Kitap 13
On eyther syde. The one eyd feend came up and made his seate
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Theron, and after came his sheepe undriven. As soone as hee
Had at his foote layd downe his staffe which was a whole Pyne tree
Well able for to bee a maast to any shippe, he takes
His pype compact of fyvescore reedes, and therwithall he makes
So loud a noyse that all the hilles and waters therabout
Myght easly heere the shirlnesse of the shepeherds whistling out.
I lying underneathe the rocke, and leaning in the lappe
Of Acis markt theis woordes of his which farre I heard by happe:
More whyght thou art then Primrose leaf, my Lady Galatee.
More fresh than meade, more tall and streyght than lofty Aldertree.
More bright than glasse, more wanton than the tender kid forsooth.
Than Cockleshelles continually with water worne, more smoothe.
More cheerefull than the winters Sun, or Sommers shadowe cold,
More seemely and more comly than the Planetree to behold,
Of valew more than Apples bee although they were of gold.
More cleere than frozen yce, more sweete than Grape through rype ywis,
More soft than butter newly made, or downe of Cygnet is.
And much more fayre and beawtyfull than gardein to myne eye,
But that thou from my companye continually doost flye.
And thou the selfsame Galate art more tettish for to frame
Than Oxen of the wildernesse whom never wyght did tame.
More fleeting than the waves, more hard than warryed Oke to twyne,
More tough than willow twiggs, more lyth than is the wyld whyght vyne.
More than this rocke unmovable, more violent than a streame.
More prowd than Peacocke praysd, more feerce than fyre and more extreeme.
More rough than Breers, more cruell than the new delivered Beare,
More mercilesse than troden snake, than sea more deafe of eare.
And which (and if it lay in mee I cheefly would restrayne)
Not only swifter paced than the stag in chace on playne,
But also swifter than the wynd and flyghtfull ayre. But if
Thou knew me well, it would thee irke to flye and bee a greef
To tarrye from mee. Yea thou wouldst endeavour all thy powre
To keepe mee wholly to thy self. The Quarry is my bowre
Heawen out of whole mayne stone. No Sun in sommer there can swelt.
No nipping cold in wintertyme within the same is felt.
Gay Apples weying downe the boughes have I, and Grapes like gold,
And purple Grapes on spreaded Vynes as many as can hold.
Bothe which I doo reserve for thee. Thyself shalt with thy hand
The soft sweete strawbryes gather, which in wooddy shadowe stand.
