Know you, or can you guesse, my merry men,

What 'tis that keepes your Master Robin-hood

So long both from his Marian, and the Wood?

Forsooth, Madam, hee will be here by noone,

And prayes it of your bounty as a boone,

That you by then have kild him Venison some,

To feast his jolly friends, who hether come

In threaves to frolick with him, and make cheare;

Here's Little Iohn hath harbord you a Deere,

I see by his tackling.

And a Hart of ten,

I trow hee he, Madam, or blame your men:

For by his Slot, his Entries, and his Port,

His Frayings, Fewmets, he doth promise sport,

And standing 'fore the Dogs; hee beares a head,

Large, and well beam'd: with all rights somm'd, and spred.

Let's rowse him quickly, and lay on the Hounds.

Scathlock is ready with them on the grounds;

So is his brother Scarlet: now they'ave found

His Layre, they have him sure within the pound.

Away then, when my Robin bids a Feast,

'Twere sinne in Marian to defraud a Guest.

And I, the Chaplaine, here am left to be

Steward to day, and charge you all in fee,

To d'on your Liveries; see the Bower drest;

And fit the fine devises for the Feast:

You George must care to make the Baldrick trim,

And Garland that must crowne, or her, or him;

Whose Flock this yeare, hath brought the earliest Lambe!

Good Father Tuck, at your Commands I am

To cut the Table out O the greene sword,

Or any other service for my Lord;

To carve the Guests large seats; and these laid in

With turfe (as soft and smooth as the Moles skin:)

And hang the bulled Nose-gaies 'bove their heads,

The Pipers banck, whereon to sit and play;

And a faire Dyall to meete out the day.

Our Masters Feast shall want no just delights:

His entertainments must have all the rites.

I, and all choise that plenty can send in;

Bread, Wine, Acates, Fowle, Feather, Fish, or Fin,

For which my Fathers Nets have swept the Trent.

And ha' you found her?

Whom?

My drowned Love.

Earine! the sweet Earine!

The bright, and beautifull Earine!

Have you not heard of my Earine?

Just by your Fathers Mills (I thinke I am right)

Are not you Much the Millers sonne?

I am.

And Baily to brave Robin-hood?

The same.

Close by your Fathers Mills, Earine!

Earine was drown'd! O my Earine!

(Old Maudlin tells me so, and Douce her Daughter)

Ha' you swept the River say you? and not found her?

For Fowle, and Fish wee have.

O not for her?

You'are goodly friends! right charitable men!

Nay, keepe your way, and leave me: make your toyes,

Your tales, your poesies, that you talk'd of; all

Your entertainments: you not injure me:

Onely if I may enjoy my Cipresse wreath!

And you will let me weepe! ('tis all I aske;)

Till I be turn'd to water, as was she!

And troth what lesse suit can you grant a man?

His Phantasie is hurt, let us now leave him:

The wound is yet too fresh, to admit searching.

Searching? where should I search? or on what track?

Can my slow drop of teares, or this darke shade

About my browes, enough describe her losse!

Earine, O my Earine's losse!

No, no, no, no; this heart will breake first.

How will this sad disaster strike the eares

Of bounteous Robin-hood, our gentle Master?

How will it marre his mirth, abate his feast;

And strike a horror into every guest!

If I could knit whole clouds about my browes,

And weepe like Swithen, or those watry signes,

The Kids that rise then, and drowne all the Flocks

Of those rich Shepherds, dwelling in this Vale;

Those carelesse Shepherds, that did let her drowne!

Then I did something or could make old Trent

Drunke with my sorrow, to start out in breaches

To drowne their Herds, their cattle, and their corne,

Breake downe their Mils, their Dams, ore-turne their weeres.

And see their houses, and whole lively-hood

Wrought into water, with her, all were good:

I'ld kisse the torrent, and those whirles of Trent,

That suck'd her in, my sweet Earine!

When they have cast their body on the shore,

And it comes up, as tainted as themselves,

All pale and bloodlesse, I will love it still,

For all that they can doe, and make 'hem mad,

To see how I will hugge it in mine armes!

And hang upon the lookes, dwell on her eyes:

Feed round about her lips, and eate her kisses!

Suck of her drowned flesh! and where's their malice?

Not all their envious sousing can change that:

But I will study some revenge past this!

I pray you give me leave, for I will study.

Though all the Bels, Pipes, Tabors, Timburines ring

That you can plant about me: I will study.

Welcome bright Clarion, and sweet Mellifleur,

The courteous Lionel, faire Amie; all

My friends and neighbours, to the Jolly Bower

Of Robin-hood, and to the greene-wood Walkes:

Now that the shearing of your sheepe is done,

And the wash'd Flocks are lighted of their wooll,

The smoother Ewes are ready to receive

The mounting Rams againe; and both doe feed,

As either promist to increase your breed

At eaning time; and bring you lusty twins.

Why should, or you, or wee so much forget

The season in our selves: as not to make

Vse of our youth, and spirits, to awake

The nimble Horne-pipe, and the Timburine,

And mixe our Songs, and Dances in the Wood,

And each of us cut downe a Triumph-bough.

Such were the Rites, the youthfull Iune allow.

They were, gay Robin, but the sowrer sort

Of Shepherds now disclaime in all such sport:

And say, our Flocks the while, are poorely fed,

When with such vanities the Swaines are led.

Would they, wise Clarion, were not hurried more

With Covetise and Rage, when to their store

They adde the poore mans Eaneling, and dare sell

Both Fleece, and Carkasse, not gi'ing him the Fell.

When to one Goat, they reach that prickly weed,

Which maketh all the rest forbeare to feed;

Or strew Tods haires, or with their tailes doe sweepe

The dewy grasse, to d'off the simpler sheepe;

Or digge deepe pits, their Neighbours Neat to vexe,

To drowne the Calves, and crack the Heifers necks.

