Batte

Loue is the heauens fayre aspect,loue is the glorie of the earth,Loue only doth our liues direct,loue is our guyder from our birth,

Loue taught my thoughts at first to flie,loue taught mine eyes the way to loue,Loue raysed my conceit so hie,loue framd my hand his arte to proue.

Loue taught my Muse her perfect skill,loue gaue me first to Poesie:Loue is the Soueraigne of my will,loue bound me first to loyalty.

Loue was the first that fram'd my speech,loue was the first that gaue me grace:Loue is my life and fortunes leech,loue made the vertuous giue me place.

Loue is the end of my desire,loue is the loadstarre of my loue,Loue makes my selfe, my selfe admire,loue seated my delights aboue.

Loue placed honor in my brest,loue made me learnings fauoret,Loue made me liked of the best,loue first my minde on virtue set.

Loue is my life, life is my loue,loue is my whole felicity,Loue is my sweete, sweete is my loue,I am in loue, and loue in mee.

Farre in the countrey of ArdenThere wond 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 Dowsabell,a mayden fayre and free:And for she was her fathers heire,Full well she was ycond the leyre,of mickle curtesie.The silke wel couth she twist and twine,And make the fine Marchpine,and with the needle werke,And she couth helpe the priest to sayHis Mattens on a holyday,and sing a Psalme in Kirke.She ware a frocke 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,ywrought full featously.Her feature all as fresh aboue,As is the grasse that grows by Doue,as 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 sweet Cetywall,The hony-suckle, the Harlocke,The Lilly and the Lady-smocke,to decke her summer hall.Thus as she wandred here and there,Ypicking of the bloomed Breere,she chanced to espieA shepheard sitting on a bancke,Like Chanteclere he crowed crancke,and pip'd with merrie glee:He leard his sheepe as he him list,When he would whistle in his fist,to feede about him round:Whilst he full many a caroll sung,Vntill the fields and medowes rung,and that the woods did sound:In fauour this same shepheards swayne,Was like the bedlam Tamburlayne,which helde prowd Kings in awe:But meeke he was as Lamb mought be,Ylike that gentle Abel he,whom his lewd brother slaw.This shepheard ware a sheepe gray cloke,Which was of the finest loke,that could be cut with sheere,His mittens were of Bauzens skinne,His cockers were of Cordiwinhis hood of Meniueere.His aule and lingell in a thong,His tar-boxe on his broad belt hong,his breech of Coyntrie blew:Full crispe and curled were his lockes,His browes as white as Albion rockes,so like a louer true.And pyping still he spent the day,So mery as the Popingay:which liked Dowsabell,That would she ought or would she nought,This lad would neuer from her thought:she in loue-longing fell,At length she tucked vp her frocke,White as the Lilly was her smocke,she drew the shepheard nie,But then the shepheard pyp'd a good,That all his sheepe forsooke their foode,to heare his melodie.Thy sheepe quoth she cannot be leane,That haue a iolly shepheards swayne,the which can pipe so well.Yea but (sayth he) their shepheard may,Jf pyping thus he pine away,in loue of Dowsabell.Of loue fond boy take thou no keepe,Quoth she, looke well vnto thy sheepe,lest they should hap to stray.Quoth he, so had I done full well,Had I not seene fayre Dowsabell,come forth to gather Maye.With that she gan to vaile her head,Her cheekes 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 leaue my summer hall vndight,and all for long of thee.My Coate sayth he, nor yet my foulde,Shall neither sheepe nor shepheard hould,except thou fauour me.Sayth she yet leuer I were dead,Then I should lose my maydenhead,and all for loue of men:Sayth he yet are you too vnkind,If in your heart you cannot finde,to loue vs now and then:And J to thee will be as kinde,As Colin was to Rosalinde,of curtesie the flower;Then will I be as true quoth she,As euer mayden yet might be,vnto her Paramour:With that she bent her snowe-white knee,Downe by the shepheard kneeled shee,and him she sweetely kist.With that the shepheard whoop'd for ioy,Quoth he, ther's neuer shepheards boy,that euer was so blist.

Then this great Vniuerse no lesse,Can serue her prayses to expresse:Betwixt her eies the poles of Loue,The host of heauenly beautyes moue,Depainted in their proper stories,As well the fixd as wandring glories,Which from their proper orbes not goe,Whether they gyre swift or slowe:Where from their lips, when she doth speake,The musick of those sphears do breake,Which their harmonious motion breedeth:From whose cheerfull breath proceedeth:That balmy sweetnes that giues birthTo euery ofspring of the earth.Her shape and cariage of which frameIn forme how well shee beares the same,Is that proportion heauens best treasure,Whereby it doth all poyze and measure,So that alone her happy sightConteynes perfection and delight.

Vppon a bank with roses set about,Where pretty turtles ioyning bil to bill,And gentle springs steale softly murmuring outWashing the foote of pleasures sacred hill:There little loue sore wounded lyes,His bowe and arowes broken,Bedewd with teares from Venus eyesOh greeuous to be spoken.

Beare him my hart slaine with her scornefull eyeWhere sticks the arrowe that poore hart did kill,With whose sharp pile request him ere he die,About the same to write his latest will,And bid him send it backe to mee,At instant of his dying,That cruell cruell shee may seeMy faith and her denying.

His chappell be a mournefull Cypresse Shade,And for a chauntry Philomels sweet lay,Where prayers shall continually be madeBy pilgrim louers passing by that way.With Nymphes and shepheards yearly moaneHis timeles death beweeping,In telling that my hart aloneHath his last will in keeping.

