AUGUST · AEGLOGA OCTAVA
AUGUST. ÆGLOGA OCTAVA. ARGUMENT.
In this Æglogue is set forth a delectable controversy, made in imitation of that in Theocritus: whereto also Virgil fashioned his third and seventh Æglogue. They chose for umpire of their strife, Cuddy, a neat-herd's boy; who, having ended their cause, reciteth also himself a proper song, whereof Colin he saith was author.
WILLIE. PERIGOT. CUDDIE.
WILLIE.
Tell me, Perigot, what shall be the game,
Wherefore with mine thou dare thy music match?
Or be thy bagpipes run far out of frame?
Or hath the cramp thy joints benumb'd with ache?
PER. Ah! Willie, when the heart is ill assay'd,
How can bagpipe or joints be well apaid?
WIL. What the foul evil hath thee so bestad?
Whilome thou was peregall to the best,
And wont to make the jolly shepheards glad,
With piping and dancing didst pass the rest.
PER. Ah! Willie, now I have learn'd a new dance;
My old music marr'd by a new mischance.
WIL. Mischief might to that mischance befall,
That so hath reft us of our merriment;
But rede me what pain doth thee so appal;
Or lovest thou, or be thy younglings miswent?
PER. Love hath misled both my younglings and me;
I pine for pain, and they my pain to see.
WIL. Perdie, and wellaway! ill may they thrive;
Never knew I lover's sheep in good plight:
But and if in rhymes with me thou dare strive,
Such fond fantasies shall soon be put to flight.
PER. That shall I do, though mochell worse I fared:
Never shall be said that Perigot was dared.
WIL. Then lo, Perigot, the pledge which I plight,
A mazer ywrought of the maple warre,
Wherein is enchased many a fair sight
Of bears and tigers, that maken fierce war;
And over them spread a goodly wild vine,
Entrailed with a wanton ivy twine.
Thereby is a lamb in the wolvës jaws;
But see, how fast runneth the shepheard swain
To save the innocent from the beast's paws,
And here with his sheephook hath him slain.
Tell me, such a cup hast thou ever seen?
Well might it beseem any harvest queen.
PER. Thereto will I pawn yonder spotted lamb;
Of all my flock there n'is such another,
For I brought him up without the dam;
But Colin Clout reft me of his brother,
That he purchas'd of me in the plain field;
Sore against my will was I forc'd to yield.
WIL. Sicker, make like account of his brother;
But who shall judge the wager won or lost?
PER. That shall yonder herdgroom and none other,
Which over the pease hitherward doth post.
WIL. But, for the sunbeam so sore doth us beat,
Were not better to shun the scorching heat?
PER. Well agreed, Willie; then set thee down, swain;
Such a song never heardest thou but Colin sing.
CUD. 'Gin, when ye list, ye jolly shepheards twain;
Such a judge, as Cuddie, were for a king.
PER. It fell upon a holy eve,
WIL. Hey, ho, holiday!
PER. When holy Fathers wont to shrieve;
WIL. Now ginneth this roundelay.
PER. Sitting upon a hill so high,
WIL. Hey, ho, the high hill!
PER. The while my flock did feed thereby;
WIL. The while the shepheard self did spill;
PER. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
WIL. Hey, ho, Bonnibell!
PER. Tripping over the dale alone;
WIL. She can trip it very well.
PER. Well decked in a frock of gray,
WIL. Hey, ho, gray is greet!
PER. And in a kirtle of green saye,
WIL. The green is for maidens meet.
PER. A chapelet on her head she wore,
WIL. Hey, ho, chapelet!
PER. Of sweet violets therein was store,
WIL. She sweeter than the violet.
PER. My sheep did leave their wonted food,
WIL. Hey, ho, seely sheep!
PER. And gaz'd on her as they were wood,
WIL. Wood as he that did them keep.
PER. As the bonilass passed by,
WIL. Hey, ho, bonilass!
PER. She rov'd at me with glancing eye,
WIL. As clear as the crystal glass:
PER. All as the sunny beam so bright,
WIL. Hey, ho, the sun-beam!
PER. Glanceth from Phœbus' face forthright,
WIL. So love into thy heart did stream:
PER. Or as the thunder cleaves the clouds,
WIL. Hey, ho, the thunder!
PER. Wherein the lightsome levin shrouds,
WIL. So cleaves thy soul asunder:
PER. Or as Dame Cynthia's silver ray,
WIL. Hey, ho, the moonlight!
PER. Upon the glittering wave doth play,
WIL. Such play is a piteous plight.
PER. The glance into my heart did glide,
WIL. Hey, ho, the glider!
PER. Therewith my soul was sharply gryde,
WIL. Such wounds soon waxen wider.
PER. Hasting to wrench the arrow out,
WIL. Hey, ho, Perigot!
PER. I left the head in my heart-root,
WIL. It was a desperate shot.
PER. There it rankleth aye more and more,
WIL. Hey, ho, the arrow!
PER. Ne can I find salve for my sore,
WIL. Love is a careless sorrow.
PER. And though my bale with death I bought,
WIL. Hey, ho, heavy cheer!
PER. Yet should thilk lass not from my thought,
WIL. So you may buy gold too dear.
PER. But whether in painful love I pine,
WIL. Hey, ho, pinching pain!
PER. Or thrive in wealth, she shall be mine,
WIL. But if thou can her obtain.
PER. And if for graceless grief I die,
WIL. Hey, ho, graceless grief!
PER. Witness she slew me with her eye,
WIL. Let thy folly be the prief.
PER. And you, that saw it, simple sheep,
WIL. Hey, ho, the fair flock!
PER. For prief thereof, my death shall weep,
WIL. And moan with many a mock.
PER. So learn'd I love on a holy eve,
WIL. Hey, ho, holy-day!
PER. That ever since my heart did grieve,
WIL. Now endeth our roundelay."
CUD. Sicker, such a roundel never heard I none;
Little lacketh Perigot of the best,
And Willie is not greatly overgone,
So weren his under-songs well addrest.
WIL. Herdgroom, I fear me thou have a squint eye;
Arede uprightly, who has the victory.
CUD. Faith of my soul, I deem each have gained;
Forthy let the lamb be Willie his own;
And for Perigot, so well hath him pained,
To him be the wroughten mazer alone.
PER. Perigot is well pleased with the doom,
Ne can Willie wite the witeless herdgroom.
WIL. Never dempt more right of beauty, I ween,
The shepheard of Ida that judged Beauty's queen.
CUD. But tell me, shepheards, should it not yshend
Your roundels fresh, to hear a doleful verse
Of Rosalind (who knows not Rosalind?)
That Colin made? ilk can I you rehearse.
PER. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a lad;
With merry thing it's good to medle sad.
WIL. Faith of my soul, thou shalt ycrowned be
In Colin's stead, if thou this song arede;
For never thing on earth so pleaseth me
As him to hear, or matter of his deed.
CUD. Then listen each unto my heavy lay,
And tune your pipes as ruthful as ye may.
"Ye wasteful Woods! bear witness of my woe,
Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resound;
Ye careless Birds are privy to my cries,
Which in your songs were wont to make a part:
Thou, pleasant Spring, hast lull'd me oft asleep,
Whose streams my trickling tears did oft augment!
"Resort of people doth my griefs augment,
The walled towns do work my greater woe;
The forest wide is fitter to resound
The hollow echo of my careful cries.
I hate the house, since thence my love did part,
Whose wailful want debars mine eyes of sleep.
"Let streams of tears supply the place of sleep;
Let all, that sweet is, void; and all, that may augment
My dole, draw near! More meet to wail my woe
Be the wild woods, my sorrows to resound,
Than bed, nor bower, both which I fill with cries,
When I them see so waste, and find no part
"Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
In gastful grove therefore, till my last sleep
Do close mine eyes; so shall I not augment
With sight of such as change my restless woe.
Help me, ye baneful Birds! whose shrieking sound
Is sign of dreary death, my deadly cries
"Most ruthfully to tune: and as my cries
(Which of my woe cannot bewray least part)
You hear all night, when Nature craveth sleep,
Increase, so let your irksome yells augment.
Thus all the nights in plaints, the day in woe,
I vowed have to waste, till safe and sound
"She home return, whose voice's silver sound
To cheerful songs can change my cheerless cries.
Hence with the nightingale will I take part,
That blessed bird, that spends her time of sleep
In songs and plaintive pleas, the more t' augment
The memory of his misdeed that bred her woe.
"And you that feel no woe, when as the sound
Of these my nightly cries ye hear apart,
Let break your sounder sleep, and pity augment."
PER. O Colin, Colin! the shepheards' joy,
How I admire each turning of thy verse;
And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boy,
How dolefully his dole thou didst rehearse!
CUD. Then blow your pipes, shepheards, till you be at home;
The night hieth fast, it's time to be gone.
SEPTEMBER · AEGLOGA NONA
SEPTEMBER. ÆGLOGA NONA. ARGUMENT.
Herein Diggon Davie is devised to be a shepheard that, in hope of more gain, drove his sheep into a far country. The abuses whereof, and loose living of Popish prelates, by occasion of Hobbinol's demand, he discourseth at large.
HOBBINOL. DIGGON DAVIE.
HOBBINOL.
Diggon Davie! I bid her good-day;
Or Diggon her is, or I missay.
DIG. Her was her, while it was day-light,
But now her is a most wretched wight:
For day, that was, is wightly past,
And now at erst the dark night doth hast.
HOB. Diggon, arede who has thee so dight;
Never I wist thee in so poor a plight.
Where is the fair flock thou wast wont to lead?
Or be they chaffred, or at mischief dead?
DIG. Ah! for love of that is to thee most lief,
Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old grief;
Such question rippeth up cause of new woe,
For one, opened, might unfold many moe.
HOB. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in heart,
I know, to keep is a burdenous smart:
Each thing imparted is more eath to bear:
When the rain is fallen, the clouds waxen clear.
And now, sithence I saw thy head last,
Thrice three moons be fully spent and past;
Since when thou hast measured much ground,
And wandered well about the world round,
So as thou can many things relate;
But tell me first of thy flock's estate.
DIG. My sheep be wasted; (woe is me therefore!)
The jolly shepheard that was of yore,
Is now nor jolly, nor shepheard more.
In foreign coasts men said was plenty;
And so there is, but all of misery:
I deem'd there much to have eked my store,
But such eking hath made my heart sore.
In those countries, whereas I have been,
No being for those that truly mean;
But for such, as of guile maken gain,
No such country as there to remain;
They setten to sale their shops of shame,
And maken a mart of their good name:
The shepheards there robben one another,
And layen baits to beguile their brother;
Or they will buy his sheep out of the cote,
Or they will carven the shepheard's throat.
The shepheard's swain you cannot well ken,
But it be by his pride, from other men;
They looken big as bulls that be bate,
And bearen the crag so stiff and so state,
As cock on his dunghill crowing crank.
HOB. Diggon, I am so stiff and so stank,
that uneath may I stand any more;
And now the western wind bloweth sore,
That now is in his chief sovereignty,
Beating the withered leaf from the tree;
Sit we down here under the hill;
Then may we talk and tellen our fill,
And make a mock at the blustering blast:
Now say on, Diggon, whatever thou hast.
DIG. Hobbin, ah Hobbin! I curse the stound
That ever I cast to have lorn this ground:
Well-away the while I was so fond
To leave the good, that I had in hond,
In hope of better that was uncouth,
So lost the dog the flesh in his mouth.
My silly sheep (ah! silly sheep!)
That here by there I whilome us'd to keep,
All were they lusty as thou didest see,
Be all starved with pine and penury;
Hardly myself escaped thilk pain,
Driven for need to come home again.
HOB. Ah! fon, now by thy loss art taught
That seldom change the better brought:
Content who lives with tried state,
Need fear no change of frowning Fate;
But who will seek for unknown gain,
Oft lives by loss, and leaves with pain.
