HOBBINOL. Diggon Davie! I bid her good-day; Or Diggon her is, or I missay. DIG. Her was her, while it was day-light, But now her is a most wretched wight: For day, that was, is wightly past, And now at erst the dark night doth hast. HOB. Diggon, arede who has thee so dight; Never I wist thee in so poor a plight. Where is the fair flock thou wast wont to lead? Or be they chaffred, or at mischief dead? DIG. Ah! for love of that is to thee most lief, Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old grief; Such question rippeth up cause of new woe, For one, opened, might unfold many moe. HOB. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in heart, I know, to keep is a burdenous smart: Each thing imparted is more eath to bear: When the rain is fallen, the clouds waxen clear. And now, sithence I saw thy head last, Thrice three moons be fully spent and past; Since when thou hast measured much ground, And wandered well about the world round, So as thou can many things relate; But tell me first of thy flock's estate. DIG. My sheep be wasted; (woe is me therefore!) The jolly shepheard that was of yore, Is now nor jolly, nor shepheard more. In foreign coasts men said was plenty; And so there is, but all of misery: I deem'd there much to have eked my store, But such eking hath made my heart sore. In those countries, whereas I have been, No being for those that truly mean; But for such, as of guile maken gain, No such country as there to remain; They setten to sale their shops of shame, And maken a mart of their good name: The shepheards there robben one another, And layen baits to beguile their brother; Or they will buy his sheep out of the cote, Or they will carven the shepheard's throat. The shepheard's swain you cannot well ken, But it be by his pride, from other men; They looken big as bulls that be bate, And bearen the crag so stiff and so state, As cock on his dunghill crowing crank. HOB. Diggon, I am so stiff and so stank, that uneath may I stand any more; And now the western wind bloweth sore, That now is in his chief sovereignty, Beating the withered leaf from the tree; Sit we down here under the hill; Then may we talk and tellen our fill, And make a mock at the blustering blast: Now say on, Diggon, whatever thou hast. DIG. Hobbin, ah Hobbin! I curse the stound That ever I cast to have lorn this ground: Well-away the while I was so fond To leave the good, that I had in hond, In hope of better that was uncouth, So lost the dog the flesh in his mouth. My silly sheep (ah! silly sheep!) That here by there I whilome us'd to keep, All were they lusty as thou didest see, Be all starved with pine and penury; Hardly myself escaped thilk pain, Driven for need to come home again. HOB.