Led our lambs we knew not where.

_Hobbinol._ Not our lambs' own fleeces are
Curled so lovely as her hair,
Nor our sheep new-washed can be
Half so white or sweet as she.

_Phillis._ He so looks as fit to keep
Somewhat else than silly sheep.

_Hobbinol._ Come, let's in some carol new
Pay to love and them their due.

_All._ Joy to that happy pair
Whose hopes united banish our despair.
What shepherd could for love pretend,
Whilst all the nymphs on Damon's choice attend?
What shepherdess could hope to wed
Before Marina's turn were sped?
Now lesser beauties may take place
And meaner virtues come in play;
While they
Looking from high
Shall grace
Our flocks and us with a propitious eye."

All this merriment came to an end on the 3rd of September 1658, when
Oliver Cromwell died on the anniversary of Dunbar fight and of the field
of Worcester. And yet the end, though it was to be sudden, did not at
once seem likely to be so. There was time for the poets to tune their