And let an happy room remain for thee
Mongst heavenly ranks, where blessed souls do rest;
And let long lasting life with joyous glee,
As thy due meed that thou deservest best,
Hereafter many years remembred be
Amongst good men, of whom thou oft art blest.
Live thou for ever in all happiness.
But let us turn to our first business.
The fiery sun was mounted now on hight
Up to the heavenly towers, and shot each where
Out of his golden charet glistering light,
And fair Aurora with her rosie hair,
That hateful darkness now had put to flight,
When as the shepherd seeing day appear,
His little goats 'gan drive out of their stalls,
To feed abroad where pasture best befalls.
To an high mountain's top he with them went,
Where thickest grass did cloath the open hills;
They now amongst the woods and thickets ment,
Now in the valleys wandring at their wills,
Spread themselves far abroad through each descent;
Some on the soft green grass feeding their fills,
Some clambring through the hollow cliffs on hie,
Nibble the bushy shrubs which grow thereby.
Others the utmost boughs of trees do crop,
And brouze the woodbine twigs that freshly bud
This with full bit doth catch the utmost top
Of some soft willow or new growen stud;
This with sharp teeth the bramble-leaves doth lop,
And chaw the tender prickles in her cud,
The whiles another high doth over-look
Her own like image in a crystal brook.
O the great happiness which shepherds have
Who-so loaths not too much the poor estate,
With mind that ill use doth before deprave,
Ne measures all things by the costly rate
Of riotise, and semblants outward brave!
No such sad cares as wont to macerate
And rend the greedy minds of covetous men,
Do ever creep into the shepherd's den.
Ne cares he if the fleece which him arrays
Be not twice steeped in Assyrian dye,
Ne glistering of gold, which underlays
The summer beams, do blind his gazing eye;
Ne pictures beauty, nor the glancing rays
Of precious stones, whence no good cometh by;
Ne yet his cup embost with imagery
Of Boetus, or of Alcon's vanity.
Ne ought the whelky pearls esteemeth.he,
Which are from Indian seas brought far away,
But with pure breast, from careful sorrow free,
On the soft grass his limbs doth oft display
In sweet spring-time, when flowers' variety
With sundry colours paints the sprinkled lay
There lying all at ease from guile or spright,
With pipe of fenny reeds doth him delight.
There he, lord of himself, with palm bedight,
His looser locks doth wrap in wreath of vine;
There his milk-dropping goats be his delight,.
And fruitful Pales, and the forest green,
And darksom caves in pleasant vallies pight,
Whereas continual shade is to be seen,
And where fresh springing wells, as crystal neat,,
Do always flow to quench his thirsty heat.
O! who can lead then a more happy life
Than he, that with clean mind, and heart sincere,
No greedy riches knows nor bloody strife,
No deadly fight of warlike fleet doth fear,
Ne runs in peril of foes cruel knife,
That in the sacred temples he may rear
A trophee of his glittering spoils and treasure,
Or may abound with riches above measure à
Of him his God is worshipt with his syth,
And not with skill of craftman polished;
He joys in groves, and makes himself full blyth
With sundry flowers in wild fields gathered:
Ne frankincence he from Panchæa buyth;
Sweet Quiet harbours in his harmless head,
And perfect Pleasure builds her joyous bowre,
Free from sad cares, that rich men's hearts devowre.
This all his care, this all his whole endeavour,
To this his mind and senses he doth bend,
How he may flow in quiet's matchless treasour,
› Content with any food that God doth send;
And how his limbs, resolv'd through idle leisour,
Unto sweet sleep he may securely lend,
In some cool shadow from the scorching heat,
The whiles his flock their chawed cuds do eat.
O Flocks! O Fauns! and, O ye pleasant Springs
Of Tempe ! where the country nymphs are rife,
Through whose not costly care each shepherd sings
As merry notes upon his rustick fifę
As that Astræan bard, whose fame now rings
Through the wide world, and leads as joyful life,
Free from all troubles, and from worldly toyl,
In which fond men do all their days turmoyl.
In such delights, whilst thus his careless time
This shepherd drives, upleaning on his batt,
And on shrill reeds chaunting his rustick rime,
Hyperion throwing forth his beams full hott,
Into the highest top of heaven 'gan clime,
And the world parting by an equal lott,
Did shed his whirling flames on either side,
As the great Ocean doth himself divide.
Then 'gan the shepherd gather into one
His stragling goats, and drave them to a foord,
Whose cærule stream, rombling in pibble-stone,
Crept under moss as green as any goord.
Now had the sun half heaven overgone,
When he his herd back from that water foord
Drave from the force of Phoebus' boyling ray
Into thick shadows, there themselves to lay.
Soon as he them plac't in thy sacred wood,
(O Delian Goddess!) saw, to which of yore
Came the bad daughter of old Cadmus' brood,
Cruell Agave, flying vengeance sore
Of King Nictileus, for the guilty blood
Which she with cursed hands had shed before;
There she half frantick, having slain her son,
Did shroud her self, like punishment to shun.
Volume VI.
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