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Thy shoes that thow worst when thow wenst to plow,
Were made of the hyde of a Scottish cow,
They are turnd into Spanish leather now,
Bedeckt with roses I know not how.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy stockings that were of a northerne blew,
That cost not past 12d when they were new,
Are turnd into a silken hew,
Most gloriously to all men's vew.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy belt that was made of a white leather thonge,
Which thow and thy father ware so longe,
Are turnd to hangers of velvet stronge,
With golde and pearle embroydred amonge.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy garters that were of the Spanish say,
Which from the taylor thow stoll'st away,
Are now quite turnd to silk, they say,
With great broade laces fayre and gay.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy doublet and breech that were so playne,
On which a louse could scarse remayne,
Are turnd to sattin, god a mercie brayne,
That thow by begging could'st this obtayne.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy cloake which was made of a home-spun thread,
Which thow wast wonte to flinge on thy bed.
Is turnd into a skarlet red,
With golden laces aboute thee spread.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Thy bonnet of blew which thow wor'st hether,
To keep thy skonce from wind and wether,
Is throwne away the devill knowes whether,
And turnd to a bever hat and feather.

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

Westminster hall was covered with lead,
And so was St. John many a day;
The Scotchmen have begd it to buy them bread;
The devill take all such Jockies away!

Ha ha ha, by sweet St. An,
Jockie is growne a gentleman.

XXIII.

« THE COMPLAINT OF THE SHEPHEARD

HARPALUS.

[Black letter; for the assigns of Symcocke.]

Poor Harpalus opprest with love

Sat by a chrystal brook :
Thinking his sorrows to remove,

Oftimes therein to look,
And hearing how on pebble stones,

The murmuring river ran,
As if it had bewail'd his groans,

Unto it thus began.

Fair stream, quoth he, that pities me,

And hears my matchless moan,
If thou be going to the sea,

As I do now suppone,
Attend my plaints past all relief,

Which dolefully I breath,
Acquaint the sea nymphs with the grief

Which still procures my death,

Who sitting in the cliffy rocks

May in their songs express,
While as they comb their golden locks,

Poor Harpalus' distress;
And so perhaps some passenger

That passeth by the way,
May stay, and listen for to hear,

Them sing this doleful lay.

Poor Harpalus a shepherd swain

More rich in youth than store,
Lov'd fair Philena, hapless man,

Philena oh therefore !
Who still, remorseless-hearted maid,

Took pleasure in his pain :
And his good will, poor soul, repaid,

With undeserv'd disdain.

Ne'er shepherd lov’d a shepherdess

More faithfully than he,
Ne'er shepherd yet beloved less

Of shepherdess could be,
How oft did he with dying looks,

To her his woes impart,
How oft his sighs did testify

The dolour of his heart,

How oft from vallies to the hills

Did he his grief rehearse,
How oft re-echoed they his ills

Aback again alas !
How oft on barks of stately pines,

Of beech, of holly green,
Did he engrave in mournful lines

The grief he did sustain.

Yet all his plaints could have no place

To change Philena's mind,
The more his sorrows did encrease

The more she prov'd unkind,
The thought thereof with wearied care

Poor Harpalus did move,
That, overcome with high despair,

He lost both life and love.

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