"So doo I live, so doo I daylie die,

And pine away in selfe-consuming paine !
Sith she that did my vitall powres supplie,
And feeble spirits in their force maintaine,
Is fetcht fro me, why seeke I to prolong
My wearie daies in dolour and disdaine!
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
VI.

"Why doo I longer live in lifes despight,
And doo not dye then in despight of death;
Why doo I longer see this loathsome light
And doo in darknesse not abridge my breath,
Sith all my sorrow should have end thereby,
And cares finde quiet! Is it so uneath
To leave this life, or dolorous to dye?

"To live I finde it deadly dolorous,
For life drawes care, and care continuall woe;
Therefore to dye must needes be ioyeous,
And wishfull thing this sad life to forgoe:
But I must stay; I may it not amend,
My Daphne hence departing bad me so;
She bad me stay, till she for me did send.
"Yet, whilest I in this wretched vale doo stay,
My wearie feete shall ever wandring be,
That still I may be readie on my way
When as her messenger doth come for me;
Ne will I rest my feete for feeblenesse,
Ne will I rest my limmes for fraïltie,
Ne will I rest mine eyes for heavinesse.
"But, as the mother of the gods, that sought
For faire Euridyce, her daughter dere,
Throughout the world, with wofull heavie thought;
So will I travell whilest I tarrie heere,
Ne will I lodge, ne will I ever lin,
Ne, when as drouping Titan draweth nere
To loose his teeme, will I take up my inne.
"Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights)
Shall ever lodge upon mine eye-lids more;
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,
Nor failing force to former strength restore:
But I will wake and sorrow all the night
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore;
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.

"And ever as I see the starre to fall,

And under ground to goe to give them light
Which dwell in darknesse, I to mind will call
How my fair starre (that shind on me so bright)
Fell sodainly and faded under ground;
Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,
And night without a Venus starre is found.
"But soon as day doth shew his deawie face,
And cals foorth men unto their toylsome trade,
I will withdraw me to some darkesome place,
Or some dere cave, or solitarie shade;
There will I sigh, and sorrow all day long,
And the huge burden of my cares unlade.
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

VII.

"Henceforth mine eyes shall never more behold
Faire thing on Earth, ne feed on false delight
Of ought that framed is of mortall mould,
Sith that my fairest flowre is faded quight;
For all I see is vaine and transitorie,
Ne will be held in any stedfast plight,

But in a moment loose their grace and glorie.

And ye, fond men! on Fortunes wheele that ride, Or in ought under Heaven repose assurance, Be it riches, beautie, or honours pride,

Be sure that they shall have no long endurance, But ere ye be aware will flit away;

For nought of them is yours, but th' only usance
Of a small time, which none ascertaine may.

"And ye, true lovers! whom desastrous chaunce
Hath farre exiled from your ladies grace,
To mourne in sorrow and sad sufferaunce,
When ye doe heare me in that desert place
Lamenting loud my Daphnes elegie,
Helpe me to waile my miserable case,
And when life parts vouchsafe to close mine eye.
"And ye, more happie lovers! which enioy
The presence of your dearest loves delight,
When ye doe heare my sorrow full annoy,
Yet pittie me in your empassiond spright,
And thinke that such mishap, as chaunst to me,
May happen unto the most happiest wight;
For all mens states alike unstedfast be.

"And ye, my fellow shepheards! which do feed
Your carelesse flocks on hils and open plaines,
With better fortune than did me succeed,
Remember yet my undeserved paines;
And, when ye heare, that I am dead or slaine,
Lament my lot, and tell your fellow swaines
That sad Alcyon dyde in lifes disdaine.

