When Curan heard of her escape,
The anguish in his hart
Was more than much, and after her
From court he did depart;
Forgetfull of himselfe, his birth,
His country, friends, and all,
And only minding (whom he mist)
The foundresse of his thrall.
Nor meanes he after to frequent
Or court, or stately townes,
But solitarily to live
Amongst the country grownes.
A brace of years he lived thus,
Well pleased so to live,
And shepherd-like to feed a flocke
Himselfe did wholly give.
So wasting, Love, by worke, and want,
Grew almost to the waine:
But then began a second love,
The worser of the twaine.
A country wench, a neatherds maid,
Where Curan kept his sheepe,
Did feed her drove: and now on her
Was all the shepherds keepe.
He borrowed on the working daies
His holy russets[4] oft,
And of the bacon's fat, to make
His startops blacke and soft.
And least his tarbox should offend,
He left it at the folde:
Sweete growte, or whig, his bottle had,
As much as it might holde.
A sheeve of bread as browne as nut,
And cheese as white as snow,
And wildings, or the seasons fruit
He did in scrip bestow.
And whilst his py-bald curre did sleepe,
And sheep-hooke lay him by,
On hollow quilles of oten straw
He piped melody.
But when he spyed her his saint,
He wip'd his greasie shooes,
And clear'd the drivell from his beard,
And thus the shepheard wooes.