The Countess of Pembroke’s “Arcadia,”[i10] which being the most celebrated romance that was ever written, was consecrated to his noble, virtuous, and learned sister Mary, the wife of Henry, Earl of Pembroke, who, having lived to a very fair age, died in her house in Aldersgate Street, in London, the 25th of September 1621, whereupon her body was buried in the cathedral church of Salisbury, among the graves of the Pembrochian family. This “Arcadia,” though then, and since, it was, and is, taken into the hands of all ingenious men, and said by one living at, or near, the time when first published, to be “a book most famous for rich conceits and splendour of courtly expressions.” This work was first printed in the year 1613 in quarto; it hath been translated into French, Dutch, and other languages in 1624. Besides _Astrophel and Stella_,[i11] _A Remedy for Love_, _The Defence of Poesy_,[i12] _Sonnets_, etc., Sir Philip also turned the _Psalms of David_ into English verse, which are in manuscript in the library of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton, curiously bound in a crimson velvet cover, left thereunto by his sister Mary, Countess of Pembroke.[i13] {xxxi} The following dialogue, composed by our author, was spoken between two shepherds in a pastoral entertainment before several gentlemen and ladies at the seat of the noble family above mentioned. _Will._ Dick, since we cannot dance, come, let a cheerful voice Show that we do not grudge at all, when others do rejoice. _Dick._ Ah, Will, though I grudge not, I count it feeble glee, With sight made dim with daily tears, another’s sport to see. Whoever lambkins saw (yet lambkins love to play) To play when that their loved dams are stoll’n or gone astray? If this in them be true, as true in men, think I, A lustless song, forsooth, thinks he, that hath more lust to cry. _Will._ A time there is for all, my mother often says, When she, with skirts tuck’d very high, with girls at stoolball plays. When thou hast mind to weep, seek out some smoky room: Now let those lightsome sights we see, thy darkness overcome. _Dick._ What joy the joyful sun gives unto bleared eyes, That comfort in these sports you like, my mind his comfort tries. _Will._ What! is thy bagpipe broke? or are thy lambs miswent? Thy wallet or thy tar-box lost? or thy new raiment rent? _Dick._ I would it were but thus, for thus it were too well. _Will._ Thou seest my ears do itch at it; good Dick, thy sorrow tell. _Dick._ Hear then, and learn to sigh; a mistress I do serve, Whose wages make me beg the more, who feeds me till I starve, Whose livery is such, as most I freeze apparelled most, And look! so near unto my cure, that I must needs be lost. _Will._ What? these are riddles sure; art thou then bound to her? _Dick._ Bound as I neither power have, nor would have power to stir. _Will._ Who bound thee? _Dick._ Love, my lord. _Will._ What witnesses thereto?