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The stout Earl of Northumberland A Vow to God did make, His Pleasure in the Scotish Woods Three Summers Days to take. With fifteen hundred Bowmen bold, All chosen Men of Might, Who knew full well, in time of Need, To aim their Shafts aright. The Hounds ran swiftly thro' the Woods The nimble Deer to take, And with their Cries the Hills and Dales An Eccho shrill did make.
I come to aske a question, which the winds; If I could deafe them, should not heare for feare Their repercussive Eccho should declare it To all our infamies. Lady. What ist, I pray you? Bon. Your daughter whom I was a servant to, I must deliver it in the homeliest phrase Is she dishonest? Lady. You urge a repetition, gentle sir, Of a sad truth: she is. Bon.
The Commendation. Musa! canas nostrorum in testimonium Amorum, Et Gargantueas perpetuato faces, Utque homini tali resultet nobilis Eccho: Quicquid Fama canit, Pantagruelis erit. The Argument. Here I intend mysteriously to sing With a pen pluck'd from Fame's own wing, Of Gargantua that learn'd breech-wiping king. Decade the First. Help me, propitious stars; a mighty blaze Benumbs me!
ALMORAN, in whose heart there were no traces of OMAR'S virtue, and therefore no foundation for his confidence; sustained himself against their force, by treating them as hypocrisy and affectation: 'I know, says he, 'that thou hast long learned to eccho the specious and pompous sounds, by which hypocrites conceal their wretchedness, and excite the admiration of folly and the contempt of wisdom: yet thy walk, in this place, shall be still unrestrained.
Quoth Eccho, Pish. To run from those th' hadst overcome Thus cowardly? Quoth Eccho, Mum. But what a-vengeance makes thee fly From me too, as thine Enemy? Or if thou hadst not Thought of me, Nor what I have endur'd for Thee, Yet Shame and Honour might prevail To keep thee thus for turning tail; For who will grudge to spend his Blood in His Honour's Cause? Quoth she, A Pudding. No. 60.
He rag'd, and kept as heavy a Coil as Stout Hercules for loss of Hylas; Forcing the Valleys to repeat The Accents of his sad Regret; He beat his Breast, and tore his Hair, For Loss of his dear Crony Bear, That Eccho from the hollow Ground His Doleful Wailings did resound More wistfully, bu many times, Then in small Poets Splay-foot Rhymes, That make her, in her rueful Stories To answer to Introgatories, And most unconscionably depose Things of which She nothing knows: And when she has said all she can say, 'Tis wrested to the Lover's Fancy.
Hudibras, in Ridicule of this false kind of Wit, has described Bruin bewailing the Loss of his Bear to a solitary Eccho, who is of great used to the Poet in several Disticks, as she does not only repeat after him, but helps out his Verse, and furnishes him with Rhymes.
I must confess the Brightness of the Weather, the Chearfulness of everything around me, the Chiding of the Hounds, which was returned upon us in a double Eccho, from two neighbouring Hills, with the Hallowing of the Sportsmen, and the Sounding of the Horn, lifted my Spirits into a most lively Pleasure, which I freely indulged because I was sure it was innocent.
Now comes the Bear dogs, being stout swinging Mastives; and the Bearard having brought the Bear to the Stake, unrings him, and turns him about, so that he may see the Dog, that's to play at him; the Challenger lets fly his Dog, which being a cruel strong Cur rises up to the Bears nose, fastens and turns him topsy-turvy; there's no small joy and an eccho of Shouts that makes the very earth tremble; then there's pulling and hawling to get him off from the Bear: Then the Adversary let's fly his Dog, who coming to fasten, the Bear being furious and angry that he was so plagu'd with the first Dog, claps his paw about the back of him, and squeezes him that he howls and runs; there stands the Master, looking like an Owl in an Ivybush, to see the stakes drawn, and he haply with never a penny in his pocket, hath no mony at home, nor knows not where to get any.
Among the happy wits this age hath shown Great, dear, sweet Bartas thou art matchless known; My ravished eyes and heart with faltering tongue, In humble wise have vowed their service long But knowing th' task so great & strength but small, Gave o're the work before begun withal, My dazled sight of late reviewed thy lines, Where Art, and more than Art in nature shines, Reflection from their beaming altitude Did thaw my frozen hearts ingratitude Which rayes darting upon some richer ground Had caused flours and fruits soon to abound, But barren I, my Dasey here do bring, A homely flower in this my latter Spring, If Summer, or my Autumm age do yield Flours, fruits, in Garden Orchard, or in Field, Volleyes of praises could I eccho then, Had I an Angels voice, or Bartas pen; But wishes can't accomplish my desire, Pardon if I adore, when I admire.