Or with pretence of chasing thence the Brock,

Send in a curre to worrie the whole Flock.

O Friar, those are faults that are not seene,

Ours open, and of worst example beene.

They call ours, Pagan pastimes, that infect

Our blood with ease, our youth with all neglect;

Our tongues with wantonnese, our thoughts with lust,

And what they censure ill, all others must.

I doe not know, what their sharpe sight may see

Of late, but I should thinke it still might be

(As 'twas) a happy age, when on the Plaines,

The Wood-men met the Damsells, and the Swaines

The Neat'ards, Plow-men, and the Pipers loud,

And each did dance, some to the Kit, or Crowd,

Some to the Bag-pipe, some the Tabret-mov'd,

And all did either love, or were belov'd.

The dextrous Shepherd then would try his sling,

Then dart his Hooke at Daysies, then would sing.

Sometimes would wrastle.

I, and with a Lasse:

And give her a new garment on the grasse;

After a course at Barley-breake, or Base.

And all these deeds were seene without offence,

Or the least hazard o' their innocence.

Those charitable times had no mistrust.

Shepherds knew how to love, and not to lust.

Each minute that wee lose thus, I confesse,

Deserves a censure on us, more or lesse;

But that a sadder chance hath given allay,

Both to the Mirth, and Musicke of this day.

Our fairest Shepherdesse wee had of late,

Here upon Trent, is drown'd; for whom her mate

Young Aeglamour, a Swaine, who best could tread

Our countrey dances, and our games did lead,

Lives like the melancholy Turtle, drown'd

Deeper in woe, then she in water: crown'd

With Yewgh and Cypressa, and will scarce admit

The Physick of our presence to his fit.

Sometimes he sits, and thinkes all day, then walkes,

Then thinkes againe; and sighes, weeps, laughs, and talkes,

And, 'twixt his pleasing frenzie, and sad griefe,

Is so distracted; as no sought reliefe,

By all our studies can procure his peace.

The passion finds in him that large increase,

As wee doubt hourely wee shall lose him too.

You should not crosse him then what ere you doe:

For Phant'sie stop'd, will soone take fire, and burne

Into an anger, or to a Phrensie turne.

Nay, so wee are advis'd by Alhen here,

A good sage Shepherd, who all-tho' he weare

An old worne hat and cloake, can tell us more

Then all the forward Fry, that boast their Lore.

See, yonder comes the brother of the Maid,

Young Karolin! how curious, and afraid

Hee is at once! willing to find him out,

And loath to'offend him.

Sure hee's here about.

See where hee sits.

It will be rare, rare, rare!

An exquisite revenge: but peace, no words!

Not for the fairest fleece of all the Flock:

If it be knowne afore, 'tis all worth nothing!

Ile carve it on the trees, and in the turfe,

On every greene sworth, and in every path,

Just to the Margin of the cruell Trent;

There will I knock the story in the ground,

In smooth great peble, and mosse fill it round,

Till the whole Countrey read how she was drown'd.

And with the plenty of salt teares there shed,

Quite alter the complexion of the Spring.

Or I will get some old, old Grandam, thither,

Whose rigid foot but dip'd into the water,

Shall strike that sharpe and suddaine cold, throughout,

As it shall loose all vertue; and those Nimphs,

Those treacherous Nimphs pull'd in Earine;

Shall stand curl'd up, like Images of Ice;

And never thaw! marke, never! a sharpe Justice:

Or stay, a better! when the yeares at hottest,

And that the Dog-starre fomes, and the streames boiles,

And curles, and workes, and swells ready to sparkle:

To fling a fellow with a Fever in,

To set it all on fire, till it burne,

Blew as Scamander, 'fore the walls of Troy;

When Vulcan leap'd in to him, to consume him.

A deepe hurt Phant'sie.

Doe you not approve it?

Yes gentle Aeglamour, wee all approve,

And come to gratulate your just revenge:

Which since it is so perfect, we now hope,

You'l leave all care thereof, and mixe with us,

In all the profer'd solace of the Spring.

A Spring, now she is dead: of what, of thornes?

Briars, and Brambles? Thistles? Burs, and Dorks?

Cold Hemlock? Yewgh? the Mandrake, or the Boxe?

These may grow still; but what can spring beside?

Did not the whole Earth sicken, when she died?

As if there since did fall one drop of dew,

But what was wept for her! or any stalke

Did beare a Flower! or any branch a bloome;

After her wreath was made: In faith, in faith

You doe not faire, to put these things upon me.

Which can in no sort be: Earine,

Who had her very being, and her name,

With the first knots, or buddings of the Spring,

Borne with the Primrose, and the Violet,

Or earliest Roses blowne: when Cupid smil'd,

And Venus led the Graces out to dance,

And all the Flowers, and Sweets in Natures lap,

Leap'd out, and made their solemne Conjuration,

To last, but while shee liv'd: Doe not I know,

How the Vale wither'd the same Day? How Dove,

Deane, Eye, and Erwash, Idell, Snite, and Soare,

Each broke his Vrne, and twenty waters more,

That swell'd proud Trent, shrunke themselves dry; that since,

No Sun, or Moone, or other cheerfull Starre

Look'd out of heaven! but all the Cope was darke,

As it were hung so for her Exequies!

And not a voice or sound, to ring her knell:

But of that dismall paire, the scritching Owle;

And buzzing Hornet! harke, harke, harke the foule

Bird! how shee flutters with her wicker wings!

Peace you shall heare her scritch.

Good Karolin sing.

Helpe to divert this Phant'sie.

All I can.

Doe you thinke so? are you in that good heresie?

I meane opinion? If you be, say nothing:

I'll study it, as a new Philosophy,

But by my selfe alone: Now you shall leave me!