"And, ye faire damsels! shepheards deare delights,
That with your loves do their rude hearts possesse,
When as my hearse shall happen to your sightes,
Vouchsafe to deck the same with cyparesse;
And ever sprinckle brackish teares among,
In pitie of my undeserv'd distresse,
The which, I, wretch, endured have thus long.`
"And ye poore pilgrims! that with restless toyle
Wearie yourselves in wandring desart wayes,
Till that you come where ye your vowes assoyle,
When passing by ye reade these wofull layes
On my grave written, rue my Daphnes wrong,
And mourne for me that languish out my dayes.
Cease, shepheard! cease, and end thy undersong."

Thus when he ended had his heavie plaint,
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheekes wext pale, and sprights began to faint,
As if again he would have fallen to ground;
Which when I saw, I, stepping to him light,
Amooved him out of his stonie swound,
And gan him to recomfort as I might.

THAT you may see that I am not alwaies ydle as yee thinke, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogither undutifull, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple pastorall, unworthie of your higher conceipt for the meanesse of the stile, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of paiment of the infinite debt, in which I acknowledge my selfe bounden unto you for your singular favours, and sundrie good turnes, shewed to me at my late being in England; and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evill mouthes, which are alwaies wide open to carpe at and misconstrue my simple meaning. I pray continually for your happinesse. From my house of Kilcolman, the 27. of December.

1591. [rather perhaps 1595.]
Yours ever humbly,

ED. SP.

THE shepheards boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) upon a day,
Charming his oaten pipe unto his peres,
The shepheard swaines that did about him play:
Who all the while, with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayd with thunders sound.
At last, when as he piped had his fill,
He rested him: and, sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a iolly groome was he,
As ever piped on an oaten reed,
And lov'd this shepheard dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol ;) gan thus to him areed.

"Colin, my liefe, my life, how great a losse Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke! And I, poore swaine, of many, greatest crosse! That, sith thy Muse first since thy turning backe Was heard to sound as she was wont on hye, Hast made us all so blessed and so blythe. Whilest thou wast bence, all dead in dole did lie: The woods were heard to waile full many a sythe, And all their birds with silence to complaine: The fields with faded flowers did seem to mourne, And all their flocks from feeding to refraine: The running waters wept for thy returne, And all their fish with languour did lament: But now both woods and fields and floods revive, Sith thou art come, their cause of meriment, That us, late dead, hast made againe alive: But were it not too painefuil to repeat The passed fortunes, which to thee befell In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat, Now at thy leisure them to us to tell."

To whom the shepheard gently answered thus; "Hobbin, thou temptest me to that I covet: For of good passed newly to discus,

By dubble usurie doth twise renew it.
And since I saw that angels blessed eie,
Her worlds bright Sun, her Heavens fairest light,
My mind, full of my thoughts satietie,
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight :
Since that same day in nought I take delight,
But in remembrance of that glorious bright,
Ne feeling have in any earthly pleasure,
My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure.
Wake then, my pipe; my sleepie Muse, awake;
Till I have told her praises lasting long:
Hobbin desires, thou maist it not forsake ;-
Harke then, ye iolly shepheards, to my song."

With that they all gan throng about him neare,
With hungrie eares to heare his harmonie:
Did round about them feed at libertie.
The whiles their flocks, devoyd of dangers feare,

"One day" (quoth he) "I sat, (as was my

trade)

Under the foote of Mole, that mountaine hore,
Keeping my sheepe amongst the cooly shade
Of the greene alders by the Mullaes shore:
There a straunge shepheard chaunst to find me
out,

Whether allured with my pipes delight,
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,
Or thither led by chaunce, I know not right:
Whom when I asked from what place he came,
And how he hight, himselfe he did ycleepe
The Shepheard of the Ocean by name,
And said he came far from the main-sea deepe.
He, sitting me beside in that same shade,
Provoked me to plaie some pleasant fit;
And, when he heard the musicke which I made,
He found himselfe full greatly pleasd at it:
Yet, æmuling my pipe, he tooke in hond
My pipe, before that æmuled of many,
And plaid thereon; (for well that skill he cond;)
Himselfe as skilfull in that art as any.

