The Affectionate Shepherd | Page 4

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