33. His Grange, or Private Wealth
Though clock,To tell how night draws hence, I’ve none,A cockI have to sing how day draws on:I haveA maid, my Prue, by good luck sent,To saveThat little, Fates me gave or lent.A henI keep, which, creeking day by day,Tells whenShe goes her long white egg to lay:A gooseI have, which, with a jealous ear,Lets looseHer tongue, to tell what danger’s near.A lambI keep, tame, with my morsels fed,Whose damAn orphan left him, lately dead:A catI keep, that plays about my house,Grown fatWith eating many a miching mouse:To theseA Trasy I do keep, wherebyI pleaseThe more my rural privacy:Which areBut toys, to give my heart some ease:—Where careNone is, slight things do lightly please.
34. A PASTORAL UPON THE BIRTH OF PRINCE CHARLES: PRESENTED TO THE KING, AND SET BY MR NIC. LANIERE
THE SPEAKERS: MIRTILLO, AMINTAS, AND AMARILLIS
AMIN. Good day, Mirtillo. MIRT. And to you no less;And all fair signs lead on our shepherdess.AMAR. With all white luck to you. MIRT. But say,What newsStirs in our sheep-walk? AMIN. None, save that myewes,My wethers, lambs, and wanton kids are well,Smooth, fair, and fat; none better I can tell:Or that this day Menalchas keeps a feastFor his sheep-shearers. MIRT. True, these are the least.But dear Amintas, and sweet Amarillis,Rest but a while here by this bank of lilies;And lend a gentle ear to one reportThe country has. AMIN. From whence? AMAR. Fromwhence? MIRT. The Court.Three days before the shutting-in of May,(With whitest wool be ever crown’d that day!)To all our joy, a sweet-faced child was born,More tender than the childhood of the morn.CHORUS:—Pan pipe to him, and bleats of lambs andsheepLet lullaby the pretty prince asleep!MIRT. And that his birth should be more singular,At noon of day was seen a silver star,Bright as the wise men’s torch, which guided themTo God’s sweet babe, when born at Bethlehem;While golden angels, some have told to me,Sung out his birth with heav’nly minstrelsy.AMIN. O rare! But is’t a trespass, if we threeShould wend along his baby-ship to see?MIRT. Not so, not so. CHOR. But if it chance to proveAt most a fault, ’tis but a fault of love.AMAR. But, dear Mirtillo, I have heard it told,Those learned men brought incense, myrrh, and gold,From countries far, with store of spices sweet,And laid them down for offerings at his feet.MIRT. ’Tis true, indeed; and each of us will bringUnto our smiling and our blooming King,A neat, though not so great an offering.AMAR. A garland for my gift shall be,Of flowers ne’er suck’d by th’ thieving bee;And all most sweet, yet all less sweet than he.AMIN. And I will bear along with youLeaves dropping down the honied dew,With oaten pipes, as sweet, as new.MIRT. And I a sheep-hook will bestowTo have his little King-ship know,As he is Prince, he’s Shepherd too.CHOR. Come, let’s away, and quickly let’s be drest,And quickly give:—the swiftest grace is best.And when before him we have laid our treasures,We’ll bless the babe:—then back to country pleasures.
35. A DIALOGUE BETWIXT HIMSELF AND MISTRESS ELIZA WHEELER, UNDER THE NAME OF AMARILLIS
My dearest Love, since thou wilt go,And leave me here behind thee;For love or pity, let me knowThe place where I may find thee.
AMARIL. In country meadows, pearl’d with dew,And set about with lilies;There, filling maunds with cowslips, youMay find your Amarillis.
HER. What have the meads to do with thee,Or with thy youthful hours?Live thou at court, where thou mayst beThe queen of men, not flowers.
Let country wenches make ’em fineWith posies, since ’tis fitterFor thee with richest gems to shine,And like the stars to glitter.
AMARIL. You set too-high a rate uponA shepherdess so homely.HER. Believe it, dearest, there’s not oneI’ th’ court that’s half so comely.
I prithee stay. AMARIL. I must away;Let’s kiss first, then we’ll sever;AMBO And though we bid adieu to day,We shall not part for ever.
36. A BUCOLIC BETWIXT TWO; LACON AND THYRSIS
LACON. For a kiss or two, confess,What doth cause this pensiveness,Thou most lovely neat-herdess?Why so lonely on the hill?Why thy pipe by thee so still,That erewhile was heard so shrill?Tell me, do thy kine now failTo fulfil the milking-pail?Say, what is’t that thou dost ail?
THYR. None of these; but out, alas!A mischance is come to pass,And I’ll tell thee what it was:See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.LACON. Tell, and I’ll lay down my pipe.
THYR. I have lost my lovely steer,That to me was far more dearThan these kine which I milk here;Broad of forehead, large of eye,Party-colour’d like a pye,Smooth in each limb as a die;Clear of hoof, and clear of horn,Sharply pointed as a thorn;With a neck by yoke unworn,From the which hung down by strings,Balls of cowslips, daisy rings,Interplaced with ribbonings;Faultless every way for shape;Not a straw could him escape,Ever gamesome as an ape,But yet harmless as a sheep.Pardon, Lacon, if I weep;Tears will spring where woes are deep.Now, ai me! ai me! Last nightCame a mad dog, and did bite,Ay, and kill’d my dear delight.
LACON Alack, for grief!THYR. But I’ll be brief.Hence I must, for time doth callMe, and my sad playmates all,To his evening funeral.Live long, Lacon; so adieu!
LACON Mournful maid, farewell to you;Earth afford ye flowers to strew!