JANUARIE · AEGLOGA PRIMA

THE GENERAL ARGUMENT OF THE WHOLE BOOK.Little, I hope, needeth me at large to discourse the first original of Æglogues, having already touched the same. But, for the word Æglogues I know is unknown to most, and also mistaken of some of the best learned, (as they think,) I will say somewhat thereof, being not at all impertinent to my present purpose.They were first of the Greeks, the inventors of them, calledAeglogai, as it were Aegon, or Aeginomon logi, that is, Goatherds' tales. For although in Virgil and others the speakers be more shepheards than goatherds, yet Theocritus, in whom is more ground of authority than in Virgil, this specially from that deriving, as from the first head and wellspring, the whole invention of these Æglogues maketh goatherds the persons and authors of his tales. This being, who seeth not the grossness of such as by colour of learning would make us believe, that they are more rightly termedEclogai, as they would say, extraordinary discourses of unnecessary matter: which definition albe in substance and meaning it agree with the nature of the thing, yet no whit answereth with the analysis and interpretation of the word. For they be not termedEclogues, butÆglogues; which sentence this Author very well observing, upon good judgment, though indeed few goatherds have to do herein, nevertheless doubteth not to call them by the used and best known name. Other curious discourses hereof I reserve to greater occasion.These twelve Æglogues, every where answering to the seasons of the twelve monethes, may be well divided into three forms or ranks. For either they be plaintive, as the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the twelfth; or recreative, such as all those be, which contain matter of love, or commendation of special personages; or moral, which for the most part be mixed with some satyrical bitterness; namely, the second, of reverence due to old age; the fifth, of coloured deceit; the seventh and ninth, of dissolute shepheards and pastors; the tenth, of contempt of Poetry and pleasant Wits. And to this division may every thing herein be reasonably applied; a few only except, whose special purpose and meaning I am not privy to. And thus much generally of these twelve Æglogues. Now will we speak particularly of all, and first of the first, which he calleth by the first moneth's name, Januarie: wherein to some he may seem foully to have faulted, in that he erroneously beginneth with that moneth, which beginneth not the year. For it is well known, and stoutly maintained with strong reasons of the learned, that the year beginneth in March; for then the sun reneweth his finished course, and the seasonable spring refresheth the earth, and the pleasance thereof, being buried in the sadness of the dead winter now worn away, reliveth.This opinion maintain the old Astrologers and Philosophers, namely, the reverend Andalo, and Macrobius in hisHoly Days of Saturn; which account also was generally observed both of Grecians and Romans. But, saving the leave of such learned heads, we maintain a custom of counting the seasons from the moneth Januarie, upon a more special cause than the heathen Philosophers ever could conceive, that is, for the Incarnation of our mighty Saviour, and Eternal Redeemer the Lord Christ, who as then renewing the state of the decayed world, and returning the compass of expired years to their former date and first commencement, left to us his heirs a memorial of his birth in the end of the last year and beginning of the next. Which reckoning, beside that eternal monument of our salvation, leaneth also upon good proof of special judgment.For albeit that in elder times, when as yet the count of the year was not perfected, as afterward it was by Julius Cæsar, they began to tell the monethes from March's beginning, and according to the same, God (as is said in Scripture) commanded the people of the Jews, to count the monethAbib, that which we call March, for the first moneth, in remembrance that in that moneth he brought them out of the land of Egypt: yet, according to tradition of latter times it hath been otherwise observed, both in government of the Church and rule of mightiest realms. For from Julius Cæsar who first observed the leap year, which he calledBissextilem Annum, and brought into a more certain course the odd wand'ring days which of the Greeks were calledHyperbainontes, of the RomansIntercalares, (for in such matter of learning I am forced to use the terms of the learned,) the monethes have been numbered twelve, which in the first ordinance of Romulus were but ten, counting but 304 days in every year, and beginning with March. But Numa Pompilius, who was the father of all the Roman ceremonies and religion, seeing that reckoning to agree neither with the course of the sun nor the moon, thereunto added two monethes, Januarie and Februarie; wherein it seemeth, that wise king minded upon good reason to begin the year at Januarie, of him therefore so calledtanquam janua anni, the gate and entrance of the year; or of the name of the godJanus, to which god for that the old Paynims attributed the birth and beginning of all creatures new coming into the world, it seemeth that hethereforeto him assigned the beginning and first entrance of the year. Which account for the most part hath hitherto continued: notwithstanding that the Egyptians begin their year at September; for that, according to the opinion of the best Rabbins and very purpose of the Scripture itself, God made the world in that moneth, that is called of themTisri. And therefore he commanded them to keep the feast of Pavilions in the end of the year, in the xv. day of the seventh moneth, which before that time was the first.But our author, respecting neither the subtilty of the one part, nor the antiquity of the other, thinketh it fittest, according to the simplicity of common understanding, to begin with Januarie; weening it perhaps nodecorumthat shepheards should be seen in matter of so deep insight, or canvass a case of so doubtful judgment. So therefore beginneth he, and so continueth he throughout.

THE GENERAL ARGUMENT OF THE WHOLE BOOK.

Little, I hope, needeth me at large to discourse the first original of Æglogues, having already touched the same. But, for the word Æglogues I know is unknown to most, and also mistaken of some of the best learned, (as they think,) I will say somewhat thereof, being not at all impertinent to my present purpose.

They were first of the Greeks, the inventors of them, calledAeglogai, as it were Aegon, or Aeginomon logi, that is, Goatherds' tales. For although in Virgil and others the speakers be more shepheards than goatherds, yet Theocritus, in whom is more ground of authority than in Virgil, this specially from that deriving, as from the first head and wellspring, the whole invention of these Æglogues maketh goatherds the persons and authors of his tales. This being, who seeth not the grossness of such as by colour of learning would make us believe, that they are more rightly termedEclogai, as they would say, extraordinary discourses of unnecessary matter: which definition albe in substance and meaning it agree with the nature of the thing, yet no whit answereth with the analysis and interpretation of the word. For they be not termedEclogues, butÆglogues; which sentence this Author very well observing, upon good judgment, though indeed few goatherds have to do herein, nevertheless doubteth not to call them by the used and best known name. Other curious discourses hereof I reserve to greater occasion.

These twelve Æglogues, every where answering to the seasons of the twelve monethes, may be well divided into three forms or ranks. For either they be plaintive, as the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the twelfth; or recreative, such as all those be, which contain matter of love, or commendation of special personages; or moral, which for the most part be mixed with some satyrical bitterness; namely, the second, of reverence due to old age; the fifth, of coloured deceit; the seventh and ninth, of dissolute shepheards and pastors; the tenth, of contempt of Poetry and pleasant Wits. And to this division may every thing herein be reasonably applied; a few only except, whose special purpose and meaning I am not privy to. And thus much generally of these twelve Æglogues. Now will we speak particularly of all, and first of the first, which he calleth by the first moneth's name, Januarie: wherein to some he may seem foully to have faulted, in that he erroneously beginneth with that moneth, which beginneth not the year. For it is well known, and stoutly maintained with strong reasons of the learned, that the year beginneth in March; for then the sun reneweth his finished course, and the seasonable spring refresheth the earth, and the pleasance thereof, being buried in the sadness of the dead winter now worn away, reliveth.

This opinion maintain the old Astrologers and Philosophers, namely, the reverend Andalo, and Macrobius in hisHoly Days of Saturn; which account also was generally observed both of Grecians and Romans. But, saving the leave of such learned heads, we maintain a custom of counting the seasons from the moneth Januarie, upon a more special cause than the heathen Philosophers ever could conceive, that is, for the Incarnation of our mighty Saviour, and Eternal Redeemer the Lord Christ, who as then renewing the state of the decayed world, and returning the compass of expired years to their former date and first commencement, left to us his heirs a memorial of his birth in the end of the last year and beginning of the next. Which reckoning, beside that eternal monument of our salvation, leaneth also upon good proof of special judgment.

