Doe answer to the Bulls wide throat,
The shady rivers bleat; the Nightingale
I'th' bushes chirps her dolefull tale.

Hinc per rubeta pastor errantes capras
Vocante cogit fistula:
Illinc herili messor e campo redux
Alterna plaudit carmina;
Et pressa sectos plaustra per sulcos gemunnt
Ruptura ruris horrea.
At nec tacemus pone considentium
Dulcis manus sodalium;
Nec infaceta sermo differtur mora,
Sed innocentibus jocis,
Multoq; tinctus, sed verecundo sale,
Innoxium trahit diem.
Haec si videret faenerator Alphius,
Olim futurus rusticus,
Quam collocarat Idibus pecuniam,
Nollet Kalendis ponere.

With's hastning pipe the sheapheard drives away
His flocke, which through the thickets stray:
To which as from the field they passe along,
Each mower sings by course, his song;
O're yeilding furrowes, carts full press'd with corne
Groane, and are like to breake the barne.
Our worke once done, we doe not silent sit,
When knots of our good fellowes meet;
Nor is our talke prolong'd with rude delay;
In harmlesse jests we spend the day;
Jests dip'd in so much salt, which rubbing shall
Onely make fresh our cheeks, not gall.
If that rich churle, this had but seen, when hee
A Country man began to be,
The money which i'th' Ides hee scraped in
Next month hee'd not put out agen.

[Decoration]

_Epig._ 4. _Ex Lib. Ep._

Veniat delectus meus in hortum suum. _Cant._ 5.

Pulcher Amor sumpsit rudis instrumenta coloni,
Et sua deposuit tela suasque faces:
Et manibus stivam rapuit; castique laboris
Ad sua ruricolas junxit aratra boves.
Ilicet, ut facili subvertit vomere corda,
Castaque virginibus Gratia crevit agris;
Flos, ait, unus abest: sunt cetera millia florum;
Ut nullus possit, _Christe_, deesse, Veni.

[Decoration]

Epig. 4.

_Let my beloved come into his Garden._ Cant. 5.

Love takes the tooles of a rude Country clowne,
His owne Artill'ry, and his torch layes down;
With staffe in's hand, Oxen to th'Plow he set
For tillage, and such honest labour fit;
Straight, as he turn'd up hearts with easie share,
And grace i'th' virgin-furrowes did appeare,
'Mongst thousand others, one flower, quoth he, is mist:
That none may wanting be, come thou, O