Some of these Nimphs, here will reward you; this

This pretty Maid, although but with a kisse,

Liv'd my Earine, you should have twenty:

For every line here, one I would allow 'hem

From mine owne store, the treasure I had in her:

Now I am poore as you.

And I a wretch!

Yet keepe an eye upon him, Karoline.

Alas that ever such a generous spirit,

As Aeglamours, should sinke by such a losse.

The truest Lovers are least fortunate,

Lookes all their Lives, and Legends; what they call

The Lovers Scriptures: Heliodores, or Tatij!

Longi! Eustathij! Prodomi! you'l find it!

What thinke you Father?

I have knowne some few,

And read of more; wh'have had their dose, and deepe,

Of these sharpe bitter-sweets.

But what is this

To jolly Robin? who the Story is,

Of all beatitude in Love?

And told

Here every day, with wonder on the world.

And with fames voice.

Save that some folke delight

To blend all good of others, with some spight.

Hee, and his Marian, are the Summe and Talke

Of all, that breath here in the Greene-wood Walke.

Or Be'voir Vale?

The Turtles of the Wood.

The billing Paire.

And so are understood

For simple loves, and sampled lives beside.

Faith, so much vertue should not be envi'd.

Better be so, then pittied Mellifleur!

For 'gainst all envy, vertue is a cure;

But wretched pitty ever cals on scornes.

The Deeres brought home: I heare it by their hornes.

My Marian, and my Mistris!

My lov'd Robin!

The Moones at full, the happy paire are met!

How hath this morning paid me, for my rising!

First, with my sports; but most with meeting you!

I did not halfe so so well reward my hounds,

As she hath me to day: although I gave them

All the sweet morsels, call'd Tongue, Eares, and Dowcets!

What? and the inch-pin?

Yes.

Your sports then

pleas'd you?

You are a wanton.

One I doe confesse

I wanted till you came, but now I have you,

Ile grow to your embraces, till two soules

Distilled into kisses, through our lips

Doe make one spirit of love.

O Robin! Robin!

Breathe, breathe a while, what sayes my gentle Marian?

Could you so long be absent?

What a weeke?

Was that so long?

How long are Lovers weekes!

Doe you think Robin, when they are asunder?

Are they not Pris'ners yeares?

To some they seem so;

But being met againe, they'are Schoole-boyes houres.

That have got leave to play, and so wee use them.

Had you good sport i'your chase to day?

O prime!

A lusty Stagge?

And hunted yee at force?

In a full cry.

And never hunted change!

You had stanch Hounds then?

Old and sure, I love

No young rash dogs, no more then changing friends.

What relayes set you?

None at all; we laid not

In one fresh dog.

Hee stood not long then?

Yes,

Five houres and more. A great, large Deere!

What head?

Forked! A Hart of ten.

Hee is good Venison,

According to the season i' the blood,

I'll promise all your friends, for whom he fell.

But at his fall there hap't a chance.

Worth marke?

I! what was that sweet Marian^*

You'll not heare?

I love these interruptions in a Story; ^*

They make it sweeter.

You doe know, as soone

On my Marian.

I did but take the Assay.

You stop ones mouth,

And yet you bid 'hem speake--when the Arbors made.

Puld downe, and paunch turn'd out.

Hee that undoes him;

Doth cleave the brisket-bone, upon the spoone

Of which, a little gristle growes, you call it—

the Ravens-bone.

Now, ore head sate a Raven!

On a sere bough! a growne great Bird! and Hoarse!

Who, all the while the Deere was breaking up,

So crok'd and cry'd for't, as all the hunts-men,

(Especially old Scathlocke) thought it ominous!

Swore it was Mother Maudlin; whom he met,

At the Day-dawne; just as hee rows'd the Deere,

Out of his Laire: but wee made shift to run him

Off his foure leggs, and sunke him e're wee left.

Is the Deere come?

Hee lies within ô the dresser!

Will you goe see him Mellifleur?

I attend you.

Come Amie, you'll goe with us?

I am not well.

Shee's sick o' the yong Shep'ard that bekist her.

Friend, cheare your friends up, wee will eate him merrily.

Saw you the Raven, Friend?

I, qu'ha suld let me?

I suld be afraid ô you sir suld I?

Hunts-man!

A Dram more of Civilitie would not hurt you?

Nay, you must give them all their rudenesses;

They are not else themselves, without their language.

And what do you thinke of her?

As of a Witch.

They call her a Wise-woman, but I thinke her

An arrant Witch.

And wherefore think you so?

Because, I saw her since, broiling the bone

Was cast her at the Quarrie.

Where saw you her?

I' the Chimley nuik, within: shee's there, now.

Marian!

Your Hunt holds in his tale, still; and tells more!

My Hunt? what tale?

How! cloudie, Marian!

What looke is this?

A fit one, Sir, for you.

Hand off rude Ranger! Sirrah, get you in

And beare the Venison hence. It is too good

For these course rustick mouthes that cannot open,

Or spend a thanke for't. A starv'd Muttons carkasse

Would better fit their palates. See it carried

To Mother Maudlins, whom you call the Witch, Sir.

Tell her I sent it to make merrie with,

Shee'll turne us thanks at least! why stand'st thou, Groome?

I wonder he can move! that hee's not fix'd!

If that his feeling be the same with mine!

I dare not trust the faith of mine owne senses.

I feare mine eyes, and eares! this is not Marian!

Nor am I Robin-hood! I pray you aske her!

Aske her good Shep'ards! aske her all for me;

Or rather aske your selves, if shee be shee;

Or I, be I.

Yes, and you are the spie:

And the spi'd Spie, that watch upon my walkes,

To informe what Deere I kill, or give away!

Where! when! to whom! but spie your worst, good Spie!

I will dispose of this where least you like!