Now fye vpon thee wayward loue,Woe to Venus which did nurse thee,Heauen and earth thy plagues doe proue,Gods and men haue cause to curse thee.What art thou but th' extreamst madnesse,Natures first and only errorThat consum'st our daies in sadnesse,By the minds Continuall terror:Walking in Cymerian blindnesse,In thy courses voy'd of reason.Sharp reproofe thy only kindnesse,In thy trust the highest treason?Both the Nymph and ruder swaine,Vexing with continuall anguish,Which dost make the ould complaineAnd the young to pyne and languishe,Who thee keepes his care doth nurse,That seducest all to folly,Blessing, bitterly doest curse,Tending to destruction wholly:Thus of thee as I began,So againe I make an end,Neither god neither man,Neither faiery, neither feend.

What is Loue but the desireOf the thing that fancy pleaseth?A holy and resistlesse fier,Weake and strong alike that ceaseth,Which not heauen hath power to let,Nor wise nature cannot smother,Whereby Phoebus doth begetteOn the vniuersall mother.That the euerlasting Chaine,Which together al things tied,And vnmooued them retayneAnd by which they shall abide:That concent we cleerely find,All things doth together drawe,And so strong in euery kinde,Subiects them to natures law.Whose hie virtue number teachesIn which euery thing dooth mooue,From the lowest depth that reachesTo the height of heauen aboue:Harmony that wisely found,When the cunning hand doth strikeWhereas euery amorous sound,Sweetly marryes with his like.The tender cattell scarcely takeFrom their damm's the feelds to proue,But ech seeketh out a make,Nothing liues that doth not loue:Not soe much as but the plantAs nature euery thing doth payre,By it if the male it wantDoth dislike and will not beare:Nothing then is like to loueIn the which all creatures be.From it nere let me remooueNor let it remooue from me.

Gorbo, as thou cam'st this wayeBy yonder little hill,Or as thou through the fields didst strayeSawst thou my Daffadill?

Shee's in a frock of Lincolne greeneThe colour maides delightAnd neuer hath her beauty seenBut through a vale of white.

Then Roses richer to beholdThat trim vp louers bowers,The Pansy and the MarigouldTho Phoebus Paramours.

Gorbo. Thou well describ'st the DaffadillIt is not full an howerSince by the spring neare yonder hillI saw that louely flower.

Batte. Yet my faire flower thou didst not meet,Nor news of her didst bring,And yet my Daffadill more sweete,Then that by yonder spring.

Gorbo. I saw a shepheard that doth keepeIn yonder field of Lillies,Was making (as he fed his sheepe)A wreathe of Daffadillies.

Batte. Yet Gorbo thou delud'st me stilMy flower thou didst not see,For know my pretie DaffadillIs worne of none but me.

To shew it selfe but neare her seate,No Lilly is so bould,Except to shade her from the heate,Or keepe her from the colde:

Gorbo. Through yonder vale as I did passe,Descending from the hill,I met a smerking bony lasse,They call her Daffadill:

Whose presence as along she went,The prety flowers did greet,As though their heads they downward bent,With homage to her feete.

And all the shepheards that were nie,From toppe of euery hill,Vnto the vallies lowe did crie,There goes sweet Daffadill.

Gorbo. I gentle shepheard, now with ioyThou all my flockes dost fill,That's she alone kind shepheards boy,Let vs to Daffadill.

Motto. Tell me thou skilfull shepheards swayne,Who's yonder in the vally set?Perkin. O it is she whose sweets do stayne,The Lilly, Rose, or violet.

Motto. Why doth the Sunne against his kind,Stay his bright Chariot in the skies,Perkin. He pawseth almost stroken blind,With gazing on her heauenly eies:

Motto. Why doe thy flocks forbeare their foode,Which somtyme was their chiefe delight,Perkin. Because they neede no other good,That liue in presence of her sight:

Motto. How com those flowers to florish still,Not withering with sharpe winters breath?Perkin. She hath robd nature of her skill,And comforts all things with her breath:

Motto. Why slide these brookes so slow away,As swift as the wild Roe that were,Perkin. O muse not shepheard that they stay,When they her heauenly voice do heare.

Motto. From whence com all these goodly swaynsAnd lonely nimphs attir'd in greene,Perkin. From gathering garlands on the playnes,To crowne thy Siluia shepheards queen.

Motto. The sun that lights this world below,Flocks, Brooks and flowers, can witnesse bear,Perkin. These shepheards, and these nymphs do know,Thy Syluia is as chast, as fayre.

Rowland. Of her pure eyes (that now is seen)Chorus. Help vs to sing that be her faithful swainsRow: O she alone the shepheards Queen,Cho: Her Flocke that leades,The goddesse of these medes,These mountaines and these plaines.

Row: Those eyes of hers that are more cleere,Cho: Then silly shepheards can in song expresse,Row: Then be his beams that rule the yeare,Cho: Fy on that prayse,In striuing things to rayse:That doth but make them lesse.

Row: That doe the flowery spring prolong,Cho: So much the earth doth in her presence ioy,Row: And keeps the plenteous summer young:Cho: And doth asswageThe wrathfull winters rageThat would our flocks destroy.

Row: Ioue saw her brest that naked lay,Cho: A sight alone was fit for Ioue to see:Row: And swore it was the milkie way,Cho: Of all most pure,The path (we vs assure)Vnto Ioues court to be.

Row: He saw her tresses hanging downe.Cho: That too and fro were mooued with the ayre,Row: And sayd that Ariadnes crowne,Cho: With those compar'd:The gods should not regardNor Berenices hayre.

Row: When she hath watch'd my flockes by night,Cho: O happie were the flockes that she did keepe:Row: They neuer needed Cynthia's light,Cho: That soone gaue place,Amazed with her grace,That did attend thy sheepe.

Row: Aboue where heauens hie glories are,Cho: When as she shall be placed in the skies,Row: She shall be calld the shepheards starre,Cho: And euermore,We shepheards will adore,Her setting and her rise.