AEGLAMOUR

And have you found her? My drowned Love. Earine! the sweet Earine! The bright, and beautiful Earine! Have you not herd of my Earine? Just by your Father's Mills (I think I am right) Are not you Much the Millers son? And Baily to brave Robin-hood? Close by your Father's Mills, Earine! Earine was drowned! Oh my Earine! (Old Maudlin tells me so, and Douce her Daughter) have you swept the River say you? and not found her? Oh not for her? You're goodly friends! right charitable men! Nay, keep your way, and leave me: make your toys, Your tales, your poesies, that you talked of; all Your entertainments: you not injure me: Only if I may enjoy my Cypress wreathe! And you will let me weep! (it's all I ask;) Till I be turned to water, as was she! And troth what less suit can you grant a man? Searching? where should I search? or on what track? Can my slow drop of tears, or this dark shade About my brows, enough describe her lose! Earine, Oh my Earine's lose! No, no, no, no; this heart will break first. If I could knit whole clouds about my brows, And weep Like Swithen, or those watery signs, The Kids that rise then, and drown all the Flocks Of those rich Shepherd's, dwelling in this Vale; Those careless Shepherd's, that did let her drown! Then I did something or could make old Trent Drunk with my sorrow, to start out in breaches To drown their Herds, their cattle, and their corn, Break down their Mills, their Dams, ore-turne their weeres, And see their houses, and whole livelihood Wrought into water, with her, all were good: I'd kiss the torrent, and those whirls of Trent, That sucked her in, my sweet Earine! When they have cast their body on the shore, And it comes up, as tainted as themselves, All pale and bloodless, I will love it still, For all that they can do, and make them mad, To see how I will hug it in mine arms! And hang upon the looks, dwell on her eyes: Feed round about her lips, and eat her kisses! Suck of her drowned flesh! and where's their malice? Not all their envious sousing can change that: But I will study some revenge passed this! I pray you give me leave, for I will study. Though all the Bells, Pipes, Tabors, Timburines ring That you can plant about me: I will study. It will be rare, rare, rare! And exquisite revenge: but peace, no words! Not for the fairest fleece of all the Flock; If it be known afore, it's all worth nothing! I'll carve it on the trees, and in the turf, On every green sworth, and in every path, Just to the Margin of the cruel Trent; There will I knock the story in the ground, In smooth great pebble, and moss fill it round, Till the whole Country read how she was drowned, And with the plenty of salt tears thereshed, Quite altar the complexion of the Spring. Or I will get some old, old Grandam, thither, Whose rigid foot but dipped into the water, Shall strike that sharp and sudden cold, throughout, As it shall lose all virtue; and those Nymph's, Those treacherous Nymph's pulled in Earine; Shall stand curled up, Like Images of Ice; And never thaw! mark, never! a sharp Justice: Or stay, a better! when the years at hottest, And that the Dogstar fomes, and the streams boils, And curls, and works, and swells ready to sparkle: To fling a fellow with a Fever in, To set it all on fire, till it burn, Blue as Scamander, before the walls of Troy; When Vulcan leaped in to him, to consume him. Do you not approve it? A Spring, now she is dead: of what, of thorns? Briers, and Brambles? Thistles? Burrs, and Dorks? Cold Hemlock? Yewgh? the Mandrake, or the Box? These may grow still; but what can spring beside? Did not the whole Earth sicken, when she died? As if there since did fallen one drop of Due, But what was wept for her! or any stalk Did bear a Flower! or any branch a bloom; After her wreathe was made: In faith, in faith You do not fair, to put these things upon me. Which can in no sort be: Earine, Who had her very being, and her name, With the first knots, or buddings of the Spring, Born with the Prim rose, and the Violet, Or earliest Roses blown: when Cupid smiled, And Venus led the Graces out to dance, And all the Flowers, and Sweets in Nature's lap, Leaped out and made their solemn Conjuration, To last, but while she lived: Do not I know, How the Vale withered the same Day? How Dove, Dean, Eye, and Erwash, Idell, Snite, and Soar, Each broke his Urn, and twenty waters more, That swelled proud Trent, shrunk themselves dry; that since, No Sun, or Moon, or other cheerful Star Looked out of heaven! but all the Cope was dark, As it were hung so for her Exequies! And not a voice or found, to ring her knell: But of that dismal pair, the scritching Owl; And buzzing Hornet! hark, hark, hark the foul Bird! how she flutters with her wicker wings! Peace you shall hear her scritch. Do you think so? are you in that good heresy? I mean opinion? If you be, say nothing: I'll study it, as a new Philosophy, But by my self alone: Now you shall leave me I Some of these Nymph's, here will reward you; this This pretty Maid, although but with a kiss, He forces Amy to kiss him. Lived my Earine, you should have twenty: For every line here, one I would allow them From mine own store, the treasure I had in her: Now I am poor as you. What said she to you? But she, as chaste, as was her name, Earine, Died undeflowered; and now her sweet soul hovers, Here, in the Air, above us; and does haste To get up to the Moon, and Mercury; And whisper Venus in her Orb, then spring Up to old Saturn, and come down by Mars, Consulting Jupiter; and seat her self Just in the amid with Phœbus; tempering all The jarring Spheres, and giving to the World Again, his first and tuneful planetting! OF what and age will here be of new concords! Delightful harmony! to rock old Sages, Twice infants, in the Cradle o'Speculation, He goes out again, but returns as soon as be before. And throw a silence upon all the creatures! The loudest Seas, and most enraged Winds Shall loose their clangor; Tempest shall grow hoarse; Loud Thunder dumb; and every speece of storm Laid in the lap of listening Nature, hushed; To hear the changed chime of this eighth sphere! Take tent, and harken for it, lose it not. Aeglamour departs. How better 'twere to me, this were not known! By no means. Ah! to me all minstrelsy Is irksome, as are you. Out on them! what are these? Oh, the fiend, and thee! Gar take them hence: they few manned all the claithes, And prick my Coats: hence with them, limmer lown, Thy vermin, and thy self, thy self art one; I lock me up. All's well when thou art gone.