DIG. I wot ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitch'd
With vain desire and hope to be enrich'd:
But, sicker, so it is, as the bright star
Seemeth aye greater when it is far:
I thought the soil would have made me rich,
But now I wot it is nothing sich;
For either the shepheards be idle and still,
And led of their sheep what way they will,
Or they be false, and full of covetise,
And casten to compass many wrong emprise:
But the more be fraught with fraud and spite,
Ne in good nor goodness taken delight,
But kindle coals of contest and ire,
Wherewith they set all the world on fire;
Which when they thinken again to quench,
With holy water they do them all drench.
They say they con to heaven the highway,
But by my soul I dare undersay
They never set foot in that same troad,
But balk the right way, and strayen abroad.
They boast they have the devil at command,
But ask them therefore what they have pawn'd:
Marry! that great Pan bought with dear borrow,
To quit it from the black bower of sorrow.
But they have sold thilk same long ago,
For they woulden draw with them many moe.
But let them gang alone a God's name;
As they have brewed, so let them bear blame.
HOB. Diggon, I pray thee speak not so dirk;
Such mister saying me seemeth to mirk.
DIG. Then, plainly to speak of shepheards' most what,
Bad is the best; (this English is flat)
Their ill haviour gars men missay
Both of their doctrine, and their fay.
They sayn the world is much war than it wont,
All for her shepheards be beastly and blont.
Other sayn, but how truly I n'ote,
All for they holden shame of their cote:
Some stick not to say, (hot coal on their tongue!)
That such mischief graseth them among,
All for they casten too much of world's care,
To deck their dame, and enrich their heir;
For such encheason, if you go nigh,
Few chimneys reeking you shall espy.
The fat ox, that wont lig in the stall,
Is now fast stalled in their crumenall.
Thus chatten the people in their steads,
Alike as a monster of many heads:
But they, that shooten nearest the prick,
Sayn, other the fat from their beards doen lick:
For big bulls of Bashan brace them about,
That with their horns butten the more stout;
But the lean souls treaden under foot,
And to seek redress might little boot;
For liker be they to pluck away more,
Than ought of the gotten good to restore:
For they be like foul quagmires overgrass'd,
That, if thy galage once sticketh fast,
The more to wind it out thou dost swink,
Thou must aye deeper and deeper sink.
Yet better leave off with a little loss,
Than by much wrestling to lose the gross.
HOB. Now, Diggon, I see thou speakest too plain;
Better it were a little to feign,
And cleanly cover that cannot be cured;
Such ill, as is forced, must needs be endured.
But of such pastors how do the flocks creep?
DIG. Such as the shepheards, such be their sheep,
For they nill listen to the shepheard's voice;
But if he call them, at their good choice
They wander at will and stay at pleasure,
And to their folds yede at their own leisure.
But they had be better come at their call;
For many have unto mischief fall,
And been of ravenous wolves yrent,
All for they nould be buxom and bent.
HOB. Fie on thee, Diggon, and all thy foul leasing;
Well is known that, sith the Saxon king, 15
Never was wolf seen, many nor some,
Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendom;
But the fewer wolves (the sooth to sayn)
The more be the foxes that here remain.
DIG. Yes, but they gang in more secret wise,
And with sheeps' clothing doen them disguise.
They walk not widely as they were wont,
For fear of rangers and the great hunt,
But privily prowling to and fro,
Enaunter they might be inly know.
HOB. Or privy or pert if any bin,
We have great bandogs will tear their skin.
DIG. Indeed thy Ball is a bold big cur,
And could make a jolly hole in their fur:
But not good dogs them needeth to chase,
But heedy shepheards to discern their face;
For all their craft is in their countenance,
They be so grave and full of maintenance.
But shall I tell thee what myself know
Chanced to Roffin not long ago?
HOB. Say it out, Diggon, whatever it hight,
For not but well might him betight:
He is so meek, wise, and merciable,
And with his word his work is convenable.