For albeit that in elder times, when as yet the count of the year was not perfected, as afterward it was by Julius Cæsar, they began to tell the monethes from March's beginning, and according to the same, God (as is said in Scripture) commanded the people of the Jews, to count the monethAbib, that which we call March, for the first moneth, in remembrance that in that moneth he brought them out of the land of Egypt: yet, according to tradition of latter times it hath been otherwise observed, both in government of the Church and rule of mightiest realms. For from Julius Cæsar who first observed the leap year, which he calledBissextilem Annum, and brought into a more certain course the odd wand'ring days which of the Greeks were calledHyperbainontes, of the RomansIntercalares, (for in such matter of learning I am forced to use the terms of the learned,) the monethes have been numbered twelve, which in the first ordinance of Romulus were but ten, counting but 304 days in every year, and beginning with March. But Numa Pompilius, who was the father of all the Roman ceremonies and religion, seeing that reckoning to agree neither with the course of the sun nor the moon, thereunto added two monethes, Januarie and Februarie; wherein it seemeth, that wise king minded upon good reason to begin the year at Januarie, of him therefore so calledtanquam janua anni, the gate and entrance of the year; or of the name of the godJanus, to which god for that the old Paynims attributed the birth and beginning of all creatures new coming into the world, it seemeth that hethereforeto him assigned the beginning and first entrance of the year. Which account for the most part hath hitherto continued: notwithstanding that the Egyptians begin their year at September; for that, according to the opinion of the best Rabbins and very purpose of the Scripture itself, God made the world in that moneth, that is called of themTisri. And therefore he commanded them to keep the feast of Pavilions in the end of the year, in the xv. day of the seventh moneth, which before that time was the first.

But our author, respecting neither the subtilty of the one part, nor the antiquity of the other, thinketh it fittest, according to the simplicity of common understanding, to begin with Januarie; weening it perhaps nodecorumthat shepheards should be seen in matter of so deep insight, or canvass a case of so doubtful judgment. So therefore beginneth he, and so continueth he throughout.

januarie

JANUARIE. ÆGLOGA PRIMA. ARGUMENT.

In this first Æglogue Colin Clout, a shepheard's boy, complaineth himself of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as seemeth) enamoured of a country lass called Rosalind: with which strong affection being very sore travailed, he compareth his careful case to the sad season of the year, to the frosty ground, to the frozen trees, and to his own winter-beaten flock. And lastly, finding himself robbed of all former pleasance and delight, he breaketh his pipe in pieces, and casteth himself to the ground.

COLIN CLOUT.A shepheard's boy, (no better do him call,)When winter's wasteful spite was almost spent,All in a sunshine day, as did befall,Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent:So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold,That now unnethes their feet could them uphold.All as the sheep, such was the shepheard's look,For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!)May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took;Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his style:Then to a hill his fainting flock he led,And thus him plain'd, the while his sheep there fed:"Ye gods of love! that pity lovers' pain,(If any gods the pain of lovers pity,)Look from above, where you in joys remain,And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty.And, Pan! thou shepheards' god, that once didst love,Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove."Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted,Art made a mirror to behold my plight:Whilome thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hastedThy summer proud, with daffodillies dight;And now is come thy winter's stormy state,Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late."Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart,My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart,As if my year were waste and waxen old;And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,And yet, alas! it is already done."You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost,Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,Whose drops in dreary icicles remain."All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,As on your boughs the icicles depend."Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,Thy master's mind is overcome with care:Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn."A thousand siths I curse that careful hourWherein I long'd the neighbour town to see,And eke ten thousand siths I bless the stoureWherein I saw so fair a sight as she:Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!"It is not Hobbinol2wherefore I plain,Albe my love he seek with daily suit;His clownish gifts and court'sies I disdain,His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;Colin them gives to Rosalind again."I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,And of my rural music holdeth scorn.Shepheard's device she hateth as the snake,And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make."Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;And thou, unlucky Muse, that wont'st to easeMy musing mind, yet canst not when thou should;Both Pipe and Muse shall sore the while abye."So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.By that, the welked Phœbus gan availeHis weary wain; and now the frosty NightHer mantle black through heaven gan overhale:Which seen, the pensive boy, half in despite,Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheep,Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weep.COLIN'S EMBLEME.Anchora speme.(Hope is my anchor.)colin's emblem

COLIN CLOUT.

A shepheard's boy, (no better do him call,)When winter's wasteful spite was almost spent,All in a sunshine day, as did befall,Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent:So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold,That now unnethes their feet could them uphold.

A shepheard's boy, (no better do him call,)

When winter's wasteful spite was almost spent,

All in a sunshine day, as did befall,

Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent:

So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold,

That now unnethes their feet could them uphold.

All as the sheep, such was the shepheard's look,For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!)May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took;Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his style:Then to a hill his fainting flock he led,And thus him plain'd, the while his sheep there fed:

All as the sheep, such was the shepheard's look,

For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!)

May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took;

Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his style:

Then to a hill his fainting flock he led,

And thus him plain'd, the while his sheep there fed:

"Ye gods of love! that pity lovers' pain,(If any gods the pain of lovers pity,)Look from above, where you in joys remain,And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty.And, Pan! thou shepheards' god, that once didst love,Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove.

"Ye gods of love! that pity lovers' pain,

(If any gods the pain of lovers pity,)

Look from above, where you in joys remain,

And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty.

And, Pan! thou shepheards' god, that once didst love,

Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove.

"Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted,Art made a mirror to behold my plight:Whilome thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hastedThy summer proud, with daffodillies dight;And now is come thy winter's stormy state,Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late.

"Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted,

Art made a mirror to behold my plight:

Whilome thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hasted

Thy summer proud, with daffodillies dight;

And now is come thy winter's stormy state,

Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late.

"Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart,My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart,As if my year were waste and waxen old;And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,And yet, alas! it is already done.

"Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart,

My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;

Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart,

As if my year were waste and waxen old;

And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,

And yet, alas! it is already done.

"You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost,Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.

"You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,

Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,

And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost,

Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;

I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,

Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.

"All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,As on your boughs the icicles depend.

"All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,

My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;

The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,

With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;

And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,

As on your boughs the icicles depend.

"Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,Thy master's mind is overcome with care:Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.

"Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,

Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,

Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,

Thy master's mind is overcome with care:

Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:

With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.

"A thousand siths I curse that careful hourWherein I long'd the neighbour town to see,And eke ten thousand siths I bless the stoureWherein I saw so fair a sight as she:Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!

"A thousand siths I curse that careful hour

Wherein I long'd the neighbour town to see,

And eke ten thousand siths I bless the stoure

Wherein I saw so fair a sight as she:

Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.

Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!

"It is not Hobbinol2wherefore I plain,Albe my love he seek with daily suit;His clownish gifts and court'sies I disdain,His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;Colin them gives to Rosalind again.

"It is not Hobbinol2wherefore I plain,

Albe my love he seek with daily suit;

His clownish gifts and court'sies I disdain,

His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.

Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;

Colin them gives to Rosalind again.

"I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,And of my rural music holdeth scorn.Shepheard's device she hateth as the snake,And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make.

"I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)

And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)

She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,

And of my rural music holdeth scorn.

Shepheard's device she hateth as the snake,

And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make.

"Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;And thou, unlucky Muse, that wont'st to easeMy musing mind, yet canst not when thou should;Both Pipe and Muse shall sore the while abye."So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.

"Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,

Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;

And thou, unlucky Muse, that wont'st to ease

My musing mind, yet canst not when thou should;

Both Pipe and Muse shall sore the while abye."

So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.

By that, the welked Phœbus gan availeHis weary wain; and now the frosty NightHer mantle black through heaven gan overhale:Which seen, the pensive boy, half in despite,Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheep,Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weep.

By that, the welked Phœbus gan availe

His weary wain; and now the frosty Night

Her mantle black through heaven gan overhale:

Which seen, the pensive boy, half in despite,

Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheep,

Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weep.

COLIN'S EMBLEME.Anchora speme.(Hope is my anchor.)colin's emblem

COLIN'S EMBLEME.Anchora speme.(Hope is my anchor.)

colin's emblem

februarie

FEBRUARIE. ÆGLOGA SECUNDA. ARGUMENT.

This Æglogue is rather moral and general than bent to any secret or particular purpose. It specially containeth a discourse of old age, in the person of Thenot, an old shepheard, who, for his crookedness and unlustiness, is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy herdman's boy. The matter very well accordeth with the season of the moneth, the year now drooping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of year, so then in our bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the curdled blood, and freezeth the weather-beaten flesh, with storms of Fortune and hoar-frosts of Care. To which purpose the old man telleth a tale of the Oak and the Brier, so lively, and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appear.

