded from grievaunce, To this this Oak caft him to reply Well as he couth; but his enemy Had kindled fuch coles of difpleasure, That the good man nould stay his leasure, But home him hafted with furious heat, Encreafing his wrath with many a threat; His harmful hatchet he hent in hand, (Alas! that it fo ready should stand!) And to the field alone he fpeedeth, (Aye little help to harm there needeth) Anger nould let him speak to the tree, Enaunter his rage mought cooled be, But to the root bent his sturdy ftroak, And made many wounds in the waste Oak. The axe's edge did oft turn again, As half unwilling to cut the grain, Seemed the fenfelefs iron did fear, Or to wrong holy eld did forbear; For it had been an antient tree, Sacred with many a mystery,

And often croft with the priests' crew,
And often hallowed with holy-water dew;
But like fancies weren foolery,

And broughten this Oak to this mifery;
For nought mought they quitten him from decay,
For fiercely the good man at him did lay.
The block oft groaned under his blow,
And fighed to fee his near overthrow.
In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,
Tho down to the ground he fell forthwith.
His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,
Th' earth fhrunk under him, and feem'd to fhate:
There licth the Oak pitied of none.

Now ftands the Breere like a lord alone,
Puff'd up with pride and vain pleafance;
But all this glee had no continuance :
For eftfoons winter 'gan to approach,
The bluftering Borcas did encroach,
And beat upon the folitary Breere,
For now no fuccour was feen him neere.
Now 'gan he repent his pride too late,
For naked left and difconfolate,
The biting froft nipt his stalk dead,
The watry wet weighed down his head,
And heaped fnow burdned him so fore,
That now upright he can stand no more;
And being down is trod in the durt
Of cattel, and brouzed, and forely hurt.
Such was th' end of this ambitious Breere,
For fcorning eld"

CUD. Now I pray thee shepherd, tell it se
forth:

Here is a long tale and little worth.
So long have I liftened to thy speech,
That graffed to the ground is my breech;
My heart-blood is well nigh frozen I feel,
And my galage grown fast to my heel;
But little cafe of thy leud tale I tasted;
Hie thee home, Shepherd, the day is nigh wake

THENOT'S EMBLEM.

Iddio, perche é vecchio, Fa fuoi al fuo effempie.

CUDDY'S EMBLEM.

Niuno vecchio, Spaventa iddia.

The Argument.

WILLY.

THOMALIN, why fitten we so,

As weren overwent with woe,

Upon fo fair a morrow?

The joyous time now nigheth fast,
That thall alegg this bitter blaft,
And flake the winter forrow.

THO. Siker, Willy, thou warneft well,

For winter's wrath begins to quell,

And pleasant spring appeareth;
The grafs now 'gins to be refresht,
The fwallow peeps out of her neft,
And cloudy welkin cleareth.

WIL. Seeft not thilk fame hawthorn ftud, How bragly it begins to bud

And utter his tender head?

Flora now calleth forth each flower,
And bids make ready Maia's bower,
That new is uprift from bed:
Tho fhall we fporten in delight,
And learn with Lettice to wex light,
VOL. II.

That fcornfully looks askaunce;
Tho will we little love awake,
That now fleepeth in Lethe lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.

Tuo. Willy, I ween thou be a fot,
For lufty Love still fleepeth not,
But is abroad at his game.

WIL. How kenft thou that he is awoke?

Or haft thy felf his flumber broke?

Or made privy to the fame ?

THO. No; but happily I him spide, Where in a bush he did him hide, With wings of purple and blue;

And were not that my fheep would stray, The privy marks I would bewray, Whereby by chaunce I him knew.

WIL. Thomalin, have no care for-thy, My felf will have a double eye, Ylike to my flock and thine; For, alas! at home I have a fire, A ftepdame eke, as hot as fire, That duly adays counts mine. FI

THO. Nay but thy feeing will not ferve, My fheep for that may chaunce to swerve, And fall into fome mischief:

For fithens is but the third morrow
That I chaunft to fall asleep with forrow,
And waked again with grief;
The while thilk fame unhappy owe,
Whofe clouted leg her hurt doth shew,
Fell headlong into a dell,

And there unjointed both her bones:
Mought her neck been jointed attones,
She fhould have need no more spell;
Th' elf was fo wanton and fo wood,
(But now I trow can better good)
She mought ne gang on the green,

WIL. Let be as may be that is past;
That is to come let be forecast:
Now tell us what thou hast seen.

Tuo. It was upon a holy-day,

When fhepherds grooms han leave to play,
I caft to go a shooting;

Long wandring up and down the land,
With bow and bolts in either hand,
For birds in bushes tooting,
At length within the ivy tod,
(There shrouded was the little god)
I heard a bufie bustling;

I bent my bolt against the bufh,
Liftning if any thing did rush,
But then heard no more rustling.
Tho peeping close into the thick,
Might fee the moving of fome quick,
Whofe fhape appeared not;
But were it fairy, field, or fnake,
My courage earn'd it to awake,
And manfully thereat shot:
With that sprang forth a naked swain,
With fpotted wings like peacock's train,
And laughing lope to a tree;
His gilden quiver at his back,

And filver bow, which was but flack,
Which lightly he bent at ine:
That feeing I level'd again,

And thot at him with might and main,

As thick as it had hailed.

So long I fhot, that all was spent,
Tho pumy stones I hastily hent,
And threw, but nought availed:
He was fo wimble and fo wight,
From bough to bough he leaped light,
And oft the pumies latched:
Therewith afraid I ran away,
But he that earst seem'd but to play,
A fhaft in earnest snatched,
And hit me running in the heel;
For then I little smart did feel,
But foon it fore increased;
And now it rankleth more and more,
And inwardly it feftreth fore,
Ne wote I how to cease it.

WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight, Perdy with Love thou diddest fight, I know him by a token:

For once I heard my father fay
How he him caught upon a day,
(Whereof he will be wroken)
Entangled in a fowling net
Which he for carrion-crows had fet
That in our pear-tree haunted!
Tho faid he was a winged lad,
But bow and shafts as then none had,
Elfe had he fore be daunted.
But fee, the welkin thicks apace,
And ftooping Phoebus fteeps his face;
It's time to hafte us homeward,

WILLY'S EMBLEM.

To be wife and eke to love,
Is graunted fearce to gods above,

THOMALIN'S EMBLEM.

Of honey and of gall in love there is fiøre; The honey is much, but the gall is more,