Lorel, Earine, Maudlin, Douce.

    Lor. Ye kind to others, but ye coy to me
Deft Mistris! whither than the Cheese new
     prest!
Smoother than Cream! and softer than the Curds!
Why start ye from me, ere ye hear me tell
My wooing Errand; and what Rents I have?

Large Herds and Pastures! Swine, and Kie, mine own!
And though my Na'se be camus'd, my Lips thick,
And my Chin bristled! Pan, great Pan, was such!
Who was the Chief of Herdsmen, and our Sire!
I am na'Fay! na'Incubus! na'Changlin!
But a Good Man, that lives o'my awn Geer.
This House! these Grounds! this Stockis all mine awne!
    Ear. How better 'twere to me, this were not known!
    Mau. She likes it not: but it is boasted well!
    Lor. An Hundred Udders for the Pail I have,
That gi'me Milk and Curds, that make me Cheese
To cloy the Markets! Twenty Swarm of Bees,
Whilke (all the Summer) hum about the Hive,
And bring me Wax and Honey in by live.
An aged Oak, the King of all the Field,
With a broad Beech there grows afore my dur,
That mickle Mast unto the Ferm doth yield.
A Chestnut, whilke hath larded mony a Swine,
Whose Skins I wear to fend me fra'th the Cold.
A Poplar Green, and with a kerved Seat,
Under whose shade I solace in the heat;
And thence can see gang out and in my Neat.
Twa trilland Brooks, each (from his Spring) doth meet,
And make a River to refresh my Feet:
In which, each morning ere the Sun doth rise,
I look my self, and clear my pleasant Eyes,
Before I pipe; For therein I have the skill
'Bove other Swine'erds. Bid me, and I will
Straight play to you, and make you melody.
    Ear. By no means. Ah! to me all Minstrelsie
Is irksome, as are you.
    Lor. Why scorn you me?
Because I am a Herdsman, and feed Swine!
                     [He draws out other Presents.
I am a Lord of other Geer! this fine
Smooth Bawsons Cub, the young Grice of a Gray;
Twa tyny Urshins, and this Ferret gay.
    Ear. Out on'em! what are these?
    Lor. I give'em ye,
As Presents, Mrs.     Ear. O, the Feind, and thee!
Gar take them hence: they fewmand all the claithes,
And prick my Coats: hence with 'em, limmer lown,
Thy Vermine and thy self, thy self art one;
I lock me up. All's well when thou art gone.