In this Æglogue two Shepheards' Boys, taking occasion of the season, begin to make purpose of love, and other pleasance which to springtime is most agreeable. The special meaning hereof is, to give certain marks and tokens, to know Cupid the poets' god of Love. But more particularly, I think, in the person of Thomalin, is meant some secret friend, who scorned Love and his knights so long, till at length himself was entangled, and unwares wounded with the dart of some beautiful regard, which is Cupid's arrow. WILLY. THOMALIN. WILLY. Thomalin, why sitten we so, As weren overwent with woe, Upon so fair a morrow? The joyous time now nigheth fast, That shall alegge this bitter blast, And slake the winter sorrow. THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well; For winter's wrath begins to quell, And pleasant spring appeareth: The grass now gins to be refresht, The swallow peeps out of her nest, And cloudy welkin cleareth. WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud, How bragly it begins to bud, And utter his tender head? Flora now calleth forth each flower, And bids make ready Maia's bower That new is uprist from bed: Then shall we sporten in delight, And learn with Lettice to wax light, That scornfully looks askance; Then will we little Love awake, That now sleepeth in Lethe lake, And pray him leaden our dance. THO. Willy, I ween thou be assot; For lusty Love still sleepeth not, But is abroad at his game. WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke? Or hast thyself his slumber broke? Or made privy to the same? THO. No; but happily I him spied, Where in a bush he did him hide, With wings of purple and blue; And, were not that my sheep would stray, The privy marks I would bewray, Whereby by chance I him knew. WIL. Thomalin, have no care forthy; Myself will have a double eye, Alike to my flock and thine; For, alas! at home I have a sire, A stepdame eke, as hot as fire, That duly adays counts mine. THO. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve, My sheep for that may chance to swerve, And fall into some mischief: For sithens is but the third morrow That I chanc'd to fall asleep with sorrow, And waked again with grief; The while thilk same unhappy ewe, Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew, Fell headlong into a dell, And there unjointed both her bones: Might her neck been jointed attones, She should have need no more spell; Th' elf was so wanton and so wood, (But now I trow can better good,) She might ne gang on the green. WIL. Let be, as may be, that is past; That is to come, let be forecast: Now tell us what thou hast seen. THO. It was upon a holiday, When shepheards' grooms have leave to play, I cast to go a shooting; Long wand'ring up and down the land,