from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:
Julye. Æglogia Septima.
ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepeheardes, and to the shame and disprayse of proude and ambitious pastours: such as Morrell is here imagined to bee.
THOMALIN. MORRELL.
Thom. Is not thilke same a goteheard prowde,
That sittes on yonder bancke,
Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde
Emong the bushes rancke?
Mor. What ho! thou jollye shepheards swayne,
Come up the hyll to me:
Better is then the lowly playne,
Als for thy flocke and thee.
Thom. Ah, God shield, man, that I should clime,
And learne to looke alofte;
This reede is ryfe, that oftentime
Great clymbers fall unsoft.
In humble dales is footing fast,
The trode is not so tickle,
And though one fall through heedlesse hast,
Yet is his misse not mickle.
And now the Sonne hath reared up
His fyriefooted teme,
Making his way betweene the Cuppe
And golden Diademe:
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast,
With Dogge of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast
Pyne, plagues, and dreery death.
Agaynst his cruell scortching heate
Where hast thou coverture?
The wastefull hylls unto his threate
Is a playne overture.
But if thee lust to holden chat
With seely shepherds swayne,
Come downe, and learne the little what
That Thomalin can sayne.
Mor. Syker, thous but a laesie loord,
And rekes much of thy swinck,
That with fond termes, and weetlesse words,
To blere myne eyes doest thinke.
In evill houre thou hentest in hond
Thus holy hylles to blame,
For sacred unto saints they stond,
And of them han theyr name.
St. Michels Mount who does not know,
That wardes the westerne coste?
And of St. Brigets Bowre, I trow,
All Kent can rightly boaste:
And they that con of Muses skill
Sayne most-what, that they dwell
(As goteheards wont) upon a hill,
Beside a learned well.
And wonned not the great god Pan
Upon Mount Olivet,
Feeding the blessed flocke of Dan,
Which dyd himselfe beget?
Thom. O blessed sheepe! O shepheard great,
That bought his flocke so deare,
And them did save with bloudy sweat
From wolves, that would them teare!
Mor. Besyde, as holy fathers sayne,
There is a hyllye place,
Where Titan ryseth from the mayne,
To renne hys dayly race:
Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed,
And all the skie doth leane;
There is the cave where Phebe layed
The shepheard long to dreame.
Whilome there used shepheards all
To feede theyr flocks at will,
Till by his foly one did fall,
That all the rest did spill.
And sithens shepheardes bene foresayd
From places of delight:
Forthy I weene thou be affrayd
To clime this hilles height.
Of Synah can I tell thee more,
And of Our Ladyes Bowre:
But little needes to strow my store,
Suffice this hill of our.
Here han the holy Faunes recourse,
And Sylvanes haunten rathe;
Here has the salt Medway his sourse,
Wherein the Nymphes doe bathe;
The salt Medway, that trickling stremis
Adowne the dales of Kent,
Till with his elder brother Themis
His brackish waves be meynt.
Here growes melampode every where,
And teribinth, good for gotes:
The one, my madding kiddes to smere,
The next, to heale theyr throtes.
Hereto, the hills bene nigher heven,
And thence the passage ethe:
As well can prove the piercing levin,
That seeldome falls bynethe.
Thom. Syker, thou speakes lyke a lewde lorrell,
Of heaven to demen so:
How be I am but rude and borrell,
Yet nearer wayes I knowe.
To kerke the narre, from God more farre,
Has bene an old sayd sawe,
And he that strives to touch the starres
Oft stombles at a strawe.
Alsoone may shepheard clymbe to skye,
That leades in lowly dales,
As goteherd prowd, that, sitting hye,
Upon the mountaine sayles.
My seely sheepe like well belowe,
They neede not melampode:
For they bene hale enough, I trowe,
And liken theyr abode.
But, if they with thy gotes should yede,
They soone myght be corrupted,
Or like not of the frowie fede,
Or with the weedes be glutted.
The hylls where dwelled holy saints
I reverence and adore:
Not for themselfe, but for the sayncts
Which han be dead of yore.