CUDDIE. THENOT.CUDDIE.Ah for pity! will rank winter's rageThese bitter blasts never gin t'assuage?The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,All as I were through the body gride:My ragged ronts all shiver and shake,As doen high towers in an earthquake:They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tailsPerk as a peacock; but now it availes.THE. Lewdly complainest, thou lazy lad,Of winter's wrack for making thee sad.Must not the world wend in his common course,From good to bad, and from bad to worse,From worse unto that is worst of all,And then return to his former fall?Who will not suffer the stormy time,Where will he live till the lusty prime?Self have I worn out thrice thirty years,Some in much joy, many in many tears,Yet never complained of cold nor heat,Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat,Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,But gently took that ungently came;And ever my flock was my chief care;Winter or summer they might well fare.CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bearCheerfully the winter's wrathful cheer;For age and winter accord full nigh,This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;And as the louring weather looks down,So seemest thou like Good Friday3to frown:But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost,My ship unwont in storms to be tost.THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain,That, once sea-beat, will to sea again:So loit'ring live you little herdgrooms,Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms;And, when the shining sun laugheth once,You deemen, the spring is come at once;Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn,And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,You thinken to be lords of the year;But eft, when ye count you freed from fear,Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,Drearily shooting his stormy dart,Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart:Then is your careless courage accoyed,Your careful herds with cold be annoyed:Then pay you the price of your surquedry,With weeping, and wailing, and misery.CUD. Ah! foolish old man! I scorn thy skill,That wouldst me my springing youth to spill:I deem thy brain emperished beThrough rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;Or sicker thy head very totty is,So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss.Now thyself hath lost both lop and top,Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop;But were thy years green, as now be mine,To other delights they would incline:Then wouldest thou learn to carol of love,And hery with hymns thy lass's glove;Then wouldest thou pipe of Phillis' praise;But Phillis is mine for many days;I won her with a girdle of gelt,Embost with bugle about the belt:Such an one shepheards would make full fain;Such an one would make thee young again.THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boast;All that is lent to love will be lost.CUD. Seest how brag yond bullock bears,So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears?His horns be as broad as rainbow bent,His dewlap as lithe as lass of Kent:See how he venteth into the wind;Weenest of love is not his mind?Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,So lustless be they, so weak, so wan;Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost,Thy flock's father his courage hath lost.Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,Like wailful widows hangen their crags;The rather lambs be starved with cold,All for their master is lustless and old.THE. Cuddie, I wot thou kenst little good,So vainly to advance thy heedlesshood;For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penance,And stoop-gallant Age, the host of Grievance.But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?CUD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bentThan to hear novels of his devise;They be so well thewed, and so wise,Whatever that good old man bespake.THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,And some of love, and some of chivalry;But none fitter than this to apply.Now listen a while and hearken the end."There grew an aged tree on the green,A goodly Oak sometime had it been,With arms full strong and largely display'd,But of their leaves they were disarray'd:The body big, and mightily pight,Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;Whilome had been the king of the field,And mochell mast to the husband did yield,And with his nuts larded many swine:But now the gray moss marred his rine;His bared boughs were beaten with storms,His top was bald, and wasted with worms,His honour decayed, his branches sere."Hard by his side grew a bragging Brere,Which proudly thrust into th' element,And seemed to threat the firmament:It was embellish'd with blossoms fair,And thereto aye wonted to repairThe shepheards' daughters to gather flowers,To paint their garlands with his colours;And in his small bushes used to shroudThe sweet nightingale singing so loud;Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold,That on a time he cast him to scoldAnd snebbe the good Oak, for he was old."'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block?Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;Seest how fresh my flowers be spread,Dyed in lily white and crimson red,With leaves engrained in lusty green;Colours meet to clothe a maiden queen?Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground,And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth,My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth:Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.'So spake this bold Brere with great disdain:Little him answered the Oak again,But yielded, with shame and grief adawed,That of a weed he was overcrawed."It chanced after upon a day,The husbandman self to come that way,Of custom for to surview his ground,And his trees of state in compass round:Him when the spiteful Brere had espied,Causeless complained, and loudly criedUnto his lord, stirring up stern strife:"'O my liege lord! the god of my life,Pleaseth you ponder your suppliant's plaint,Caused of wrong and cruel constraint,Which I your poor vassal daily endure;And, but your goodness the same recure,Am like for desperate dool to die,Through felonous force of mine enemy.'"Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,Him rested the goodman on the lea,And bade the Brere in his plaint proceed.With painted words then gan this proud weed(As most usen ambitious folk)His coloured crime with craft to cloak."'Ah, my sovereign! lord of creatures all,Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,Was not I planted of thine own hand,To be the primrose of all thy land;With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime,And scarlet berries in summer time?How falls it then that this faded Oak,Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,Unto such tyranny doth aspire;Hindering with his shade my lovely light,And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?So beat his old boughs my tender side,That oft the blood springeth from woundës wide;Untimely my flowers forced to fall,That be the honour of your coronal:And oft he lets his canker-worms lightUpon my branches, to work me more spite;And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,Wherewith my fresh flow'rets be defast:For this, and many more such outrage,Craving your goodlyhead to assuageThe rancorous rigour of his might;Nought ask I, but only to hold my right;Submitting me to your good sufferance,And praying to be guarded from grievance.'"To this this Oak cast him to replyWell as he couth; but his enemyHad kindled such coals of displeasure,That the goodman nould stay his leisure,But home him hasted with furious heat,Increasing his wrath with many a threat:His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)And to the field alone he speedeth,(Aye little help to harm there needeth!)Anger nould let him speak to the tree,Enaunter his rage might cooled be;But to the root bent his sturdy stroke,And made many wounds in the waste Oak.The axe's edge did oft turn again,As half unwilling to cut the grain;Seemed, the senseless iron did fear,Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;For it had been an ancient tree,Sacred with many a mystery,And often cross'd with the priests' crew,And often hallowed with holy-water dew:But sike fancies weren foolery,And broughten this Oak to this misery;For nought might they quitten him from decay,For fiercely the goodman at him did lay.The block oft groaned under the blow,And sighed to see his near overthrow.In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,Then down to the earth he fell forthwith.His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:—There lieth the Oak, pitied of none!"Now stands the Brere like a lord alone,Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance;But all this glee had no continuance:For eftsoons winter gan to approach;The blust'ring Boreas did encroach,And beat upon the solitary Brere;For now no succour was seen him near.Now gan he repent his pride too late;For, naked left and disconsolate,The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,The watry wet weighed down his head,And heaped snow burden'd him so sore,That now upright he can stand no more;And, being down, is trod in the durtOf cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt.Such was th' end of this ambitious Brere,For scorning eld—"CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth:Here is a long tale, and little worth.So long have I listened to thy speech,That graffed to the ground is my breech;My heartblood is well nigh frorne I feel,And my galage grown fast to my heel;But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted:Hie thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.THENOT'S EMBLEME.4Iddio, perche É vecchio,Fa suoi al suo essempio.CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.4Niuno vecchioSpaventa Iddio.thenot's emblemcuddie's emblem

CUDDIE. THENOT.

