Chapter 1
Produced by Taavi Kalju and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.)
THE
AFFECTIONATE SHEPHERD:
BY
RICHARD BARNFIELD.
A.D. 1594.
EDITED BY
JAMES ORCHARD HALLIWELL, Esq. F.R.S.
HON. M.R.I.A., HON. M.R.S.L., F.S.A., ETC.
LONDON.
REPRINTED FOR THE PERCY SOCIETY,
BY T. RICHARDS, 100, ST. MARTIN'S LANE.
M.DCCC.XLV.
COUNCIL
OF
The Percy Society.
_President._
THE RT. HON. LORD BRAYBROOKE, F.S.A.
THOMAS AMYOT, ESQ. F.R.S. TREAS. S.A.
WILLIAM HENRY BLACK, ESQ.
WILLIAM CHAPPELL, ESQ. F.S.A.
J. PAYNE COLLIER, ESQ. F.S.A.
C. PURTON COOPER, ESQ. Q.C., F.R.S., F.S.A.
PETER CUNNINGHAM, ESQ.
JAMES HENRY DIXON, ESQ.
WILLIAM JERDAN, ESQ. F.S.A., M.R.S.L.
CAPTAIN JOHNS, R.M.
T. J. PETTIGREW, ESQ. F.R.S., F.S.A.
LEWIS POCOCK, ESQ. F.S.A.
SIR CUTHBERT SHARP.
WILLIAM SANDYS, ESQ. F.S.A.
WILLIAM J. THOMS, ESQ. F.S.A.
THOMAS WRIGHT, ESQ. M.A., F.S.A., _Secretary and Treasurer._
PREFACE.
Two copies only of the poem by Barnfield here reprinted, are known to be preserved; one in Sion College Library, and another, formerly in Heber's possession, mentioned in "Bibliotheca Heberiana," iv. 15. Its merits and great rarity have pointed it out as a work deserving to be more known and appreciated. Barnfield is, perhaps, chiefly remembered by his elegant pieces printed in the "Passionate Pilgrim," attributed by some to Shakespeare; but Mr. Collier has distinctly proved them to belong to the less eminent poet. The "Affectionate Shepherd" was his first production, as he himself confesses in the preface to his "Cynthia," 1595, and it has received the well-merited commendation of Warton. Besides these poems, he is the author of "The Complaint of Poetrie for the death of Liberalitie," 4to. 1598, and others published at the same time, reprints of which are in the British Museum; also "The Encomium of Lady Pecunia, or the Praise of Money," a curious manuscript in the Ashmolean Museum, and likewise printed in the author's life-time. It should be mentioned that in the original copies of the following tract are a few hexameter verses on the Rape of Helen, which have been omitted as of an inferior kind to the other part of the work, and for still more obvious reasons. The "Affectionate Shepherd" itself will be found remarkably free from the coarseness which disfigures so much of the Elizabethan literature,--an additional inducement, if any were necessary, for rescuing it from the liability to destruction which is of course incident to any book of such excessive rarity. Our thanks are due to the Rev. H. Christmas, Librarian of Sion College, for the courtesy and liberality with which he permitted our transcript to be made from a volume of tracts possessing the greatest charm for the bibliographer; for besides the present one, it contains the first edition of Shakespeare's Lucrece, and several other pieces of nearly equal value, in the finest possible condition.
THE
AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD.
CONTAINING THE COMPLAINT OF DAPHNIS FOR THE LOUE OF GANYMEDE.
_Amor plus mellis, quam fellis, est._
London:
Printed by John Danter, for T. G. and E. N., and are to bee sold in Saint Dunstones Church-yeard in Fleetstreet.
1594.
TO THE RIGHT EXCELLENT AND MOST BEAUTIFULL LADY, THE LADIE PENELOPE RITCH.
Fayre lovely ladie, whose angelique eyes Are vestall candles of sweet beauties treasure, Whose speech is able to inchaunt the wise, Converting joy to paine, and paine to pleasure; Accept this simple toy of my soules dutie, Which I present unto thy matchles beautie.
And albeit the gift be all too meane, Too meane an offring for thine ivorie shrine; Yet must thy beautie my just blame susteane, Since it is mortall, but thyselfe divine. Then, noble ladie, take in gentle worth This new-borne babe, which here my muse brings forth.
Your Honours most affectionate and perpetually devoted Shepheard:
DAPHNIS.
THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD.
