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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420386" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Lobbin Clout.<br>Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,<br>No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake<br>No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,<br>No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;<br>O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,<br>Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,<br>'For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;'<br>If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart<br>And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.<br>This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,<br>Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.<br>And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,<br>Thee Blouzelinda smiles, Buxoma me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by half,<br>Than does their fawns, or cows the new-fallen calf;<br>Wo worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall,<br>That names Buxoma, Blouzelind withal.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting slouch,<br>Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>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!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>As once I play'd at Blindman's-Buff, it hapt<br>About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt.<br>I miss'd the swains, and seiz'd on Blouzelind;<br>True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>As at Hot-Cockles once I laid me down,<br>And felt the weighty hand of many a clown;<br>Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I <br>Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout. <br>On two near elms, the slacken'd cord I hung,<br>Now high, now low my Blouzelinda swung.<br>With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,<br>And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,<br>And myself pois'd against the tottering maid,<br>High leapt the plank; adown Buxoma fell;<br>I spy'd - but faithful sweethearts never tell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lobbin Clout.<br>This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain,<br>This wily riddle puzzles every swain.<br>'What flower is that which bears the Virgin's name,<br>The richest metal joined with the same?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cuddy.<br>Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle right,<br>I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight.<br>'What flower is that which royal honour craves,<br>Adjoin the Virgin, and 'tis strown on graves?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Cloddipole.<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.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scan..."></div>
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