CUDDIE.Ah for pity! will rank winter's rageThese bitter blasts never gin t'assuage?The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,All as I were through the body gride:My ragged ronts all shiver and shake,As doen high towers in an earthquake:They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tailsPerk as a peacock; but now it availes.THE. Lewdly complainest, thou lazy lad,Of winter's wrack for making thee sad.Must not the world wend in his common course,From good to bad, and from bad to worse,From worse unto that is worst of all,And then return to his former fall?Who will not suffer the stormy time,Where will he live till the lusty prime?Self have I worn out thrice thirty years,Some in much joy, many in many tears,Yet never complained of cold nor heat,Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat,Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,But gently took that ungently came;And ever my flock was my chief care;Winter or summer they might well fare.CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bearCheerfully the winter's wrathful cheer;For age and winter accord full nigh,This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;And as the louring weather looks down,So seemest thou like Good Friday3to frown:But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost,My ship unwont in storms to be tost.THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain,That, once sea-beat, will to sea again:So loit'ring live you little herdgrooms,Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms;And, when the shining sun laugheth once,You deemen, the spring is come at once;Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn,And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,You thinken to be lords of the year;But eft, when ye count you freed from fear,Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,Drearily shooting his stormy dart,Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart:Then is your careless courage accoyed,Your careful herds with cold be annoyed:Then pay you the price of your surquedry,With weeping, and wailing, and misery.CUD. Ah! foolish old man! I scorn thy skill,That wouldst me my springing youth to spill:I deem thy brain emperished beThrough rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;Or sicker thy head very totty is,So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss.Now thyself hath lost both lop and top,Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop;But were thy years green, as now be mine,To other delights they would incline:Then wouldest thou learn to carol of love,And hery with hymns thy lass's glove;Then wouldest thou pipe of Phillis' praise;But Phillis is mine for many days;I won her with a girdle of gelt,Embost with bugle about the belt:Such an one shepheards would make full fain;Such an one would make thee young again.THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boast;All that is lent to love will be lost.CUD. Seest how brag yond bullock bears,So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears?His horns be as broad as rainbow bent,His dewlap as lithe as lass of Kent:See how he venteth into the wind;Weenest of love is not his mind?Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,So lustless be they, so weak, so wan;Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost,Thy flock's father his courage hath lost.Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,Like wailful widows hangen their crags;The rather lambs be starved with cold,All for their master is lustless and old.THE. Cuddie, I wot thou kenst little good,So vainly to advance thy heedlesshood;For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penance,And stoop-gallant Age, the host of Grievance.But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?CUD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bentThan to hear novels of his devise;They be so well thewed, and so wise,Whatever that good old man bespake.THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,And some of love, and some of chivalry;But none fitter than this to apply.Now listen a while and hearken the end."There grew an aged tree on the green,A goodly Oak sometime had it been,With arms full strong and largely display'd,But of their leaves they were disarray'd:The body big, and mightily pight,Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;Whilome had been the king of the field,And mochell mast to the husband did yield,And with his nuts larded many swine:But now the gray moss marred his rine;His bared boughs were beaten with storms,His top was bald, and wasted with worms,His honour decayed, his branches sere."Hard by his side grew a bragging Brere,Which proudly thrust into th' element,And seemed to threat the firmament:It was embellish'd with blossoms fair,And thereto aye wonted to repairThe shepheards' daughters to gather flowers,To paint their garlands with his colours;And in his small bushes used to shroudThe sweet nightingale singing so loud;Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold,That on a time he cast him to scoldAnd snebbe the good Oak, for he was old."'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block?Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;Seest how fresh my flowers be spread,Dyed in lily white and crimson red,With leaves engrained in lusty green;Colours meet to clothe a maiden queen?Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground,And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth,My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth:Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.'So spake this bold Brere with great disdain:Little him answered the Oak again,But yielded, with shame and grief adawed,That of a weed he was overcrawed."It chanced after upon a day,The husbandman self to come that way,Of custom for to surview his ground,And his trees of state in compass round:Him when the spiteful Brere had espied,Causeless complained, and loudly criedUnto his lord, stirring up stern strife:"'O my liege lord! the god of my life,Pleaseth you ponder your suppliant's plaint,Caused of wrong and cruel constraint,Which I your poor vassal daily endure;And, but your goodness the same recure,Am like for desperate dool to die,Through felonous force of mine enemy.'"Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,Him rested the goodman on the lea,And bade the Brere in his plaint proceed.With painted words then gan this proud weed(As most usen ambitious folk)His coloured crime with craft to cloak."'Ah, my sovereign! lord of creatures all,Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,Was not I planted of thine own hand,To be the primrose of all thy land;With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime,And scarlet berries in summer time?How falls it then that this faded Oak,Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,Unto such tyranny doth aspire;Hindering with his shade my lovely light,And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?So beat his old boughs my tender side,That oft the blood springeth from woundës wide;Untimely my flowers forced to fall,That be the honour of your coronal:And oft he lets his canker-worms lightUpon my branches, to work me more spite;And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,Wherewith my fresh flow'rets be defast:For this, and many more such outrage,Craving your goodlyhead to assuageThe rancorous rigour of his might;Nought ask I, but only to hold my right;Submitting me to your good sufferance,And praying to be guarded from grievance.'"To this this Oak cast him to replyWell as he couth; but his enemyHad kindled such coals of displeasure,That the goodman nould stay his leisure,But home him hasted with furious heat,Increasing his wrath with many a threat:His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)And to the field alone he speedeth,(Aye little help to harm there needeth!)Anger nould let him speak to the tree,Enaunter his rage might cooled be;But to the root bent his sturdy stroke,And made many wounds in the waste Oak.The axe's edge did oft turn again,As half unwilling to cut the grain;Seemed, the senseless iron did fear,Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;For it had been an ancient tree,Sacred with many a mystery,And often cross'd with the priests' crew,And often hallowed with holy-water dew:But sike fancies weren foolery,And broughten this Oak to this misery;For nought might they quitten him from decay,For fiercely the goodman at him did lay.The block oft groaned under the blow,And sighed to see his near overthrow.In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,Then down to the earth he fell forthwith.His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:—There lieth the Oak, pitied of none!"Now stands the Brere like a lord alone,Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance;But all this glee had no continuance:For eftsoons winter gan to approach;The blust'ring Boreas did encroach,And beat upon the solitary Brere;For now no succour was seen him near.Now gan he repent his pride too late;For, naked left and disconsolate,The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,The watry wet weighed down his head,And heaped snow burden'd him so sore,That now upright he can stand no more;And, being down, is trod in the durtOf cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt.Such was th' end of this ambitious Brere,For scorning eld—"CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth:Here is a long tale, and little worth.So long have I listened to thy speech,That graffed to the ground is my breech;My heartblood is well nigh frorne I feel,And my galage grown fast to my heel;But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted:Hie thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.

CUDDIE.

Ah for pity! will rank winter's rage

These bitter blasts never gin t'assuage?

The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,

All as I were through the body gride:

My ragged ronts all shiver and shake,

As doen high towers in an earthquake:

They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails

Perk as a peacock; but now it availes.

THE. Lewdly complainest, thou lazy lad,

Of winter's wrack for making thee sad.

Must not the world wend in his common course,

From good to bad, and from bad to worse,

From worse unto that is worst of all,

And then return to his former fall?

Who will not suffer the stormy time,

Where will he live till the lusty prime?

Self have I worn out thrice thirty years,

Some in much joy, many in many tears,

Yet never complained of cold nor heat,

Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat,

Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,

But gently took that ungently came;

And ever my flock was my chief care;

Winter or summer they might well fare.

CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear

Cheerfully the winter's wrathful cheer;

For age and winter accord full nigh,

This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;

And as the louring weather looks down,

So seemest thou like Good Friday3to frown:

But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost,

My ship unwont in storms to be tost.

THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain,

That, once sea-beat, will to sea again:

So loit'ring live you little herdgrooms,

Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms;

And, when the shining sun laugheth once,

You deemen, the spring is come at once;

Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn,

And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,

You thinken to be lords of the year;

But eft, when ye count you freed from fear,

Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,

Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,

Drearily shooting his stormy dart,

Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart:

Then is your careless courage accoyed,

Your careful herds with cold be annoyed:

Then pay you the price of your surquedry,

With weeping, and wailing, and misery.

CUD. Ah! foolish old man! I scorn thy skill,

That wouldst me my springing youth to spill:

I deem thy brain emperished be

Through rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;

Or sicker thy head very totty is,

So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss.

Now thyself hath lost both lop and top,

Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop;

But were thy years green, as now be mine,

To other delights they would incline:

Then wouldest thou learn to carol of love,

And hery with hymns thy lass's glove;

Then wouldest thou pipe of Phillis' praise;

But Phillis is mine for many days;

I won her with a girdle of gelt,

Embost with bugle about the belt:

Such an one shepheards would make full fain;

Such an one would make thee young again.

THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boast;

All that is lent to love will be lost.

CUD. Seest how brag yond bullock bears,

So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears?

His horns be as broad as rainbow bent,

His dewlap as lithe as lass of Kent:

See how he venteth into the wind;

Weenest of love is not his mind?

Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,

So lustless be they, so weak, so wan;

Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost,

Thy flock's father his courage hath lost.

Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,

Like wailful widows hangen their crags;

The rather lambs be starved with cold,

All for their master is lustless and old.

THE. Cuddie, I wot thou kenst little good,

So vainly to advance thy heedlesshood;

For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,

Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,

Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penance,

And stoop-gallant Age, the host of Grievance.

But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,

Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,

Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?

CUD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent

Than to hear novels of his devise;

They be so well thewed, and so wise,

Whatever that good old man bespake.

THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,

And some of love, and some of chivalry;

But none fitter than this to apply.

Now listen a while and hearken the end.

