That us, late dead, hast made againe alive;
But were it not too painefull to repeat
The passed fortunes, which to thee befell
In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat,
To whom the shepheard gently answered thus;
“Hobbin, thou temptest me to that I covet:
For of good passed newly to discus,
By dubble usurie doth twise renew it.
Her worlds bright sun, her heavens fairest light,
My mind, full of my thoughts satietie,
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:
Since that same day in nought I take delight,
But in remembrance of that glory bright,
My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure,
Wake then, my pipe; my sleepie muse, awake;
Till I have told her praises lasting long:
Harke then, ye iolly shepheards, to my song.”
With that they all gan throng about him neare,
With hungrie eares to heare his harmonie:
The whiles their flocks, devoyd of dangers feare,
“One day (quoth he) I sat (as was my trade)
Under the foote of Mole, that mountaine here,
Keeping my sheepe amongst the cooly shade
Of the greene alders by the Mullaes shore;
Whether allured with my pipes delight,
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,
Or thither led by chaunce, I know not right:
Whom when I asked from what place he came,
The Shepheard of the Ocean by name.
And said he came far from the main-sea deepe.
He, sitting me beside in that same shade,
Provoked me to plaie some pleasant fit;
He found himselfe full greatly pleased at it:
Yet, æmuling my pipe, he tooke in hond
My pipe, before that æmuled of many,
And plaid theron; (for well that skill he cond;)
He pip’d, I sung; and, when he sung, I piped;
By chaunge of turnes, each making other mery;
Neither envying other, nor envied,
So piped we, untill we both were weary.”
That Cuddy hight, him thus atweene bespake:
“And, should it not thy readie course restraine,
I would request thee, Colin, for my sake,
To tell what thou didst sing, when he did plaie;
Whether it were some hymne, or morall laie,
Or carol made to praise thy loved lasse.”
“Nor of my love, nor of my lasse (quoth he,)
I then did sing, as then occasion fell:
That made me in that desart choose to dwell.
But of my river Bregogs love I soong,
Which to the shiny Mulla he did beare,
And yet doth beare, and ever will, so long
“Of fellowship (said then that bony boy)
Record to us that lovely lay againe:
The staie whereof shall nought these eares annoy,
Who all that Colin makes do covet faine.”
In sort as I it to that shepheard told:
No leasing new, nor grandams fable stale,
But auncient truth confirm’d with credence old.
“Old father Mele, (Mole hight that mountain gray
He had a daughter fresh as floure of May,
Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale;
Mulla, the daughter of old Mole, so hight
The nimph, which of that water course has charge.
To Buttevant, where, spreading forth at large,
It giveth name unto that auncient cittie,
Which Kilnemullah cleped is of old;
Whose ragged mines breed great ruth and pittie
Full faine she lov’d, and was belov’d full faine
Of her owne brother river, Bregog hight,
So hight because of this deceitfull traine,
Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight.
And meaning her much better to preferre,
Did thinke to match her with the neighbour flood,
Which Allo hight, Broad-water called farre;
And wrought so well with his continuall paine,
The dowre agreed, the day assigned plaine,
The place appointed where it should be doone.
Nath’lesse the nymph her former liking held;
For love will not be drawne, but must be ledde;
That her good will he got her first to wedde.
But for her father, sitting still on hie,
Did warily still watch which way she went.
And eke from far observ’d, with iealous eie,
Him to deceive, for all his watchfull ward,
The wily lover did devise this slight:
First into many parts his streame he shar’d,
That, whilest the one was watcht, the other might
And then, besides, those little streames so broken
He under ground so closely did convay,
That of their passage doth appeare no token,
Till they into the Mullaes water slide.
Yet not so secret, but it was descride,
And told her father by a shepheards boy,
Who, wondrous wroth, for that so foule despight,
In great revenge did roll downe from his hill
His passage, and his water-courses spill.
So of a river, which he was of old,
He none was made, but scattred all to nought;
And, lost emong those rocks into him rold,
Which having said, him Thestylis bespake;
“Now by my life this was a mery lay,
Worthie of Colin selfe, that did it make.
But read now eke, of friendship I thee pray,
For I do covet most the same to heare,
As men use most to covet forreine thing.”
“That shall I eke (quoth he) to you declare:
His song was all a lamentable lay
Of Cynthia the Ladie of the Sea,
Which from her presence faultlesse him debar.
And ever and anon, with singulfs rife,
He cryed out, to make his undersong;
