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His head on hand, his elbow on his knee,

And tears, like dew, be-drencht upon his face,
His face as sad as any Swains' might be:

His thoughts and dumps befitting well the place,
Even then,

When thus,

Menalcas sate in passions all alone:

He sighed then, and thus he 'gan to moan.

"I that fed flocks upon Thessalia plains,

And bade my lambs to feed on daffodil;

That liv'd on milk and curds, poor Shepherds' gains,

And merry sate, and pip'd upon a pleasant hill:

Even then,

When thus,

I sate secure, and fear'd not Fortune's ire,
Mine eyes eclipst, fast blinded by Desire.

Then lofty thoughts began to lift my mind;
I grudg'd and thought my fortune was too low;
A Shepherd's life 'twas base and out of kind;
The tallest cedars have the fairest grow.

Even then,

When thus,

Pride did intend the sequel of my ruth,

Began the faults and follies of my youth.

I left the fields, and took me to the town;

Fold sheep who list; the hook was cast away;
Menalcas would not be a country clown,

Nor Shepherd's weeds, but garments far more gay.
Even then,

When thus,

Aspiring thoughts did follow after ruth,
Began the faults and follies of my youth.

My suits were silk, my talk was all of state;
I strecht beyond the compass of my sleeve;
The bravest courtier was Menalcas' mate;
Spend what I would, I never thought on grief.
Even then,

When thus,

I lasht out lavish, then began my ruth;

And then I felt the follies of my youth.

I cast mine

eye on every wanton face,

And straight Desire did hail me on to Love;
Then, Lover-like, pray'd for Venus' grace,

That she my mistress' deep affects might move.

Even then,

When thus,

Love trapt me in the fatal bands of ruth,

Began the faults and follies of my youth.

No cost I spar'd to please my Mistress' eye,
No time ill-spent in presence of her sight;
Yet oft we frown'd, and then her love must die;
But when she smil'd, oh, then a happy wight;
Even then,

When thus,

Desire did draw me on to deem of ruth;

Began the faults and follies of my youth.

The day in poems often did I pass,

The night in sighs and sorrows for her grace;

And she as fickle as the brittle glass,

Held sun-shine showers within her flattering face. Even then,

When thus,

I spy'd the woes that womens' loves ensu'th;

I saw, and loath the follies of my youth.

I noted oft that Beauty was a blaze;

I saw that Love was but a heap of cares,

That such as stood as deer do at the gaze,

And sought their wealth amongst Affection's thares. Even such,

I saw,

Which hot pursuit did follow after ruth,

And fostered up the follies of their youth.

Thus clogg'd with Love, with passions and with grief,

I saw the country life had least molest;

I felt a wound and fain would have relief,

And this resolv'd I thought would fall out best.
Even then,

When thus,

I felt my senses almost sold to ruth,

I thought to leave the follies of my youth.

To flocks again, away the wanton town,
Fond pride avaunt, give me the Shepherd's hook,
A coat of grey, I'll be a country clown;
Mine eye shall scorn on Beauty for to look:

No more
Ado:

Both Pride and Love are ever pain’d with ruth,

And therefore farewell the follies of my youth."

The Tract, from whence these Poems are
taken, concludes thus:

"THUS, Gentlemen, have I presented you with my 'Mourning Garment:' though a rough thread, and a coarse dye: yet the wool is good. If any Gentleman

wear it, and find it so warm, that it make him sweat out all wanton desires, then,

O me fœlicem et fortunatum.

It may be thought the shape seem bad, yet the operation may be better, and seem secret; virtue may be hidden in so ragged a garment. Diogenes' cloak would make a man a cynic, and if my robe could make a man civil, what care I, though I sat with him and delivered precepts out of a tub: scorn it not; Elias' garment was but a mantle, and yet it doubled the spirit upon Elizeus: reject not this, be it never so base; it is a mourning suit; if you make the worst of it, wear it as the Ninivites did their sackcloth, and repent with them; and I have played the good tailor. I hope there will be none so fond as to measure the matter by the man, or to proportion the contents of my Pamphlet by the former course of my fond life; that were as extreme folly as to refuse the rose because of the prickles, or to make light esteem of honey because the bee hath a sting. What? Horace writ wanton Poems, yet the gravest embraced his Odes and his Satires. Martial had many lacivious verses, yet none rejected his honest sentences. So I hope, if I have been thought as wanton as Horace, or as full of amours as Ovid: yet you will vouchsafe of my 'Mourning Garment,' for that it is the first fruits of my new labours, and the last

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