In pity of my undeserv'd distress,
The which, I, wretch, endured have thus long.
'And ye, poor pilgrims! that with restless toil
Weary yourselves in wand'ring desert ways,
Till that you come where ye your vows assoil,1
When passing by ye read these woful lays
On my grave written, rue my Daphne's wrong,
And mourn for me that languish out my days.
Cease, shepherd! cease, and end thy undersong.'-
Thus when he ended had his heavy plaint,
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheeks wax'd pale, and sprites began to faint,
As if again he would have fallen to ground;
Which when I saw, I stepping to him light,
Amoved him out of his stony swound,
And gan him to recomfort as I might.
But he no way recomforted would be,
Nor suffer solace to approach him nigh,
But casting up a 'sdeignful eye at me,
That in his trance I would not let him lie,
Did rend his hair, and beat his blubber'd face,
As one disposed wilfully to die,
That I sore griev'd to see his wretched case.
Then when the pang was somewhat overpast,
And the outrageous passion nigh appeased,
I him desir'd sith day was overcast,
And dark night fast approached, to be pleased
To turn aside unto my cabinet,2
And stay with me, till he were better eased
Of that strong stownd3 which him so sore beset. 560 Attack.
But by no means I could him win thereto,
Ne longer him entreat with me to stay,
But without taking leave he forth did go
With stagg'ring pace and dismal looks dismay,
As if that Death he in the face had seen,
Or hellish hags had met upon the way;
But what of him became I cannot ween.
TO THE RIGHT WORTHY AND NOBLE KNIGHT
CAPTAIN OF HER MAJESTY'S GUARD, LORD WARDEN OF THE STANNERIES, AND LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTY OF CORNWALL.
That you may see that I am not always idle as ye think, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogether undutiful, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple Pastoral, unworthy of your higher conceit for the meanness of the style, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of payment of the infinite debt, in which I acknowledge myself bounden unto you for your singular favours, and sundry good turns, shewed to me at my late being in England; and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evil mouths, which are always wide open to carp at and misconstrue my simple meaning. I pray continually for your happiness. From my house of Kilcolman, the 27th of December.
1591. [rather perhaps 1595.]
COLIN CLOUT'S COME HOME AGAIN.
THE shepherd's boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus* first sung his lay,
Lays of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,
Sat (as his custom was) upon a day,
Charming1 his oaten pipe unto his peres,2
The shepherd swains that did about him play:
Who all the while, with greedy listful ears,
Did stand astonish'd at his curious skill,
Like heartless deer, dismay'd with thunder's sound.
At last, when as he piped had his fill,
He rested him: and, sitting then around,
One of those grooms (a jolly groom was he,
As ever piped on an oaten reed,
And lov'd this shepherd dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol; †) 'gan thus to him areed.1
'Colin, my lief,5 my life, how great a loss
Had all the shepherds' nation by thy lack!
And I, poor swain, of many, greatest cross!
That, sith thy Muse first since thy turning back
Was heard to sound as she was wont on high,
Hast made us all so blessed and so blithe.
Whilst thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lie:
The woods were heard to wail full many a sithe,7
And all their birds with silence to complain:
*6 'Tityrus' Chaucer.
Hobbinol:' Spenser's friend, Gabriel Harvey.
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