"There grew an aged tree on the green,

A goodly Oak sometime had it been,

With arms full strong and largely display'd,

But of their leaves they were disarray'd:

The body big, and mightily pight,

Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;

Whilome had been the king of the field,

And mochell mast to the husband did yield,

And with his nuts larded many swine:

But now the gray moss marred his rine;

His bared boughs were beaten with storms,

His top was bald, and wasted with worms,

His honour decayed, his branches sere.

"Hard by his side grew a bragging Brere,

Which proudly thrust into th' element,

And seemed to threat the firmament:

It was embellish'd with blossoms fair,

And thereto aye wonted to repair

The shepheards' daughters to gather flowers,

To paint their garlands with his colours;

And in his small bushes used to shroud

The sweet nightingale singing so loud;

Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold,

That on a time he cast him to scold

And snebbe the good Oak, for he was old.

"'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block?

Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;

Seest how fresh my flowers be spread,

Dyed in lily white and crimson red,

With leaves engrained in lusty green;

Colours meet to clothe a maiden queen?

Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground,

And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:

The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth,

My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth:

Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,

Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.'

So spake this bold Brere with great disdain:

Little him answered the Oak again,

But yielded, with shame and grief adawed,

That of a weed he was overcrawed.

"It chanced after upon a day,

The husbandman self to come that way,

Of custom for to surview his ground,

And his trees of state in compass round:

Him when the spiteful Brere had espied,

Causeless complained, and loudly cried

Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife:

"'O my liege lord! the god of my life,

Pleaseth you ponder your suppliant's plaint,

Caused of wrong and cruel constraint,

Which I your poor vassal daily endure;

And, but your goodness the same recure,

Am like for desperate dool to die,

Through felonous force of mine enemy.'

"Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,

Him rested the goodman on the lea,

And bade the Brere in his plaint proceed.

With painted words then gan this proud weed

(As most usen ambitious folk)

His coloured crime with craft to cloak.

"'Ah, my sovereign! lord of creatures all,

Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,

Was not I planted of thine own hand,

To be the primrose of all thy land;

With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime,

And scarlet berries in summer time?

How falls it then that this faded Oak,

Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,

Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,

Unto such tyranny doth aspire;

Hindering with his shade my lovely light,

And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?

So beat his old boughs my tender side,

That oft the blood springeth from woundës wide;

Untimely my flowers forced to fall,

That be the honour of your coronal:

And oft he lets his canker-worms light

Upon my branches, to work me more spite;

And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,

Wherewith my fresh flow'rets be defast:

For this, and many more such outrage,

Craving your goodlyhead to assuage

The rancorous rigour of his might;

Nought ask I, but only to hold my right;

Submitting me to your good sufferance,

And praying to be guarded from grievance.'

"To this this Oak cast him to reply

Well as he couth; but his enemy

Had kindled such coals of displeasure,

That the goodman nould stay his leisure,

But home him hasted with furious heat,

Increasing his wrath with many a threat:

His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,

(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)

And to the field alone he speedeth,

(Aye little help to harm there needeth!)

Anger nould let him speak to the tree,

Enaunter his rage might cooled be;

But to the root bent his sturdy stroke,

And made many wounds in the waste Oak.

The axe's edge did oft turn again,

As half unwilling to cut the grain;

Seemed, the senseless iron did fear,

Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;

For it had been an ancient tree,

Sacred with many a mystery,

And often cross'd with the priests' crew,

And often hallowed with holy-water dew:

But sike fancies weren foolery,

And broughten this Oak to this misery;

For nought might they quitten him from decay,

For fiercely the goodman at him did lay.

The block oft groaned under the blow,

And sighed to see his near overthrow.

In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,

Then down to the earth he fell forthwith.

His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,

Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:—

There lieth the Oak, pitied of none!

"Now stands the Brere like a lord alone,

Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance;

But all this glee had no continuance:

For eftsoons winter gan to approach;

The blust'ring Boreas did encroach,

And beat upon the solitary Brere;

For now no succour was seen him near.

Now gan he repent his pride too late;

For, naked left and disconsolate,

The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,

The watry wet weighed down his head,

And heaped snow burden'd him so sore,

That now upright he can stand no more;

And, being down, is trod in the durt

Of cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt.

Such was th' end of this ambitious Brere,

For scorning eld—"

CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth:

Here is a long tale, and little worth.

So long have I listened to thy speech,

That graffed to the ground is my breech;

My heartblood is well nigh frorne I feel,

And my galage grown fast to my heel;

But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted:

Hie thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.

THENOT'S EMBLEME.4Iddio, perche É vecchio,Fa suoi al suo essempio.CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.4Niuno vecchioSpaventa Iddio.thenot's emblemcuddie's emblem

THENOT'S EMBLEME.4Iddio, perche É vecchio,Fa suoi al suo essempio.CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.4Niuno vecchioSpaventa Iddio.

THENOT'S EMBLEME.4Iddio, perche É vecchio,Fa suoi al suo essempio.

CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.4Niuno vecchioSpaventa Iddio.

thenot's emblemcuddie's emblem

march

MARCH. ÆGLOGA TERTIA. ARGUMENT.

In this Æglogue two Shepheards' Boys, taking occasion of the season, begin to make purpose of love, and other pleasance which to springtime is most agreeable. The special meaning hereof is, to give certain marks and tokens, to know Cupid the poets' god of Love. But more particularly, I think, in the person of Thomalin, is meant some secret friend, who scorned Love and his knights so long, till at length himself was entangled, and unwares wounded with the dart of some beautiful regard, which is Cupid's arrow.

WILLY. THOMALIN.WILLY.Thomalin, why sitten we so,As weren overwent with woe,Upon so fair a morrow?The joyous time now nigheth fast,That shall alegge this bitter blast,And slake the winter sorrow.THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well;For winter's wrath begins to quell,And pleasant spring appeareth:The grass now gins to be refresht,The swallow peeps out of her nest,And cloudy welkin cleareth.WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud,How bragly it begins to bud,And utter his tender head?Flora now calleth forth each flower,And bids make ready Maia's bowerThat new is uprist from bed:Then shall we sporten in delight,And learn with Lettice to wax light,That scornfully looks askance;Then will we little Love awake,That now sleepeth in Lethe lake,And pray him leaden our dance.THO. Willy, I ween thou be assot;For lusty Love still sleepeth not,But is abroad at his game.WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke?Or hast thyself his slumber broke?Or made privy to the same?THO. No; but happily I him spied,Where in a bush he did him hide,With wings of purple and blue;And, were not that my sheep would stray,The privy marks I would bewray,Whereby by chance I him knew.WIL. Thomalin, have no care forthy;Myself will have a double eye,Alike to my flock and thine;For, alas! at home I have a sire,A stepdame eke, as hot as fire,That duly adays counts mine.THO. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve,My sheep for that may chance to swerve,And fall into some mischief:For sithens is but the third morrowThat I chanc'd to fall asleep with sorrow,And waked again with grief;The while thilk same unhappy ewe,Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew,Fell headlong into a dell,And there unjointed both her bones:Might her neck been jointed attones,She should have need no more spell;Th' elf was so wanton and so wood,(But now I trow can better good,)She might ne gang on the green.WIL. Let be, as may be, that is past;That is to come, let be forecast:Now tell us what thou hast seen.THO. It was upon a holiday,When shepheards' grooms have leave to play,I cast to go a shooting;Long wand'ring up and down the land,With bow and bolts in either hand,For birds in bushes tooting,At length within the ivy tod,(There shrouded was the little god,)I heard a busy bustling;I bent my bolt against the bush,List'ning if any thing did rush,But then heard no more rustling.Then, peeping close into the thick,Might see the moving of some quick,Whose shape appeared not;But were it faery, fiend, or snake,My courage yearn'd it to awake,And manfully thereat shot:With that sprang forth a naked swain;With spotted wings like peacock's train,And laughing lope to a tree;His gilden quiver at his back,And silver bow, which was but slack,Which lightly he bent at me:That seeing, I levell'd again,And shot at him with might and main,As thick as it had hailed.So long I shot, that all was spent;Then pumie stones I hast'ly hent,And threw; but nought availed:He was so wimble and so wight,From bough to bough he leaped light,And oft the pumies latched:Therewith afraid I ran away;But he, that erst seem'd but to play,A shaft in earnest snatched,And hit me running in the heel:For then I little smart did feel,But soon it sore increased;And now it rankleth more and more,And inwardly it fest'reth sore,Ne wote I how to cease it.WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight,Perdie with Love thou didest fight;I know him by a token:For once I heard my father say,How he him caught upon a day,(Whereof he will be wroken,)Entangled in a fowling net,Which he for carrion crows had setThat in our pear-tree haunted:Then said, he was a winged lad,But bow and shafts as then none had,Else had he sore been daunted.But see, the welkin thicks apace,And stooping Phœbus steeps his face;It's time to haste us homeward.WILLY'S EMBLEME.To be wise and eke to love,Is granted scarce to gods above.THOMALIN'S EMBLEME.Of honey and of gall in love there is store;The honey is much, but the gall is more.willy's emblemthomalin's emblem

WILLY. THOMALIN.

