Chapter 2

Oh foule eclipser of that fayre sun-shine, Which is intitled Beauty in the best, Making that mortall, which is els divine, That staines the fayre which women steeme not least: Get thee to Hell againe, from whence thou art, And leave the center of a woman's hart.

Ah be not staind, sweet boy, with this vilde spot, Indulgence daughter, mother of Mischaunce; A blemish that doth every beauty blot, That makes them loath'd, but never doth advaunce Her clyents, fautors, friends, or them that love her, And hates them most of all, that most reprove her.

Remember age, and thou canst not be prowd, For age puls downe the pride of every man; In youthfull yeares by Nature tis allowde To have selfe-will, doo Nurture what she can; Nature and Nurture once together met, The soule and shape in decent order set.

Pride looks aloft, still staring on the starres, Humility looks lowly on the ground; Th' one menaceth the gods with civill warres, The other toyles till he have Vertue found. His thoughts are humble, not aspiring hye, But Pride looks haughtily with scornefull eye.

Humillity is clad in modest weedes, But Pride is brave and glorious to the show; Humillity his friends with kindnes feedes, But Pride his friends in neede will never know, Supplying not their wants, but them disdaining, Whilst they to pitty never neede complayning.

Humillity in misery is reliev'd, But Pride in neede of no man is regarded; Pitty and Mercy weepe to see him griev'd, That in distresse had them so well rewarded; But Pride is scornd, contemnd, disdaind, derided, Whilst Humblenes of all things is provided.

Oh then be humble, gentle, meeke, and milde, So shalt thou be of every mouth commended; Be not disdainfull, cruell, proud, sweet childe, So shalt thou be of no man much condemned: Care not for them that vertue doo despise; Vertue is loathde of fooles, lovde of the wise.

O faire boy, trust not to thy beauties wings, They cannot carry thee above the sunne: Beauty and wealth are transitory things, For all must ende that ever was begunne. But Fame and Vertue never shall decay, For Fame is toombles, Vertue lives for aye.

The snow is white, and yet the pepper 's blacke, The one is bought, the other is contemned: Pibbles we have, but store of jeat we lacke, So white comparde to blacke is much condemned. We doo not praise the swanne because shees white, But for she doth in musique much delite.

And yet the silver-noted nightingale, Though she be not so white, is more esteemed; Sturgion is dun of hew, white is the whale, Yet for the daintier dish the first is deemed: What thing is whiter than the milke-bred lilly? That knowes it not for naught, what man so silly?

Yea, what more noysomer unto the smell Than lillies are? What's sweeter then the sage? Yet for pure white the lilly beares the bell, Till it be faded through decaying age. House-doves are white, and oozels blacke-birds bee, Yet what a difference in the taste we see?

Compare the cow and calfe with ewe and lambe, Rough hayrie hydes with softest downy fell; Hecfar and bull with weather and with ramme, And you shall see how far they doo excell; White kine with blacke, blacke coney-skins with gray, Kine nesh and strong, skins deare and cheape alway.

The whitest silver is not alwaies best, Lead, tynne, and pewter are of base esteeme; The yellow burnisht gold that comes from th' East, And West, of late invented, may beseeme The worlds ritch treasury, or Mydas eye; The ritch mans god, poore mans felicitie.

Bugle and jeat with snow and alablaster I will compare; white dammasin with blacke; Bullas and wheaton plumbs, to a good taster The ripe red cherries have the sweetest smacke: When they be greene and young, th' are sowre and naught; But being ripe, with eagernes th' are baught.

Compare the wyld cat to the brownish beaver, Running for life, with hounds pursued sore, When huntsmen of her pretious stones bereave her, Which with her teeth sh' had bitten off before; Restoratives and costly curious felts Are made of them, and rich imbroydred belts.

To what use serves a peece of crimbling chalke? The agget stone is white, yet good for nothing: Fie, fie, I am asham'd to heare thee talke, Be not so much of thine owne image doating: So faire Narcissus lost his love and life; Beautie is often with itselfe at strife.

