Upon Mount Olivet, Feeding the blessed flock of Dan, Which did himself beget? THOM. O blessed Sheep! O Shepheard great! That bought his flock so dear, And them did save with bloody sweat From wolves that would them tear. MOR. Beside, as holy Fathers sayn, There is a holy place Where Titan riseth from the main To run his daily race, Upon whose top the stars be stay'd, And all the sky doth lean; There is the cave where Phœbe laid The shepheard long to dream. Whilome there used shepheards all To feed their flocks at will, Till by his folly one did fall, That all the rest did spill. And, sithens shepheards be foresaid From places of delight, Forthy I ween thou be afraid To climb this hillës height. Of Sinai can I tell thee more, And of our Lady's Bower; But little needs to strow my store, Suffice this hill of our. Here have the holy Fauns recourse, And Sylvans haunten rathe; Here has the salt Medway his source, Wherein the Nymphs do bathe; The salt Medway, that trickling streams Adown the dales of Kent, Till with his elder brother Themes His brackish waves be ment. Here grows melampode every where, And terebinth, good for goats; The one my madding kids to smear, The next to heal their throats. Hereto, the hills be nigher heaven, And then the passage eath; As well can prove the piercing levin, That seldom falls beneath. THOM. Siker thou speaks like a lewd lorrell, Of heaven to deemen so; How be I am but rude and borrell, Yet nearer ways I know. To kirk the narre, from God more far, Has been an old-said saw; And he, that strives to touch a star, Oft stumbles at a straw. As soon may shepheard climb to sky That leads in lowly dales, As goatherd proud, that, sitting high, Upon the mountain sails. My seely sheep like well below, They need not melampode, For they be hale enough, I trow, And liken their abode; But, if they with thy goats should yede, They soon might be corrupted, Or like not of the frowy feed, Or with the weeds be glutted. The hills, where dwelled holy saints, I reverence and adore, Not for themself, but for the saints Which have been dead of yore. And now they be to heaven forewent, Their good is with them go; Their sample only to us lent, That als we might do so. Shepheards they weren of the best, And lived in lowly leas; And, sith they souls be now at rest, Why do we them disease? Such one he was (as I have heard Old Algrind often sayn) That whilome was the first shepheard, And lived with little gain: And meek he was, as meek might be, Simple as simple sheep; Humble, and like in each degree The flock which he did keep.