WILLY.Thomalin, why sitten we so,As weren overwent with woe,Upon so fair a morrow?The joyous time now nigheth fast,That shall alegge this bitter blast,And slake the winter sorrow.THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well;For winter's wrath begins to quell,And pleasant spring appeareth:The grass now gins to be refresht,The swallow peeps out of her nest,And cloudy welkin cleareth.WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud,How bragly it begins to bud,And utter his tender head?Flora now calleth forth each flower,And bids make ready Maia's bowerThat new is uprist from bed:Then shall we sporten in delight,And learn with Lettice to wax light,That scornfully looks askance;Then will we little Love awake,That now sleepeth in Lethe lake,And pray him leaden our dance.THO. Willy, I ween thou be assot;For lusty Love still sleepeth not,But is abroad at his game.WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke?Or hast thyself his slumber broke?Or made privy to the same?THO. No; but happily I him spied,Where in a bush he did him hide,With wings of purple and blue;And, were not that my sheep would stray,The privy marks I would bewray,Whereby by chance I him knew.WIL. Thomalin, have no care forthy;Myself will have a double eye,Alike to my flock and thine;For, alas! at home I have a sire,A stepdame eke, as hot as fire,That duly adays counts mine.THO. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve,My sheep for that may chance to swerve,And fall into some mischief:For sithens is but the third morrowThat I chanc'd to fall asleep with sorrow,And waked again with grief;The while thilk same unhappy ewe,Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew,Fell headlong into a dell,And there unjointed both her bones:Might her neck been jointed attones,She should have need no more spell;Th' elf was so wanton and so wood,(But now I trow can better good,)She might ne gang on the green.WIL. Let be, as may be, that is past;That is to come, let be forecast:Now tell us what thou hast seen.THO. It was upon a holiday,When shepheards' grooms have leave to play,I cast to go a shooting;Long wand'ring up and down the land,With bow and bolts in either hand,For birds in bushes tooting,At length within the ivy tod,(There shrouded was the little god,)I heard a busy bustling;I bent my bolt against the bush,List'ning if any thing did rush,But then heard no more rustling.Then, peeping close into the thick,Might see the moving of some quick,Whose shape appeared not;But were it faery, fiend, or snake,My courage yearn'd it to awake,And manfully thereat shot:With that sprang forth a naked swain;With spotted wings like peacock's train,And laughing lope to a tree;His gilden quiver at his back,And silver bow, which was but slack,Which lightly he bent at me:That seeing, I levell'd again,And shot at him with might and main,As thick as it had hailed.So long I shot, that all was spent;Then pumie stones I hast'ly hent,And threw; but nought availed:He was so wimble and so wight,From bough to bough he leaped light,And oft the pumies latched:Therewith afraid I ran away;But he, that erst seem'd but to play,A shaft in earnest snatched,And hit me running in the heel:For then I little smart did feel,But soon it sore increased;And now it rankleth more and more,And inwardly it fest'reth sore,Ne wote I how to cease it.WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight,Perdie with Love thou didest fight;I know him by a token:For once I heard my father say,How he him caught upon a day,(Whereof he will be wroken,)Entangled in a fowling net,Which he for carrion crows had setThat in our pear-tree haunted:Then said, he was a winged lad,But bow and shafts as then none had,Else had he sore been daunted.But see, the welkin thicks apace,And stooping Phœbus steeps his face;It's time to haste us homeward.

WILLY.

Thomalin, why sitten we so,

As weren overwent with woe,

Upon so fair a morrow?

The joyous time now nigheth fast,

That shall alegge this bitter blast,

And slake the winter sorrow.

THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well;

For winter's wrath begins to quell,

And pleasant spring appeareth:

The grass now gins to be refresht,

The swallow peeps out of her nest,

And cloudy welkin cleareth.

WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud,

How bragly it begins to bud,

And utter his tender head?

Flora now calleth forth each flower,

And bids make ready Maia's bower

That new is uprist from bed:

Then shall we sporten in delight,

And learn with Lettice to wax light,

That scornfully looks askance;

Then will we little Love awake,

That now sleepeth in Lethe lake,

And pray him leaden our dance.

THO. Willy, I ween thou be assot;

For lusty Love still sleepeth not,

But is abroad at his game.

WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke?

Or hast thyself his slumber broke?

Or made privy to the same?

THO. No; but happily I him spied,

Where in a bush he did him hide,

With wings of purple and blue;

And, were not that my sheep would stray,

The privy marks I would bewray,

Whereby by chance I him knew.

WIL. Thomalin, have no care forthy;

Myself will have a double eye,

Alike to my flock and thine;

For, alas! at home I have a sire,

A stepdame eke, as hot as fire,

That duly adays counts mine.

THO. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve,

My sheep for that may chance to swerve,

And fall into some mischief:

For sithens is but the third morrow

That I chanc'd to fall asleep with sorrow,

And waked again with grief;

The while thilk same unhappy ewe,

Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew,

Fell headlong into a dell,

And there unjointed both her bones:

Might her neck been jointed attones,

She should have need no more spell;

Th' elf was so wanton and so wood,

(But now I trow can better good,)

She might ne gang on the green.

WIL. Let be, as may be, that is past;

That is to come, let be forecast:

Now tell us what thou hast seen.

THO. It was upon a holiday,

When shepheards' grooms have leave to play,

I cast to go a shooting;

Long wand'ring up and down the land,

With bow and bolts in either hand,

For birds in bushes tooting,

At length within the ivy tod,

(There shrouded was the little god,)

I heard a busy bustling;

I bent my bolt against the bush,

List'ning if any thing did rush,

But then heard no more rustling.

Then, peeping close into the thick,

Might see the moving of some quick,

Whose shape appeared not;

But were it faery, fiend, or snake,

My courage yearn'd it to awake,

And manfully thereat shot:

With that sprang forth a naked swain;

With spotted wings like peacock's train,

And laughing lope to a tree;

His gilden quiver at his back,

And silver bow, which was but slack,

Which lightly he bent at me:

That seeing, I levell'd again,

And shot at him with might and main,

As thick as it had hailed.

So long I shot, that all was spent;

Then pumie stones I hast'ly hent,

And threw; but nought availed:

He was so wimble and so wight,

From bough to bough he leaped light,

And oft the pumies latched:

Therewith afraid I ran away;

But he, that erst seem'd but to play,

A shaft in earnest snatched,

And hit me running in the heel:

For then I little smart did feel,

But soon it sore increased;

And now it rankleth more and more,

And inwardly it fest'reth sore,

Ne wote I how to cease it.

WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight,

Perdie with Love thou didest fight;

I know him by a token:

For once I heard my father say,

How he him caught upon a day,

(Whereof he will be wroken,)

Entangled in a fowling net,

Which he for carrion crows had set

That in our pear-tree haunted:

Then said, he was a winged lad,

But bow and shafts as then none had,

Else had he sore been daunted.

But see, the welkin thicks apace,

And stooping Phœbus steeps his face;

It's time to haste us homeward.

WILLY'S EMBLEME.To be wise and eke to love,Is granted scarce to gods above.THOMALIN'S EMBLEME.Of honey and of gall in love there is store;The honey is much, but the gall is more.willy's emblemthomalin's emblem

WILLY'S EMBLEME.To be wise and eke to love,Is granted scarce to gods above.THOMALIN'S EMBLEME.Of honey and of gall in love there is store;The honey is much, but the gall is more.

WILLY'S EMBLEME.To be wise and eke to love,Is granted scarce to gods above.

