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Turne I my lookes unto the skies,
Love with his arrows wounds myne eies;
If so I looke upon the ground,
Love then in every flower is found.
Search I the shade to flie iny paine,
He meetes me in the shades againe :
Wend I to walke in secret grove,
Even there I meet with sacred love;
If so I bathe me in the spring,
Even on the brinke I hear him sing;
If so I meditate alone,
He will be partner of my mone;
If so I mourne he
And where I am there will he be;
When as I talke of Roselind,
The God from coynesse waxeth kind,
And seemes in self-same flame to frie,
Because he loves as well as I.
Sweete Roselind, for pitie rue,
For why then love I am more true.
He if he speede will quickly flie,
But in thy love I live and die.
The following is part of a Poetical Dialogue between Rosader, the unsuccessful Lover, and Rosalind.
I pray thee Rosalind, by these sweet eyes,
That staine the Sun in shine, the Moone in cleare,
By those sweet cheekes where loue incamped lies,
To kisse the roses of the springing yeere,
I tempt thee Rosalind, by ruthfull plaints,
Not seasoned with deceit of fraudsull guile,
But firme in paine, far more then tongue depaints :
Sweet nymph be kind, and grace me with a smile.
So may the heauens preserue from hurtfull foode
Thy harmlesse flocks; so may the suinmer yeeld
The pride of all her riches and her good
To fat thy sheepe (the citizens of field).
O leaue to arme thy louely browes with scorne,
The birds their beake, the lion hath his taile:
And louers nought but sighs and bitter mourne,
The spotlesse fort of fancie to assaile.
Oh Rosalind, then be thou pitifull,
For Rosalind is onely beautifull,
A blithe and bonny country lasse,
Heigh ho, bonny lasse,
Sate sighing on the tender grasse,
And weeping sạid, will none come woo me
A smicker boy, a lither swayne,
Heigh ho, a smicker swayne,
That in his loue was wanton faine,
With smiling lookes strait came vnto her.
When as the wanton wench espide,
Heigh ho when she espide
The meanes to make herself a bride,
She simpred smooth like bonny bell,
The swayne that saw her squint eide kind,
Heigh ho squint eide kinde,
His arms about her body twind,
And faire lasse, how faire yee? well.
The country Kit said well forsooth,
Heigh ho, well forsooth,
But that I haue a longing tooth,
A longing tooth that makes me crie:
Alas, said he, what garres thy griefe?
Heigh ho, what garres thy grife?
A wounde, quoth she, without reliefe;
I feare a maide that I shall die.
If that be all, the shepheard said,
Heigh ho, shepheard said,
He make thee wiue it, gentle maide,
And so secure thy maladie,
Hereon they kist with many an oath,
Heigh ho, with many an oath,
And fore god Pan did plight their troth,
And to the church they hied them fast.
And God send euery pretty peate,
Heigh ho, the pretty peate
That feares to die of this conceite,
So kind a friend to helpe at last.
I HAVE by no means exhausted the subject of rare Poetical Tracts, which are to be found, either in the Museum, or in the Collections of my friends; but wishing to exhibit to the reader as various amusement as possible, I shall close
work with a brief description of some rarer Epigrammatic productions of the earliest period.
1. “THE LETTING OF HUMORS BLOOD IN THE HEAD-VAINE, with a New Morissco, daunced by Seven Satyres upon the bottom of Diogenes Tubbe.
Imprinted at London, by W. White. 1611."
This must have been a very popular work in its day, as there were several editions of it under various titles. The author was Samuel Rowlands.
The following specimen shows how much Tarlton was praised and followed for his performance of the Clown's part,
When Tarlton clown'd it in a pleasant vaine,
And with conceites did good opinions gaine
Upon the stage his merry humours shop,
Clownes knew the Clowne by his great clownish slop:
But now the're gulled, for present fashion sayes,
Dick Tarlton's part gentlemens breeches plaies
In every streete where any gallant goes,
The swaggring sloppe is Tarlton's clownish hose.
Alas, Delfridus keepes his bed, God knowės,
Which is a signe his worships very ill,
His griefe beyond the grounds of phisicke goes,
No doctor that comes neare it with his skill,
Yet doth he eate, drinke, talke, and sleepe profound,
Seerring to all mens judgment healthfull found,
gesse the cause he thus to bed is drawne,
What thinke you so may such a hap procure it.
Well tis very true, his hose are out at pawne,
A breechlesse chaunce is coine he must endure it,
His hose to Brokers jayle committed are,
His singular and only velvet paire.
Uni si possim placere sat est.
Printed at London, for F. B. dwelling at the Flower de Luce and Crowne, in Pauls Church Yard. 1606."
This collection of Epigrams is not mentioned by Warton. It is inscribed by the author “ To his no little respected Friend, little John Buck, I dedicate this my little.”