Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE SECOND EGLOGUE, by GEORGE WITHER


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THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: THE SECOND EGLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Cuddy here relates, how all
Last Line: Let us depart and keepe the pointed houre.
Subject(s): Brooke, Christopher (1570-1628); Browne, William (1591-1645); Prisons & Prisoners


The Argument.

Cuddy here relates, how all
Pitty Philarete's thrall.
Who, requested, doth relate
The true cause of his estate;
Which broke off, because 'twas long,
They begin, a three-man-Song.

Willy. Cuddy. Philarete.

Willy.

Lo, Philaret, thy old friend heere, and I,
Are come to visit thee in these thy Bands,
Whil'st both our Flocks in an Inclosure by,
Doe picke the thin grasse from the fallowed lands.
He tels me thy restraint of liberty,
Each one throughout the Country understands:
And there is not a gentle-natur'd Lad
On all these Downes, but for thy sake is sad.

Cuddy.

Not thy acquaintance, and thy friends alone,
Pitty thy close restraint, as friends should doe:
But some that have but seene thee, for thee moane:
Yea, many that did never see thee to.
Some deeme thee in a fault, and most in none;
So divers wayes doe divers Rumors goe
And at all meetings where our Shepheards bee,
Now the maine Newes that's extant, is of thee.

Philarete.

Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept
Sheepe on the Mountaines, till the day of doome,
My name should in obscuritie have slept
In Brakes, in Briars, shrubbed Furze and Broome.
Into the Worlds wide eare it had not crept,
Nor in so many mens thoughts found a roome:
But what cause of my sufferings doe they know?
Good Cuddy, tell me, how doth rumour goe?

Cuddy.

Faith 'tis uncertaine; some speake this, some that:
Some dare say nought, yet seeme to thinke a cause,
And many a one prating he knowes not what
Comes out with Proverbes and old ancient sawes,
As if he thought thee guiltlesse, and yet not:
Then doth he speake halfe Sentences, then pawse:
That what the most would say, we may suppose;
But, what to say, the Rumour is, none knowes.

Philarete.

Nor care I greatly; for, it skils not much,
What the unsteady common-people deemes,
His Conscience doth not alwaies feele least touch,
That blamelesse in the sight of others seemes:
My cause is honest, and because 'tis such,
I hold it so, and not for mens esteemes:
If they speake justly well of mee, I'me glad;
If falsely evill, it ne're makes me sad.

Willy.

I like that mind: but, Shepheard, you are quite
Beside the matter that I long to heare:
Remember what you promis'd yester-night,
Youl'd put us off with other talke, I feare;
Thou know'st that honest Cuddies heart's upright,
And none but he, except my selfe, is neere:
Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate,
The true occasion of thy present state.

Philarete.

