And last of all, if any wanton Weather, With briers and brambles teare his fleece in twaine, He shall be forc'd t'abide cold frosty weather, And powring showres of ratling stormes of raine, Till his new fleece begins to grow againe: And for his rashnes he is doom'd to goe without a new Coate all the Winter throw. Thus doth he keepe them, still in awfull feare, And yet allowes them liberty inough; So deare to him their welfare doth appeare, That when their fleeces gin to waxen rough, He combs and trims them with a Rampicke bough, Washing them in the streames of siluer _Ladon_, To cleanse their skinnes from all corruption. Another while he wooes his Country Wench, (With Chaplets crownd, and gaudy girlonds dight) Whose burning Lust her modest eye doth quench, Standing amazed at her heauenly sight, (Beauty doth rauish Sense with sweet Delight) Clearing _Arcadia_ with a smoothed Browe When Sun-bright smiles melts flakes of driuen snowe. Thus doth he frollicke it each day by day, And when Night comes drawes homeward to his Coate, Singing a Iigge or merry Roundelay; (For who sings commonly so merry a Noate, As he that cannot chop or change a groate) And in the winter Nights (his chiefe desire) He turns a Crabbe or Cracknell in the fire. He leads his Wench a Country Horn-pipe Round, About a May-pole on a Holy-day; Kissing his louely Lasse (with Garlands Crownd) With whoopping heigh-ho singing Care away; Thus doth he passe the merry month of May: And all th'yere after in delight and ioy, (Scorning a King) he cares for no annoy. What though with simple cheere he homely fares? He liues content, a King can doo no more; Nay not so much, for Kings haue manie cares: But he hath none; except it be that sore Which yong and old, which vexeth ritch and poore, The pangs of Loue. O! who can vanquish Loue? That conquers Kingdomes, and the Gods aboue? Deepe-wounding Arrow, hart-consuming Fire; Ruler of Reason, slaue to tyraunt Beautie; Monarch of harts, Fuell of fond desire, Prentice to Folly, foe to faind Duetie. Pledge of true Zeale, Affections moitie; If thou kilst where thou wilt, and whom it list thee, (Alas) how can a silly Soule resist thee? By thee great _Collin_ lost his libertie, By thee sweet _Astrophel_ forwent his ioy; By thee _Amyntas_ wept incessantly, By thee good _Rowland_ liu'd in great annoy; O cruell, peeuish, vylde, blind-seeing Boy: How canst thou hit their harts, and yet not see? (If thou be blinde, as thou art faind to bee).