Fall to your cheese-cakes, curdes, and clawted creame,

Your fooles, your flaunes; and of ale a streame

To wash it from your livers: straine ewes milke

Into your Cider sillabubs, and be drunke

To him, whose Fleece hath brought the earliest Lambe

This yeare; and weares the Baudrick at your bord!

Where you may all goe whistle; and record

This i' your dance: and foot it lustily.

I pray you friends, doe you heare? and see, as I doe?

Did the same accents strike your eares? and objects?

Your eyes, as mine?

Wee taste the same reproches!

Have seen the changes!

Are wee not all chang'd,

Transformed from our selves?

I do not know!

The best is silence!

And to await the issue.

The dead, or lazie wait for't: I will find it.

HAve I not left 'em in a brave confusion?

Amaz'd their expectation? got their Venison?

Troubled their mirth, and meeting? made them doubtfull,

And jealous of each other? all distracted?

And, i' the close, uncertaine of themselves?

This can your Mother doe my daintie Douce!

Take anie shape upon her! and delude

The senses, best acquainted with their Owners!

The jolly Robin, who' hath bid this feast,

And made this solemne invitation;

I ha' possessed so, with syke dislikes

Of his owne Marian, that all-bee 'he know her,

As doth the vauting hart, his venting hind,

Hee nêre fra' hence, sall neis her i' the wind,

To his first liking.

Did you so distate him?

As farre as her proud scorning him, could 'bate

Or blunt the edge of any Lovers temper.

But were yee like her mother?

So like Douce,

As had shee seen me her sel', her sel'had doubted

Whether had been the liker off the twâ!

This can your Mother doe, I tell you Daughter!

I ha' but dight yee, yet; i' the out-dresse;

And 'parraile of Earine! but this raiment,

These very weeds, sall make yee, as but comming

In view or ken of Aeglamour, your forme

Shall show too slipperie to be look'd upon!

And all the Forrest sweare you to be shee!

They shall rin after yee, and wage the odds,

Upo' their owne deceived sights, yee' are her!

Whilst shee (poore Lasse) is stock'd up in a tree:

Your brother Lorells prize! For so my largesse,

Hath lotted her, to be your brothers Mistresse;

Gif shee can be reclaim'd: gif not, his Prey!

And here he comes, new claithed, like a Prince

Of Swine'ards! sike he seemes! dight i'the spoiles

Of those he feedes! A mightie Lord of Swine!

He is command now, to woo. Lets step aside,

And heare his love-craft! See, he opes the dore!

And takes her by the hand, and helpes her forth!

This is true court-ship, and becomes his ray.

Yee kind to others, but yee coy to mee

Deft Mistres! whiter then the cheese, new prest!

Smoother then creame! and softer then the curds!

Why start yee from mee, ere yee heare me tell

My wooing errand; and what rents I have?

Large heards, and pastures! Swine, and Kie, mine owne!

And though my na'se be camus'd, my lipps thick,

And my chin bristled! Pan, great Pan, was such!

Who was the chiefe of Heards-men, and our Sire!

I am na' Fay! na' Incubus! na' Changlin!

But a good man, that lives o' my awne geere.

This house! these grounds! this stock is all mine awne!

How better 'twere to mee, this were not knowne!

Shee likes it not: but it is boasted well!

An hundred Udders for the payle I have,

That gi' mee Milke and Curds, that make mee Cheese

To cloy the Mercatts! twentie swarme of Bees,

Whilke (all the Summer) hum about the hive,

And bring mee Waxe, and Honey in by live.

An aged Oake the King of all the field,

With a broad Beech there growes afore my dur,

That mickell Mast unto the ferme doth yeild.

A Chestnut, whilk hath larded money a Swine,

Whose skins I weare, to fend me fra the Cold.

A Poplar greene, and with a kerved Seat,

Under whose shade I solace in the heat;

And thence can see gang out, and in, my neat.

Twa trilland brookes, each (from his spring) doth meet,

And make a river, to refresh my feet:

In which, each morning ere the Sun doth rise,

I look my selfe, and cleare my pleasant eyes,

Before I pipe; For, therein I have skill

'Bove other Swine'ards. Bid mee, and I will

Straight play to you, and make you melodie.

By no meanes. Ah! to me all minstrelsie

Is irksome, as are you.

Why scorne you mee?

Because I am a Heards-man, and feed Swine!

I am a Lord of other geere! this fine

Smooth Bawsons Cub, the young Grice of a Gray;

Twa tynie Urshins, and this Ferret gay.

Out on 'hem! what are these?

I give 'hem yee;

As presents Mrs.

O, the feind, and thee!

Gar take them hence: they fewmand all the claithes,

And prick my Coates: hence with 'hem, limmer lowne,

Thy vermin, and thy selfe, thy selfe art one;

I lock me up. All's well when thou art gone.

Did you heare this? shee wish'd mee at the feind,

With all my presents!

A tu luckie end

Shee wishend thee, fowle Limmer! drittie Lowne!

Gud faith, it duills mee that I am thy Mother!

And see, thy Sister scornes thee, for her Brother!

Thou woo thy Love? thy Mistresse? with twa Hedge-hoggs?

A stinkand brock? a polcat? out thou houlet!

Thou shoul'dst ha' given her, a Madge-Owle! and then

Tho' hadst made a present o' thy selfe, Owle-spiegle!

Why, Mother, I have heard yee bid to give;

And often, as the Cause calls.

I know well,

It is a wittie part, sum-times, to give.

But what? to whame? no monsters! nor to maidens!

Hee suld present them with mare pleasand things,

Things naturall, and what all woemen covet

To see: the common Parent of us all!

Which Maids will twire at, 'tween their fingers, thus!

With which his Sire gat him! Hee's gett another!

And so beget posteritie upon her!