My Friends I will; You know I am a Swaine,
That kept a poore Flocke on a barren Plaine:
Who though it seemes, I could doe nothing lesse,
Can make a Song, and woe a Shepheardesse.
And not alone the fairest where I live,
Have heard me sing, and favours daign'd to give:
But, though I say't, the noblest Nymph of Thame,
Hath grac'd my Verse, unto my greater fame.
Yet, being young, and not much seeking prayse,
I was not noted out for Shepheards layes:
Nor feeding Flocks, as, you know, others be:
For the delight that most possessed me
Was hunting Foxes, Wolves, and Beasts of Prey:
That spoyle our Foulds, and beare our Lambs away.
For this, as also for the love I beare
Unto my Country, I laid-by all care
Of gaine, or of preferment, with desire
Onely to keepe that state I had entire.
And like a true growne Huntsman sought to speed
My selfe with Hounds of rare and choysest breed,
Whose Names and Natures ere I further goe,
Because you are my friends I'le let you know.
My first esteemed Dogge that I did finde,
Was by descent of olde Acteons kinde;
A Brache, which if I doe not aime amisse,
For all the world is just like one of his:
She's named Love, and scarce yet knowes her duty;
Her Damme's my Ladies pretty Beagle, Beauty.
I bred her up my selfe with wondrous charge,
Untill she grew to be exceeding large,
And waxt so wanton, that I did abhorre it,
And put her out amongst my neighbours for it.
The next is Lust, a Hound that's kept abroad
Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a Toad
Is not more loathsome: 'tis a Curre will range
Extreamely, and is ever full of mange:
And cause it is infectious, she's not wunt
To come among the rest, but when they hunt.
Hate is the third, a Hound both deepe and long:
His Sire is True, or else supposed Wrong.
He'le have a snap at all that passe him by,
And yet pursues his game most eagerly.
With him goes Envie coupled, a leane Curre,
And yet she'le hold out, hunt we ne're so farre:
She pineth much, and feedeth little to,
Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that doe.
Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deep-mouth'd dog,
So fleet, I'me faine to hunt him with a clog,
Yet many times he'le much out-strip his bounds,
And hunts not closely with the other Hounds:
He'le venter on a Lyon in his ire;
Curst Choller was his Damme, and Wrong his Sire.
This Choller, is a Brache, that's very old,
And spends her mouth too-much to have it hold:
She's very teasty; an unpleasing Curre,
That bites the very Stones, if they but sturre:
Or when that ought but her displeasure moves,
She'le bite and snap at any one she loves.
But my quicke scented'st Dogge is Joelousie,
The truest of this breede's in Italie.
The Damme of mine would hardly fill a Glove,
It was a Ladies little Dogge, cal'd Love:
The Sire a poore deformed Curre, nam'd Feare;
As shagged and as rough as is a Beare:
And yet the Whelpe turn'd after neither kinde,
For he is very large, and nere-hand blinde.
Farre-off, hee seemeth of a pretty culler,
But doth not prove so, when you view him fuller.
A vile suspitious Beast; whose lookes are bad,
And I doe feare in time he will grow mad.
To him I couple Avarice, still poore;
Yet shee devoures as much as twenty more:
A thousand Horse shee in her paunch can put,
Yet whine, as if she had an emptie gut;
And having gorg'd what might a Land have found,
Shee'le catch for more, and, hide it in the ground.
Ambition is a Hound as greedy full;
But hee for all the daintiest bits doth cull:
Hee scornes to licke up Crumbs beneath the Table,
Hee'le fetch't from boards and shelves, if he be able:
Nay, hee can climbe, if neede be; and for that
With him I hunt the Martine, and the Cat:
And yet sometimes in mounting, hee's so quicke,
Hee fetches falls, are like to breake his necke.
Feare is wel-mouth'd, but subject to Distrust;
A Stranger cannot make him take a Crust:
A little thing will soone his courage quaile,
And 'twixt his legges hee ever claps his Taile.
With him, Despaire, now, often coupled goes,
Which by his roring mouth each hunts-man knowes.
None hath a better minde unto the game;
But hee gives off, and alwaies seemeth lame.
My bloud-hound Cruelty, as swift as wind,
Hunts to the death, and never comes behind;
Who, but she's strapt, and musled to, withall,
Would eate her fellowes and the prey and all.
And yet, she cares not much for any food;
Unlesse it be the purest harmelesse blood.
All these are kept abroad at charge of meny,
They doe not cost me in a yeare a penny.
But there's two couple of a midling size,
That seldome passe the sight of my owne eyes.
Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawne;
Compassion, that on every one will fawne.
This would, when 'twas a whelpe, with Rabets play
Or Lambes, and let them goe unhurt away:
Nay, now she is of growth, shee'le now and then
Catch you a Hare, and let her goe agen.
The two last, Joy, and Sorrow, make me wonder,
For they can ne're agree, nor bide asunder.
Joy's ever wanton, and no order knowes,
She'le run at Larkes, or stand and barke at Crowes.
Sorrow goes by her, and ne're moves his eye:
Yet both doe serve to helpe make up the cry:
Then comes behinde all these to beare the base,
Two couple more of a farre larger Race,
Such wide-mouth'd Trollops, that 'twould doe you good,
To heare their loud-loud Ecchoes teare the Wood:
There's Vanity, who by her gaudy Hide,
May farre away from all the rest be spide,
Though huge, yet quicke, for she's now here, now there;
Nay, looke about you, and she's every where:
Yet ever with the rest, and still in chace,
Right so, Inconstancie fils every place;
And yet so strange a fickle natur'd Hound,
Looke for her, and she's no where to be found.
Weakenesse is no faire Dogge unto the eye,
And yet she hath her proper qualitie.
But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got,
He drownes the Thunder, and the Cannon-shot:
And when at Start, he his full roaring makes,
The Earth doth tremble, and the Heaven shakes:
These were my Dogs, ten couple just in all,
Whom by the name of Satyres I doe call:
Mad Curs they be, and I can ne're come nigh them,
But I'me in danger to be bitten by them.
Much paines I tooke, and spent dayes not a few,
To make them keepe together, and hunt true:
Which yet I doe suppose had never bin,
But that I had a Scourge to keepe them in.
Now when that I this Kennell first had got,
Out of mine owne Demeanes I hunted not,
Save on these Downes, or among yonder Rocks,
After those beasts that spoyl'd our Parish Flockes:
Nor during that time, was I ever wont,
With all my Kennell in one day to hunt:
Nor had done yet, but that this other yeere,
Some Beasts of Prey that haunt the Deserts heere,
Did not alone for many Nights together
Devoure, sometime a Lambe, sometime a Weather:
And so disquiet many a poore mans Heard,
But thereof loosing all were much afeard.
Yea, I among the rest, did fare as bad,
Or rather worse; for the best Ewes I had,
(Whose breed should be my meanes of life and gaine,
Were in one Evening by these Monsters slaine:
Which mischiefe I resolved to repay,
Or else grow desperate and hunt all away.
For in a furie such as you shall see
Hunts-men, in missing of their sport will be)
I vow'd a Monster should not lurke about
In all this Province, but I'de finde him out.
And thereupon without respect or care,
How lame, how full, or how unfit they were,
In hast unkennell'd all my roaring crew,
Who were as mad, as if my mind they knew;
And e're they trail'd a flight-shot, the fierce Curres,
Had rous'd a Hart, and through Brakes, Bryars, and Furres
Follow'd at gaze so close, that Love and Feare
Got in together, and had surely, there
Quite overthrowne him, but that Hope thrust in
'Twixt both, and sav'd the pinching of his skin.
Whereby he scap't, till coursing overthwart,
Despaire came in, and grip't him to the hart.
I hallowed in the resdue to the fall,
And for an entrance, there I flesh't them all:
Which having done, I dip'd my staffe in blood
And onward led my Thunder to the Wood;
Where what they did, I'le tell you out anon,
My keeper calles me, and I must be gon.
Goe, if you please a while, attend your Flocks,
And when the Sunne is over yonder Rocks,
Come to this Cave againe, where I will be,
If that my Gardian so much favour me.
Yet if you please, let us three sing a straine,
Before you turne your sheepe into the Plaine.