Colin Clout, I ween, be his self boy,
(Ah, for Colin! he whilome my joy:)
Shepheards such, God might us many send,
That doen so carefully their flocks tend.
DIG. Thilk same shepheard might I well mark,
He has a dog to bite or to bark;
Never had shepheard so keen a cur,
That waketh and if but a leaf stur.
Whilome there wonned a wicked wolf,
That with many a lamb had gutted his gulf,
And ever at night wont to repair
Unto the flock, when the welkin shone fair,
Yclad in clothing of silly sheep,
When the good old man used to sleep;
Then at midnight he would bark and bawl,
(For he had eft learned a currës call,)
As if a wolf were among the sheep:
With that the shepheard would break his sleep,
And send out Lowder (for so his dog hote)
To range the fields with wide open throat.
Then, when as Lowder was far away,
This wolvish sheep would catchen his prey,
A lamb, or a kid, or a weanel wast;
With that to the wood would he speed him fast.
Long time he used this slippery prank,
Ere Roffy could for his labour him thank.
At end, the shepheard his practice spied,
(For Roffy is wise, and as Argus eyed,)
And, when at even he came to the flock,
Fast in their folds he did them lock,
And took out the wolf in his counterfeit coat,
And let out the sheep's blood at his throat.
HOB. Marry, Diggon, what should him affray
To take his own where ever it lay?
For, had his weasand been a little widder,
He would have devoured both hidder and shidder.
DIG. Mischief light on him, and God's great curse,
Too good for him had been a great deal worse;
For it was a perilous beast above all,
And eke had he cond the shepheard's call,
And oft in the night came to the sheep-cote,
And called Lowder, with a hollow throat,
As if the old man self had been:
The dog his master's voice did it ween,
Yet half in doubt he opened the door,
And ran out as he was wont of yore.
No sooner was out, but, swifter than thought,
Fast by the hide the wolf Lowder caught;
And, had not Roffy run to the steven,
Lowder had been slain thilk same even.
HOB. God shield, man, he should so ill have thrive,
All for he did his devoir belive.
If such be wolves, as thou hast told,
How might we, Diggon, them behold?
DIG. How, but, with heed and watchfulness,
Forstallen them of their wiliness:
Forthy with shepheard sits not play,
Or sleep, as some doen, all the long day;
But ever liggen in watch and ward,
From sudden force their flocks for to guard.
HOB. Ah! Diggon, thilk same rule were too strait,
All the cold season to watch and wait:
We be of flesh, men as other be,
Why should we be bound to such misery?
Whatever thing lacketh changeable rest,
Must needs decay, when it is at best.
DIG. Ah! but, Hobbinol, all this long tale
Nought easeth the care that doth me forhaile;
What shall I do? what way shall I wend,
My piteous plight and loss to amend?
Ah! good Hobbinol, might I thee pray
Of aid or counsel in my decay?
HOB. Now by my soul, Diggon, I lament
The hapless mischief that has thee hent;
Natheless thou seest my lowly sail,
That froward Fortune doth ever availe:
But, were Hobbinol as God might please,
Diggon should soon find favour and ease:
But if to my cottage thou wilt resort,
So as I can I will thee comfort;
There mayst thou lig in a vetchy bed,
Till fairer Fortune shew forth his head.
DIG. Ah! Hobbinol, God may it thee requite;
Diggon on few such friends did ever light.
DIGGON'S EMBLEME.
Inopem me copia fecit.
(Plenty has made me poor.)
Inopem me copia fecit.
(Plenty has made me poor.)
OCTOBER · AEGLOGA DECIMA
OCTOBER. ÆGLOGA DECIMA. ARGUMENT.
In Cuddie is set out the perfect pattern of a Poet, which, finding no maintenance of his state and studies, complaineth of the contempt of Poetry, and the causes thereof: specially having been in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, always of singular account and honour, and being indeed so worthy and commendable an art; or rather no art, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct not to be gotten by labour and learning, but adorned with both; and poured into the wit by a certain Enthousiasmos and celestial inspiration, as the Author hereof elsewhere at large discourseth in his book called The English Poet, which book being lately come to my hands, I mind also by God's grace, upon further advisement, to publish.
