"How happie was I when I saw her leade
The shepheards daughters dauncing in a rownd!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grasse, with rosye garland crownd!
And, when she list, advaunce her heavenly voyce,
Both nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepheards caused to reioyce.

"But now, ye shepheard lasses! who shall lead
Your wandring troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead
That was the lady of your holy dayes?
Let now your blisse be turned into bale,
And into plaints convert your ioyous playes,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.

"Let bagpipe never more be heard to shrill,
That may allure the senses to delight,
Ne ever shepheard sound his oaten quill
Unto the manie that provoke them might
To idle pleasance; but let ghastlinesse
And drearie horror dim the chearfull light,
To make the image of true heavinesse:

"Let birds be silent on the naked spray,
And shady woods resound with dreadfull yells;
Let streaming floods their hastie courses stay,
And parching drouth drie up the cristall wells;
Let th' Earth be barren, and bring foorth no flowres,
And th' ayre be fild with noyse of dolefull knells,
And wandring spirits walke untimely howres.
"And Nature, nurse of every living thing,
Let rest her selfe from her long wearinesse,
And cease henceforth things kindly forth to bring,
But hideous monsters full of uglinesse;
For she it is that hath me done this wrong,
No nurse, but stepdame, cruell, mercilesse.
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

IV.

"My litle flock, whom earst 1 lov'd so well,
And wont to feed with finest grasse that grew,
Feede ye hencefoorth on bitter astrofell,
And stinking smallage, and unsaverie rew;
And, when your mawes are with those weeds cor-
Be ye the pray of wolves; ne will I rew [rupted,
That with your carkasses wild beasts be glutted.
"Ne worse to you, my sillie sheepe! I pray,
Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall
Than to my selfe, for whose confusde decay
To carelesse Heavens I doo daylie call;
But Heavens refuse to heare a wretches cry;
And cruell Death doth scorne to come at call,
Or graunt his boone that most desires to dye.
"The good and righteous he away doth take,
To plague th' unrighteous which alive remaine;
But the ungodly ones he doth forsake,
By living long to multiplie their paine:
Else surely death should be no punishment,
As the great iudge at first did it ordaine,
But rather riddance from long languishment.
"Therefore, my Daphne they have tane away;
For worthie of a better place was she:
But me unworthie willed here to stay,
That with her lacke I might tormented be.
Sith then they so have ordred, I will pay
Penance to her, according their decree,
And to her ghost doe service day by day.

"For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction waste my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mynd,
My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may fynd;
So will I wilfully increase my paine.

"And she, my love that was, my saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne
(In which shee ioyeth in eternall blis)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pittie me that living thus doo die;
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall men, and rue their miserie.
"So when I have with sorrow satisfyde
Th' importune Fates, which vengeance on me seeke,
And th Heavens with long languor pacifyde,
She, for pure pitie of my sufferance meeke,
Will send for me; for which I daily long;
And will till then my painfull penance eeke.
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong,
V.

"Hencefoorth I hate what ever Nature made,
And in her workmanship no pleasure finde,
For they be all but vaine, and quickly fade;
So soone as on them blowes the northern winde,
They tarrie not, but flit and fall away,

Leaving behind them nought but griefe of minde,
And mocking such as thinke they long will stay.

"I hate the Heaven, because it doth withhould
Me from my love, and eke my love from me;
I hate the earth, because it is the mould
Of fleshly slime and fraile mortalitie;
I hate the fire, because to nought it flyes;
I hate the ayre, because sighes of it be;
I hate the sea, because it teares supplyes.
"I hate the day, because it lendeth light
To see all things, and not my love to see;
I hate the darknesse and the dreary night,
Because they breed sad balefulnesse in mee;
I hate all times, because, all times doo fly
So fast away, and may not stayed bee,
But as a speedie post that passeth by.

"I hate to speake, my voyce is spent with crying;
I hate to heare, lowd plaints have duld mine eares;
I hate to tast, for food withholds my dying;
I hate to see, mine eyes are dimd with teares;
I hate to smell, no sweet on Earth is left;

I hate to feele, my flesh is numbd with feares:
So all my senses from me are bereft.

"I hate all men, and shun all womankinde;
The one, because as I they wretched are;
The other, for because I doo not finde
My love with them, that wont to be their starre :
And life I hate, because it will not last;
And death I hate, because it life doth marre ;
And all I hate that is to come or past.
"So all the world, and all in it I hate,
Because it changeth ever to and fro,
And never standeth in one certaine state,
But, still unstedfast, round about doth goe
Like a mill-wheele in midst of miserie,
Driven with streames of wretchednesse and woe,
That dying lives, and living still does dye.

"So doo I live, so doo I daylie die,

And pine away in selfe-consuming paine !
Sith she that did my vitall powres supplie,
And feeble spirits in their force maintaine,
Is fetcht fro me, why seeke I to prolong
My wearie daies in dolour and disdaine!
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.
VI.

"Why doo I longer live in lifes despight,
And doo not dye then in despight of death;
Why doo I longer see this loathsome light
And doo in darknesse not abridge my breath,
Sith all my sorrow should have end thereby,
And cares finde quiet! Is it so uneath
To leave this life, or dolorous to dye?

"To live I finde it deadly dolorous,
For life drawes care, and care continuall woe;
Therefore to dye must needes be ioyeous,
And wishfull thing this sad life to forgoe:
But I must stay; I may it not amend,
My Daphne hence departing bad me so;
She bad me stay, till she for me did send.
"Yet, whilest I in this wretched vale doo stay,
My wearie feete shall ever wandring be,
That still I may be readie on my way
When as her messenger doth come for me;
Ne will I rest my feete for feeblenesse,
Ne will I rest my limmes for fraïltie,
Ne will I rest mine eyes for heavinesse.

"But, as the mother of the gods, that sought
For faire Euridyce, her daughter dere,
Throughout the world, with wofull heavie thought;
So will I travell whilest I tarrie heere,
Ne will I lodge, ne will I ever lin,
Ne, when as drouping Titan draweth nere
To loose his teeme, will I take up my inne.
"Ne sleepe (the harbenger of wearie wights)
Shall ever lodge upon mine eye-lids more;
Ne shall with rest refresh my fainting sprights,
Nor failing force to former strength restore:
But I will wake and sorrow all the night
With Philumene, my fortune to deplore;
With Philumene, the partner of my plight.

"And ever as I see the starre to fall,
And under ground to goe to give them light
Which dwell in darknesse, I to mind will call
How my fair starre (that shind on me so bright)
Fell sodainly and faded under ground;/
Since whose departure, day is turnd to night,
And night without a Venus starre is found.
"But soon as day doth shew his deawie face,
And cals foorth men unto their toylsome trade,
I will withdraw me to some darkesome place,
Or some dere cave, or solitarie shade;
There will I sigh, and sorrow all day long,
And the huge burden of my cares unlade.
Weepe, shepheard! weepe, to make my undersong.

VII.

"Henceforth mine eyes shall never more behold
Faire thing on Earth, ne feed on false delight
Of ought that framed is of mortall mould,
Sith that my fairest flowre is faded quight;
For all I see is vaine and transitorie,
Ne will be held in any stedfast plight,

But in a moment loose their grace and glorie.

“And ye, fond men! on Fortunes wheele that ride,
Or in ought under Heaven repose assurance,
Be it riches, beautie, or honours pride,
Be sure that they shall have no long endurance,
But ere ye be aware will flit away;

For nought of them is yours, but th' only usance
Of a small time, which none ascertaine may.

"And ye, true lovers! whom desastrous chaunce
Hath farre exiled from your ladies grace,
To mourne in sorrow and sad sufferaunce,
When ye doe heare me in that desert place
Lamenting loud my Daphnes elegie,
Helpe me to waile my miserable case,
And when life parts vouchsafe to close mine eye.
"And ye, more happie lovers! which enjoy
The presence of your dearest loves delight,
When ye doe heare my sorrowfull annoy,
Yet pittie me in your empassiond spright,
And thinke that such mishap, as chaunst to me,
May happen unto the most happiest wight;
For all mens states alike unstedfast be.

"And ye, my fellow shepbeards! which do feed
Your carelesse flocks on hils and open plaines,
With better fortune than did me succeed,
Remember yet my undeserved paines;
And, when ye heare, that I am dead or slaine,
Lament my lot, and tell your fellow swaines
That sad Alcyon dyde in lifes disdaine.

“And, ye faire damsels ! shepheards deare delights,
That with your loves do their rude hearts possesse,
When as my hearse shall happen to your sightes,
Vouchsafe to deck the same with cyparesse;
And ever sprinckle brackish teares among,
In pitie of my undeserv'd distresse,
The which, I, wretch, endured have thus long.'
"And ye poore pilgrims! that with restless toyle
Wearie yourselves in wandring desart wayes,
Till that you come where ye your vowes assoyle,
When passing by ye reade these wofull layes
On my grave written, rue my Daphnes wrong,
And mourne for me that languish out my dayes.
Cease, shepheard! cease, and end thy undersong."

Thus when he ended had his heavie plaint,
The heaviest plaint that ever I heard sound,
His cheekes wext pale, and sprights began to faint,
As if again he would have fallen to ground;
Which when I saw, I, stepping to him light,
Amooved him out of his stonie swound,
And gan him to recomfort as I might.

But he no waie recomforted would be,
Nor suffer solace to approach him nie,
But casting up a sdeinfull eie at me,
That in his traunce I would not let him lie,
Did rend his haire, and beat his blubbred face,
As one disposed wilfullie to die,

That I sore griev'd to see his wretched case.

Tho when the pang was somewhat overpast,
And the outragious passion nigh appeased,
I him desyrde sith daie was overcast,
And darke night fast approched, to be pleased
To turne aside unto my cabinet,

And stay with me, till he were better eased

Of that strong stownd which him so sore beset.

But by no meanes I could him win thereto,
Ne longer him intreat with me to staie,
But without taking leave he foorth did goe
With staggring pace and dismall looks dismay,
As if that Death he in the face had seene,
Or hellish hags had met upon the way;
But what of him became I cannot weene.

COLIN CLOUTS COME HOME AGAINE.

1595.

TO THE RIGHT WORTHY AND NOBLE KNIGHT

SIR WALTER RALEIGH,

CAPTAINE OF HER MAJESTIES GUARD, LORD WARDEIN OF THE STANNERIES, AND LIEUTENANT OF THE COUNTIE OF CORNWALL.

SIR,

THAT you may see that I am not alwaies ydle as yee thinke, though not greatly well occupied, nor altogither undutifull, though not precisely officious, I make you present of this simple pastorall, unworthie of your higher conceipt for the meanesse of the stile, but agreeing with the truth in circumstance and matter. The which I humbly beseech you to accept in part of paiment of the infinite debt, in which I acknowledge my selfe bounden unto you for your singular favours, and sundrie good turnes, shewed to me at my late being in England; and with your good countenance protect against the malice of evill mouthes, which are alwaies wide open to carpe at and misconstrue my simple meaning. I pray continually for your happinesse. From my house of Kilcolman, the 27. of December.

1591. [rather perhaps 1595.]
Yours ever humbly,

ED. SP.

THE shepheards boy (best knowen by that name)
That after Tityrus first sung his lay,
Laies of sweet love, without rebuke or blame,
Sate (as his custome was) upon a day,
Charming his oaten pipe unto his peres,
The shepheard swaines that did about him play:
Who all the while, with greedie listfull eares,
Did stand astonisht at his curious skill,
Like hartlesse deare, dismayd with thunders sound.
At last, when as he piped had his fill,
He rested him: and, sitting then around,
One of those groomes (a iolly groome was he,
As ever piped on an oaten reed,
And lov'd this shepheard dearest in degree,
Hight Hobbinol;) gan thus to him areed.

"Colin, my liefe, my life, how great a losse Had all the shepheards nation by thy lacke! And I, poore swaine, of many, greatest crosse! That, sith thy Muse first since thy turning backe Was heard to sound as she was wont on hye, Hast made us all so blessed and so blythe. Whilest thou wast hence, all dead in dole did lie: The woods were heard to waile full many a sythe, And all their birds with silence to complaine: The fields with faded flowers did seem to mourne, And all their flocks from feeding to refraine: The running waters wept for thy returne, And all their fish with languour did lament: But now both woods and fields and floods revive, Sith thou art come, their cause of meriment, That us, late dead, hast made againe alive: But were it not too painefull to repeat The passed fortunes, which to thee befeil In thy late voyage, we thee would entreat, Now at thy leisure them to us to tell."

To whom the shepheard gently answered thus ; "Hobbin, thou temptest me to that I covet: For of good passed newly to discus,

By dubble usurie doth twise renew it.
And since I saw that angels blessed eie,
Her worlds bright Sun, her Heavens fairest light,
My mind, full of my thoughts satietie,
Doth feed on sweet contentment of that sight:
Since that same day in nought I take delight,
But in remembrance of that glorious bright,
Ne feeling have in any earthly pleasure,
My lifes sole blisse, my hearts eternall threasure.
Wake then, my pipe; my sleepie Muse, awake;
Till I have told her praises lasting long:
Hobbin desires, thou maist it not forsake ;-
Harke then, ye iolly shepheards, to my song."

With that they all gan throng about him neare,
With hungrie eares to heare his harmonie:
Did round about them feed at libertie.
The whiles their flocks, devoyd of dangers feare,

"One day" (quoth he) " I sat, (as was my

trade)

Under the foote of Mole, that mountaine hore,
Keeping my sheepe amongst the cooly shade
Of the greene alders by the Mullaes shore:
There a straunge shepheard chaunst to find me
out,

Whether allured with my pipes delight,
Whose pleasing sound yshrilled far about,
Or thither led by chaunce, I know not right:
Whom when I asked from what place he came,
And how he hight, himselfe he did ycleepe
The Shepheard of the Ocean by name,
And said he came far from the main-sea deepe.
He, sitting me beside in that same shade,
Provoked me to plaie some pleasant fit;
And, when he heard the musicke which I made,
He found himselfe full greatly pleasd at it:
Yet, æmuling my pipe, he tooke in hond
My pipe, before that æmuled of many,
And plaid thereon; (for well that skill he cond;)
Himselfe as skilfull in that art as any.
He pip'd, I sung; and, when he sung, I piped;
By chaunge of turnes, each making other mery;
Neither envying other, nor envied,
So piped we, untill we both were weary."

There interrupting him, a bonie swaine,
That Cuddy hight, him thus atweene bespake :
"And, should it not thy readie course restraine,
I would request thee, Colin, for my sake,

To tell what thou didst sing, when he did plaie ;
For well I weene it worth recounting was,
Whether it were some hymne, or morall laie,
Or carol made to praise thy loved lasse."

"Nor of my love, nor of my lasse," quoth he,
"I then did sing, as then occasion fell:
For love had me forlorne, forlorne of me,
That made me in that desart choose to dwell.
But of my river Bregogs love I soong,
Which to the shiny Mulla he did beare,
And yet doth beare, and ever will, so long
As water doth within his bancks appeare."

"Of fellowship," said then that bony boy, "Record to us that lovely lay againe : The staie whereof shall nought these eares annoy, Who all that Colin makes do covet faine." "Heare then," quoth he, "the tenor of my tale,

In sort as I it to that shepheard told :
No leasing new, nor grandams fable stale,

But auncient truth confirm'd with credence old.
"Old father Mole, (Mole hight that mountain
gray

That walls the northside of Armulla dale) He had a daughter fresh as floure of May, Which gave that name unto that pleasant vale; Mulla, the daughter of old Mole, so hight The nimph, which of that water course has charge, That, springing out of Mole, doth run downe right To Buttevant, where, spreading forth at large, It giveth name unto that auncient cittie, Which Kilnemullah clepped is of old; Whose ragged ruines breed great ruth and pittie To travailers, which it from far behold. Full faine she lov'd, and was belov'd full faine Of her owne brother river, Bregog hight, So hight because of this deceitfull traine, Which he with Mulla wrought to win delight. But her old sire more carefull of her good, And meaning her much better to preferre, Did thinke to match her with the neighbour flood, Which Allo hight, Broad-water called farre; And wrought so well with his continuall paine, That he that river for his daughter wonne : The dowre agreed, the day assigned plaine, The place appointed where it should be doone. Nath'lesse the nymph her former liking held; For love will not be drawne, but must be ledde; And Bregog did so well her fancie weld, That her good will he got first to wedde. But for her father, sitting still on hie, Did warily still watch which way she went, And eke from far observ'd, with iealous eie, Which way his course the wanton Bregog bent ; Him to deceive, for all his watchfull ward, The wily lover did devise this slight: First into many parts his streame he shar'd, That, whilest the one was watcht, the other might Passe unespide to meete her by the way; And then, besides, those little streames so broken He under ground so closely did convay, That of their passage doth appeare no token, Till they into the Mullaes water slide. So secretly did he his love enjoy: Yet not so secret, but it was descride, And told her father by a shepheards boy. Who, wondrous wroth for that so foule despight, In great avenge did roll downe from his hill Huge mightie stones, the which encomber might His passage, and his water-courses spill.

So of a river, which he was of old,
He none was made, but scattred all to nought;
And, lost emong those rocks into him rold,
Did lose his name: so deare his love he bought."
Which having said, him Thestylis bespake;
"Now by my life this was a mery lay,
Worthie of Colin selfe, that did it make.
But read now eke, of friendship I thee pray,
What dittie did that other shepheard sing:
For I do covet most the same to heare,
As men use most to covet forreine thing."
"That shall I eke," quoth he, "to you declare:
His song was all a lainentable lay
Of great unkindnesse, and of usage hard,
Of Cynthia the ladie of the sea,
Which from her presence faultlesse him debard.
And ever and anon, with singulfs rife,
He cryed out, to make his undersong;

Ah! my loves queene, and goddesse of my life, Who shall me pittie, when thou doest me wrong?" " Then gan a gentle bonylasse to speake,

That Marin hight; "Right well be sure did plaine,
That could great Cynthiaes sore displeasure breake,
And move to take him to her grace againe.
But tell on further, Colin, as befell-
Twixt him and thee, that thee did hence dissuade."
"When thus our pipes we both had wearied well,”
Quoth he, "and each an end of singing made,
He gan to cast great lyking to my lore,
And great dislyking to my lucklesse lot,
That banisht had my selfe, like wight forlore,
Into that waste, where I was quite forgot.
The which to leave, thenceforth he counseld mee,
Unmeet for man, in whom was ought regardfull,
And wend with him his Cynthia to see;
Whose grace was great and bounty most rewardfull.
Besides her peerlesse skill in making well,
And all the ornaments of wondrous wit,
Such as all womankynd did far excell;
Such as the world admyr'd, and praised it:
So what with hope of good, and hate of ill,
He me perswaded forth with him to fare.
Nought tooke 1 with me, but mine oaten quill:
Small needments else need shepheard to prepare.
So to the sea we came; the sea, that is
A world of waters heaped up on hie,
Rolling like mountaines in wide wildernesse,
Horrible, hideous, roaring with hoarse crie."
"And is the sea," quoth Coridon, “so fearfull ?”
"Fearful much more," quoth he, "then hart can

fear:

Thousand wyld beasts with deep mouthes gaping direfull

Therin stil wait poore passengers to teare.
Who life doth loath, and longs death to behold,
Before he die, alreadie dead with feare,
And yet would live with heart halfe stonie cold,
Let him to sea, and he shall see it there.
And yet as ghastly dreadfull, as it seemes,
Bold men, presuming life for gaine to sell,
Dare tempt that gulf, and in those wandring stremes
Seek waies unknowne, waies leading down to Hell.
For, as we stood there waiting on the strond,
Behold, an huge great vessell to us camé,
Dauncing upon the waters back to lond,
As if it scornd the daunger of the same;
Yet was it but a wooden frame and fraile,
Glewed togither with some subtile matter.
Yet had it armes and wings, and head and taile,
And life to move itselfe upon the water.