THE TEARES OF AN AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD SICKE FOR LOVE, OR THE COMPLAINT OF DAPHNIS FOR THE LOVE OF GANIMEDE.
Scarce had the morning starre hid from the light Heavens crimson canopie with stars bespangled, But I began to rue th' unhappy sight Of that faire boy that had my hart intangled; Cursing the time, the place, the sense, the sin; I came, I saw, I viewd, I slipped in.
If it be sinne to love a sweet-fac'd boy, Whose amber locks trust up in golden tramels Dangle adowne his lovely cheekes with joy, When pearle and flowers his faire haire enamels; If it be sinne to love a lovely lad, Oh then sinne I, for whom my soule is sad.
His ivory-white and alablaster skin Is staind throughout with rare vermillion red, Whose twinckling starrie lights doe never blin To shine on lovely Venus, Beauties bed; But as the lillie and the blushing rose, So white and red on him in order growes.
Upon a time the nymphs bestird them-selves To trie who could his beautie soonest win; But he accounted them but all as elves, Except it were the faire Queene Guendolen: Her he embrac'd, of her was beloved, With plaints he proved, and with teares he moved.
But her an old man had beene sutor too, That in his age began to doate againe; Her would he often pray, and often woo, When through old age enfeebled was his braine: But she before had lov'd a lustie youth, That now was dead, the cause of all her ruth.
And thus it hapned, Death and Cupid met Upon a time at swilling Bacchus house, Where daintie cates upon the boord were set, And goblets full of wine to drinke carouse: Where Love and Death did love the licor so, That out they fall and to the fray they goe.
And having both their quivers at their backe Fild full of arrows; th' one of fatall steele, The other all of gold; Deaths shaft was black, But Loves was yellow: Fortune turnd her wheele, And from Deaths quiver fell a fatall shaft, That under Cupid by the winde was waft.
And at the same time by ill hap there fell Another arrow out of Cupids quiver, The which was carried by the winde at will, And under Death the amorous shaft did shiver: They being parted, Love tooke up Deaths dart, And Death tooke up Loves arrow for his part.
Thus as they wandred both about the world, At last Death met with one of feeble age: Wherewith he drew a shaft and at him hurld The unknowne arrow with a furious rage, Thinking to strike him dead with Deaths blacke dart; But he, alas, with Love did wound his hart!
This was the doting foole, this was the man That lov'd faire Guendolena, Queene of Beautie; Shee cannot shake him off, doo what she can, For he hath vowd to her his soules last duety: Making him trim upon the holydaies, And crownes his love with garlands made of baies.
Now doth he stroke his beard, and now againe He wipes the drivel from his filthy chin; Now offers he a kisse, but high Disdaine Will not permit her hart to pity him: Her hart more hard than adamant or steele, Her hart more changeable than Fortunes wheele.
But leave we him in love up to the eares, And tell how Love behav'd himselfe abroad; Who seeing one that mourned still in teares, A young man groaning under Loves great load, Thinking to ease his burden, rid his paines, For men have griefe as long as life remaines.
Alas, the while that unawares he drue The fatall shaft that Death had dropt before, By which deceit great harme did then insue, Stayning his face with blood and filthy goare: His face, that was to Guendolen more deere Than love of lords, or any lordly peere.
This was that faire and beautifull young man, Whom Guendolena so lamented for; This is that Love whom she doth curse and ban, Because she doth that dismall chaunce abhor: And if it were not for his mothers sake, Even Ganimede himselfe she would forsake.
Oh would shee would forsake my Ganimede, Whose sugred love is full of sweete delight, Upon whose forehead you may plainely reade Loves pleasure grav'd in yvorie tables bright: In whose faire eye-balls you may clearely see Base Love still staind with foule indignitie.
Oh would to God he would but pitty mee, That love him more than any mortall wight! Then he and I with love would soone agree, That now cannot abide his sutors sight. O would to God, so I might have my fee, My lips were honey, and thy mouth a bee!
Then shouldst thou sucke my sweete and my faire flower, That now is ripe and full of honey-berries; Then would I leade thee to my pleasant bower, Fild full of grapes, of mulberries, and cherries: Then shouldst thou be my waspe or else my bee, I would thy hive, and thou my honey, bee.
I would put amber bracelets on thy wrests, Crownets of pearle about thy naked armes: And when thou sitst at swilling Bacchus feasts My lips with charmes should save thee from all harmes: And when in sleepe thou tookst thy chiefest pleasure, Mine eyes should gaze upon thine eyelids treasure.
