Book 13
The Cornell berryes also from the tree thy self shall pull:
750
And pleasant plommes, sum yellow lyke new wax, sum blew, sum full
Of ruddy jewce. Of Chestnutts eeke (if my wyfe thou wilt bee)
Thou shalt have store: and frutes all sortes: all trees shall serve for thee.
This Cattell heere is all myne owne. And many mo besyde
Doo eyther in the bottoms feede, or in the woodes them hyde,
And many standing at theyr stalles doo in my Cave abyde.
The number of them (if a man should ask) I cannot showe.
Tush, beggars of theyr Cattell use the number for to knowe.
And for the goodnesse of the same, no whit beleeve thou mee.
But come thyself (and if thou wilt) the truth therof to see.
See how theyr udders full doo make them straddle. Lesser ware
Shet up at home in cloce warme peends, are Lambes. There also are
In other pinfolds Kidds of selfsame yeaning tyme. Thus have
I alwayes mylke as whyte as snow. Wherof I sum doo save
To drink, and of the rest is made good cheese. And furthermore
Not only stale and common gifts and pleasures wherof store
Is to bee had at eche mannes hand, (as Leverets, Kidds, and Does,
A payre of pigeons, or a nest of birds new found, or Roes,)
Shall unto thee presented bee. I found this tother day
A payre of Bearewhelpes, eche so lyke the other as they lay
Uppon a hill, that scarce yee eche discerne from other may.
And when that I did fynd them I did take them up, and say
Theis will I for my Lady keepe for her therwith to play.
Now put thou up thy fayre bryght head, good Galat, I thee pray,
Above the greenish waves: now come my Galat, come away.
And of my present take no scorne. I know my selfe to bee
A jollye fellow. For even now I did behold and see
Myne image in the water sheere, and sure mee thought I tooke
Delyght to see my goodly shape, and favor in the brooke.
Behold how big I am: not Jove in heaven (for so you men
Report one Jove to reigne, of whom I passe not for to ken)
Is huger than this doughty corce of myne. A bush of heare
Dooth overdreepe my visage grim, and shadowes as it were
A grove uppon my shoulders twayne. And think it not to bee
A shame for that with bristled heare my body rough yee see.
A fowle ilfavored syght it is to see a leavelesse tree.
A lothely thing it is, a horse without a mane to keepe.
As fethers doo become the birdes, and wooll becommeth sheepe,
Even so a beard and bristled skin becommeth also men.
