When all was handsomly dispos'd, And, Damsell, quoth shee, for it seemes Shall chiefely rest on thee; Do me that good, else would to God So tooke she horse, and ere she went Full little thought the countie that His countesse had done so ; Who now return'd from far affaires Did to his sweet-heart go. No sooner sat he foote within The late deformed cote, But that the formall change of things But when he knew those goods to be His proper goods; though late, Scarce taking leave, he home returnes The matter to debate. The countesse was a-bed, and he Sir, welcome home (quoth shee); this night For you I did not looke. Then did he question her of such Your love to be a proper wench, Well wot I, notwithstanding her, Then for my duty, your delight, Expect your wonted 'haviour. Her patience, witte and answer wrought When (kissing her a score of times) Amend, sweet wife, I shall : He said, and did it; "so each wife VII.-DOWSABELL. THE following stanzas were written by Michael Drayton,* a poet of some eminence in the reigns of Queen Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. They are inserted in one of his pastorals, and are inscribed with the author's name at length, "To the noble and valerous gentleman master Robert Dudley," etc. FARRE in the countrey of Arden, As bolde as Isenbras: Fell was he, and eger bent, As was the good Sir Topas. He had, as antique stories tell, *Drayton was born in 1563, and died in 1631. K The silke well couth she twist and twine, And make the fine march-pine, And with the needle werke: And she couth helpe the priest to say And sing a psalme in kirke. She ware a frock of frolicke greene, A hood to that so neat and fine, Her features all as fresh above, As is the grasse that growes by Dove; Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll, This mayden in a morne betime The honey-suckle, the harlocke, To deck her summer hall. Thus, as she wandred here and there, Y-picking of the bloomed breere, She chanced to espie A shepheard sitting on a bancke, Like chanteclere he crowed crancke, And pip'd full merrilie. He lear'd his sheepe as he him list, To feede about him round; In favour this same shepheards swayne Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,* Which helde prowd kings in awe : * Alluding to Tamburlaine the Great, or the Scythian Shepheard, 1590, 8vo, an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe, But meeke he was as lamb mought be; An innocent of ill as he Whom his lewd brother slaw. The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke, Which was of the finest loke, That could be cut with sheere: His mittens were of bauzens skinne, His cockers were of cordiwin, His hood of meniveere. His aule and lingell in a thong, Full crispe and curled were his lockes, And pyping still he spent the day, Which liked Dowsabel : That would she ought, or would she nought, This lad would never from her thought; She in love-longing fell. At length she tucked up her frocke, Thy sheepe, quoth she, cannot be leane, The which can pipe so well: Yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may, If pyping thus he pine away In love of Dowsabel. Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe, Come forth to gather maye. With that she gan to vaile her head, Her cheeks were like the roses red, But not a word she sayd: With that the shepheard gan to frowne, Sayth she, I may not stay till night, And all for long of thee. My coate, sayth he, nor yet my foulde Sayth she, Yet lever were I dead, And I to thee will be as kinde As Colin was to Rosalinde, Of curtesie the flower. As ever mayden yet might be With that she bent her snow-white knee, Downe by the shepheard kneeled shce, And him she sweetely kist: With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy; Quoth he, Ther's never shepheards boy That ever was so blist. VIII. THE FAREWELL TO LOVE, From Beaumont and Fletcher's play, entitled The Lover's Progress, Act iii. Sc, i. ADIEU, fond love, farewell you wanton powers; I am free again. Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours, Fly to fools, that sigh away their time: That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy, Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung, And honoured by eternity and joy : There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire, Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher. IX. ULYSSES AND THE SYREN AFFORDS a pretty poetical contest between Pleasure and Honour. It is found at the end of Hymen's Triumph: A Pastoral Tragicomedie, written by Daniel, and printed among his works, 4to, 1623.-Daniel, who was a contemporary of Drayton's, and is said to have been poet laureate to Queen Elizabeth, was born in 1562, and died in 1619. Anne, Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery (to whom Daniel had been tutor), has inserted a small portrait of him in a full-length picture of herself, preserved at Appleby Castle, in Cumberland, COME, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come, The windes and seas are troublesome, SYREN. Here may we sit and view their toyle, That travaile in the deepe, Enjoy the day in mirth the while, And spend the night in sleepe. X.-CUPID'S PASTIME. THIS beautiful poem, which possesses a classical elegance hardly to be expected in the age of James I., is printed from the 4th edition of Davidson's Poems, etc, 1621. It is also found in a later miscellany, entitled Le Prince d'Amour, 1660, 8vo.Francis Davison, editor of the poems above referred to, was son of that unfortunate secretary of state who suffered so much from the affair of Mary Queen of Scots. These poems, he tells us in his preface, were written by himself, by his brother [Walter], who was a soldier in the wars of the Low Countries, and by some dear friends "anonymoi." IT chanc'd of late a shepherd swain, That went to seek his straying sheep, Within a thicket on a plain Espied a dainty nymph asleep. Her golden hair o'erspred her face; Her careless arms abroad were cast; Her quiver had her pillows place; Her breast lay bare to every blast. The shepherd stood and gaz'd his fill; Nought durst he do; nought durst he say; Whilst chance, or else perhaps his will, Did guide the god of love that way. The crafty boy that sees her sleep, Whom if she wak'd he durst not see; Behind her closely seeks to creep, Before her nap should ended bee. There come, he steals her shafts away, And puts his own into their place; Nor dares he any longer stay, But, ere she wakes, hies thence apace. Scarce was he gone, but she awakes, And spies the shepherd standing by : Her bended bow in haste she takes, And at the simple swain lets flye. Forth flew the shaft, and pierc'd his heart, That to the ground he fell with pain: Yet up again forthwith he start, And to the nymph he ran amain. Amazed to see so strange a sight, She shot, and shot, but all in vain ; The more his wounds, the more his might, Love yielded strength amidst his pain. Her angry eyes were great with tears, She blames her hand, she blames her The bluntness of her shafts she fears, Yet try she will, and pierce some bare; Her hands were glov'd, but next to hand Was that fair breast, that breast so rare, That made the shepherd senseless stand. That breast she pierc'd; and through that breast Love found an entry to her heart; At feeling of this new-come guest, Lord! how this gentle nymph did start? She runs not now; she shoots no more; Away she throws both shaft and bow: She seeks for what she shunn'd before, She thinks the shepherds haste po slow. Though mountains meet not, lovers may : The god of love sate on a tree, See the full tile in vol. ii. Book iii. No iv. |