And every morne by dawning of the day, When Phoebus riseth with a blushing face, Silvanus chappel-clarkes shall chaunt a lay, And play thee hunts-up in thy resting place: My coote thy chamber, my bosome thy bed Shall be appointed for thy sleepy head.
And when it pleaseth thee to walke abroad, Abroad into the fields to take fresh ayre, The meades with Floras treasure should be strowde, The mantled meaddowes, and the fields so fayre. And by a silver well with golden sands Ile sit me downe, and wash thine yvory hands.
And in the sweltring heate of summer time, I would make cabinets for thee, my love; Sweet-smelling arbours made of eglantine Should be thy shrine, and I would be thy dove. Cool cabinets of fresh greene laurell boughs Should shadow us, ore-set with thicke-set eughes.
Or if thou list to bathe thy naked limbs Within the cristall of a pearle-bright brooke, Paved with dainty pibbles to the brims, Or cleare, wherein thyselfe thyselfe mayst looke; Weele goe to Ladon, whose still trickling noyse Will lull thee fast asleepe amids thy joyes.
Or if thoult goe unto the river side, To angle for the sweet freshwater fish, Arm'd with thy implements that will abide, Thy rod, hooke, line, to take a dainty dish; Thy rods shall be of cane, thy lines of silke, Thy hooks of silver, and thy bayts of milke.
Or if thou lov'st to hear sweet melodie, Or pipe a round upon an oaten reede, Or make thyselfe glad with some myrthfull glee, Or play them musicke whilst thy flocke doth feede. To Pans owne pype Ile helpe my lovely lad, Pans golden pype, which he of Syrinx had.
Or if thou darst to climbe the highest trees For apples, cherries, medlars, peares, or plumbs, Nuts, walnuts, filbeards, chestnuts, cervices, The hoary peach, when snowy winter comes; I have fine orchards full of mellowed frute, Which I will give thee to obtaine my sute.
Not proud Alcynous himselfe can vaunt Of goodlier orchards or of braver trees Than I have planted; yet thou wilt not graunt My simple sute, but like the honey bees Thou suckst the flowre till all the sweet be gone, And loost mee for my coyne till I have none.
Leave Guendolen, sweet hart; though she be faire, Yet is she light; not light in vertue shining, But light in her behaviour, to impaire Her honour in her chastities declining; Trust not her teares, for they can wantonnize, When teares in pearle are trickling from her eyes.
If thou wilt come and dwell with me at home, My sheepcote shall be strowed with new greene rushes: Weele haunt the trembling prickets as they rome About the fields, along the hauthorne bushes; I have a pie-bald curre to hunt the hare, So we will live with daintie forrest fare.
Nay, more than this, I have a garden plot, Wherein there wants nor hearbs, nor roots, nor flowers; Flowers to smell, roots to eate, hearbs for the pot, And dainty shelters when the welkin lowers: Sweet-smelling beds of lillies, and of roses, Which rosemary banks and lavender incloses.
There growes the gilliflowre, the mynt, the dayzie Both red and white, the blue-veynd violet; The purple hyacinth, the spyke to please thee, The scarlet dyde carnation bleeding yet: The sage, the savery, and sweet margerum, Isop, tyme, and eye-bright, good for the blinde and dumbe.
The pinke, the primrose, cowslip and daffodilly, The hare-bell blue, the crimson cullumbine, Sage, lettis, parsley, and the milke-white lilly, The rose and speckled flowre cald sops-in-wine, Fine pretie king-cups, and the yellow bootes, That growes by rivers and by shallow brookes.
And manie thousand moe I cannot name Of hearbs and flowers that in gardens grow, I have for thee, and coneyes that be tame, Young rabbets, white as swan, and blacke as crow; Some speckled here and there with daintie spots: And more I have two mylch and milke-white goates.
All these and more Ile give thee for thy love, If these and more may tyce thy love away: I have a pidgeon-house, in it a dove, Which I love more than mortall tongue can say. And last of all Ile give thee a little lambe To play withall, new weaned from her dam.
But if thou wilt not pittie my complaint, My teares, nor vowes, nor oathes, made to thy beautie: What shall I doo but languish, die, or faint, Since thou dost scorne my teares, and my soules duetie: And teares contemned, vowes and oaths must faile, And where teares cannot, nothing can prevaile.
