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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420384" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepherd's Week (excerpt)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">MONDAY, OR, THE SQUABBLE<br>Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, CloddipoleCUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, <br> Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.<br> Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,<br> The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!<br> From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,<br> To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.<br> He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,<br> When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;<br> He first that useful secret did explain,<br> That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.<br> When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,<br> He told us that the welkin would be clear.<br> Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,<br> And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.<br> I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,<br> That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.LOBBIN CLOUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> See this tobacco-pouch that's lin'd with hair,<br> Made of the skin of sleekest fallow deer.<br> This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue,<br> I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.CUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,<br> Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.LOBBIN CLOUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass,<br> Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass.<br> Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows,<br> Fair is the daisy that beside her grows,<br> Fair is the gillyflow'r, of gardens sweet,<br> Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.<br> But Blouzelind's than gillyflow'r more fair,<br> Than daisy, marigold, or king-cup rare.CUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> My brown Buxoma is the featest maid,<br> That e'er at Wake delightsome gambol play'd.<br> Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down,<br> And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown.<br> The witless lamb may sport upon the plain,<br> The frisking kid delight the gaping swain,<br> The wanton calf may skip with many a bound,<br> And my cur Tray play deftest feats around;<br> But neither lamb nor kid, nor calf nor Tray,<br> Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.LOBBIN CLOUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Sweet is my toil when Blouzelind is near,<br> Of her bereft 'tis winter all the year.<br> With her no sultry summer's heat I know;<br> In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow.<br> Come, Blouzelinda, ease thy swain's desire,<br> My summer's shadow and my winter's fire!CUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay,<br> Ev'n noon-tide labour seem'd a holiday;<br> And holidays, if haply she were gone,<br> Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.<br> Eftsoons, O sweet-heart kind, my love repay,<br> And all the year shall then be holiday.LOBBIN CLOUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> As Blouzelinda in a gamesome mood,<br> Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,<br> I slily ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss,<br> She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss.<br> Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say,<br> Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.CUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> As my Buxoma in a morning fair,<br> With gentle finger strok'd her milky care,<br> I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true,<br> She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.<br> Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,<br> Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.LOBBIN CLOUT</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear,<br> Of Irish swains potato is the cheer;<br> Oats for their feasts, the Scottish shepherds grind,<br> Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.<br> While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,<br> Nor leeks nor oatmeal nor potato prize.CUDDY</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In good roast-beef my landlord sticks his knife,<br> The capon fat delights his dainty wife,<br> Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,<br> But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.<br> While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,<br> Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.<br>....CLODDIPOLE</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br> Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains,<br> An oaken staff each merits for his pains.<br> But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,<br> And gild the thatch of goodman Hodges' barn.<br> Your herds for want of water stand adry,<br> They're weary of your songs--and so am I.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Gay">John Gay</a><div class=q>
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Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, CloddipoleCUDDY

 Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, 
 Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
 Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
 The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
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