THOMALIN'S EMBLEME.Of honey and of gall in love there is store;The honey is much, but the gall is more.

willy's emblemthomalin's emblem

april

APRIL. ÆGLOGA QUARTA. ARGUMENT.

This Æglogue is purposely intended to the honour and praise of our most gracious sovereign, Queen Elizabeth. The speakers hereof be Hobbinol and Thenot, two shepheards: the which Hobbinol, being beforementioned greatly to have loved Colin, is here set forth more largely, complaining him of that boy's great misadventure in love; whereby his mind was alienated and withdrawn not only from him, who most loved him, but also from all former delights and studies, as well in pleasant piping, as cunning rhyming and singing, and other his laudable exercises. Whereby he taketh occasion, for proof of his more excellency and skill in poetry, to record a song, which the said Colin sometime made in honour of her Majesty, whom abruptly he termeth Elisa.

THENOT. HOBBINOL.THENOT.Tell me, good Hobbinol, what gars thee greet?What! hath some wolf thy tender lambs ytorn?Or is thy bagpipe broke, that sounds so sweet?Or art thou of thy loved lass forlorn?Or be thine eyes attemper'd to the year,Quenching the gasping furrows' thirst with rain?Like April shower, so stream the trickling tearsAdown thy cheek, to quench thy thirsty pain.HOB. Nor this, nor that, so much doth make me mourn,But for the lad, whom long I lov'd so dear,Now loves a lass that all his love doth scorn:He, plunged in pain, his tressed locks doth tear;Shepheard's delights he doth them all forswear;His pleasant pipe, which made us merriment,He wilfully hath broke, and doth forbearHis wonted songs wherein he all outwent.THE. What is he for a lad you so lament?Is love such pinching pain to them that prove?And hath he skill to make so excellent,Yet hath so little skill to bridle love?HOB. Colin thou kenst, the southern shepheard's boy;Him Love hath wounded with a deadly dart:Whilome on him was all my care and joy,Forcing with gifts to win his wanton heart.But now from me his madding mind is start,And wooes the widow's daughter of the glen;So now fair Rosalind hath bred his smart;So now his friend is changed for a frenne.THE. But if his ditties be so trimly dight,I pray thee, Hobbinol, record some one,The whiles our flocks do graze about in sight,And we close shrouded in this shade alone.HOB. Contented I: then will I sing his layOf fair Elisa, queen of shepheards all,Which once he made as by a spring he lay,And tuned it unto the waters' fall."Ye dainty Nymphs, that in this blessed brookDo bathe your breast,Forsake your watry bowers, and hither look,At my request.And eke you virgins, that on Parnass dwell,Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,Help me to blazeHer worthy praise,Which in her sex doth all excel."Of fair Elisa be your silver song,That blessed wight,The flower of virgins; may she flourish longIn princely plight!For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot,Which Pan, the shepheards' god, of her begot:So sprung her graceOf heavenly race,No mortal blemish may her blot."See, where she sits upon the grassy green,(O seemly sight!)Yclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen,And ermines white:Upon her head a crimson coronet,With damask roses and daffadillies set;Bay leaves between,And primroses green,Embellish the sweet violet."Tell me, have ye seen her angelic face,Like Phœbe fair?Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,Can you well compare?The red rose medled with the white yfere,In either cheek depeincten lively cheer:Her modest eye,Her majesty,Where have you seen the like but there?"I saw Phœbus; thrust out his golden head,Upon her to gaze;But, when he saw how broad her beams did spread,It did him amaze.He blush'd to see another sun below,Ne durst again his fiery face out show.Let him, if he dare,His brightness compareWith hers, to have the overthrow."Shew thyself, Cynthia, with thy silver rays,And be not abash'd:When she the beams of her beauty displays,O how art thou dash'd!But I will not match her with Latona's seed;Such folly great sorrow to Niobe did breed.And she is a stone,And makes daily moan,Warning all other to take heed."Pan may be proud that ever he begotSuch a bellibone;And Syrinx rejoice, that ever was her lotTo bear such an one.Soon as my younglings crying for the dam,To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb;She is my goddess plain,And I her shepheard's swain,Albe forswonk and forswat I am."I see Calliope speed her to the place,Where my goddess shines;And after her the other Muses trace,With their violins.Be they not bay-branches which they do bear,All for Elisa in her hand to wear?So sweetly they play,And sing all the way,That it a heaven is to hear."Lo, how finely the Graces can it footTo the instrument:They dancen deftly, and singen soote,In their merriment.Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the dance even?Let that room to my Lady be yevenShe shall be a Grace,To fill the fourth place,And reign with the rest in heaven."And whither runs this bevy of ladies bright,Ranged in a row?They be all Ladies of the Lake behight,That unto her go.Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of all,Of olive branches bears a coronal:Olives be for peaceWhen wars do surcease:Such for a princess be principal."Ye shepheards' daughters, that dwell on the green,Hie you there apace:Let none come there but that virgins bene,To adorn her grace:And, when you come whereas she is in place,See that your rudeness do not you disgrace:Bind your fillets fast,And gird in your waist,For more fineness, with a tawdry5lace."Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,With gelliflowers;Bring coronations, and sops-in-wine,Worn of paramours:Strow me the ground with daffadowndillies,And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:The pretty paunce,And the chevisance,Shall match with the fair flower delice."Now rise up, Elisa, decked as thou artIn royal array;And now ye dainty damsels may departEach one her way.I fear I have troubled your troops too long;Let Dame Elisa thank you for her song:And, if you come hitherWhen damsines I gather,I will part them all you among."THE. And was thilk same song of Colin's own making?Ah! foolish boy! that is with love yblent;Great pity is, he be in such taking,For naught caren that be so lewdly bent.HOB. Sicker I hold him for a greater fon,That loves the thing he cannot purchase.But let us homeward, for night draweth on,And twinkling stars the daylight hence chase.THENOT'S EMBLEME.6O quam et memorem virgo!HOBBINOL'S EMBLEME.O Dea certe!thenot's emblemhobbinol's emblem

THENOT. HOBBINOL.

THENOT.Tell me, good Hobbinol, what gars thee greet?What! hath some wolf thy tender lambs ytorn?Or is thy bagpipe broke, that sounds so sweet?Or art thou of thy loved lass forlorn?Or be thine eyes attemper'd to the year,Quenching the gasping furrows' thirst with rain?Like April shower, so stream the trickling tearsAdown thy cheek, to quench thy thirsty pain.HOB. Nor this, nor that, so much doth make me mourn,But for the lad, whom long I lov'd so dear,Now loves a lass that all his love doth scorn:He, plunged in pain, his tressed locks doth tear;Shepheard's delights he doth them all forswear;His pleasant pipe, which made us merriment,He wilfully hath broke, and doth forbearHis wonted songs wherein he all outwent.THE. What is he for a lad you so lament?Is love such pinching pain to them that prove?And hath he skill to make so excellent,Yet hath so little skill to bridle love?HOB. Colin thou kenst, the southern shepheard's boy;Him Love hath wounded with a deadly dart:Whilome on him was all my care and joy,Forcing with gifts to win his wanton heart.But now from me his madding mind is start,And wooes the widow's daughter of the glen;So now fair Rosalind hath bred his smart;So now his friend is changed for a frenne.THE. But if his ditties be so trimly dight,I pray thee, Hobbinol, record some one,The whiles our flocks do graze about in sight,And we close shrouded in this shade alone.HOB. Contented I: then will I sing his layOf fair Elisa, queen of shepheards all,Which once he made as by a spring he lay,And tuned it unto the waters' fall.

THENOT.

Tell me, good Hobbinol, what gars thee greet?

What! hath some wolf thy tender lambs ytorn?

Or is thy bagpipe broke, that sounds so sweet?

Or art thou of thy loved lass forlorn?

Or be thine eyes attemper'd to the year,

Quenching the gasping furrows' thirst with rain?

Like April shower, so stream the trickling tears

Adown thy cheek, to quench thy thirsty pain.

HOB. Nor this, nor that, so much doth make me mourn,

But for the lad, whom long I lov'd so dear,

Now loves a lass that all his love doth scorn:

He, plunged in pain, his tressed locks doth tear;

Shepheard's delights he doth them all forswear;

His pleasant pipe, which made us merriment,

He wilfully hath broke, and doth forbear

His wonted songs wherein he all outwent.

THE. What is he for a lad you so lament?

Is love such pinching pain to them that prove?

And hath he skill to make so excellent,

Yet hath so little skill to bridle love?

HOB. Colin thou kenst, the southern shepheard's boy;

Him Love hath wounded with a deadly dart:

Whilome on him was all my care and joy,

Forcing with gifts to win his wanton heart.

But now from me his madding mind is start,

And wooes the widow's daughter of the glen;

So now fair Rosalind hath bred his smart;

So now his friend is changed for a frenne.

THE. But if his ditties be so trimly dight,

I pray thee, Hobbinol, record some one,

The whiles our flocks do graze about in sight,

And we close shrouded in this shade alone.

HOB. Contented I: then will I sing his lay

Of fair Elisa, queen of shepheards all,

Which once he made as by a spring he lay,

And tuned it unto the waters' fall.

"Ye dainty Nymphs, that in this blessed brookDo bathe your breast,Forsake your watry bowers, and hither look,At my request.And eke you virgins, that on Parnass dwell,Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,Help me to blazeHer worthy praise,Which in her sex doth all excel.

"Ye dainty Nymphs, that in this blessed brook

Do bathe your breast,

Forsake your watry bowers, and hither look,

At my request.

And eke you virgins, that on Parnass dwell,

Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,

Help me to blaze

Her worthy praise,

Which in her sex doth all excel.

"Of fair Elisa be your silver song,That blessed wight,The flower of virgins; may she flourish longIn princely plight!For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot,Which Pan, the shepheards' god, of her begot:So sprung her graceOf heavenly race,No mortal blemish may her blot.

"Of fair Elisa be your silver song,

That blessed wight,

The flower of virgins; may she flourish long

In princely plight!

For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot,

Which Pan, the shepheards' god, of her begot:

So sprung her grace

Of heavenly race,

No mortal blemish may her blot.

"See, where she sits upon the grassy green,(O seemly sight!)Yclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen,And ermines white:Upon her head a crimson coronet,With damask roses and daffadillies set;Bay leaves between,And primroses green,Embellish the sweet violet.

"See, where she sits upon the grassy green,

(O seemly sight!)

Yclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen,

And ermines white:

Upon her head a crimson coronet,

With damask roses and daffadillies set;

Bay leaves between,

And primroses green,

Embellish the sweet violet.

"Tell me, have ye seen her angelic face,Like Phœbe fair?Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,Can you well compare?The red rose medled with the white yfere,In either cheek depeincten lively cheer:Her modest eye,Her majesty,Where have you seen the like but there?

"Tell me, have ye seen her angelic face,

Like Phœbe fair?

Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,

Can you well compare?

The red rose medled with the white yfere,

In either cheek depeincten lively cheer:

Her modest eye,

Her majesty,

Where have you seen the like but there?

"I saw Phœbus; thrust out his golden head,Upon her to gaze;But, when he saw how broad her beams did spread,It did him amaze.He blush'd to see another sun below,Ne durst again his fiery face out show.Let him, if he dare,His brightness compareWith hers, to have the overthrow.

"I saw Phœbus; thrust out his golden head,

Upon her to gaze;

But, when he saw how broad her beams did spread,

It did him amaze.

He blush'd to see another sun below,

Ne durst again his fiery face out show.

Let him, if he dare,

His brightness compare

With hers, to have the overthrow.

"Shew thyself, Cynthia, with thy silver rays,And be not abash'd:When she the beams of her beauty displays,O how art thou dash'd!But I will not match her with Latona's seed;Such folly great sorrow to Niobe did breed.And she is a stone,And makes daily moan,Warning all other to take heed.

"Shew thyself, Cynthia, with thy silver rays,

And be not abash'd:

When she the beams of her beauty displays,

O how art thou dash'd!

But I will not match her with Latona's seed;

Such folly great sorrow to Niobe did breed.

And she is a stone,

And makes daily moan,

Warning all other to take heed.

"Pan may be proud that ever he begotSuch a bellibone;And Syrinx rejoice, that ever was her lotTo bear such an one.Soon as my younglings crying for the dam,To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb;She is my goddess plain,And I her shepheard's swain,Albe forswonk and forswat I am.

"Pan may be proud that ever he begot

Such a bellibone;

And Syrinx rejoice, that ever was her lot

To bear such an one.

Soon as my younglings crying for the dam,

To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb;

She is my goddess plain,

And I her shepheard's swain,

Albe forswonk and forswat I am.

"I see Calliope speed her to the place,Where my goddess shines;And after her the other Muses trace,With their violins.Be they not bay-branches which they do bear,All for Elisa in her hand to wear?So sweetly they play,And sing all the way,That it a heaven is to hear.

"I see Calliope speed her to the place,

Where my goddess shines;

And after her the other Muses trace,

With their violins.

Be they not bay-branches which they do bear,

All for Elisa in her hand to wear?

So sweetly they play,

And sing all the way,

That it a heaven is to hear.

"Lo, how finely the Graces can it footTo the instrument:They dancen deftly, and singen soote,In their merriment.Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the dance even?Let that room to my Lady be yevenShe shall be a Grace,To fill the fourth place,And reign with the rest in heaven.

"Lo, how finely the Graces can it foot

To the instrument:

They dancen deftly, and singen soote,

In their merriment.

Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the dance even?

Let that room to my Lady be yeven

She shall be a Grace,

To fill the fourth place,

And reign with the rest in heaven.

"And whither runs this bevy of ladies bright,Ranged in a row?They be all Ladies of the Lake behight,That unto her go.Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of all,Of olive branches bears a coronal:Olives be for peaceWhen wars do surcease:Such for a princess be principal.

"And whither runs this bevy of ladies bright,

Ranged in a row?

They be all Ladies of the Lake behight,

That unto her go.

Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of all,

Of olive branches bears a coronal:

Olives be for peace

When wars do surcease:

Such for a princess be principal.

"Ye shepheards' daughters, that dwell on the green,Hie you there apace:Let none come there but that virgins bene,To adorn her grace:And, when you come whereas she is in place,See that your rudeness do not you disgrace:Bind your fillets fast,And gird in your waist,For more fineness, with a tawdry5lace.

"Ye shepheards' daughters, that dwell on the green,

Hie you there apace:

Let none come there but that virgins bene,

To adorn her grace:

And, when you come whereas she is in place,

See that your rudeness do not you disgrace:

Bind your fillets fast,

And gird in your waist,

For more fineness, with a tawdry5lace.

"Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,With gelliflowers;Bring coronations, and sops-in-wine,Worn of paramours:Strow me the ground with daffadowndillies,And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:The pretty paunce,And the chevisance,Shall match with the fair flower delice.

"Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,

With gelliflowers;

Bring coronations, and sops-in-wine,

Worn of paramours:

Strow me the ground with daffadowndillies,

And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:

The pretty paunce,

And the chevisance,

Shall match with the fair flower delice.

"Now rise up, Elisa, decked as thou artIn royal array;And now ye dainty damsels may departEach one her way.I fear I have troubled your troops too long;Let Dame Elisa thank you for her song:And, if you come hitherWhen damsines I gather,I will part them all you among."

"Now rise up, Elisa, decked as thou art

In royal array;

And now ye dainty damsels may depart

Each one her way.

I fear I have troubled your troops too long;

Let Dame Elisa thank you for her song:

And, if you come hither

When damsines I gather,

I will part them all you among."

THE. And was thilk same song of Colin's own making?Ah! foolish boy! that is with love yblent;Great pity is, he be in such taking,For naught caren that be so lewdly bent.HOB. Sicker I hold him for a greater fon,That loves the thing he cannot purchase.But let us homeward, for night draweth on,And twinkling stars the daylight hence chase.

THE. And was thilk same song of Colin's own making?

Ah! foolish boy! that is with love yblent;

Great pity is, he be in such taking,

For naught caren that be so lewdly bent.

HOB. Sicker I hold him for a greater fon,

That loves the thing he cannot purchase.

But let us homeward, for night draweth on,

And twinkling stars the daylight hence chase.

THENOT'S EMBLEME.6O quam et memorem virgo!HOBBINOL'S EMBLEME.O Dea certe!thenot's emblemhobbinol's emblem

THENOT'S EMBLEME.6O quam et memorem virgo!HOBBINOL'S EMBLEME.O Dea certe!

THENOT'S EMBLEME.6O quam et memorem virgo!

HOBBINOL'S EMBLEME.O Dea certe!

thenot's emblemhobbinol's emblem

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