He pip'd, I sung; and, when he sung, I piped;
By chaunge of turnes, each making other mery;
Neither envying other, nor envied,

So piped we, untill we both were weary."
There interrupting him, a bonie swaine,
That Cuddy hight, him thus atweene bespake :
"And, should it not thy readie course restraine,
I would request thee, Colin, for my sake,

To tell what thou didst sing, when he did plaie; For well I weene it worth recounting was, Whether it were some hymne, or morall laie, Or carol made to praise thy loved lasse."

"Nor of my love, nor of my lasse,” quoth he, "I then did sing, as then occasion fell: For love had me forlorne, forlorne of me, That made me in that desart choose to dwell. But of my river Bregogs love I soong, Which to the shiny Mulla he did beare, And yet doth beare, and ever will, so long As water doth within his bancks appeare."

"Of fellowship," said then that bony boy, "Record to us that lovely lay againe : The staie whereof shall nought these eares annoy, Who all that Colin makes do covet faine." "Heare then," quoth he, "the tenor of my tale,

In sort as I it to that shepheard told:
No leasing new, nor grandams fable stale,
But auncient truth confirm'd with credence old.
"Old father Mole, (Mole hight that mountain
gray

That walls the northside of Armulla dale)
He had a daughter fresh as floure of May,
Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale;
Mulla, the daughter of old Mole, so hight
The nimph, which of that water course has charge,
That, springing out of Mole, doth run downe right
To Buttevant, where, spreading forth at large,
It giveth name unto that auncient cittie,
Which Kilnemullah clepped is of old;
Whose ragged ruines breed great ruth and pittie
To travailers, which it from far behold.
Full faine she lov'd, and was belov'd full faine
Of her owne brother river, Bregog hight,
So hight because of this deceitfull traine,
Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight.
But her old sire more carefull of her good,
And meaning her much better to preferre,
Did thinke to match her with the neighbour flood,
Which Allo hight, Broad-water called farre;
And wrought so well with his continuall' paine,
That he that river for his daughter wonne :
The dowre agreed, the day assigned plaine,
The place appointed where it should be doone.
Nath'lesse the nymph her former liking held;
For love will not be drawne, but must be ledde;
And Bregog did so well her fancie weld,
That her good will he got first to wedde.
But for her father, sitting still on hie,
Did warily still watch which way she went,
And eke from far observ'd, with iealous eie,
Which way his course the wanton Bregog bent ;
Him to deceive, for all his watchfull ward,
The wily lover did devise this slight:
First into many parts his streame he shar'd,
That, whilest the one was watcht, the other might
Passe unespide to meete her by the way;
And then, besides, those little streames so broken
He under ground so closely did convay,
That of their passage doth appeare no token,
Till they into the Mullaes water slide.
So secretly did he his love enjoy :
Yet not so secret, but it was descride,
And told her father by a shepheards boy.
Who, wondrous wroth for that so foule despight,
In great avenge did roll downe from his hill
Huge mightie stones, the which encomber might
His passage, and his water-courses spill.

So of a river, which he was of old,
He none was made, but scattred all to nought;
And, lost emong those rocks into him rold,
Did lose his name: so deare his love he bought.”
Which having said, him Thestylis bespake;
"Now by my life this was a mery lay,
Worthie of Colin selfe, that did it make.
But read now eke, of friendship I thee pray,
What dittie did that other shepheard sing:
For I do covet most the same to heare,
As men use most to covet forreine thing."
"That shall I eke," quoth he, "to you declare:
His song was all a lamentable lay
Of great unkindnesse, and of usage hard,
Of Cynthia the ladie of the sea,
Which from her presence faultlesse him debard.
And ever and anon, with singulfs rife,
He cryed out, to make his undersong;

Ah! my loves queene, and goddesse of my life, Who shall me pittie, when thou doest me wrong?" " Then gan a gentle bonylasse to speake,