This he should do! (false Gelden) gang thy gait

And du thy turnes, betimes: or, I'is gar take

Thy new breikes fra' thee, and thy duiblet tu.

The Talleur, and the Sowter sall undu'

All they ha' made; except thou manlier woo!

Gud Mother, gif yow chide him, hee'll du wairs.

Hang him: I geif him to the Devills eirs.

But, yee my Douce, I charge yee, shew your sell,

Tu all the Sheep'ards, baudly: gaing amang 'hem.

Be mickell i' their eye, frequent, and fugeand.

And, gif they aske yee of Earine,

Or of these claithes; say, that I ga' hem yee,

And say no more. I ha' that wark in hand,

That web upo' the Luime, sall gar 'hem thinke

By then, they feelin their owne frights, and feares,

I'is pu' the world, or Nature, 'bout their eares.

But, heare yee Douce, bycause, yee may meet mee

In mony shapes tu day; where ere you spie

This browdred belt, with Characters, tis I.

A Gypsan Ladie, and a right Beldame,

Wrought it by Moone-shine for mee, and Star-light,

Upo' your Granams grave, that verie night

Wee earth'd her, in the shades; when our Dame Hecat,

Made it her gaing-night, over the Kirk-yard,

Withall the barke and parish tykes set at her,

While I sate whyrland, of my brasen spindle:

At every twisted thrid my rock let flie

Unto the few'ster, who did sit me nigh,

Under the towne-turne-pike; which ran each spell

She stitched in the worke, and knit it well.

See, yee take tent to this, and ken 'your Mother.

How do you sweet Amie? yet?

Shee cannot tell,

If shee could sleepe, shee saies, shee should do well.

Shee feeles a hurt, but where, shee cannot show

Any least signe, that shee is hurt or no.

Her paine's not doubtfull to her; but the seat

Of her paine is. Her thoughts too work, and beat,

Opprest with Cares: but why, shee cannot say.

All matter of her care is quite away.

Hath any Vermin broke into your Fold?

Or any rott seiz'd on your flock? or cold?

Or hath your feighting Ram, burst his hard horne?

Or any Ewe her fleece? or bag hath torne,

My gentle Amie?

Marian, none of these.

Ha' you been stung by Waspes, or angry Bees?

Or raz'd with some rude bramble, or rough briar?

No Marian; my disease is somewhat nigher.

I weep, and boile away my Selfe, in teares;

And then my panting heart would dry those feares:

I burne, though all the Forrest lend a shade;

And freize, though the whole Wood one fire were made.

Alas!

I often have been torne with thorne and briar;

Both in the Leg, and Foot, and somewhat higher:

Yet gave not then such fearfull shreikes as these. Ah!

I often have been stung too, with curst Bees;

Yet not remember that I then did quit

Either my Companie, or Mirth for it. Ah!

And therefore, what it is that I feele now,

And know no cause of it, nor where, nor how,

It entred in mee, nor least print can see,

I feele afflicts mee more, then Briar, or Bee. Oh!

How often, when the Sun heavens brightest birth

Hath with his burning fervour cleft the earth,

Under a spreading Elme, or Oake, hard by

A coole cleare fountaine, could I sleeping lie

Safe from the heate? but now, no shadie tree,

Nor purling brook, can my refreshing bee?

Oft when the medowes, were growne rough with frost,

The rivers ice-bound, and their currents lost,

My thick warme fleece I wore, was my defence

Or large good fires, I made, drave winter thence.

But now, my whole flocks fells, nor this thick grove,

Enflam'd to ashes, can my cold remove.

It is a cold, and heat, that doth out-goe

All sense of Winters, and of Summers so.

O', are you here, my Mistresse?

I my Love!

Where should I be, but in my Robins armes?

The Sphere which I delight in, so to move?

What the rude Ranger? and spied Spie? hand off:

You are for no such rusticks.

What meanes this,

Thrice worthy Clarion? or wise Alken? know yee?

'Las no, not they! a poore sterv'd Muttons carkasse

Would better fit their palat's, then your Venison.

What riddle is this! unfold your selfe, deare Robin.

You ha' not sent your Venison hence by Scathlock,

To Mother Maudlin?

I to Mother Maudlin?

Will Scathlock say so?

Nay, wee will all sweare so.

For all did heare it, when you gave the charge so.

Both Clarion, Alken, Lionel, my selfe.

Good honest Shep'ards, Masters of your flocks,

Simple, and vertuous men, no others hirelings;

Be not you made to speake against your Conscience,

That which may soile the truth. I send the Venison

Away? by Scathlock? and to mother Maudlin?

I came to shew it here, to Mellifleur,

I doe confesse; but Amies falling ill,

Did put us of it: Since wee imploied our selves

In comforting of her. O', here he is!

Did I, Sir, bid you beare away the Venison,

To mother Maudlin?

I gud faith, Madam,

Did you, and I ha' done it.

What ha' you done?

Obey'd your hests, Madam; done your Commaunds.

Done my Commaunds, dull groome? Fetch it againe

Or kennel with the hounds. Are these the Arts

Robin, you read your rude ones o' the wood,

To countenance your quarrells, and mistakings?

Or are the sports to entertaine your friends

Those formed jealousies? Aske of Mellifleur,

If I were ever from her, here, or Amie,

Since I came in with them; or saw this Scathlock,

Since I related to you his tale, o' the Raven?

I, say you so?

Shee never left my side

Since I came in, here, nor I hers.

This 's strange!

Our best of Senses were deceiv'd, our eyes, then!

And eares too.

What you have concluded on,

Make good I pray you.

O' my heart, my heart!

My heart it is, is wounded prettie Amie;

Report not you your greifes: I'll tell for all.

Some body is to blame, there is a fault.

Try if you can take rest. A little slumber

Will much refresh you (Amie).

What's her greif?

Shee does not know: and therein shee is happie.

Here's Mother Maudlin come to give you thanks,

Madam, for some late guift, shee hath receiv'd —

Which shee's not worthie of, shee saies, but crakes,

And wonders of it; hoppes about the house;

Transported with the joy.

Send mee a Stagge!

A whole Stagge, Madam! and so fat a Deere!

So fairelie hunted, and at such a time too!

When all your freinds were here!

Do you mark this, Clarion?

Her owne acknowledgement?

'Twas such a bountie

And honour done to your poore Bedes-woman,

I know not how to owe it, but to thanke you.

And that I come to du: I shall goe round,

And giddie with the toy of the good turne.

Look to her, shee is mad.

My Son hath sent you

A pott of Strawberries, gather'd i' the wood

(His Hoggs would els have rooted up, or trod)

With a choice dish of wildings here, to scald

And mingle with your Creame.

Thank you good Maudlin,

And thanke your Sonne. Go, beare 'hem in to Much

Th' Acater, let him thanke her. Surelie, Mother

You were mistaken, or my Woodmen more,

Or most my selfe, to send you all our store

Of Venison, hunted for our selves, this day!

You will not take it, Mother, I dare say,

If wee'lld intreat you; when you know our ghests:

Red Deere is head still of the forrest feasts.

But I knaw yee, a right free-hearted Ladie,

Can spare it out of superfluitie:

I have departit it 'mong my poore Neighbours

To speake your Largesse.

I not gave it, Mother;

You have done wrong then: I know how to place

My guifts, and where; and when to find my seasons

To give, not throw away my Curtesies.

Count you this thrown away?

What's ravish'd from mee

I count it worse; as stolne: I loose my thanks.

But leave this quest: they fit not you, nor mee,

Maudlin, Contentions of this qualitie.

How now?

Your Stag's return'd upon my shoulders,

Hee has found his way into the Kitchin againe:

With his two Leggs, If now your Cooke can dresse him;

Slid, I thought the Swine'ard would ha' beat mee,

Hee lookes so big! the sturdie Karle, lewd Lorel!

There Scathlock, for thy paines, thou hast deserv'd it.

Do you give a thing, and take a thing, Madam?

No, Maudlin, you had imparted to your Neighbours;

As much good doo't them: I ha' done no wrong.

What Devills Pater noster mumbles shee?

Stay, you will heare more of her witcherie

Speake out Hagge, wee may heare your Devills Mattens.

A foule ill Spirit hath possessed her.

O Karol, Karol, call him back againe.

Her thoughts do worke upon her, in her slumber.

And may expresse some part of her disease.

Observe, and marke, but trouble not her ease.

O', ô.

How is't Amie?

Wherfore start you?

O' Karol, he is faire, and sweet.

What then?

Are there not flowers as sweet, and faire, as men?

The Lillie is faire! and Rose is sweet!

I', so!

Let all the Roses, and the Lillies goe:

Karol is only faire to mee!

And why?

Alas for Karol, Marian, I could die.

Karol. He singeth sweetly too!

What then?

Are there not Birds sing sweeter farre, then Men?

I grant the Linet, Larke, and Bul-finch sing,

But best, the deare, good Angell of the Spring,

The Nightingale.

Then why? then why, alone,

Should his notes please you?

I not long agone

Tooke a delight with wanton kidds to play,

And sport with little Lambes a Summers Day!

And view their friskes! me thought it was a sight

Of joy, to see my two brave Rammes to fight!

Now Karol, onely, all delight doth move!

All that is Karol, Karol I approve!

This verie morning, but--(I did bestow

(It was a little 'gainst my will, I know)

A single kisse, upon the seelie Swaine,

And now I wish that verie kisse againe.

His lip is softer, sweeter then the Rose

His mouth, and tongue with dropping honey flowes.

The relish of it was a pleasing thing.

Yet like the Bees it had a little sting.

And sunke, and sticks yet in my marrow deepe

And what doth hurt me, I now wish to keepe.

Alas, how innocent her Storie is!

I doe remember, Marian, I have oft

With pleasure kist my Lambes, and Puppies, soft,

And once a daintie fine Roe-fawne I had,

Of whose out-skipping bounds, I was as glad

As of my health: and him I oft would kisse:

Yet had his, no such sting, or paine, as this.

They never prick't or hurt my heart. And, for

They were so blunt, and dull, I wish no more.

But this, that hurtes, and prickes doth please; This sweet,

Mingled with sower, I wish againe to meet:

And that delay, mee thinks, most tedious is

That keepes, or hinders mee of Karols kisse.

Wee'll send for him sweet Amie, to come to you.

But, I will keepe him of if Charmes will doe it.

Doe you marke the murmuring hagge, how shee doth mutter?

I like her not. And lesse her manners now.

Shee is a shrewd deformed peice, I vow.

As crooked as her bodie.

I beleeve

Shee can take any Shape; as Scathlock saies.

Shee may deceive the Sense, but really

Shee cannot change her selfe.

Would I could see her,

Once more in Marians forme! for I am certaine

Now, it was shee abus'd us; as I think

My Marian, and my Love, now, innocent:

Which faith I seale unto her, with this kisse,

And call you all to witnesse of my pennance.

It was beleiv'd before, but now confirm'd,

That wee have seen the Monster.

Heare you how

Poore Tom, the Cooke, is taken! All his joynts

Do crack, as if his Limbes were tied with points:

His whole frame slackens; and a kind of rack

Runs downe along the Spondylls of his back;

A Gowt, or Crampe, now seizeth on his head,

Then falls into his feet; his knees are lead;

And he can stirre his either hand, no more

Then a dead stumpe, to his office, as before.

Hee is bewitched.

This is an Argument

Both of her malice, and her power, wee see.

Shee must by some device restrained bee,

Or shee'll goe farre in mischiefe.

Advise how,

Sage Shep'ard, wee shall put it straight in practice.

Send forth your woodmen, then, into the walkes,

Or let'em prick her footing hence; A Witch

Is sure a Creature of Melancholy,

And will be found, or sitting in her fourme,

Or els, at releife, like a Hare.

You speake

Alken, as if you knew the sport of Witch-hunting,

Or starting of a Hag.

Go sirs about it,

Take George here with you, he can helpe to find her;

Leave Tuck, and Much behind to dresse the Dinner,

I' the Cookes stead.

Wee'll care to get that done.

Come Marian, lets withdraw into the bowre.

Rare sport I sweare! this hunting of the Witch

Will make us.

Let's advise upon't, like huntsmen.

And wee can spie her once, shee is our owne.

First, think which way shee fourmeth, on what wind:

Or North, or South.

For, as the Shep'ard said,

A Witch is a kind of Hare.

And markes the weather,

As the hare does.

Where shall wee hope to find her?

I have ask'd leave to assist you, jollie huntsmen,

If an old Shep'herd may be heard among you;

Not jear'd or laugh'd at.

Father, you will see

Robin-hoods house-hold, know more Curtesie.

Who scornes at eld, peeles of his owne young haires.

Yee say right well. Know yee the Witches Dell?

No more then I do know the walkes of Hell.

Within a gloomie dimble, shee doth dwell

Downe in a pitt, ore-growne with brakes and briars.

Close by the ruines of a shaken Abbey

Torne, with an Earth-quake, down unto the ground,

'Mongst graves, and grotts, neare an old Charnell house,

Where you shall find her sitting in her fourme,

As fearfull, and melancholique, as that

Shee is about; with Caterpillers kells,

And knottie Cobwebs, rounded in with spells;

Thence shee steales forth to releif, in the foggs,

And rotten Mistes, upon the fens, and boggs,

Downe to the drowned Lands of Lincolneshire;

To make Ewes cast their Lambs! Swine eate their Farrow!

The House-wifes Tun not worke! Nor the Milk churne!

Writhe Childrens wrists! and suck their breath in sleepe!

Get Vialls of their blood! And where the Sea

Casts up his slimie Owze, search for a weed

To open locks with, and to rivet Charmes,

Planted about her, in the wicked feat,

Of all her mischiefes, which are manifold.

I wonder such a storie could be told,

Of her dire deeds.

I thought a Witches bankes

Had inclos'd nothing, but the merrie prankes

Of some old woman.

Yes, her malice more!

As it would quickly appeare, had wee the Store

Of his Collects.

I, this gud learned Man

Can speake her right.

He knowes, her shifts, and haunts!

And all her wiles, and turnes. The venom'd Plants

Wherewith shee kill's! where the sad Mandrake growes,

Whose grones are deathfull! the dead-numming Night-shade!

The stupifying Hemlock! Adders tongue!

And Martagan! the shreikes of lucklesse Owles,

Wee heare! and croaking Night-Crowes in the aire!

Greene-bellied Snakes! blew fire-drakes in the skie!

And giddie Flitter-mice, with lether wings!

The scalie Beetles, with their habergeons,

That make a humming Murmur as they flie!

There, in the stocks of trees, white Faies doe dwell,

And span-long Elves, that dance about a poole!

With each a little Changeling, in their armes!

The airie spirits play with falling starres!

And mount the Sphere of fire, to kisse the Moone!

While, shee sitts reading by the Glow-wormes light,

Or rotten wood (o're which the worme hath crept)

The banefull scedule of her nocent charmes,

And binding Characters, through which shee wounds

Her Puppetts, the Sigilla of her witch-craft.

All this I know, and I will find her for you;

And shew you'her sitting in her fourme; I'le lay

My hand upon her; make her throw her skutt

Along her back, when shee doth start before us.

But you must give her Law: and you shall see her

Make twentie leapes and doubles; crosse the pathes,

And then squatt downe beside us.

Craftie Croane!

I long to be at the sport, and to report it.

Wee'll make this hunting of the Witch, as famous,

As any other blast of Venerie.

Hang her foule hagge, shee'll be a stinking Chase!

I had rather ha' the hunting of heir heyre.

If wee could come to see her, cry, so haw, once!

That I doe promise, or I'am no good Hag-finder.

THe Feind hath much to doe, that keepes a Schoole;

Or is the Father of a familie;

Or governes but a country Academie:

His labours must be great, as are his cares,

To watch all turnes, and cast how to prevent 'hem.

This Dame of mine here, Maud. growes high in evill,

And thinkes shee doe's all, when 'tis I, her Divell,

That both delude her, and must yet protect her:

Shee's confident in mischeife, and presumes

The changing of her shape will still secure her.

But that may faile, and diverse hazards meete

Of other consequence, which I must looke to.

Not let her be surpriz'd on the first catch.

I must goe daunce about the Forrest, now,

And firke it like a Goblin, till I find her.

Then will my service come worth acceptation;

When not expected of her, when the helpe

Meetes the necessity, and both doe kisse

'Tis call'd the timing of a dutie, this.

Sure, you are very like her! I conceiv'd

You had been shee, seeing you run afore mee:

For such a suite shee made her 'gainst this Feast;

In all resemblance, or the verie same;

I saw her in it; had shee liv'd t' enjoy it

Shee had been there an acceptable Guest

To Marian, and the gentle Robin-hood,

Who are the Crowne, and Ghirland of the Wood.

I cannot tell: my Mother gave it mee,

And bad mee weare it.

Who, the wise good Woman?

Old Maud. of Pappelwicke?

Yes, this sullen Man.

I cannot like him. I must take my leave

What said shee to you?

Who?

Earine.

I saw her talking with you, or her Ghost;

For shee indeed is drown'd in old Trents bottome.

