"Ah!fhepheards, (then faid Colin) ye ne weet How great a guilt upon your

heads ye

ye draw, To make fo bold a doome, with words unmeet, Of thing celeftiall which ye never faw. 930 For the is not like as the other crew.

Of fhepheards daughters which emongst you bee,

But of divine regard and heavenly hew,
Excelling all that ever ye did fee.

Not then to her that fcorned thing fo bafe, 935
But to my felfe the blame that lookt fo hie:
So hie her thoughts as the her felfe have place,
And loath each lowly thing with loftie eie.
Yet fo much grace let her vouchsafe to grant
To fimple swaine, fith her I may not love: 940
Yet that I may her honour paravant,

And praise her worth, though far my wit above.
Such grace shall be some guerdon for the griefe,
And long affliction which I have endured:
Such grace fometimes shall give me fome reliefe,
And ease of paine which cannot be recured. 946
And
ye, my fellow fhepheards, which do fee
And hear the languours of my too long dying,
Unto the world for ever witneffe bee,

That hers I die, nought to the world denying, 950
This fimple trophe of her great conquest.”-

Ver. 941.

paravant,]

Publickly. The

French paravant, however, is not, I believe, ufed in this fenfe. But fee alfo F. Q. vi. x. 15. TODD.

So, having ended, he from ground did rife; And after him uprofe eke all the rest:

All loth to part, but that the glooming skies Warnd them to draw their bleating flocks to rest.

935

ASTROPHEL.

A PASTORALL ELEGIE

'UPON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE AND VALOROUS KNIGHT, SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

DEDICATED TO THE MOST BEAUTIFULL AND VERTUOUS LADIE, THE COUNTESS OF ESSEX.

ASTROPHEL.

Shepheards, that wont, on pipes of oaten reed, Oft times to plaine your loves concealed fmart; And with your piteous layes have learnd to breed Compaffion in a countrey laffes hart:

Hearken, ye gentle shepheards, to my fong,
And place my dolefull plaint your plaints emong.

To you alone I fing this mournfull verfe,
The mournfulft verfe that ever man heard tell :
To you whofe foftened hearts it may empierfe
With dolours dart for death of Aftrophel.
To you I fing and to none other wight,
For well I wot my rymes bene rudely dight.

Yet as they been, if any nycer wit

Shall hap to heare, or covet them to read:
Thinke he, that fuch are for fuch ones moft fit,
Made not to please the living but the dead,
And if in him found pity ever place,
Let him be moov'd to pity fuch a cafe.

A GENTLE Shepheard borne in Arcady,
Of gentleft race that ever shepheard bore,
About the graffie bancks of Hæmony,
Did keepe his fheep, his litle ftock and store.
Full carefully he kept them day and night,
In fairest fields; and Aftrophel he hight.

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