Right diamonds are of a russet hieu, The brightsome carbuncles are red to see too; The saphyre stone is of a watchet blue, To this thou canst not chuse but soone agree to: Pearles are not white but gray, rubies are red: In praise of blacke what can be better sed?

For if we doo consider of each mortall thing That flyes in welkin, or in water swims, How everie thing increaseth with the spring, And how the blacker still the brighter dims: We cannot chuse, but needs we must confesse, Sable excels milk-white in more or lesse.

As for example, in the christall cleare Of a sweete streame, or pleasant running river, Where thousand formes of fishes will appeare, Whose names to thee I cannot now deliver; The blacker still the brighter have disgrac'd, For pleasant profit and delicious taste.

Salmon and trout are of a ruddie colour, Whiting and dare is of a milk-white hiew; Nature by them perhaps is made the fuller, Little they nowrish, be they old or new: Carp, loach, tench, eeles, though black and bred in mud, Delight the tooth with taste, and breed good blud.

Innumerable be the kindes, if I could name them, But I a shepheard and no fisher am: Little it skils whether I praise or blame them, I onely meddle with my ew and lamb: Yet this I say that blacke the better is, In birds, beasts, frute, stones, flowres, herbs, mettals, fish.

And last of all, in blacke there doth appeare Such qualities as not in yvorie; Black cannot blush for shame, looke pale for feare, Scorning to weare another livorie. Blacke is the badge of sober modestie, The wonted weare of ancient gravetie.

The learned sisters sute themselves in blacke, Learning abandons white and lighter hues; Pleasure and pride light colours never lacke, But true religion doth such toyes refuse: Vertue and gravity are sisters growne, Since blacke by both, and both by blacke are knowne.

White is the colour of each paltry miller, White is the ensigne of each common woman; White is white vertues for blacke vyces piller, White makes proud fooles inferiour unto no man: White is the white of body, blacke of minde, Vertue we seldome in white habit finde.

Oh, then be not so proud because th' art fayre, Vertue is onely the ritch gift of God: Let not selfe-pride thy vertues name impayre, Beate not greene youth with sharpe repentance rod: A fiend, a monster, a mishapen divel; Vertues foe, vyces friend, the roote of evill.

Apply thy minde to be a vertuous man; Avoyd ill company, the spoyle of youth; To follow vertues lore doo what thou can, Whereby great profit unto the ensuth: Reade bookes, hate ignorance, the foe to art, The damme of errour, envy of the hart.

Serve Jove upon thy knees both day and night, Adore his name above all things on earth; So shall thy vowes be gracious in his sight, So little babes are blessed in their birth: Thinke on no worldly woe, lament thy sin, For lesser cease, when greater griefes begin.

Sweare no vaine oathes, heare much, but little say, Speake ill of no man, tend thine owne affaires; Bridle thy wrath, thine angrie mood delay, So shall thy minde be seldome cloyd with cares: Be milde and gentle in thy speech to all, Refuse no honest gaine when it doth fall.

Be not beguild with words, prove not ungratefull, Releeve thy neighbour in his greatest need, Commit no action that to all is hatefull, Their want with welth, the poore with plentie feed: Twit no man in the teeth with what th' hast done; Remember flesh is fraile, and hatred shunne.

Leave wicked things, which men to mischiefe move, Least crosse mis-hap may thee in danger bring: Crave no preferment of thy heavenly Jove, Nor anie honor of thy earthly king: Boast not thyselfe before th' Almighties sight, Who knowes thy hart, and anie wicked wight.

Be not offensive to the peoples eye, See that thy praiers harts true zeale affords, Scorne not a man that's falne in miserie, Esteeme no tatling tales, no babling words; That reason is exiled alwaies thinke, When as a drunkard rayles amidst his drinke.

Use not thy lovely lips to loathsome lyes, By craftie meanes increase no worldly wealth; Strive not with mightie men (whose fortune flies), With temp'rate diet nourish wholesome health: Place well thy words, leave not thy frend for gold; First trie, then trust, in ventring be not bold.

