Also if any prove 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 mastive curre be kild;
And if not claimd within a twelve month's 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 be forc'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 silver Ladon,
To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption.
Another while he wooes his country wench,
With chaplet crownd and gaudy girlonds dight,
Whose burning lust her modest eye doth quench;
Standing amazed at her heavenly sight,
Beauty doth ravish sense with sweet delight,
Clearing Arcadia with a smoothed browe,
When sun-bright smiles melt flakes of driven snowe.
Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day,
And when night comes drawes homeward to his coate,
Singing a jigge 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 lovely 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 joy;
Scorning a king, he cares for no annoy.
What though with simple cheere he homely fares,
He lives content; a king can doo no more,
Nay, not so much, for kings have manie cares,
But he hath none, except it be that sore
Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore,
The pangs of love. O! who can vanquish Love?
That conquers kingdomes, and the gods above.
Deepe-wounding arrow, hart-consuming fire,
Ruler of reason, slave 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 joy;
By thee Amyntas wept incessantly,
By thee good Rowland liv'd in great annoy;
O cruell, peevish, vylde, blind-seeing boy,
How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see?
If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee.