Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind, my love repay,
And all the year shall then be holiday.

70

75

LOB. CL. As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood, Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood, I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss, She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss. Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say, Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay. CUD. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, With gentle finger strok'd her milky care, I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true, She frown'd, yet after granted one or two. Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows, Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cow's. LOB. CL. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen

butter's dear,

80

Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind,
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind:

86

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize. [knife,
CUD. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his
The capon fat delights his dainty wife;

Pudding our parson eats, the 'squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.

Ver. 69.] Eftsoons, at once.

Ver. 79.] Quaint, quaintly, slyly.

Ver. 88.] Populus Alcidæ gratissima, vitis Iaccho,
Formosa myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phœbo.

Phillis amat corylos. Illas dum Phillis amabit,

98

Nec myrtus vincet corylos nec laurea Phœbi, &c. Virg.

While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
LOB. CL. As once I play'd at blindman's-buff,

it hapt

About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt:

I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind.

96

True speaks that ancient proverb, 'Love is blind.' CUD. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown, Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I

100

Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye. LOB. CL. On two near elms the slacken'd cord

I hung;

Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung.
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, 105
And show'd her taper leg and scarlet hose.

CUD. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself pois'd against the tottering maid:
High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell:
I spied-but faithful sweethearts never tell.
LOB. CL. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst,
explain,

This wily riddle puzzles every swain;

110

What flower is that which bears the Virgin's name,1

The richest metal joined with the same?

CUD. Answer, thou carl, and judge this riddle right,

I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight; 115 1 Marygold.

What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the Virgin,' and 'tis strown on graves? CLOD. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains;

An oaken staff each merits for his pains.

But see the sunbeams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of Goodman Hodges' barn.
Your herds for want of water stand adry,
They 're weary of your songs—and so am I.

121

TUESDAY:

OR, THE DITTY.

MARIAN.

YOUNG Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed,
Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed,

In

every

At every

wood his carols sweet were known,

wake his nimble feats were shown.

When in the ring the rustic routs he threw,
The damsels' pleasures with his conquests grew;
Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head,
His danger smites the breast of every maid;

2 Rosemary.

5

Ver. 117.] Dic quibus in terris inscripti nomina regum Nascantur flores. Virg.

Ver. 120.] Et vitula tu dignus, et hic. Virg.

But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain, The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain: Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow, Or lessen with her sieve the barley mow; Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she press'd,

10

15

20

And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd;
But Marian now, devoid of country cares,
Nor yellow butter, nor sage-cheese prepares ;
For yearning love the witless maid employs,
And love, says swains, all busy heed destroys.
Colin makes mock at all her piteous smart,
A lass, that Cic'ly hight, had won his heart,
Cic❜ly, the western lass that tends the kee,
The rival of the parson's maid was she,
In dreary shade now Marian lies along,
And mixt with sighs thus wails in plaining song:
"Ah! woful day; ah woful noon and morn! 25
When first by thee my younglings white were
shorn;

Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye,

My sheep were silly, but more silly I.
Beneath the shears they felt no lasting smart;
They lost but fleeces, while I lost a heart.

30

'Ah! Colin! canst thou leave thy sweetheart

true;

What I have done for thee, will Cic❜ly do?
Will she thy linen wash or hosen darn,
And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn

Ver. 21.] Kee, a West-Country word for kine, or cows.

?

Will she with houswife's hand provide thy meat,
And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait?
Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide,
In service-time drew Cic'ly's eyes aside.

'Where'er I gad I cannot hide my care,
My new disasters in my look appear.
White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown,
So thin my features that I'm hardly known;
Our neighbours tell me oft, in joking talk,
Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk;
Unwittingly of Marian they divine,

40

45

50

55

And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine:
Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain,
Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain.
'Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight
To moil all day, and merry-make at night.
If in the soil you guide the crooked share,
Your early breakfast is my constant care;
And when with even hand you strow the grain,
I fright the thievish rooks from off the plain.
In misling days when I my thrasher heard,
With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd;
Lost in the music of the whirling flail,
Το gaze on thee I left the smoking pail :
In harvest when the sun was mounted high,
My leathern bottle did thy draught supply;
Whene'er you mow'd I follow'd with the rake,
And have full oft been sunburnt for thy sake:
When in the welkin gathering showers were seen,
I lagg'd the last with Colin on the green;