This speech of Halcius turn'd the tide,
And brought it so about,

That all upon the fisher cried,

That he would bear it out.

Him for the speech he made to clap,

Who lent him not a hand?

And said 't would be the waters' hap
Quite to put down the land.

This while Melanthus silent sits,
(For so the shepherd hight)

And having heard these dainty wits,

Each pleading for his right;

To hear them honour'd in this wise,

His patience doth provoke,

When, "For a shepherd room", he cries,

And for himself thus spoke:

Melanthus.

"Well fisher, you have done, and forester, for you Your tale is neatly told, s' are both's, to give you due. And now my turn comes next; then hear a shepherd

speak.

My watchfulness and care gives day scarce leave to break
But to the fields I haste, my folded flock to see,
Where when I find, nor wolf nor fox hath injured me,
I to my bottle straight, and soundly baste my throat;
Which done, some country song or roundelay I rote
So merrily, that to the music that I make,

I force the lark to sing ere she be well awake.

Then Ball my cut-tail'd cur and I begin to play,

He o'er my sheep-hook leaps, now th' one, now th' other

way,

Then on his hinder feet he doth himself advance,

I tune, and to my note my lively dog doth dance;

Then whistle in my fist, my fellow swains to call,
Down go our hooks and scrips, and we to nine-holes1

fall;

At dust-point, or at quoits, else are we at it hard,

All false and cheating games we shepherds are debarr'd. Surveying of my sheep, if ewe or wether look

As though it were amiss, or with my cur or crook

I take it, and when once I find what it doth ail,

It hardly hath that hurt, but that my skill can heal.
And when my careful eye I cast upon my sheep,

I sort them in my pens, and sorted so I keep:
Those that are bigg'st of bone, I still reserve for breed,
My cullings3 I put off, or for the chapman feed.
When th' evening doth approach I to my bagpipe take,
And to my grazing flocks such music then I make,
That they forbear to feed; then me a king you see,
I playing go before, my subjects follow me.
My bell-wether most brave, before the rest doth stalk,
The father of the flock, and after him doth walk
My writhen-headed ram, with posies crown'd in pride
Fast to his crooked horns with ribbons neatly tied.
And at our shepherds' board that's cut out of the ground,
My fellow swains and I together at it round

With green cheese, clouted cream, with flawns and custards stored,

Whigs, cyder, and with whey, I domineer a lord.

When sheering time is come I to the river drive

My goodly well fleeced flocks, (by pleasure thus I thrive),

turf, in which balls See A. B. Gomme,

1 nine-holes, a game, played on a board or the were rolled into nine holes, as in modern bagatelle. Traditional Games, s. v. It is not the same as the 'nine men's morris' of Midsummer Night's Dream.

2 dust-point, a game in which boys put their points in a heap and threw stones at them. It is sometimes identified in error with push-pin. See A. B. Gomme, Traditional Games, s.v.

3 cullings, inferior sheep.

B whig, a drink made of whey.

4 flawns, a kind of custard.

Which being wash'd at will, upon the sheering day,
My wool I forth in locks fit for the winder lay,
Which upon lusty heaps into my cote I heave,
That in the handling feels as soft as any sleave;
When every ewe two lambs that yeaned hath that year,
About her new-shorn neck a chaplet then doth wear
My tar-box, and my scrip, my bagpipe at my back,
My sheep-hook in my hand, what can I say I lack?
He that a scepter sway'd, a sheep-hook in his hand
Hath not disdain'd to have; for shepherds then I
stand.

Then forester, and you my fisher, cease your strife,
I say your shepherd leads your only merry life.”

They had not cried the forester,

And fisher up before,

So much: but now the nymphs prefer

The shepherd ten times more,

And all the ging1 goes on his side,
Their minion him they make,
To him themselves they all apply,
And all his party take;

Till some in their discretion cast,
Since first the strife begun,

In all that from them there had past

None absolutely won;

Their equal honour they should share;

And their deserts to show,

For each a garland they prepare,

Which they on them bestow,

Of all the choicest flowers that were

Which purposely they gather,

With which they crown them, parting there

As they came first together.

1 ging, company.

JOHN FLETCHER.

(1579-1625.)

LXXII. THE PRIEST'S EVENING SONG.

All the extracts are taken from The Faithful Shepherdess, written about 1608-9, perhaps for performance by the Queen's Revels children. It was published (before 1610) as 'by John Fletcher', which is probably correct, although it is spoken of in Jonson's Conversations with Drummond, as by Fletcher and Beaumont. This is Act ii. Scene 2.

A Priest of Pan speaks.

SHEPHERDS all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads:
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling
The dead Night from underground;
At whose rising mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his lovèd flock;

And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and, ere day,
Bear a lamb or kid away;

Or the crafty thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.
To secure yourself from these,
Be not too secure in ease;
Let one eye his watches keep,
Whilst the other eye doth sleep;
So you shall good shepherds prove,
And for ever hold the love

Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers,
And soft silence, fall in numbers
On your eyelids! So, farewell:

Thus I end my evening's knell.

LXXIII. THE PRIEST'S MORNING SONG.

From Act v. Scene I.

Priest of Pan.

SHEPHERDS, rise, and shake off sleep!
See, the blushing morn doth peep
Through the windows, whilst the sun
To the mountain tops is run,

Gilding all the vales below

With his rising flames, which grow
Greater by his climbing still.

Up, ye lazy grooms, and fill

Bag and bottle for the field!
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lay longest, that she may
Go without a friend all day;
Then reward your dogs, and pray
Pan to keep you from decay:
So unfold, and then away!