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FIFTH PASTORAL.
From the tall elm, a show'r of leaves is born, 5And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn.Yet ev'n this season pleasance blithe affords,Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards.Come, let us hye, and quaff a cheery bowl,Let cyder new wash sorrow from thy soul. 10
GRUBBINOL. Ah Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone,From these sad plains all merriment is flown;Should I reveal my grief 'twould spoil thy chear,And make thine eye o'erflow with many a tear.
BUMKINET. Hang sorrow! let's to yonder hutt repair,[1] 15And with trim sonnets cast away our care.Gillian of Croydon well thy pipe can play.Thou sing'st most sweet, O'er hills and far away.Of Patient Grissel I devise to sing,And catches quaint shall make the vallies ring. 20Come, Grubbinol, beneath this shelter, come,From hence we view our flocks securely roam.
GRUBBINOL. Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing,But with my woe shall distant vallies ring.The tale shall make our kidlings droop their head,For woe is me!———our Blouzelind is dead. 26
BUMKINET. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewel my glee![2]No happiness is now reserv'd for me.As the wood-pidgeon cooes without his mate,So shall my doleful dirge bewail her fate. 30Of Blouzelinda fair I mean to tell,The peerless maid that did all maids excel
Henceforth