And nowe they bene to heaven forewent,
Theyr good is with them goe,
Theyr sample onely to us lent,
That als we mought doe soe.
[continued in part 2 . . .]
That sittes on yonder bancke,
Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde
Emong the bushes rancke?
Mor. What ho! thou jollye shepheards swayne,
Come up the hyll to me:
Better is then the lowly playne,
Als for thy flocke and thee.
Thom. Ah, God shield, man, that I should clime,
And learne to looke alofte;
This reede is ryfe, that oftentime
Great clymbers fall unsoft.
In humble dales is footing fast,
The trode is not so tickle,
And though one fall through heedlesse hast,
Yet is his misse not mickle.
And now the Sonne hath reared up
His fyriefooted teme,
Making his way betweene the Cuppe
And golden Diademe:
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast,
With Dogge of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast
Pyne, plagues, and dreery death.
Agaynst his cruell scortching heate
Where hast thou coverture?
The wastefull hylls unto his threate
Is a playne overture.
But if thee lust to holden chat
With seely shepherds swayne,
Come downe, and learne the little what
That Thomalin can sayne.
Mor. Syker, thous but a laesie loord,
And rekes much of thy swinck,
That with fond termes, and weetlesse words,
To blere myne eyes doest thinke.
In evill houre thou hentest in hond
Thus holy hylles to blame,
For sacred unto saints they stond,
And of them han theyr name.
St. Michels Mount who does not know,
That wardes the westerne coste?
And of St. Brigets Bowre, I trow,
All Kent can rightly boaste:
And they that con of Muses skill
Sayne most-what, that they dwell
(As goteheards wont) upon a hill,
Beside a learned well.
And wonned not the great god Pan
Upon Mount Olivet,
Feeding the blessed flocke of Dan,
Which dyd himselfe beget?
Thom. O blessed sheepe! O shepheard great,
That bought his flocke so deare,
And them did save with bloudy sweat
From wolves, that would them teare!
Mor. Besyde, as holy fathers sayne,
There is a hyllye place,
Where Titan ryseth from the mayne,
To renne hys dayly race:
Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed,
And all the skie doth leane;
There is the cave where Phebe layed
The shepheard long to dreame.
Whilome there used shepheards all
To feede theyr flocks at will,
Till by his foly one did fall,
That all the rest did spill.
And sithens shepheardes bene foresayd
From places of delight:
Forthy I weene thou be affrayd
To clime this hilles height.
Of Synah can I tell thee more,
And of Our Ladyes Bowre:
But little needes to strow my store,
Suffice this hill of our.
Here han the holy Faunes recourse,
And Sylvanes haunten rathe;
Here has the salt Medway his sourse,
Wherein the Nymphes doe bathe;
The salt Medway, that trickling stremis
Adowne the dales of Kent,
Till with his elder brother Themis
His brackish waves be meynt.
Here growes melampode every where,
And teribinth, good for gotes:
The one, my madding kiddes to smere,
The next, to heale theyr throtes.
Hereto, the hills bene nigher heven,
And thence the passage ethe:
As well can prove the piercing levin,
That seeldome falls bynethe.
Thom. Syker, thou speakes lyke a lewde lorrell,
Of heaven to demen so:
How be I am but rude and borrell,
Yet nearer wayes I knowe.
To kerke the narre, from God more farre,
Has bene an old sayd sawe,
And he that strives to touch the starres
Oft stombles at a strawe.
Alsoone may shepheard clymbe to skye,
That leades in lowly dales,
As goteherd prowd, that, sitting hye,
Upon the mountaine sayles.
My seely sheepe like well belowe,
They neede not melampode:
For they bene hale enough, I trowe,
And liken theyr abode.
But, if they with thy gotes should yede,
They soone myght be corrupted,
Or like not of the frowie fede,
Or with the weedes be glutted.
The hylls where dwelled holy saints
I reverence and adore:
Not for themselfe, but for the sayncts
Which han be dead of yore.
And nowe they bene to heaven forewent,
Theyr good is with them goe,
Theyr sample onely to us lent,
That als we mought doe soe.
[continued in part 2 . . .]
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