Eclogue The Third

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Wouldst thou kenn Nature in her better parte?
Goe, serche the logges  and bordels  of the hynde ;
Gyfe  theye have anie, itte ys roughe-made arte,
Inne hem  you see the blakied  forme of kynde .
Haveth your mind a lycheynge  of a mynde?
Woulde it kenne everich thynge as it mote  bee;
Woulde ytte here phrase of the vulgar from the hynde,
Wythoute wiseegger  wordes and knowlache  free,
Gyf soe, rede thys, whych Iche dysporteynge  pende,
Gif nete besyde, yttes rhyme maie ytte commend.

MANNE

Botte whether, fayre mayde do ye goe,
O where do ye bend yer waie?
I wile knowe whether you goe,
I wylle not be asseled  naie.

WOMANNE

To Robyn and Nell, all downe in the Delle,
To hele  hem at makeynge of haie.

MANNE

Syr Rogerre the Parsone hav hyred mee there,
Comme, Comme, lette us tryppe ytte awaie;
We'lle wurche  and wylle synge, and wylle drenche  of stronge Beere,
As longe as the merrie sommers daie.

WOMANNE

Howe harde ys mie dome to wurch!
Moke is mie woe:
Dame Agnes whoe lies ynne the Chyrche,
With birlette  golde;
Wythe gelten  aumeres  stronge ontolde,
What was shee moe than me, to be soe?

MANNE

I kenne Syr Roger from afar,
Tryppynge over the Lea,
Ich ask whie the loverds  son
Is moe than mee.

SIR ROGERE

The sweltrie  sonne dothe hie apace hys wayne .
From everich beme, a seme  of lyfe doe falle;
Swythyn  scille  oppe the haie uponne the playne,
Methynckes the cockse begynneth to gre  talle:
Thys ys alyche oure doome , the great, the smalle,
Moste withe and be forwyned  by Deathis darte;
See the swote  flourette  hathe noe swote at alle;
Itte wythe the ranke wede berethe evalle  parte,
The cravent , warriour, and the wyse be blent :
Alyche to drie awaie, with those thele did bemente .

MANNE

All-a-Boon  Syr Priest, all-a-boon,
Bye yer preesteschype nowe saye unto mee:
Sir Gaufryd the knyghte, who lyveth harde bie,
Whie should hee, than me
Bee moe greate,
Inne honnoure, knyghtehoode and estate?

SIR ROGERE

Attourne  thine eyne arounde thys haied mee,
Tentyflie  loke arounde the chaper  delle ;
An answer to thie barganette  here see,
Thys welked  flouertte wylle a leson telle
Arist , it blew , itte florished, and dyd welle,
Lokeynge ascaunce  upon the naighboure greene,
Yet with the deigned  greene, yttes rennome  felle,
Eftsonnes  ytte shronke upon the daie-brente  playne,
Didde not yttes loke, whilest ytte there dyd stonde,
To croppe ytte in the bodde move somme drede honde.

Syke  ys the waie of lyffe: the loverds  ente ,
Mooveth the robber hym therfor to slea:
Gyf thou has ethe , the shadowe of contente,
Believe the trothe , theres none moe haile  yan thee:
Thou wurchest ; welle, canne thatte, a trobble bee?
Slothe moe wulde jade thee, than the roughest daie,
Couldest thou the kivercled  of soughlys  see,
Thou wuldst eftsoones  see trothe, inne whatte I saie;
Botte lette mee heere thie waie offe lyffe; and thenne
Heare thou from mee the lyffs of odher menne.

MANNE.

I ryse wythe the Sonne,
Lyche hym to dryve the wayne
And eere mie wurche is don
I synge a Songe or twayne. 

I followe the plough tayle,
Wythe a long jubb  of ale.
Botte of the Maydens, oh!
Itte lacketh notte to telle;

Syr Preeste mote notte crie woe,
Culde hys bull do as welle
I daunce the beste heiedeygnes ,
And foile the wysest feygnes.

On everych Seynctes his daie,
Wythe the mynstrelle  am I seen,
All a footeynge it awaie,
Wythe maydens on the greene
But oh! I wyshe to be moe greate,
In rennome, tenure and estate.

SIR ROGERRE.

Has thou ne sene a tree uponne a hylle,
Whose unliste  braunces  rechen far toe syghte;
Whan fuired  unwers  doe the heaven fylle,
Itte shaketh deere  yn dole  and moke affryghte:
Whilst the congeon  flowrette abessie  dyghte ,
Stondeth unhurte, unquaced  bie the storme;
Syke is a picte  of lyffe: the manne of myghte,
Is tempest-chaft : hys woe greate as hys forme
Thieself a flourette of a small accounte,
Wouldst harder felle the wynde, as hygher thee dydste mount.

© Thomas Chatterton