Willie.

I am content.

Cuddy.

As well content am I.

Philarete.

Then Will begin, and wee'le the rest supply.

SONG.

Willie.

Shepheard, would these Gates were ope,
Thou might'st take with us thy fortunes.

Philarete.

No, I'le make this narrow scope,
(Since my Fate doth so importune)
Meanes unto a wider Hope.

Cuddy.

Would thy Shepheardesse were here,
Who belov'd, loves so dearely?

Philarete.

Not for both your Flocks, I sweare,
And the gaine they yeeld you yeerely,
Would I so much wrong my Deare.
Yet, to me, nor to this Place,
Would she now be long a stranger:
She would hold it in disgrace,
(If she fear'd not more my danger)
Where I am to shew her face.

Willie.

Shepheard, we would wish no harmes,
But something that might content thee.

Philarete.

Wish me then within her armes;
And that wish will ne're repent me,
If your wishes might prove charmes.

Willie.

Be thy Prison her embrace,
Be thy ayre her sweetest breathing.

Cuddy.

Be thy prospect her sweet Face,
For each looke a kisse bequeathing,
And appoint thy selfe the place.

* * *

Philarete.

Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then
Come meete you here this afternoone agen:
But fare you well, since wishes have no power,
Let us depart and keepe the pointed houre.





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