PIERS. CUDDIE.
PIERS.
Cuddie, for shame, hold up thy heavy head,
And let us cast with what delight to chase
And weary this long ling'ring Phœbus' race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards' lads to lead
In rhymes, in riddles, and in bidding base;
Now they in thee, and thou in sleep, art dead.
CUD. Piers, I have piped erst so long with pain,
That all mine oaten reeds be rent and wore,
And my poor Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much less gain.
Such pleasance makes the grasshopper so poor,
And lig so laid, when winter doth her strain.
The dapper ditties, that I wont devise,
To feed youth's fancy, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much; what I the bett forthy?
They have the pleasure, I a slender prise:
I beat the bush, the birds to them do fly:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?
PIERS. Cuddie, the praise is better than the price,
The glory eke much greater than the gain:
O what an honour is it, to restrain
The lust of lawless youth with good advice,
Or prick them forth with pleasance of thy vein,
Whereto thou list their trained wills entice!
Soon as thou 'ginn'st to set thy notes in frame,
O how the rural routs to thee do cleave!
Seemeth thou dost their soul of sense bereave,
All as the shepheard that did fetch his dame
From Pluto's baleful bower withouten leave;
His music's might the hellish hound did tame.
CUD. So praisen babes the peacock's spotted train,
And wondren at bright Argus' blazing eye;
But who rewards him e'er the more forthy,
Or feeds him once the fuller by a grain?
Such praise is smoke, that sheddeth in the sky;
Such words be wind, and wasten soon in vain.
PIERS. Abandon then the base and viler clown;
Lift up thyself out of the lowly dust,
And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts;
Turn thee to those that wield the awful crown,
To doubted knights, whose woundless armour rusts,
And helms unbruised waxen daily brown.
There may thy Muse display her flutt'ring wing,
And stretch herself at large from east to west;
Whither thou list in fair Elisa 16 rest,
Or, if thee please in bigger notes to sing,
Advance the Worthy whom she loveth best,
That first the White Bear to the stake did bring.
And, when the stubborn stroke of stronger stounds
Has somewhat slack'd the tenor of thy string,
Of love and lustihead then mayst thou sing,
And carol loud, and lead the Miller's round,
All were Elisa one of thilk same ring;
So might our Cuddie's name to heaven sound.
CUD. Indeed the Romish Tityrus, I hear,
Through his Mecænas left his oaten reed,
Whereon he erst had taught his flocks to feed,
And laboured lands to yield the timely ear,
And eft did sing of wars and deadly dreed
So as the heavens did quake his verse to hear.
But ah! Mecænas is yclad in clay,
And great Augustus long ago is dead,
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in lead,
That matter made for poets on to play:
For ever, who in derring-do were dread,
The lofty verse of them was loved aye.
But after Virtue gan for age to stoop,
And mighty Manhood brought a bed of ease,
The vaunting poets found nought worth a pease
To put in press among the learned troop;
Then gan the streams of flowing wits to cease,
And sunbright honour penn'd in shameful coop.
And if that any buds of Poesy,
Yet of the old stock, gan to shoot again,
Or it men's follies must to-force to feign,
And roll with rest in rhymes of ribaudry;
Or, as it sprung, it wither must again;
Tom Piper makes us better melody.
PIERS. O peerless Po'sy! where is then thy place?
If nor in princes' palace thou dost sit,
(And yet is princes' palace the most fit,)
Ne breast of baser birth doth thee embrace,
Then make thee wings of thine aspiring wit,
And, whence thou cam'st, fly back to heaven apace.
CUD. Ah! Percy, it is all-to weak and wan,
So high to soar and make so large a flight;
Her pieced pinions be not so in plight:
For Colin fits such famous flight to scan;
He, were he not with love so ill bedight,
Would mount as high and sing as sweet as swan.