In Pan repose thy trust; extoll his praise, (That never shall decay, but ever lives): Honor thy parents (to prolong thy dayes), Let not thy left hand know what right hand gives: From needie men turne not thy face away, Though charitie be now yclad in clay.

Heare shepheards oft (thereby great wisdome growes), With good advice a sober answere make: Be not remoov'd with every winde that blowes, (That course doo onely sinfull sinners take): Thy talke will shew thy fame or els thy shame; (A pratling tongue doth often purchase blame.)

Obtaine a faithfull frend that will not faile thee, Think on thy mother's paine in her child-bearing; Make no debate, least quickly thou bewaile thee, Visit the sicke with comfortable chearing: Pittie the prisner, helpe the fatherlesse, Revenge the widdowes wrongs in her distresse.

Thinke on thy grave, remember still thy end, Let not thy winding-sheete be staind with guilt; Trust not a fained reconciled frend, More than an open foe (that blood hath spilt): (Who tutcheth pitch, with pitch shalbe defiled), Be not with wanton companie beguiled.

Take not a flattring woman to thy wife, A shameles creature, full of wanton words, (Whose bad, thy good, whose lust will end thy life, Cutting thy hart with sharpe two edged knife): Cast not thy minde on her whose lookes allure, But she that shines in truth and vertue pure.

Praise not thyselfe, let other men commend thee; Beare not a flattring tongue to glaver anie; Let parents due correction not offend thee; Rob not thy neighbor, seeke the love of manie; Hate not to heare good counsell given thee, Lay not thy money unto usurie.

Restraine thy steps from too much libertie, Fulfill not th' envious mans malitious minde; Embrace thy wife, live not in lecherie; Content thyselfe with what fates have assignde: Be rul'd by reason, warning dangers save; True age is reverend worship to thy grave.

Be patient in extreame adversitie, (Mans chiefest credit growes by dooing well). Be not high-minded in prosperitie; Falshood abhorre, no lying fable tell. Give not thyselfe to sloth, (the sinke of shame, The moath of time, the enemie to fame).

This leare I learned of a bel-dame Trot, (When I was yong and wylde as now thou art), But her good counsell I regarded not, I markt it with my eares, not with my hart. But now I finde it too-too true (my sonne), When my age-withered spring is almost done.

Behold my gray head, full of silver haires, My wrinckled skin, deepe furrowes in my face, Cares bring old age, old age increaseth cares; My time is come, and I have run my race: Winter hath snow'd upon my hoarie head, And with my winter all my joyes are dead.

And thou love-hating boy, (whom once I loved), Farewell, a thousand-thousand times farewell; My teares the marble-stones to ruth have moved; My sad complaints the babling ecchoes tell: And yet thou wouldst take no compassion on mee, Scorning that crosse which love hath laid upon mee.

The hardest steele with fier doth mend his misse, Marble is mollifyde with drops of raine; But thou (more hard than steele or marble is), Doost scorne my teares, and my true love disdaine, Which for thy sake shall everlasting bee, Wrote in the annalls of eternitie.

By this, the night, (with darknes over-spred), Had drawne the curtaines of her cole-blacke bed; And Cynthia, muffling her face with a clowd, (Lest all the world of her should be too proud) Had taken conge of the sable night, (That wanting her cannot be halfe so bright.)

When I, poore forlorn man and outcast creature, (Despairing of my love, despisde of beautie), Grew malecontent, scorning his lovely feature, That had disdaind my ever zealous dutie: I hy'd me homeward by the moone-shine light, Foreswaring love, and all his fond delight.

FINIS.

THE SHEPHEARDS CONTENT, OR THE HAPPINES OF A HARMLES LIFE. WRITTEN UPON OCCASION OF THE FORMER SUBJECT.

Of all the kindes of common countrey life, Methinkes a shepheards life is most content; His state is quiet peace, devoyd of strife; His thoughts are pure from all impure intent, His pleasures rate sits at an easie rent; He beares no mallice in his harmles hart, Malicious meaning hath in him no part.