Compare the love of faire Queene Guendolin With mine, and thou shalt [s]ee how she doth love thee: I love thee for thy qualities divine, But shee doth love another swaine above thee: I love thee for thy gifts, she for hir pleasure; I for thy vertue, she for beauties treasure.
And alwaies, I am sure, it cannot last. But sometime Nature will denie those dimples: Insteed of beautie, when thy blossom's past, Thy face will be deformed full of wrinckles; Then she that lov'd thee for thy beauties sake, When age drawes on, thy love will soone forsake.
But that I lov'd thee for thy gifts divine, In the December of thy beauties waning, Will still admire with joy those lovely eine, That now behold me with their beauties baning. Though Januarie will never come againe, Yet Aprill yeres will come in showers of raine.
When will my May come, that I may embrace thee? When will the hower be of my soules joying? Why dost thou seeke in mirth still to disgrace mee? Whose mirth's my health, whose griefe's my harts annoying: Thy bane my bale, thy blisse my blessednes, Thy ill my hell, thy weale my welfare is.
Thus doo I honour thee that love thee so, And love thee so, that so doo honour thee Much more than anie mortall man doth know, Or can discerne by love or jealozie: But if that thou disdainst my loving ever, Oh happie I, if I had loved never!
FINIS.
Plus fellis quam mellis amor.
THE SECOND DAYES LAMENTATION OF THE AFFECTIONATE SHEPHEARD.
Next morning, when the golden sunne was risen, And new had bid good morrow to the mountaines; When night her silver light had lockt in prison, Which gave a glimmering on the christall fountaines: Then ended sleepe, and then my cares began, Ev'n with the uprising of the silver swan.
Oh, glorious sunne! quoth I, viewing the sunne, That lightenst everie thing but me alone: Why is my summer season almost done, My spring-time past, and ages autumne gone? My harvest's come, and yet I reapt no corne: My love is great, and yet I am forlorne.
Witnes these watrie eyes my sad lament, Receaving cisternes of my ceaseles teares; Witnes my bleeding hart my soules intent, Witnes the weight distressed Daphnis beares: Sweet love, come ease me of thy burthens paine, Or els I die, or else my hart is slaine.
And thou, love-scorning boy, cruell, unkinde, Oh, let me once againe intreat some pittie: May be thou wilt relent thy marble minde, And lend thine eares unto my dolefull dittie: Oh, pittie him, that pittie craves so sweetly, Or else thou shalt be never named meekly.
If thou wilt love me, thou shalt be my boy, My sweet delight, the comfort of my minde, My love, my dove, my sollace, and my joy; But if I can no grace nor mercie finde, Ile goe to Caucasus to ease my smart, And let a vulture gnaw upon my hart.
Yet if thou wilt but show me one kinde looke, A small reward for my so great affection, Ile grave thy name in Beauties golden booke, And shrowd thee under Hellicon's protection: Making the muses chaunt thy lovely prayse, For they delight in shepheard's lowly layes.
And when th'art wearie of thy keeping sheepe Upon a lovely downe, to please thy minde, Ile give thee fine ruffe-footed doves to keepe, And pretie pidgeons of another kinde: A robbin-redbrest shall thy minstrell bee, Chirping thee sweet and pleasant melodie.
Or if thou wilt goe shoote at little birds, With bow and boult, the thrustle-cocke and sparrow, Such as our countrey hedges can afford, I have a fine bowe, and an yvorie arrow. And if thou misse, yet meate thou shalt [not] lacke, Ile hang a bag and bottle at thy backe.
Wilt thou set springes in a frostie night To catch the long-bill'd woodcocke and the snype, By the bright glimmering of the starrie light, The partridge, phæsant, or the greedie grype; Ile lend thee lyme-twigs, and fine sparrow calls, Wherewith the fowler silly birds inthralls.
Or in a mystie morning if thou wilt Make pitfalls for the larke and pheldifare, Thy prop and sweake shall be both overguilt, With Cyparissus selfe thou shalt compare For gins and wyles, the oozels to beguile, Whilst thou under a bush shalt sit and smile.
Or with hare-pypes set in a muset hole, Wilt thou deceave the deep-earth-delving coney; Or wilt thou in a yellow boxen bole, Taste with a wooden splent the sweet lythe honey; Clusters of crimson grapes Ile pull thee downe, And with vine-leaves make thee a lovely crowne.
