FARRE in the countrey of Arden,
There won'd a knight, hight Cassemen,
As bolde as Isenbras:
Fell was he, and eger bent,
In battell and in tournament,
As was the good Sir Topas.

He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter cleaped Dowsabel,
A mayden fayre and free :
And for she was her fathers heire,
Full well she was y-cond the leyre
Of mickle curtesie.

The silke well couth she twist and twine,
And make the fine march pine,

And with the needle werke:
And she couth helpe the priest to say
His mattins on a holy-day,

And sing a psalme in kirke.

She ware a frock of frolicke greene,
Might well beseeme a mayden queene,
Which seemly was to see;

A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the colombine,
Y-wrought full featously.

Her features all as fresh above,
As is the grasse that growes by Dove;
And lyth as lasse of Kent.

Her skin as soft as Lemster wooll,
As white as snow on Peakish Hull,
Or swanne that swims in Trent.

This mayden in a morne betime
Went forth, when May was in her prime,
To get sweete cetywall,
The honey-suckle, the harlocke,
The lilly and the lady-smocke,

To deck her summer hall.

Thus, as she wandred here and there,
Y-picking of the bloomed breere,

She chanced to espie

A shepheard sitting on a bancke,
Like chanteclere he crowed crancke,
And pip'd full merrilie.

He lear'd his sheepe as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feede about him round;
Whilst he full many a carroll sung,
Untill the fields and medowes rung,
And all the woods did sound.

In favour this same shepheards swayne
Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,1
Which helde prowd kings in awe :
But meeke he was as lamb mought be ;
An innocent of ill as he 2

Whom his lewd brother slaw.

The shepheard ware a sheepe-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke,

That could he cut with sheere:
His mittens were of bauzens skinne,
His cockers were of cordiwin,

His hood of meniveere.

His aule and lingell in a thong,
His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,
His breech of coyntrie blewe:
Full crispe and curled were his lockes,
His browes as white as Albion rocks:
So like a lover true,

And pyping still he spent the day,
So merry as the popingay;

Which liked Dowsabel:

That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought;
She in love-longing fell.

At length she tucked up her frocke,
White as a lilly was her smocke,

She drew the shepheard nye;

But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,
That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,

To heare his melodye.

Alluding to "Tamburlaine the great, or the Scythian Shepheard," 1590, 8vo., an old ranting play ascribed to Marlowe.

2 Sc. Abel.

Thy sheepe, quoth she, cannot be leane,
That have a jolly shepherds swayne,
The which can pipe so well:

Yea but, sayth he, their shepheard may,
If pyping thus he pine away

In love of Dowsabel.

Of love, fond boy, take thou no keepe,
Quoth she; looke thou unto thy sheepe,
Lest they should hap to stray.
Quoth he, So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fayre Dowsabell
Come forth to gather maye.

With that she gan to vaile her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she sayd:

With that the shepheard gan to frowne,
He threw his pretie pypes adowne,
And on the ground him layd.
Sayth she, I may not stay till night,
And leave my summer-hall undight,
And all for long of thee.

My coate, sayth he, nor yet my foulde
Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,
Except thou favour mee.

Sayth she, Yet lever were I dead,
Then I should lose my mayden-head,
And all for love of men.

Sayth he, Yet are you too unkind,
If in your heart you cannot finde
To love us now and then.

And I to thee will be as kinde,
As Colin was to Rosalinde,

Of curtesie the flower.

Then will I be as true, quoth she,

As ever mayden yet might be

· Unto her paramour.

With that she bent her snow-white knee, Down by the shepheard kneeled shee, And him she sweetely kist:

With that the shepheard whoop'd for joy, Quoth he, Ther's never shepheards boy That ever was so blist.

VIII. THE FAREWELL TO LOVE

From Beaumont and Fletcher's play, entitled "The Lover's Progress," act iii. sc. I.

ADIEU, fond love, farewell you wanton powers;
I am free again.

Thou dull disease of bloud and idle hours,
Betwitching pain,

Fly to fools, that sigh away their time:
My nobler love to heaven doth climb,
And there behold beauty still young,

That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy,
Immortal sweetness by fair angels sung,

And honoured by eternity and joy :

There lies my love, thither my hopes aspire,
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.

IX. ULYSSES AND THE SYREN

This affords a pretty poetical contest between pleasure and honour. It is found at the end of " Hymen's triumph: a pastoral tragicomedie," written by Daniel, and printed among his works, 4to. 1623.1 Daniel, who was a contemporary of Drayton's, and is said to have been poet laureat to Queen Elizabeth, was born in 1562, and died in 1619. Anne Countess of Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery (to whom Daniel had been tutor), has inserted a small portrait of him in a full length picture of herself, preserved at Appleby Castle, in Cumberland.

This little poem is the rather selected for a specimen of Daniel's poetic powers, as it is omitted in the later edition of his works, 2 vols. 12mo. 1718.

SYREN

COME, worthy Greeke, Ulysses come,
Possesse these shores with me,
The windes and seas are troublesome,
And here we may be free.

Here may we sit and view their toyle,
That travaile in the deepe,

Enjoy the day in mirth the while,

And spende the night in sleepe.

1 In this edition it is collated with a copy printed at the end of his "Tragedie of Cleopatra." London, 1607, 12m0.

ULYSSES

Faire nymph, if fame or honour were
To be attain'd with ease,

Then I would come and rest with thee,
And leave such toiles as these:
But here it dwels, and here must I
With danger seek it forth;
To spend the time luxuriously
Becomes not men of worth.

SYREN

Ulysses, O be not deceiv'd
With that unreall name:
This honour is a thing conceiv'd,
And rests on others' fame.
Begotten only to molest

Our peace, and to beguile
(The best thing of our life) our rest,
And give us up to toyle!

ULYSSES

Delicious nymph, suppose there were
Nor honor, nor report,

Yet manlinesse would scorne to weare
The time in idle sport:
For toyle doth give a better touch
To make us feele our joy;

And ease findes tediousnes, as much
As labour yeelds annoy.

SYREN

Then pleasure likewise seemes the shore,
Whereto tendes all your toyle ;
Which you forego to make it more,
And perish oft the while.

Who may disport them diversly,

Find never tedious day;

And ease may have variety,
As well as action may.

ULYSSES

But natures of the noblest frame

These toyles and dangers please; And they take comfort in the same, As much as you in ease: