Thilk sollein season sadder plight doth aske
And loatheth sike delights as thou doest prayse:
The mornefull muse in myrth now list ne maske,
As she was wont in younth and sommer-dayes; 20
But if thou algate lust light virelayes,
And looser songs of love to underfong,
Who but thyself deserves sike poets praise?
Relieve thy oaten pypes that sleepen long.

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THE. The nightingale is sovereigne of song, Before him sits the titmouse silent bee; And I, unfit to thrust in skilfull throng, Should Colin make iudge of my fooleree : Nay, better learne of hem that learned bee, And han bene watered at the muses well; The kindely dewe drops from the higher tree, And wets the litle plants that lowly dwell: But if sadde winters wrath, and season chill, Accord not with thy muses merriment, To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill. And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreriment; For deade is Dido, deade, alas! and drent; Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheene: The fayrest May shee was that ever went, Her like shee has not left behinde I weene: And if thou wilt bewayle my wofull teene, I shall thee give yond cosset for thy payne: And, if thy rymes as rounde and ruefull beene As those that did thy Rosalind complayne, Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt Then kid or cosset which I thee bynempt: Then up, I say, thou iolly shepheard swayne, Let not my small demaunde be so contempt. COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou doest mee tempt; But, ah! too well I wote my humble vayne, And how my rimes bene rugged and unkempt! Yet, as I conne, my conning I will strayne.

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The branch once dead, the bud eke needes must O carefull verse! saine!)

"She, while she was, (that was, a wofull word to
For beauties praise and pleasaunce had no peere;
So well she couth the shepheards entertaine 95
With cakes and cracknells, and such countrey cheere :
Ne would she scorne the simple shepheards swaine ;
For she would call him often heme,
And give him curds and clouted creame.
O heavie herse!

Als Colin Clout she would not once disdaine;
O carefull verse!

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Morne, now, my muse, now morne with teares beO carefull verse!

[griefe ! "O thou great shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy Where bene the nosegayes that she dight for thee? The coloured chaplets wrought with a chiefe, 115 The knotted rush-ringes, and gilt rosemaree? For shee deemed nothing too deare for thee. Ah! they bene all yclad in clay;

One bitter blast blewe all away.

O heavie herse!

Thereof nought remaynes but the memoree; O carefull verse!

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[stroke,

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Ay me! that drearie Death should strike so mortall That can undoe dame Natures kindely course; The faded lockes fall from the loftie oke, The flouds do gaspe, for dryed is their sourse, And flouds of teares flow in theyr stead perforce : The mantled medowes mourne, Theyr sundrie colours tourne.

The heavens doe melt in teares without remorse; O carefull verse!

"The feeble flocks in field refuse their former foode, And hang their heades as they would learne to

weepe;

The beastes in forrest wayle as they were woode, 133
Except the wolves, that chase the wandring sheepe,
Now shee is gone that safely did hem keepe:
The turtle on the bared braunch

Laments the wounde that Death did launch.
O heavie herse!

And Philomele her song with teares doth steepe!
O carefull verse!

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[daunce, "The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and And for her girlond olive braunches beare, Nowe balefull boughes of cypres doen advaunce; 145

Might I once come to thee, (O that I might!)

O happie herse!

O joyfull verse!

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O happie herse!

Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is;

O ioyfull verse

!"

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COLINS EMBLEME.

La mort ny mord.

gutte.

DECEMBER.

AEGLOGA DUODECIMA.

ARGUMENT.

This Aeglogue (even as the first began) is ended with a complaint of Colin to god Pan; wherein, as wearie of his former waies, bee proportioneth his life to the foure seasons of the yeare; comparing his youth to the spring time, when hee was fresh and free His manhood to the sommer, from loves follie. which, he saith, was consumed with great heate and excessive drouth, caused through a comet or blazing starre, by which hee meaneth love; which passion is commonly compared to such flames and immoderate heate. His ripest yeares he resembleth to an unseasonable harvest, wherein the fruits fall ere they be ripe. His latter age to winters chill and frostie season, now drawing neere to his last ende.

THE gentle shepheard sat beside a springe,
All in the shadowe of a bushye brere,

That Colin hight, which well coulde pype and singe,
For hee of Tityrus his songes did lere:

There, as he satte in secret shade alone,
Thus gan hee make of love his piteous mone.

"Whilome in youth, when flowrd my ioyfull spring
Like swallow swift I wandred here and there;
For beate of heedlesse lust me so did sting,
That I oft doubted daunger had no feare:

went the wastefull woodes and forrest wide
Withouten dread of wolves to bene espide.

"I wont to raunge amid the mazie thicket,
And gather nuttes to make my Christmas-game,
And ioyed oft to chace the trembling pricket,
Or hunt the hartlesse hare till she were tame.
What wreaked I of wintrie ages waste?-
Tho deemed I my spring would ever last.
"How often have I scaled the craggie oke,
All to dislodge the raven of her nest?
How have I wearied, with many a stroke,
The stately walnut-tree, the while the rest
Under the tree fell all for nuttes at strife?
For like to me was libertie and life.

"Fro thence I durst in derring to compare
With shepheardes swayne whatever fed in field;
And, if that Hobbinoll right iudgement bare,
To Pan his own selfe pype I need not yield:

For, if the flocking nymphes did follow Pan,
The wiser muses after Colin ran.

"But, ah! such pride at length was ill repayde; The shepheards god (perdie god was he none) My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill upbraide, My freedome lorne, my life he left to mone.

Love they him called that gave me check-mate,
But better mought they have belote him hate.

"Tho gan my lovely spring bid me farewell,
And sommer season sped him to display
(For love then in the lyons house did dwell,)
The raging fire that kindled at his ray.

A comet stird up that unkindly heate,
That reigned (as men said) in Venus seate.

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[first,

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My boughs with bloomes that crowned were at
And promised of timely fruite such store,
Are left both bare and barrein now at erst;
The flattering fruite is fallen to ground before,
And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripe;
My harvest, wast, my hope away did wipe.

"The fragrant flowres, that in my garden grewe,
Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long; 110
Theyr rootes bene dryed up for lack of dewe,
Yet dewed with teares they han be ever among.

Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spight,
To spill the flowres that should her girlond dight?

"And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype 115
Unto the shifting of the shepheards foote,
Sike follies now have gathered as too ripe,
And cast hem out as rotten and unsoote.
The loser lasse I cast to please no more;
One if I please, enough is me therefore.

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"And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedie crop of care; [sheave,
Which, when I thought have thresht in swelling
Cockle for corn, and chaffe for barley, bare:

Soon as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd, 125
All was blown away of the wavering wynd.

"So now my yeere drawes to his latter terme,
My spring is spent, my sommer burut up quite ;
My harvest hastes to stirre up winter sterne,
And bids him clayme with rigorous rage his right: 130
So now he stormes with many a sturdy stoure;
So now his blustring blast eche coast doth scoure.

"The carefull cold hath nipt my rugged rynd,
And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight:
My head besprent with boarie frost I finde,
And by myne eye the crowe his clawe doth wright:
Delight is layd abedd; and pleasure, past;

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No sunne now shines; clouds han all overcast.

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Now leave, ye shepheards boyes, your merry glee; My muse is hoarse and wearie of this stound: Here will I hang my pype upon this tree, Was never pype of reede did better sound : Winter is come that blowes the bitter blast, And after winter dreerie death does hast.

"Thus is my sommer worne away and wasted,
Thus is my harvest hastened all-to rathe;
The eare that budded fayre is burnt and blasted,
And all my hoped gaine is turn'd to scathe.

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Of all the seede, that in my youth was sowne, Was none but brakes and brambles to be mowne.

COLINS EMBLEME.

Vivitur ingenio: cætera mortis erunt.

HAVING, in the greener times of my youth, composed these former two Hymnes in the Praise of Love and Beautie, and finding that the same too much pleased those of like age and disposition, which being too vehemently carried with that kind of affection, do rather sucke out poyson to their strong passion, then honey to their honest delight, I was moved, by the one of you two most excellent Ladies, to call in the same; but, being unable so to do, by reason that many copies thereof were formerly scattered abroad, I resolved at least to amend, and, by way of retracttion, to reforme them, making (instead of those two Hymnes of earthly or naturall love and beautie) two others of heavenly and celestiall; the which I doe

dedicate joyntly unto you two honourable sisters, as to the most excellent and rare ornaments of all true love and beautie, both in the one and the other kind; humbly beseeching you to vouchsafe the patronage of them, and to accept this my humble service, in lieu of the great graces and honourable favours which ye dayly shew unto me, until such time as I may, by better meanes, yeeld you some more notable testimonie of my thankfull mind and dutifull devotion. And even so I pray for your happinesse. Greenwich this first of September, 1596. Your Honors most bounden ever, In all humble service,

ED. SP.

Thereby they all do live, and moved are
To multiply the likenesse of their kynd,
Whilest they seeke onely, without further care,
To quench the flame which they in burning fynd;
But man that breathes a more immortall mynd,
Not for lusts sake, but for eternitie,
Seekes to enlarge his lasting progenie;

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GREAT GOD OF MIGHT, that reignest in the mynd,
And all the bodie to thy best doest frame,
Victor of gods, subduer of mankynd,
That doest the lions and fell tigers tame,
Making their cruell rage thy scornfull game,
And in their roaring taking great delight;
Who can expresse the glorie of thy might?

Or who alive can perfectly declare
The wondrous cradle of thine infancie,
When thy great mother Venus first thee bare,
Begot of Plenty and of Penurie.
Though elder then thine own nativitie,
And yet a chyld, renewing still thy yeares,
And yet the eldest of the heavenly peares?

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