Or wilt thou drinke a cup of new-made wine, Froathing at top, mixt with a dish of creame And strawberries, or bilberries, in their prime, Bath'd in a melting sugar-candie streame: Bunnell and perry I have for thee alone, When vynes are dead, and all the grapes are gone.
I have a pleasant noted nightingale, That sings as sweetly as the silver swan, Kept in a cage of bone as white as whale, Which I with singing of Philemon wan: Her shalt thou have, and all I have beside, If thou wilt be my boy, or els my bride.
Then will I lay out all my lardarie Of cheese, of cracknells, curds and clowted-creame, Before thy malecontent ill-pleasing eye; But why doo I of such great follies dreame? Alas, he will not see my simple coate, For all my speckled lambe, nor milk-white goate!
Against my birth-day thou shalt be my guest, Weele have greene-cheeses and fine silly-bubs, And thou shalt be the chiefe of all my feast, And I will give thee two fine pretie cubs, With two yong whelps, to make thee sport withall, A golden racket, and a tennis-ball.
A guilded nutmeg, and a race of ginger, A silken girdle, and a drawn-worke band, Cuffs for thy wrists, a gold ring for thy finger, And sweet rose-water for thy lilly-white hand; A purse of silke, bespangd with spots of gold, As brave a one as ere thou didst behold.
A paire of knives, a greene hat and a feather, New gloves to put upon thy milk-white hand, Ile give thee, for to keep thee from the weather, With phoenix feathers shall thy face be fand, Cooling those cheekes, that being cool'd wexe red, Like lillyes in a bed of roses shed.
Why doo thy corall lips disdaine to kisse, And sucke that sweete which manie have desired? That baulme my bane, that meanes would mend my misse, Oh, let me then with thy sweete lips b'inspired! When thy lips touch my lips, my lips will turne To corall too, and, being cold yce, will burne.
Why should thy sweete love-locke hang dangling downe, Kissing thy girdle-stud with falling pride? Although thy skin be white, thy haire is browne: Oh, let not then thy haire thy beautie hide! Cut off thy locke, and sell it for gold wier: The purest gold is tryde in hottest fier.
Faire long-haire-wearing Absolon was kild, Because he wore it in a braverie: So that which gracde his beautie, Beautie spild, Making him subject to vile slaverie, In being hangd: a death for him too good, That sought his owne shame and his father's blood.
Againe we read of old king Priamus, The haplesse syre of valiant Hector slaine, That his haire was so long and odious In youth, that in his age it bred his paine: For if his haire had not been halfe so long, His life had been, and he had had no wrong.
For when his stately citie was destroyd, That monument of great antiquitie, When his poore hart, with griefe and sorrow cloyd, Fled to his wife, last hope in miserie; Pyrrhus, more hard than adamantine rockes, Held him and halde him by his aged lockes.
These two examples by the way I show, To prove th' indecencie of men's long haire: Though I could tell thee of a thousand moe, Let these suffice for thee, my lovely faire, Whose eye's my starre, whose smiling is my sunne, Whose love did ende before my joyes begunne.
Fond love is blinde, and so art thou, my deare, For thou seest not my love and great desart; Blinde love is fond, and so thou dost appeare, For fond and blinde, thou greevst my greeving hart: Be thou fond-blinde, blinde-fond, or one, or all, Thou art my love, and I must be thy thrall!
Oh lend thine yvorie forehead for loves booke, Thine eyes for candles to behold the same; That when dim-sighted ones therein shall looke, They may discerne that proud disdainefull dame; Yet claspe that booke, and shut that cazement light, Lest, th'one obscurde, the other shine too bright.
Sell thy sweet breath to th' daintie musk-ball makers, Yet sell it so as thou mayst soone redeeme it: Let others of thy beauty be pertakers, Else none but Daphnis will so well esteeme it. For what is beauty, except it be well knowne? And how can it be knowne, except first showne?
Learne of the gentlewomen of this age, That set their beauties to the open view, Making disdaine their lord, true love their page, A custome zeale doth hate, desert doth rue: Learne to looke red, anon waxe pale and wan, Making a mocke of love, a scorne of man.
A candle light, and cover'd with a vaile, Doth no man good, because it gives no light; So Beauty of her beauty seemes to faile, When being not seene it cannot shine so bright: Then show thyselfe and know thyselfe withall, Lest climing high thou catch too great a fall.