The Affectionate Shepherd | Page 8

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