The Shepheards Content. OR The happines of a harmles life. Written vpon Occasion of the former Subiect.

OF all the kindes of common Countrey life,
Me thinkes a Shepheards life is most Content;
His State is quiet Peace, deuoyd 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 ouer silly Sheepe;
He is not vnto Iealozie inclinde,
(Thrice happie Man) he knowes not how to weepe;
Whil'st I the Treble in deepe sorrowes keepe:
I cannot keepe the Meane; for why (alas)
Griefes haue no meane, though I for meane doo 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 neuer 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 subiects gainst their Soueraigne
(Like hollow harts) vnnaturally 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 vnder, than it was before.


Thus is he neuer full of sweete Content,
But either this or that his ioy debars:
Now Noble-men gainst Noble-men are bent,
Now Gentlemen and others fall at iarrs:
Thus is his Countrey full of ciuill 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 sheep-hooke knaps them on the pates,
Schooling his tender Lambs from wanton gates:
Beasts are more kinde than Men, Sheepe seeke not blood
But countrey caytiues kill their Countreyes good.


The Courtier he fawn's for his Princes fauour,
In hope to get a Princely ritch Reward;
His tongue is tipt with honey for to glauer;
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 braue man at Armes,
First plies his Booke, last fights for Countries Peace;
Th'one feares Obliuion, th'other fresh Alarmes:
His paines nere ende, his trauailes neuer 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, liues 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 trauell 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 waues their rigorous rage did stay,
(When being within their cruell powers of late,
The Seas did seeme to pittie his estate)
But yet he neuer can recouer health,
Because his ioy was drowned with his wealth.


The painfull Plough-swaine and the Husband-man
Rise vp each morning by the breake of day,
Taking what toyle and drudging paines they can,
And all is for to get a little stay;
And yet they cannot put their care away:
When Night is come, their cares begin afresh,
Thinking vpon their Morrowes busines.


Thus euerie man is troubled with vnrest,
From rich to poore, from high to low degree:
Therefore I thinke that man is truly blest,
That neither cares for wealth nor pouertie,
But laughs at Fortune and her foolerie;
That giues rich Churles great store of golde and fee,
And lets poore Schollers liue in miserie,


O fading Branches of decaying Bayes
Who now will water your dry-wither'd Armes?
Or where is he that sung the louely Layes
Of simple Shepheards in their Countrey Farmes?
Ah he is dead the cause of all our harmes:
And with him dide my ioy and sweete delight;
The cleare to Clowdes, the Day is turnd to Night.


SYDNEY, The Syren of this latter Age;
SYDNEY, The Blasing-starre of Englands glory;
SYDNEY, The Wonder of the wise and sage;
SYDNEY, The Subiect of true Vertues story:
This Syren, Starre, this Wonder, and this Subiect;
Is dumbe, dim, gone, and mard by Fortunes Obiect.


And thou my sweete Amintas vertuous minde,
Should I forgetthy Learning or thy Loue;
Well might I be accounted but vnkinde,
Whose pure affection I so oft did proue:
Might my poore Plaints hard stones to pitty moue;
His losse should be lamented of each Creature,
So great his Name, so gentle was his Nature.


But sleepe his soule in sweet Elysium,
(The happy Hauen of eternall rest:)
And let me to my former matter come,
Prouing by Reason, Shepheards life is best,
Because he harbours Vertue in his Brest;
And is content (the chiefest thing of all)
With any fortune that shall him befall.


He sits all Day lowd-piping on a Hill,
The whilst his flocke about him daunce apace,
His hart with ioy, his eares with Musique fill:
Anon a bleating Weather beares the Bace,
A Lambe the Treble; and to his disgrace
Another answers like a middle Meane:
Thus euery one to beare a Part are faine.


Like a great King he rules a little Land,
Still making Statutes, and ordayning Lawes;
Which if they breake, he beates them with his Wand:
He doth defend them from the greedy Iawes
Of rau'ning Woolues, and Lyons bloudy Pawes.
His Field, his Realme; his Subiects are his Sheepe;
Which he doth still in due obedience keepe.


First he ordaines by Act of Parlament,
(Holden by custome in each Country Towne)
That if a sheepe (with any bad intent)
Presume to breake the neighbour Hedges downe,
Or haunt strange Pastures that be not his owne;
He shall be pounded for his lustines,
Vntill his Master finde out some redres.


Also if any proue a Strageller
From his owne fellowes in a forraine field,
He shall be taken for a wanderer,
And forc'd himselfe immediatly to yeeld,
Or with a wyde-mouth'd Mastiue Currre be kild.
And if not claimd within a twelue-months space,
He shall remaine with Land-lord of the place.


Or if one stray to feede far from the rest,
He shall be pincht by his swift pye-bald Curre;
If any by his fellowes be opprest,
The wronger (for he doth all wrong abhorre)
Shall be well bangd so long as he can sturre.
Because he did anoy his harmeles Brother,
That meant not harme to him nor any other.


And last of all, if any wanton Weather,
With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine,
He shall beforc'd t'abide cold frosty weather,
And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine,
Till his new fleece begins to grow againe:
And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goe,
without a new Coate all the Winter throw.