PIERS. Ah! fon; for Love does teach him climb so high,
And lifts him up out of the loathsome mire;
Such immortal mirror, as he doth admire,
Would raise one's mind above the starry sky,
And cause a caitiff courage to aspire;
For lofty love doth loathe a lowly eye.
CUD. All otherwise the state of Poet stands;
For lordly Love is such a tyrant fell,
That, where he rules, all power he doth expel;
The vaunted verse a vacant head demands,
Ne wont with crabbed care the Muses dwell:
Unwisely weaves, that takes two webs in hand.
Who ever casts to compass weighty prize,
And thinks to throw out thund'ring words of threat,
Let pour in lavish cups and thrifty bits of meat,
For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phœbus wise;
And, when with wine the brain begins to sweat,
The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.
Thou kenst not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage;
O if my temples were distain'd with wine,
And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine,
How I could rear the Muse on stately stage,
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With quaint Bellona in her equipage!
But ah! my courage cools ere it be warm:
Forthy content us in this humble shade,
Where no such troublous tides have us assay'd;
Here we our slender pipes may safely charm.
PIERS. And, when my goats shall have their bellies laid,
Cuddie shall have a kid to store his farm.
NOVEMBER · AEGLOGA UNDECIMA
NOVEMBER. ÆGLOGA UNDECIMA. ARGUMENT.
In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book.
THENOT. COLIN.
THENOT.
Colin, my dear, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance?
Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing,
Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance.
Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance
Among the shepheards' swains may aye remain,
Whether thee list thy loved lass advance,
Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein.
COL. Thenot, now n'is the time of merrimake,
Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play;
Such mirth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cocked hay.
But now sad winter welked hath the day,
And Phœbus, weary of his yearly task,
Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay,
And taken up his inn in Fishes' 18 hask:
Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask,
And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise:
The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask,
As she was wont in youth and summer-days;
But if thou algate lust light virelays,
And looser songs of love to underfong,
Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise?
Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long.
THE. The nightingale is sovereign of song,
Before him sits the titmouse silent be;
And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng,
Should Colin make judge of my foolery.
Nay, better learn of them that learned be,
And have been watered at the Muses' well;
The kindly dew drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell:
But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill,
Accord not with thy Muse's merriment,
To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment;
For dead is Dido, 19 dead, alas! and drent,
Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheen:
The fairest may she was that ever went,
Her like she has not left behind, I ween:
And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen,
I shall thee give yond cosset for thy pain;
And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been
As those that did thy Rosalind complain,
Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain.
Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt:
Then up, I say, thou jolly shepheard swain,
Let not my small demand be so contempt.
COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt;
But ah! too well I wot my humble vein,
And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt;
Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain.
"Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine,
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore;
Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme!
Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more;
For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore.
Dido, my dear, alas! is dead,
Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead.
O heavy herse!
Let streaming tears be poured out in store;
O careful verse!
"Shepheards, that by your flocks of Kentish downs abide,
Wail ye this woful waste of Nature's wark;
Wail we the wight, whose presence was our pride;
Wail we the wight, whose absence is our cark;
The sun of all the world is dim and dark;
The earth now lacks her wonted light,
And all we dwell in deadly night.
O heavy herse!
Break we our pipes, that shrill'd as loud as lark;
O careful verse!
"Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we so long?)
Whose better days Death hath shut up in woe?
The fairest flower our garland all among
Is faded quite, and into dust ygo.
Sing now, ye shepheards' daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made you in her praise,
But into weeping turn your wanton lays.
O heavy herse!
Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago:
O careful verse!
"Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade,
And lieth buried long in Winter's bale;
Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd,
It flow'reth fresh, as it should never fail?
But thing on earth that is of most avail,
As virtue's branch and beauty's bud,
Reliven not for any good.
O heavy herse!
The branch once dead, the bud eke needs must quail;
O careful verse!
"She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayn!)
For beauty's praise and pleasance had no peer;
So well she couth the shepheards entertain
With cakes and cracknels, and such country cheer:
Ne would she scorn the simple shepheard's swain;
For she would call him often heme,
And give him curds and clouted cream.
O heavy herse!
