He was glad, I was woe,

Fortune's change made him so:

When he had left his pretty boy,

Last his sorrow, first his joy.

Weep not my wanton, smile upon my knee;

When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee!

Streaming tears that never stint,

Like pearl drops from a flint,

Fell by course from his eyes,

That one another's place supplies:

Thus he griev'd in every part,

Tears of blood fell from his heart,

When he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not my wanton, smile upon my knee;

When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee!

The wanton smil'd, father wept,

Mother cry'd, baby leapt ;

More he crow'd, more he cry'd,

Nature could not sorrow hide.

He must go, he must kiss

Child and mother, baby bliss:
For he left his pretty boy,

Father's sorrow, father's joy.

Weep not my wanton, smile upon my knee;
When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee!

A PLEASANT ECLOGUE BETWEEN

MONTANUS AND CORIDON.

From "Dr. Lodge's Euphues' Golden Legacy."

CORIDON.

SAY, Shepherd's Boy, what makes thee greet so sore?
Why leaves thy pipe his pleasure and delight?

Young are thy years, thy cheeks with roses dight;
Then sing for joy, sweet swain, and sigh no more.

This milk-white poppy, and this climbing pine, Both promise shade; then sit thee down and sing, And make these woods with pleasant notes to ring, Till Phoebus deign all westward to decline.

MONTANUS.

Ah, Coridon, unmeet is melody

To him whom proud contempt hath overborne:
Slain are my joys by Phebe's bitter scorn;

Far hence my weal, and near my jeopardy.

Love's burning brand is couched in my breast,
Making a Phoenix of my faithful heart;
And though his fury do inforce my smart,
Ah, blithe am I to honour his behest.

Prepar❜d to woes since so my Phebe wills,
My looks dismay'd since Phebe will disdain,
I banish bliss and welcome home my pain;
So streams my tears as showers from Alpine hills.

In Error's mask I blindfold Judgment's eye;

I fetter Reason in the snares of Lust:

I seem secure, yet know not how to trust:

I live by that which makes me living die.

Devoid of rest, companion of distress,

Plague to myself, consumed by my thought, How may my voice or pipe in tune be brought, Since I am reft of solace and delight?

CORIDON.

A laurel lad, what makes thee here to love,

A sugar'd harm, a poison full of pleasure:
A painted shrine full fill'd with rotten treasure,
A heaven in shew, a hell to them that prove.

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?