Did shee not tell who would ha' pull'd her in?

And had her Maiden-head upon the place?

The rivers brim, the margin of the Flood?

No ground is holie enough, (you know my meaning)

Lust is committed in Kings Palaces,

And yet their Majesties not violated!

No words!

How sad, and wild his thoughts are! gone?

But shee, as chaste, as was her name, Earine,

Dy'd undeflowr'd: and now her sweet soule hovers,

Here, in the Aire, above us; and doth haste

To get up to the Moone, and Mercury;

And whisper Venus in her Orbe; then spring

Up to old Saturne, and come downe by Mars,

Consulting Jupiter; and seate her selfe

Just in the midst with Phœbus; tempring all

The jarring Spheeres, and giving to the World

Againe, his first and tunefull planetting!

O' what an age will here be of new concords!

Delightfull harmonie! to rock old Sages,

Twice infants, in the Cradle o' Speculation,

And throw a silence upon all the creatures!

A Cogitation of the highest rapture!

The loudest Seas, and most enraged Windes

Shall lose their clangor; Tempest shall grow hoarse;

Loud Thunder dumbe; and every speece of storme

Laid in the lap of listning Nature, husht;

To heare the changed chime of this eighth spheere!

Take tent, and harken for it, loose it not.

O', here is Karol! was not that the sad

Shep'erd, slip'd from him?

Yes, I ghesse it was:

Who was that left you, Karol?

The last man!

Whom, wee shall never see himselfe againe;

Or ours, I feare! He starts away from hand, so,

And all the touches, or soft stroke of reason!

Yee can applie. No Colt is so unbroken!

Or hawke yet halfe so haggard, or unmann'd!

He takes all toies that his wild phantsy proffers,

And flies away with them. He now conceives

That my lost Sister, his Earine,

Is lately turn'd a Sphere amid the seven:

And reades a Musique-Lecture to the Planets!

And with this thought, hee's run to cal 'hem, Hearers!

Alas, this is a strayn'd, but innocent phant'sie!

I'le follow him, and find him, if I can:

Meane time, goe you with Lionell, sweet Karol,

Hee will acquaint you with an accident

Which much desires your presence, on the place!

What is it, Lionell, wherein I may serve you?

Why doe you so survey, and circumscribe mee?

As if you stuck one Eye into my brest,

And with the other took my whole dimensions?

I wish you had a windo' i' your bosome

Or 'i your back: I might look thorough you,

And see your in-parts, Karol, liver, heart;

For there the seat of Love is. Whence the Boy

(The winged Archer) hath shott home a shaft

Into my sisters brest, the innocent Amie,

Who now cries out, upon her bed, on Karol,

Sweet singing Karol! the delicious Karol!

That kist her like a Cupid! In your eyes,

Shee saies, his stand is! and between your lipp's

He runs forth his divisions, to her eares,

But will not bide there, 'lesse your selfe do bring him.

Goe with me Karol, and bestow a visit

In charitie, upon the afflicted Maid,

Who pineth with the languor of your love.

Whither intend you? Amy is recover'd,

Feeles no such griefe as shee complain'd of, lately:

This Maiden hath been with her from her Mother

Maudlin, the cunning Woman, who hath sent her

Herbes for her head, and Simples of that nature,

Have wrought upon her a miraculous Cure;

Setled her braine, to all our wish, and wonder!

So instantly? you know, I now but left her,

Possess'd with such a fit, almost to'a phrensie;

Your selfe too fear'd her, Marian; and did urge

My haste, to seeke out Karol, and to bring him.

I did so. But the skill of that wise woeman

And her great charitie of doeing good

Hath by the readie hand of this deft lasse

Her daughter, wrought effects, beyond beleife,

And to astonishment; wee can but thanke

And praise, and be amazed, while wee tell it.

'Tis strange, that any art should so helpe nature

In her extremes.

Then, it appeares most reall

When th'other is deficient.

Wherefore, stay you

Discoursing here, and haste not with your succours

To poore afflicted Amie, that so needes them?

Shee is recover'd well, your Marian told us

But now here: See, shee is return'd t'affirme it!

My Marian?

Robin-hood? Is hee here?

Stay!

What was't you ha' told my friend?

Helpe, murder, helpe.

You will not rob me Out-law? Theife, restore

My belt that yee have broken!

Yes, come neere,

Not i' your gripe.

Was this the charmed circle?

The Copy that so couzen'd, and deceiv'd us?

I'le carry hence the trophie of your spoiles.

My men shall hunt you too upon the start,

And course you soundly.

I shall make 'hem sport

And send some home, without their leggs, or armes.

I'le teach 'hem to climbe Stiles, leape Ditches, Ponds,

And lie i'the Waters, if they follow mee.

Out murmuring Hagge.

I must use all my powers,

Lay all my witts to piecing of this losse.

Things run unluckily, Where's my Puck-hairy?

Hath he forsooke mee?

At your beck, Madame.

O Puck, my Goblin! I have lost my belt,

The strong theife, Robin Out-law, forc'd it from mee.

They'are other Cloudes and blacker threat you, Dame;

You must be wary, and pull in your sailes,

And yeeld unto the wether of the tempest.

You thinke your power's infinite as your malice;

And would do all your anger prompts you to:

But you must wait occasions, and obey them:

Saile in an egg-shell, make a straw your mast,

A Cobweb all your Cloth, and passe, unseen,

Till you have scap'd the rockes that are about you.

What rock's about mee?

I do love, Madam,

To shew you all your dangers, when you are past 'hem.

Come, follow mee, I'll once more be your pilot,

And you shall thanke mee.

Lucky, my lov'd Goblin!

Where are you gaang, now?

Unto my tree,

To see my Maistres.

Gang thy gait, and try

Thy turnes, with better luck, or hang thy sel'.