He is not troubled with th' afflicted minde, His cares are onely over silly sheepe; He is not unto jealozie inclinde, (Thrice happie man) he knowes not how to weepe; Whilst I the treble in deepe sorrowes keepe. I cannot keepe the meane; for why (alas) Griefes have no meane, though I for meane doe passe.

No briefes nor semi-briefes are in my songs, Because (alas) my griefe is seldome short; My prick-song's alwayes full of largues and longs, (Because I never can obtaine the port Of my desires: hope is a happie fort). Prick song (indeed) because it pricks my hart; And song, because sometimes I ease my smart.

The mightie monarch of a royall realme, Swaying his scepter with a princely pompe, Of his desires cannot so steare the healme, But sometime falls into a deadly dumpe; When as he heares the shrilly sounding trumpe Of forren enemies, or home-bred foes, His minde of griefe, his hart is full of woes.

Or when bad subjects gainst their soveraigne (Like hollow harts) unnaturally rebell, How carefull is he to suppresse againe Their desperate forces, and their powers to quell With loyall harts, till all againe be well. When (being subdu'd) his care is rather more, To keepe them under, than it was before.

Thus is he never full of sweete content, But either this or that his joy debars: Now noblemen gainst noblemen are bent, Now gentlemen and others fall at jarrs: Thus is his countrey full of civill warrs; He still in danger sits, still fearing death, For traitors seeke to stop their princes breath.

The whylst the other hath no enemie, Without it be the wolfe and cruell fates, (Which no man spare): when as his disagree, He with his sheephooke knaps them on the pates, Schooling his tender lambs from wanton gates. Beasts are more kinde than men, sheepe seeke not blood, But countrey caytives kill their countreyes good.

The courtier he fawns for his princes favour, In hope to get a princely ritch reward; His tongue is tipt with honey for to glaver, Pride deales the deck, whilst chance doth choose the card; Then comes another and his game hath mard, Sitting betwixt him and the morning sun; Thus night is come before the day is done.

Some courtiers, carefull of their princes health, Attend his person with all dilligence; Whose hand's their hart, whose welfare is their wealth, Whose safe protection is their sure defence, For pure affection, not for hope of pence: Such is the faithfull hart, such is the minde, Of him that is to vertue still inclinde.

The skilfull scholler, and brave man at armes, First plies his booke, last fights for countries peace; Th' one feares oblivion, th' other fresh alarmes: His paines nere ende, his travailes never cease; His with the day, his with the night increase: He studies how to get eternall fame, The souldier fights to win a glorious name.

The knight, the squire, the gentleman, the clowne, Are full of crosses and calamities, Lest fickle fortune should begin to frowne, And turne their mirth to extreame miseries, Nothing more certaine than incertainties! Fortune is full of fresh varietie, Constant in nothing but inconstancie.

The wealthie merchant that doth crosse the seas, To Denmarke, Poland, Spaine, and Barbarie, For all his ritches, lives not still at ease; Sometimes he feares ship-spoyling pyracie, Another while deceipt and treacherie Of his owne factors in a forren land; Thus doth he still in dread and danger stand.

Well is he tearmd a merchant-venturer, Since he doth venter lands, and goods and all; When he doth travell for his traffique far, Little he knowes what fortune may befall, Or rather, what mis-fortune happen shall: Sometimes he splits his ship against a rocke, Loosing his men, his goods, his wealth, his stocke.

And if he so escape with life away, He counts himselfe a man most fortunate, Because the waves their rigorous rage did stay, (When being within their cruell powers of late, The seas did seeme to pittie his estate). But yet he never can recover health, Because his joy was drowned with his wealth.

The painfull plough-swaine, and the husband-man, Rise up each morning by the breake of day, Taking what toyle and drudging paines they can, And all is for to get a little stay; And yet they cannot put their care away: When night is come, their cares begin afresh, Thinking upon their morrowes busines.