Thus doth he keepe them still in awfull feare,
And yet allowes them liberty inough;
So deare to him their welfare doth appeare,
That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough,
He combs and trims them with a Rampicke bough,
Washing them in the streames of siluer Ladon,
To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.


Another while he wooes his Country Wench
(With Chaplets crownd, and gaudy girlonds dight)
Whose burning Lust her modest eye doth quench,
Standing amazed at her heauenly sight,
(Beauty doth rauish Sense with sweet Delight)
Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed Browe
When Sun-bright smiles melts flakes of driuen snowe.


Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day,
And when Night comes drawes homeward to his Coate,
Singing a Ijgge or merry Roundelay;
(For who sings commonly so merry a Noate,
As he that cannot chop or change a groate.)
And in the winter Nights (his chiefe desire)
He turnes a Crabbe or Cracknell in the fire.


He leads his Wench a Country Horne-pipe Round,
About a May-pole on a Holy-day;
Kissing his louely Lasse (with Garlands Crownd)
With whoopping heigh-ho singing Care away;
Thus doth he passe the merry month of May:
And all th'yere after in delight and ioy,
(Scorning a King) he cares for no annoy.


What though with simple cheere he homely sares?
He liues content, a King can doo no more;
Nay not so much, for Kings haue manie cares:
But he hath none; except it be that sore
Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore,
The pangs of Loue. O! who can vanquish Loue,
That conquers Kingdomes, and the Gods aboue?


Deepe-wounding Arrow, hart-consuming Fire;
Ruler of Reason, slaue to tyrant Beautie;
Monarch of harts, Fuell of fond desire,
Prentice to Folly, foe to fained Duetie,
Pledge of true Zeale, Affections moitie;
If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee,
(Alas) how can a silly Soule resist thee?


By thee great Collin lost his libertie,
By thee sweet Astrophel forwent his ioy.
By thee Amyntas wept incessantly,
By thee good Rowland liu'd in great annoy;
O cruell, peeuish, vylde, blind-seeing Boy:
How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?
(If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee).


A Shepheard loues no ill, but onely thee;
He hath no care, but onely by thy causing:
Why doost thou shoot thy cruell shasts at mee?
Giue me some respite, some short time of pausing:
Still my sweet Loue with bitter lucke th'art sawcing:
Oh, if thou hast a minde to shew thy might;
Kill mightie Kings, and not a wretched wight.


Yet (O Enthraller of infranchizd harts)
At my poore hart if thou wilt needs be ayming,
Doo me this fauour show me both thy Darts,
That I may chuse the best for my harts mayming,
(A free consent is priuiledgd from blaming:
Then pierce his hard hart with thy golden Arrow,
That thou my wrong, that he may rue my sorrow.


But let mee feele the force of thy lead Pyle,
What should I doo with loue when I am old?
I know not how to flatter, fawne, or smyle;
Then stay thy hand, O cruell Bow-man hold:
For if thou strik'ft me with thy dart of gold,
I sweare to thee (by Ioues immortall curse)
I haue more in my hart, than in my purse.


The more I weepe, the more he bends his Brow;
For in my hart a golden Shaft I finde:
(Cruell, vnkinde) and wilt thou leaue me so?
Can no remorce nor pittie moue thy minde?
Is Mercie in the Heauens so hard to finde?
Oh, then it is no meruaile that on earth,
Of kinde Remorce there is so great a dearth,


How happie were a harmles Shepheards life,
If he had neuer knowen what Loue did meane:
But now fond Loue in euery place is rife,
Staining the purest Soule with spots vncleane,
Making thicke purses, thin; fat bodies, leane:
Loue is a fiend, a fire, a heauen, a hell;
Where pleasure, paine, and sad repentance dwell.


There are so manie Danaes now a dayes,
That loue for lucre; paine for gaine is sold:
No true affection can their fancie please,
Except it be a Ioue to raine downe gold
Into their laps, which they wyde open hold:
If legempone comes, he is receau'd,
When Uix haud habeo is of hope bereau'd.


Thus haue I showed in my Countrey vaine
The sweet Content that Shepheards still inioy;
The mickle pleasure, and the little paine
That euer doth awayte the Shepheards Boy:
His hart is neuer troubled with annoy.
He is a King, for he commaunds his Sheepe;
He knowes no woe, for he doth seldome weepe.


He is a Courtier, for he courts his Loue;
He is a Scholler, for he sings sweet Ditties;
He is a Souldier, for he wounds doth proue;
He is the same of Townes, the shame of Citties:
He scornes false Fortune, but true Vertue pitties.
He is a Gentleman, because his nature
Is kinde and affable to euerie Creature.


Who would not then a simple Shepheard bee,
Rather than be a mightie Monarch made?
Since he inioyes such perfect libertie,
As neuer can decay, nor neuer fade:
He seldome sits in dolefull Cypresse shade,
But liues in hope, in ioy, in peace, in blisse:
Ioying all ioy with this content of his.


But now good-fortune lands my little Boate
Vpon the shoare of his desired rest:
Now must I leaue (awhile) my rurall noate,
To thinke on him whom my soule loueth best;
He that can make the most vnhappie, blest:
In whose sweete lap Ile lay me downe to sleepe,
And neuer wake till Marble-stones shall weepe.
 

FINIS.