Dowsabell
By MICHAEL DRAYTON.
Far in the country of Arden
There woned 93d a knight, hight Cassamen,
As bold as Isenbras:
Fell was he and eager bent
In battle and in tournament
As was good Sir Topás.
He had, as antique stories tell,
A daughter clepéd Dowsabell,
A maiden fair and free.
And for she was her fathers heir,
Full well she was yconned 93a the leir 93b
Of mickle courtesie.
The silk well couth she twist and twine,
And make the finé marché pine, 93c
And with the needle work;
And she couth help the priest to say
His matins on a holiday,
And sing a psalm in kirk.
She ware a frock of frolic green
Might well become a maiden queen,
Which seemly was to see;
A hood to that so neat and fine,
In colour like the columbine,
Inwrought full featously.
Her features all as fresh above
As is the grass that grows by Dove,
And lithe as lass of Kent.
Her skin as soft as Lemster 94a wool,
And white as snow on Peakish hull, 94b
Or swan that swims in Trent.
This maiden, in a morn betime,
Went forth, when May was in the prime,
To get sweet setiwall, 94c
The honeysuckle, the harlock, 94d
The lily and the lady-smock, 94k
To deck her summer-hall. 94e
Thus, as she wandered here and there,
And pickéd of the bloomy brere,
She chancéd to espy
A shepherd sitting on a bank,
Like chanticleer he crowéd crank, 94f
And piped full merrily.
He learned his sheep 94g as he him list,
When he would whistle in his fist,
To feed about him round,
Whilst he full many a carol sang,
Until the fields and meadows rang,
And that the woods did sound.
In favour this same shepherd swain
Was like the bedlam Tamburlaine
Which held proud kings in awe.
But meek as any lamb mought be,
And innocent of ill as he
Whom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke,
Which was of the finest loke
That could be cut with shear;
His mittens were of bauzon’s 94h skin,
His cockers 94i were of cordiwin, 94j
His hood of minivere.
His awl and lingell 95a in a thong;
His tarbox on his broadbelt hung,
His breech of Cointree blue.
Full crisp and curléd were his locks,
His brows as white as Albion rocks,
So like a lover true.
And piping still he spent the day
So merry as the popinjay,
Which likéd Dowsabell,
That would she ought, or would she nought,
This lad would never from her thought,
She in love-longing fell.
At length she tuckéd up her frock,
White as the lily was her smock;
She drew the shepherd nigh;
But then the shepherd piped a good,
That all the sheep forsook their food,
To hear his melodie.
“Thy sheep,” quoth she, “cannot be lean
That have a jolly shepherd swain
The which can pipe so well.”
“Yea, but,” saith he, “their shepherd may,
If piping thus he pine away
In love of Dowsabell.”
“Of love, fond boy, take then no keep,” 95b
Quoth she; “Look well unto thy sheep,
Lest they should hap to stray.”
Quoth he, “So had I done full well,
Had I not seen fair Dowsabell
Come forth to gather may.”
With that she ’gan to vail her head,
Her cheeks were like the roses red,
But not a word she said.
With that the shepherd ’gan to frown,
He threw his pretty pipes adown,
And on the ground him laid.
Saith she, “I may not stay till night
And leave my summer-hall undight,
And all for love of thee.”
“My cote,” saith he, “nor yet my fold
Shall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,
Except thou favour me.”
Saith she, “Yet liever were I dead
Than I should [yield me to be wed],
And all for love of men.”
Saith he, “Yet are you too unkind
If in your heart you cannot find
To love us now and then.
“And I to thee will be as kind
As Colin was to Rosalind
Of courtesy the flower.”
“Then will I be as true,” quoth she,
“As ever maiden yet might be
Unto her paramour.”
With that she bent her snow-white knee
Down by the shepherd kneeléd she,
And him she sweetly kist.
With that the shepherd whooped for joy.
Quoth he, “There’s never shepherd’s boy
That ever was so blist.”