If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

He kisseth first, then sits as blithe to eat
His cream and curds as doth the king his meat;
And blither too,

For kings have often fears when they do sup,
Where shepherds dread no poison in their cup:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

To bed he goes, as wanton then, I ween,
As is a king in dalljance with a queen;
More wanton too,

For kings have many griefs affects to move,
Where shepherds have no greater grief than love:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Upon his couch of straw he sleeps as sound,
As doth the king upon his bed of down;
More sounder too,

For cares cause kings full oft their sleep to spill,
Where weary shepherds lie and snort their fill:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

Thus with his wife he spends the year, as blithe

As doth the king at every tide or sithe1;

And blither too,

1 sithe, time.

For kings have wars and broils to take in hand,
Where shepherds laugh and love upon the land:
Ah then, ah then,

If country loves such sweet desires do gain,
What lady would not love a shepherd swain?

XXIV. CONTENT.

Sung by a country wench' at the end of Farewell to Folly (1591), a story of a prodigal son.

WEET are the thoughts that savour of content;

SWEET

The quiet mind is richer than a crown;

Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent;

The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown;
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.

The homely house that harbours quiet rest,
The cottage that affords no pride nor care,
The mean that 'grees with country music best,
The sweet consort of mirth and music's fare,
Obscured life sets down a type of bliss;
A mind content both crown and kingdom is.

XXV. PHILOMELA'S SECOND ODE.

From the romance, not itself a pastoral, of Philomela (1592).

T was frosty winter season,

IT

And fair Flora's wealth was geason1.
Meads that erst with green were spread,
With choice flowers diapered,

Had tawny veils; cold had scanted
What the spring and nature planted.

1 geason, rich and rare.

Leafless boughs there might you see, All except fair Daphne's tree; On their twigs no birds perch'd; Warmer coverts now they search'd; And by nature's secret reason, Framed their voices to the season, With their feeble tunes bewraying How they grieved the spring's decaying. Frosty winter thus had gloom'd Each fair thing that summer bloom'd; Fields were bare, and trees unclad, Flowers wither'd, birds were sad: When I saw a shepherd fold Sheep in cote, to shun the cold. Himself sitting on the grass, That with frost wither'd was, Sighing deeply, thus gan say; 'Love is folly when astray; Like to love no passion such; For 't is madness, if too much, If too little, then despair; If too high, he beats the air With bootless cries; if too low, An eagle matcheth with a crow; Thence grow jars. Thus I find, Love is folly, if unkind; Yet do men most desire To be heated with this fire, Whose flame is so pleasing hot, That they burn, yet feel it not. Yet hath love another kind, Worse than these unto the mind; That is, when a wanton eye Leads desire clean awry,

And with the bee doth rejoice

Every minute to change choice,
Counting he were then in bliss,
If that each fair face were his.
Highly thus is love disgraced,
When the lover is unchaste,

And would taste of fruit forbidden,
'Cause the scape is easily hidden.
Though such love be sweet in brewing,
Bitter is the end ensuing;

For the honour of love he shameth,
And himself with lust defameth;
For a minute's pleasure gaining,
Fame and honour ever staining.
Gazing thus so far awry,
Last the chip falls in his eye;
Then it burns that erst but heat him,
And his own rod 'gins to beat him;
His choicest sweets turn to gall;
He finds lust his sin's thrall;
That wanton women in their eyes
Men's deceivings do comprise;
That homage done to fair faces
Doth dishonour other graces.
If lawless love be such a sin,
Cursed is he that lives therein,
For the gain of Venus' game
Is the downfall unto shame."
Here he paused, and did stay;
Sigh'd, and rose, and went away.

THOMAS LODGE.

(1556?-1625.)

XXVI. THE SOLITARY SHEPHERD'S SONG.

From his romance A Margarite of America (1589). Most of Lodge's works have been reprinted by the Hunterian Club, and many of the lyrics are in Mr. A. H. Bullen's Lyrics from Elizabethan Romances. Phillis is to be found in Arber's English® Garner and Rosalynde in Hazlitt's Shakespeare's Library.

SHADY vales, O fair enriched meads,

O sacred woods, sweet fields, and rising mountains, O painted flowers, green herbs, where Flora treads, Refresh'd by wanton winds, and watery fountains. O all you winged choristers of wood,

That perch'd aloft your former pains report, And straight again recount with pleasant mood Your present joys in sweet and seemly sort. O all you creatures, whosoever thrive

On mother earth, in seas, by air or fire; More blest are you, than I here under sun;

Love dies in me, when as he doth revive

In you; I perish under beauty's ire,

Where after storms, winds, frosts, your life is won.

XXVII. A LAMENT IN SPRING.

From Scylla's Metamorphosis (1589).

THE earth, late choked with showers,

Is now array'd in green;

Her bosom springs with flowers,

The air dissolves her teen1:

The heavens laugh at her glory,
Yet bide I sad and sorry.

1 teen, sorrow.