That Marin hight; "Right well he sure did plaine,
That could great Cynthiaes,sore displeasure breake,
And move to take him to her grace againe.
But tell on further, Colin, as befell
Twixt him and thee, that thee did hence dissuade."
"When thus our pipes we both had wearied well,"
Quoth he, " and each an end of singing made,
He gan to cast great lyking to my lore,
And great dislyking to my lucklesse lot,
That banisht had my selfe, like wight forlore,
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot.
The which to leave, thenceforth he counseld mee,
Unmeet for man, in whom was ought regardfull,
And wend with him his Cynthia to see;
Whose grace was great and bounty most rewardfull.
Besides her peerlesse skill in making well,
And all the ornaments of wondrous wit,
Such as all womankynd did far excell;
Such as the world admyr'd, and praised it:
So what with hope of good, and hate of ill,
He me perswaded forth with him to fare.
Nought tooke 1 with me, but mine oaten quill:
Small needments else need shepheard to prepare.
So to the sea we came; the sea, that is
A world of waters heaped up on hie,
Rolling like mountaines in wide wildernesse,
Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse cric."

"And is the sea," quoth Coridon, "so fearfull?" "Fearful much more," quoth he, "then hart can

fear:

Thousand wyld beasts with deep mouthes gaping direfull

Therin stil wait poore passengers to teare.
Who life doth loath, and longs death to behold,
Before he die, alreadie dead with feare,
And yet would live with heart halfe stonie cold,
Let him to sea, and he shall see it there.
And yet as ghastly dreadfull, as it seemes,
Bold men, presuming life for gaine to sell,
Dare tempt that gulf, and in those wandring stremes
Seek waies unknowne, waies leading down to Hell.
For, as we stood there waiting on the strond,
Behold, an huge great vessell to us came,
Dauncing upon the waters back to lond,
As if it scornd the daunger of the same;
Yet was it but a wooden frame and fraile,
Glewed togither with some subtile matter.
Yet had it armes and wings, and head and taile,
And life to move itselfe upon the water.

Strange thing! how bold and swift the monster was,
That neither car'd for wynd, nor haile, nor raine,
Nor swelling waves, but thorough them did passe
So proudly, that she made them roare againe.
The same aboord us gently did receave,
And without harme us farre away did beare,
So farre that land, our mother, us did leave,
And nought but sea and Heaven to us appeare.
Then hartelesse quite, and full of inward feare,
That shepheard I besought to me to tell,
Under what skie, or in what world we were,
In which I saw no living people dwell.
Who, me recomforting all that he might,
Told me that that same was the regiment
Of a great shepheardesse, that Cynthia hight,
His liege, his ladie, and his lifes regent.—
"If then,' quoth I, a shepheardesse she bee,
Where be the flockes and heards, which she doth
keep?

And where may I the hills and pastures see,
On which she useth for to feed her sheepe?'
"These be the hills,' quoth he,

hie,

the surges

On which faire Cynthia her heards doth feed:
Her heards be thousand fishes with their frie,
Which in the bosome of the billowes breed.
Of them the shepheard which hath charge in chief,
Is Triton, blowing loud his wreathed horne:
At sound whereof, they all for their relief
Wend too and fro at evening and at morne.
And Proteus eke with him does drive his heard
Of stinking seales and porcpisces together,
With hoary head and deawy dropping beard,
Compelling them which way he list, and whether.
And I, among the rest, of many least,
Have in the ocean charge to me assignd;
Where I will live or die at her beheast,
And serve and honour her with faithfull mind.
Besides an hundred nymphes all heavenly borne,
And of immortall race doo still attend

To wash faire Cynthiaes sheep, when they be shorne,
And fold them up, when they have made an end.
Those be the shepheards which my Cynthia serve
At sea, beside a thousand moe at land:
For land and sea my Cynthia doth deserve
To have in her commandëment at hand.'
"Thereat I wondred much, till, wondring more
And more, at length we land far off descryde:
Which sight much gladed me; for much afore
I feard, least land we never should have eyde:
Thereto our ship her course directly bent,
And if the way she perfectly had knowne.
We Lunday passe; by that same name is ment
An island, which the first to west was showne.
From thence another world of land we kend,
Floting amid the sea in ieopardie,

And round about with mightie white rocks hemd,
Against the seas encroching crueltie.

