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His tunes from laies to matter of more skill.
And there is old Palemon free from spight,
Whose carefull pipe may make the hearer rew:
Yet he himselfe may rewed be more right,
That sung so long untill quite hoarse he grew.
And there is Alabaster throughly taught,

In all this skill, though knowen yet to few:
Yet were he knowne to Cynthia as he ought,
His Eliseïs would be redde anew.

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Who lives that can match that heroick song,
Which he hath of that mightie Princesse made?
O dreaded Dread, do not thy selfe that wrong,
To let thy fame lie so in hidden shade:
But call it forth, O call him forth to thee,
To end thy glorie which he hath begun :
That when he finisht hath as it should be,
No braver Poeme can be under Sun.
Nor Po nor Tyburs swans so much renowned,
Nor all the brood of Greece so highly praised,
Can match that Muse when it with bayes is crowned,
And to the pitch of her perfection raised.

And there is a new shepheard late up sprong,
The which doth all afore him far surpasse :
Appearing well in that well tuned song,
Which late he sung unto a scornfull lasse.
Yet doth his trembling Muse but lowly flie,
As daring not too rashly mount on hight,
And doth her tender plumes as yet but trie,
In loves soft laies and looser thoughts delight.
Then rouze thy feathers quickly Daniell,

And to what course thou please thy selfe advance :
But most me seemes, thy accent will excell,
In Tragick plaints and passionate mischance.
And there that shepheard of the Ocean is,
That spends his wit in loves consuming smart :

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Full sweetly tempred is that Muse of his
That can empierce a Princes mightie hart.
There also is (ah no, he is not now)
But since I said he is, he quite is gone,
Amyntas quite is gone and lies full low,
Having his Amaryllis left to mone.
Helpe, O ye shepheards helpe ye all in this,
Helpe Amaryllis this her losse to mourne:
Her losse is yours, your losse Amyntas is,
Amyntas floure of shepheards pride forlorne :
He whilest he lived was the noblest swaine,
That ever piped in an oaten quill:
Both did he other, which could pipe, maintaine,
And eke could pipe himselfe with passing skill.
And there though last not least is Aetion,
A gentler shepheard may no where be found:
Whose Muse full of high thoughts invention,
Doth like himselfe Heroically sound.

All these, and many others mo remaine,
Now after Astrofell is dead and gone:
But while as Astrofell did live and raine,
Amongst all these was none his Paragone.
All these do florish in their sundry kynd,
And do their Cynthia immortall make:
Yet found I lyking in her royall mynd,
Not for my skill, but for that shepheards sake.

The Misery of Court Life

Happie indeed (said Colin) I him hold,

That may that blessed presence still enjoy,

Of fortune and of envy uncomptrold,

Which still are wont most happie states t'annoy:
But I by that which little while I prooved :

Some part of those enormities did see,

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The which in Court continually hooved,
And followd those which happie seemd to bee.
Therefore I silly man, whose former dayes
Had in rude fields bene altogether spent,
Durst not adventure such unknowen wayes,
Nor trust the guile of fortunes blandishment,
But rather chose back to my sheep to tourne,
Whose utmost hardnesse I before had tryde,
Then having learnd repentance late, to mourne
Emongst those wretches which I there descryde.
Shepheard (said Thestylis) it seemes of spight
Thou speakest thus gainst their felicitie,
Which thou enviest, rather then of right
That ought in them blameworthie thou doest spie.
Cause have I none (quoth he) of cancred will
To quite them ill, that me demeand so well :
But selfe-regard of private good or ill,

Moves me of each, so as I found, to tell,

And eke to warne yong shepheards wandring wit,
Which through report of that lives painted blisse,

Abandon quiet home, to seeke for it,

And leave their lambes to losse, misled amisse.
For sooth to say, it is no sort of life,

For shepheard fit to lead in that same place,

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Where each one seeks with malice and with strife, 690

To thrust downe other into foule disgrace,

Himselfe to raise and he doth soonest rise
That best can handle his deceitfull wit,
In subtil shifts, and finest sleights devise,
Either by slaundring his well deemed name,
Through leasings lewd, and fained forgerie:
Or else by breeding him some blot of blame,
By creeping close into his secrecie;
To which him needs a guilefull hollow hart,
Masked with faire dissembling curtesie,

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A filed toung furnisht with tearmes of art,
No art of schoole, but Courtiers schoolery.
For arts of schoole have there small countenance,
Counted but toyes to busie ydle braines,
And there professours find small maintenance,
But to be instruments of others gaines.
Ne is there place for any gentle wit,
Unlesse to please, it selfe it can applie:
But shouldred is, or out of doore quite shit,
As base, or blunt, unmeet for melodie.

For each mans worth is measured by his weed,
As harts by hornes, or asses by their eares :
Yet asses been not all whose eares exceed,
Nor yet all harts, that hornes the highest beares.
For highest lookes have not the highest mynd,
Nor haughtie words most full of highest thoughts :
But are like bladders blowen up with wynd,
That being prickt do vanish into noughts.
Even such is all their vaunted vanitie,

Nought else but smoke, that fumeth soone away;
Such is their glorie that in simple eie

Seeme greatest, when their garments are most gay.
So they themselves for praise of fooles do sell,
And all their wealth for painting on a wall;
With price whereof, they buy a golden bell,
And purchace highest rowmes in bowre and hall:
Whiles single Truth and simple honestie
Do wander up and downe despys'd of all;
Their plaine attire such glorious gallantry

Disdaines so much, that none them in doth call.

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Rosalind

For she is not like as the other crew

Of shepheards daughters which emongst you bee,
But of divine regard and heavenly hew,
Excelling all that ever ye did see.

Not then to her that scorned thing so base,
But to my selfe the blame that lookt so hie:
So hie her thoughts as she her selfe have place,
And loath each lowly thing with loftie eie.
Yet so much grace let her vouchsafe to grant
To simple swaine, sith her I may not love :
Yet that I may her honour paravant,
And praise her worth, though far my wit above.
Such grace shall be some guerdon for the griefe,
And long affliction which I have endured:
Such grace sometimes shall give me some reliefe,
And ease of paine which cannot be recured.
And ye my fellow shepheards which do see
And heare the languours of my too long dying,
Unto the world for ever witnesse bee,
That hers I die, nought to the world denying,
This simple trophe of her great conquest.

So having ended, he from ground did rise,
And after him uprose eke all the rest :
All loth to part, but that the glooming skies
Warnd them to draw their bleating flocks to rest.

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