Thus everie man is troubled with unrest, From rich to poore, from high to low degree: Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest, That neither cares for wealth nor povertie, But laughs at Fortune, and her foolerie, That gives rich churles great store of golde and fee, And lets poore schollers live in miserie.

O, fading branches of decaying bayes, Who now will water your dry-wither'd armes? Or where is he that sung the lovely layes Of simple shepheards in their countrey-farmes? Ah! he is dead, the cause of all our harmes: And with him dide my joy and sweete delight; The cleare to clowdes, the day is turnd to night.

SYDNEY, the syren of this latter age; SYDNEY, the blasing-starre of England's glory; SYDNEY, the wonder of the wise and sage; SYDNEY, the subject of true vertues story: This syren, starre, this wonder, and this subject, Is dumbe, dim, gone, and mard by fortune's object.

And thou, my sweete Amintas, vertuous minde, Should I forget thy learning or thy love, Well might I be accounted but unkinde, Whose pure affection I so oft did prove, Might my poore plaints hard stones to pitty move! His losse should be lamented of each creature, So great his name, so gentle was his nature.

But sleepe his soule in sweet Elysium, (The happy haven of eternall rest); And let me to my former matter come, Proving, by reason, shepheard's life is best, Because he harbours vertue in his brest; And is content, (the chiefest thing of all), With any fortune that shall him befall.

He sits all day lowd-piping on a hill, The whilst his flocke about him daunce apace, His hart with joy, his eares with musique fill: Anon a bleating weather beares the bace, A lambe the treble, and to his disgrace Another answers like a middle meane, Thus every one to beare a part are faine.

Like a great king he rules a little land, Still making statutes and ordayning lawes, Which if they breake, he beates them with his wand; He doth defend them from the greedy jawes Of rav'ning woolves, and lyons bloudy pawes. His field, his realme; his subjects are his sheepe; Which he doth still in due obedience keepe.

First he ordaines by act of parlament, (Holden by custome in each country towne), That if a sheepe (with any bad intent) Presume to breake the neighbour hedges downe, Or haunt strange pastures that be not his owne, He shall be pounded for his lustines, Untill his master finde out some redres.

Also if any prove a strageller From his owne fellowes in a forraine field, He shall be taken for a wanderer, And forc'd himselfe immediatly to yeeld; Or with a wyde-mouth'd mastive curre be kild; And if not claimd within a twelve month's space, He shall remaine with land-lord of the place.

Or if one stray to feede far from the rest, He shall be pincht by his swift pye-bald curre; If any by his fellowes be opprest, The wronger, (for he doth all wrong abhorre), Shall be well bangd so long as he can sturre, Because he did anoy his harmeles brother, That meant not harme to him nor any other.

And last of all, if any wanton weather, With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine, He shall be forc'd t' abide cold frosty weather, And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine, Till his new fleece begins to grow againe: And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goe Without a new coate all the winter throw.

Thus doth he keepe them still in awfull feare, And yet allowes them liberty inough; So deare to him their welfare doth appeare, That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough, He combs and trims them with a rampicke bough, Washing them in the streames of silver Ladon, To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.

Another while he wooes his country wench, With chaplet crownd and gaudy girlonds dight, Whose burning lust her modest eye doth quench; Standing amazed at her heavenly sight, Beauty doth ravish sense with sweet delight, Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed browe, When sun-bright smiles melt flakes of driven snowe.

Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day, And when night comes drawes homeward to his coate, Singing a jigge or merry roundelay, For who sings commonly so merry a noate, As he that cannot chop or change a groate? And in the winter nights his chiefe desire, He turnes a crabbe or cracknell in the fire.

He leads his wench a country horne-pipe round, About a may-pole on a holy-day, Kissing his lovely lasse with garlands crownd, With whoopping heigh-ho singing care away. Thus doth he passe the merry month of May, And all th' yere after, in delight and joy; Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.

What though with simple cheere he homely fares, He lives content; a king can doo no more, Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares, But he hath none, except it be that sore Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore, The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love? That conquers kingdomes, and the gods above.