Als Colin Clout she would not once disdain;
O careful verse!
"But now such happy cheer is turn'd to heavy chance,
Such pleasance now displac'd by dolor's dint;
All music sleeps, where Death doth lead the dance,
And shepheards' wonted solace is extinct.
The blue in black, the green in gray, is tinct;
The gaudy garlands deck her grave,
The faded flowers her corse embrave.
O heavy herse!
Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with tears besprint;
O careful verse!
"O thou great shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy grief?
Where be the nosegays that she dight for thee?
The coloured chaplets wrought with a chief, 20
The knotted rush-rings, and gilt rosemary?
For she deemed nothing too dear for thee.
Ah! they be all yclad in clay;
One bitter blast blew all away.
O heavy herse!
Thereof nought remains but the memory;
O careful verse!
"Ah me! that dreary death should strike so mortal stroke,
That can undo Dame Nature's kindly course;
The faded locks fall from the lofty oak,
The floods do gasp, for dried is their source,
And floods of tears flow in their stead perforce:
The mantled meadows mourn,
Their sundry colours turn.
O heavy herse!
The heavens do melt in tears without remorse;
O careful verse!
"The feeble flocks in field refuse their former food,
And hang their heads as they would learn to weep;
The beasts in forest wail as they were wood,
Except the wolves, that chase the wand'ring sheep,
Now she is gone that safely did them keep:
The turtle on the bared branch
Laments the wound that Death did launch.
O heavy herse!
And Philomele her song with tears doth steep;
O careful verse!
"The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and dance,
And for her garland olive branches bear,
Now baleful boughs of cypress do advance;
The Muses, that were wont green bays to wear,
Now bringen bitter elder branches sere;
The Fatal Sisters eke repent
Her vital thread so soon was spent.
O heavy herse!
Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with heavy cheer;
O careful verse!
"O trustless state of earthly things, and slipper hope
Of mortal men, that swink and sweat for nought,
And, shooting wide, doth miss the marked scope;
Now have I learn'd (a lesson dearly bought)
That n'is on earth assurance to be sought;
For what might be in earthly mould,
That did her buried body hold?
O heavy herse!
Yet saw I on the bier when it was brought;
O careful verse!
"But maugre Death, and dreaded Sisters' deadly spite,
And gates of hell, and fiery Furies' force,
She hath the bonds broke of eternal night,
Her soul unbodied of the burdenous corse.
Why then weeps Lobbin so without remorse?
O Lobb! thy loss no longer lament;
Dido is dead, but into heaven hent.
O happy herse!
Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source,
O joyful verse!
"Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with plaints,
As if some evil were to her betight?
She reigns a goddess now among the saints,
That whilome was the saint of shepheards light,
And is installed now in heavens' height,
I see thee, blessed soul! I see
Walk in Elysian fields so free.
O happy herse!
Might I once come to thee, (O that I might!)
O joyful verse!
"Unwise and wretched men, to weet what's good or ill,
We deem of death as doom of ill desert;
But knew we, fools, what it us brings until,
Die would we daily, once it to expert!
No danger there the shepheard can assert;
air fields and pleasant lays there bene;
The fields aye fresh, the grass aye green.
O happy herse!
Make haste, ye shepheards, thither to revert.
O joyful verse!
"Dido is gone afore; (whose turn shall be the next?)
There lives she with the blessed gods in bliss,
There drinks she nectar with ambrosia mixt,
And joys enjoys that mortal men do miss.
The honour now of highest gods she is,
That whilome was poor shepheards' pride,
While here on earth she did abide.
O happy herse!
Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is;
O joyful verse!"
THE. Ay, frank shepheard, how be thy verses meint
With doleful pleasance, so as I ne wot
Whether rejoice or weep for great constraint!
Thine be the cosset, well hast thou it got.
Up, Colin, up, enough thou mourned hast;
Now 'gins to mizzle, his we homeward fast.
COLIN'S EMBLEME.
La mort ny mord.
(Death has lost its sting.)
La mort ny mord.
(Death has lost its sting.)