Those same the shepheard told me, were the fields
In which dame Cynthia her landheards fed ;
Faire goodly fields, then which Armulla yields
None fairer, nor more fruitfull to be red.
The first, to which we nie approched, was
An high headland thrust far into the sea,
Like to an horne, whereof the name it has,
Yet seemd to be a goodly pleasant lea:
There did a loftie mount at first us greet,
Which did a stately heape of stones upreare,
That seemd amid the surges for to fleet,
Much greater then that frame, which us did beare:

There did our ship her fruitfull wombe unlade, And put us all ashore on Cynthias land." "What land is that thou meanst," then Cuddy sayd, "And is there other then whereon we stand?"

"Ah! Cuddy," then quoth Colin, "thous a fon, That hast not seene least part of Natures worke: Much more there is unkend then thou doest kon, And much more that does from mens knowledge lurke.

For that same land much larger is then this,
And other men and beasts and birds doth feed:
There fruitfull corne, faire trees, fresh herbage is,
And all things else that living creatures need.
Besides most goodly rivers there appeare,
No whit inferiour to thy Fanchins praise,
Or unto Allo, or to Mulla cleare:

Nought hast thou, foolish boy, seene in thy daies."
"But if that land be there," quoth he, "as here,
And is theyr Heaven likewise there all one?
And, if like Heaven, be heavenly graces there,
Like as in this same world where we do wone?"
"Both Heaven and heavenly graces do much
more,"

Quoth he," abound in that same land then this.
For there all happie peace and plenteous store
Conspire in one to make contented blisse:
No wayling there nor wretchednesse is heard,
No bloodie issues nor no leprosies,

No griesly famine, nor no raging sweard,
No nightly bodrags, nor no hue and cries;
The shepheards there abroad may safely lie,
On hills and downes, withouten dread or daunger:
No ravenous wolves the good mans hope destroy,
Nor outlawes fell affray the forest raunger.
There learned arts do florish in great honor,
And poets wits are had in peerlesse price:
Religion hath lay powre to rest upon her,
Advancing vertue and suppressing vice.
For end, all good, all grace there freely growes,
Had people grace it gratefully to use:
Fer God his gifts there plenteously bestowes,
But gracelesse men them greatly do abuse."

"But say on further," then said Corylas,
"The rest of thine adventures, that betyded."
"Foorth on our voyage we by land did passe,"
Quoth he, "as that same shepheard still us guyded,
Untill that we to Cynthiaes presence came:
Whose glorie greater then my simple thought,
I found much greater then the former fame;
Such greatnes I cannot compare to ought:
But if I her like ought on Earth might read,
I would her lyken to a crowne of lillies,
Upon a virgin brydes adorned head,
With roses dight and goolds and daffadillies;
Or like the circlet of a turtle true,
In which all colours of the rainbow bee;
Or like faire Phebes garlond shining new,
In which all pure perfection one may see.
But vaine it is to thinke, by paragone
Of earthly things, to iudge of things divine:
Her power, her mercy, and her wisdome, none
Can deeme, but who the godhead can define.
Why then do I, base shepheard, bold and blind,
Presume the things so sacred to prophane?
More fit it is t' adore, with humble mind,
The image of the Heavens in shape humane."

With that Alexis broke his tale asunder, Saying; "By wondring at thy Cynthiaes praise, Colin, thy selfe thou mak'st us more to wonder, And her upraising doest thy selfe upraise.