Nor he, nor any noble-man One while in melancholy fits And still against the kings restraint At length the high controller Love, Imbased him from lordlines Into a kitchen drudge, That so at least of life or death Accesse so had to see and speak, He did his love bewray, And tells his birth: her answer was, Meane while the king did beate his braines, His booty to atchieve, Nor caring what became of her, So he by her might thrive; At last his resolution was Some pessant should her wive. And (which was working to his wish) He did observe with joye How Curan, whom he thought a drudge, Scapt many an amorous toye.1 The construction is, 'How that many an amorous toy, or foolery of love, 'scaped Curan;' i.e. escaped from him, being off his guard. The king, perceiving such his veine, Lest that the basenesse of the man Should lett, perhaps, his will. Assured therefore of his love, The lover was, the king himselfe The lady resolute from love, Unkindly takes that he Should barre the noble, and unto So base a match agree: And therefore shifting out of doores, Departed thence by stealth; Preferring povertie before A dangerous life in wealth. When Curan heard of her escape, The anguish in his hart Was more than much, and after her Forgetfull of himselfe, his birth, Nor meanes he after to frequent But solitarily to live Amongst the country grownes. 75 80 85 90 95 A brace of years he lived thus, Well pleased so to live, And shepherd-like to feed a flocke So wasting love, by worke, and want, The worser of the twaine. A country wench, a neatherds maid, Did feed her drove: and now on her He borrowed on the working daies His holy russets oft, And of the bacon's fat, to make And least his tarbox should offend, He left it at the folde: Sweete growte, or whig, his bottle had, As much as it might holde. A sheeve of bread as browne as nut, And cheese as white as snow, And wildings, or the seasons fruit He did in scrip bestow. And whilst his py-bald curre did sleepe, And sheep-hooke lay him by, On hollow quilles of oten straw He piped melody. Ver. 112, i.e. holy-day russets. 100 105 110 115 120 125 But when he spyed her his saint, He wip'd his greasie shooes, And clear'd the drivell from his beard, 'I have, sweet wench, a peece of cheese, His lardrie) and in [yeaning] see Yon crumpling ewe,' quoth he, 'Did twinne this fall, and twin shouldst thou, If I might tup with thee. Thou art too elvish, faith thou art, Too elvish and too coy: Am I, I pray thee, beggarly, I wis I am not yet that thou Doest hold me in disdaine Is brimme abroad, and made a gybe There be as quaint (at least that thinke The match, that thou, I wot not why, Maist, but mislik'st to have. How wouldst thou match? (for well I wot, Thou art a female) I, Her know not here that willingly With maiden-head would die. Ver. 135, Eating, PCC.-Ver. 153, Her know I not her that. 1602. 130 135 140 145 150 The plowmans labour hath no end, And he a churle will prove: The craftsman hath more worke in hand Then fitteth unto love: The merchant, traffiquing abroad, Suspects his wife at home: A youth will play the wanton; and Then chuse a shepheard: with the sun He merrie chat can hold; And with the sun doth folde againe; Then jogging home betime, He turnes a crab, or turnes a round, Or sings some merry ryme. Nor lacks he gleefull tales, whilst round And sitteth singing care away, 155 160 165 170 Till he to bed be got: Theare sleepes he soundly all the night, 175 Forgetting morrow-cares: Nor feares he blasting of his corne, Nor uttering of his wares; Or stormes by seas, or stirres on land, Or cracke of credit lost: 180 Ver. 169, i.e. roasts a crab, or apple.-Ver. 171, to tell, whilst round the bole doth trot. Ed. 1597. |