ÆGLOGA TERTIA. The Argument. TWO shepherds take occasion, from the approach of the spring, to discourse of love, describ'd here as a person. One of them relates a story of his having discover'd him lately hid in a bush, and of his being wounded by him. WILLY. THOMALIN. WILLY. THOMALIN, why sitten we so, The joyous time now nigheth fast, And slake the winter sorrow. THO. Siker, Willy, thou warnest well, For winter's wrath begins to quell, 5 And pleasant spring appeareth; The grass now 'gins to be refresht, The swallow peeps out of her nest, And cloudy welkin cleareth. 10 WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud, How bragly it begins to bud And utter his tender head? 15 Flora now calleth forth each flower, And bids make ready Maia's bower, That new is uprist from bed : 20 That scornfully looks askaunce; Tho will we little love awake, That now sleepeth in Lethe lake, And pray him leaden our daunce. THO. Willy, I ween thou be a sot, 25 For lusty Love still sleepeth not, But is abroad at his game. WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke? 30 Or hast thy self his slumber broke? Or made privy to the same? THO. No; but happily I him spide, Where in a bush, he did him hide, And were not that my sheep would stray, WIL. Thomalin, have no care for-thy, THO. Nay but thy seeing will not serve, For sithens is but the third morrow That I chaunst to fall asleep with sorrow, The while thilk same unhappy owe, 35 40 45 Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew, .50 Fell headlong into a dell, And there unjointed both her bones: Th' elf was so wanton and so wood, 55 (But now I trow can better good) She mought ne gang on the green, WIL. Let be as may be that is past; 65 With bow and bolts in either hand, I bent my bolt against the bush, 70 Might see the moving of some quick, Whose shape appeared not; 75 But were it fairy, fiend, or snake, My courage earn'd it to awake, And manfully thereat shot: With that sprang forth a naked swain, 80 And laughing lope to a tree; His gilden quiver at his back, And silver bow, which was but slack, 85 That seeing I level'd again, And shot at him with might and main, So long I shot, that all was spent, Tho pumy stones I hastily hent, But he that earst seem'd but to play, And now it rankleth more and more, WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight, For once I heard my father say Entangled in a fowling net 90 95 100 105 110 |