A gain in seeming, shadow'd still with want;
A broken staff which Folly doth uphold:
A flower that fades with every frosty cold,
An orient rose sprung from a wither'd plant.

A minute's joy to gain a world of grief;
A subtile net to snare the idle mind;
A seeming scorpion, yet in seeming blind;
A poor rejoice, a plague without relief.

For thee, Montanus, follow mine aread,

Whom age hath taught the trains that Fancy useth; Leave foolish Love, for Beauty Wit abuseth,

And drowns, by Folly, Virtue's springing seed.

MONTANUS.

So blames the child the flame because it burns,
And bird the snare because it doth entrap;

And fools true love because of sorry hap,

And sailors curse the ship that overturns.

But would the child forbear to play with flame,
And birds beware to trust the fowler's gin;

And fools foresee before they fall in sin,

And masters guide their ships in better frame.

The child would praise the fire because it warms,

And birds rejoice to see the fowler fail;

And fools prevent before their plagues prevail, And sailors bless the barks that save from harms.

Ah, Coridon, though many be thy years,
And crooked Eld hath some experience left,
Yet is thy mind of judgment quite bereft,
In view of Love, whose power in me appears.

The ploughman little wots to turn the
pen,
Or bookman skills to guide the ploughman's cart;
Nor can the cobler count the terms of art,

Nor base men judge the thoughts of mighty men.

Nor wither'd Age (unmeet for Beauty's guide,

Uncapable of Love's impression)
Discourse of that, whose choice possession
May never to so base a man betide.

But I (whom Nature makes of tender mould, And Youth most pliant yields to Fancy's fire) Do build my haven and heaven on sweet desire; On sweet desire more dear to me than gold.

Think I of Love? Oh how my lines aspire!
Hast thou the Muses to embrace my brows,
And hem my temples in with laurel boughs,
And fill my brains with chaste and holy fire?

Then leave my lines their homely equipage,
Mounted beyond the circle of the sun;
Amaz'd I read the style when I have done,
And her I love that sent that heavenly rage.

Of Phebe then, of Phebe then I sing,
Drawing the purity of all the spheres,
The pride of earth, or what in heaven appears,
Her honour'd face, and fame to light to bring.

In fluent members, and in pleasant veins,

I rob both sea and earth of all their state;
To praise her parts I charm both time and fate,
To bless the Nymph that yields me love-sick pains.

My sheep are turn'd to thoughts, whom froward will
Guides in the labyrinth of restless Love;
Fear lends them pasture wheresoe'er they move,
And by their death their life renounceth still.

My sheep-hook is my pen, my oaten reed
My paper where my many woes are written:
Thus silly swain (with Love and Fancy bitten)
I trace the plaints of pain in woeful weed.

Yet are my cares, my broken sleeps, my tears,
My dreams, my doubt, for Phebe sweet to me;

Who waiteth heaven in Sorrow's vale must be,
And glory shines where danger most appears.

Then, Coridon, although I blithe me not,

Blame me not man, since Sorrow is

my

sweet:

So willeth Love, and Phebe thinks it meet,

And kind Montanus liketh well his lot.

CORIDON.

Oh stayless youth, by Error so misguided,
Where Will prescribeth laws to perfect Wits,
Where Reason mourns, and Blame in triumph sits,
And Folly poisoneth all that Time provided.

With willful blindness blear'd, prepar'd to shame, Prone to neglect occasion when she smiles;

Alas that Love by fond and froward guiles

Should make thee track the path to endless blame.

Ah, my Montanus! cursed is the charm,
That hath bewitched so thy youthful eyes;
Leave off in time to like these vanities;
Be forward to thy good, and flee thy harm.

As many bees as Hebla daily shields,
As many fry as fleet on ocean's face,

As

many herds as on the earth do trace,

As many flowers as deck the fragrant fields,

As many stars as glorious heaven contains,
As many storms as wayward winter weeps,
As many plagues as hell inclosed keeps;
So many griefs in Love, so many pains.

Suspicion, thoughts, desires, opinions, prayers, Mislikes, misdeeds, fond joys, and feigned peace, Illusions, dreams, great pains, and small increase, Vows, hope, acceptance, scorns, and deep despairs.

Truce, war, and woe, do wait at Beauty's gate;
Time lost, laments, reports, and privy grudge,
And last, fierce Love is but a partial judge,
Who yields for service, shame: for friendship, hate.

MONTANUS.

All adder-like I stop mine ears, fond swain,

So charm no more, for I will never change!
Call home thy flock betime that stragling range,

For, lo! the sun declineth hence amain.