The Faithful Shepherdess

John Fletcher

Francis Beaumont

Francis Beaumont

The Faithful Shepherdess / The Works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher (Volume 2 of 10)

Actus Primus. Scena Prima

Enter Clorin a shepherdess, having buried her Love in an Arbour.

Hail, holy Earth, whose cold Arms do imbrace

The truest man that ever fed his flocks

By the fat plains of fruitful Thessaly,

Thus I salute thy Grave, thus do I pay

My early vows, and tribute of mine eyes

To thy still loved ashes; thus I free

My self from all insuing heats and fires

Of love: all sports, delights and jolly games

That Shepherds hold full dear, thus put I off.

Now no more shall these smooth brows be begirt

With youthful Coronals, and lead the Dance;

No more the company of fresh fair Maids

And wanton Shepherds be to me delightful,

Nor the shrill pleasing sound of merry pipes

Under some shady dell, when the cool wind

Plays on the leaves: all be far away,

Since thou art far away; by whose dear side

How often have I sat Crown'd with fresh flowers

For summers Queen, whil'st every Shepherds Boy

Puts on his lusty green, with gaudy hook,

And hanging scrip of finest Cordevan.

But thou art gone, and these are gone with thee,

And all are dead but thy dear memorie;

That shall out-live thee, and shall ever spring

Whilest there are pipes, or jolly Shepherds sing.

And here will I in honour of thy love,

Dwell by thy Grave, forgeting all those joys,

That former times made precious to mine eyes,

Only remembring what my youth did gain

In the dark, hidden vertuous use of Herbs:

That will I practise, and as freely give

All my endeavours, as I gain'd them free.

Of all green wounds I know the remedies

In Men or Cattel, be they stung with Snakes,

Or charm'd with powerful words of wicked Art,

Or be they Love-sick, or through too much heat

Grown wild or Lunatick, their eyes or ears

Thickned with misty filme of dulling Rheum,

These I can Cure, such secret vertue lies

In Herbs applyed by a Virgins hand:

My meat shall be what these wild woods afford,

Berries, and Chesnuts, Plantanes, on whose Cheeks,

The Sun sits smiling, and the lofty fruit

Pull'd from the fair head of the staight grown Pine;

On these I'le feed with free content and rest,

When night shall blind the world, by thy side blest.

Enter a Satyr.

Satyr. Through yon same bending plain

That flings his arms down to the main,

And through these thick woods have I run,

Whose bottom never kist the Sun

Since the lusty Spring began,

All to please my master Pan,

Have I trotted without rest

To get him Fruit; for at a Feast

He entertains this coming night

His Paramour, the Syrinx bright:

But behold a fairer sight! [He stands amazed.

By that Heavenly form of thine,

Brightest fair thou art divine,

Sprung from great immortal race

Of the gods, for in thy face

Shines more awful Majesty,

Than dull weak mortalitie

Dare with misty eyes behold,

And live: therefore on this mold

Lowly do I bend my knee,

In worship of thy Deitie;

Deign it Goddess from my hand,

To receive what e're this land

From her fertil Womb doth send

Of her choice Fruits: and but lend

Belief to that the Satyre tells,

Fairer by the famous wells,

To this present day ne're grew,

Never better nor more true.

Here be Grapes whose lusty bloud

Is the learned Poets good,

Sweeter yet did never crown

The head of Bacchus, Nuts more brown

Than the Squirrels Teeth that crack them;

Deign O fairest fair to take them.

For these black ey'd Driope

Hath oftentimes commanded me,

With my clasped knee to clime;

See how well the lusty time

Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red,

Such as on your lips is spred,

Here be Berries for a Queen,

Some be red, some be green,

These are of that luscious meat,

The great God Pan himself doth eat:

All these, and what the woods can yield,

The hanging mountain or the field,

I freely offer,