THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER.
JANUARIE.
AEGLOGA PRIMA.
ARGUMENT.
In this first Aeglogue Colin Clout, a shepheards boy, complaineth himselfe of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as seemeth) enamoured of a country lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being verie sore travelled, he compareth his careful case to the sad season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastly, finding himselfe robbed of all former pleasance and delight, be breaketh his pipe in peaces, and casteth himself to the ground.
COLIN CLOUT.
A shepheards boy (no better doe him call,)
When winters wastful spight was almost spent,
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent:
That now unnethes their feete could them uphold.
All as the sheepe, such was the shepheards looke,
For pale and wanne be was, (alas the while!)
May seeme be lovd, or else some care hee tooke;
Tho to a hill his fainting flocke hee ledde,
And thus him playnde, the while his sheepe there fedde:
“Yee gods of love! that pitie lovers paine,
(If any gods the paine of lovers pitie,)
And bow your eares unto my dolefull dittie.
And, Pan! thou shepheards god, that once didst love,
Pitie the paines that thou thy selfe didst prove.
“Thou barraine ground, whom winters wrath hath wasted,
Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted
Thy sommer prowde, with diffadillies dight;
And now is come thy winters stormie state,
Thy mantle mard wherein thou maskedst late.
My life-bloud freesing with unkindly cold;
Such stormie stoures do breede my balefull smart,
As if my yeare were wast and woxen old;
And yet, alas! but now my spring begonne,
“You naked trees, whose shadie leaves are lost,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their bowre,
And now are clothd with mosse and hoarie frost,
In steede of blosomes, wherewith your buds did flowre;
Whose drops in drerie ysicles remaine.
“All so my lustfull leafe is drie and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted;
The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare,
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,
As on your boughes the ysicles depend.
“Thou feeble flocke! whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weake through fast and evill fare,
Thy maisters mind is overcome with care:
Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite forlorne:
With mourning pyne I; you with pyning mourne.
“A thousand sithes I curse that carefull houre
And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure
Wherein I sawe so faire a sight as shee:
Yet all for naught: such sight bath bred my bane.
Ah, God! that love should breed both ioy and paine!
Albee my love hee seeke with dayly suit;
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy giftes bene vaine;
“I love thilke lasse, (alas! why doe I love?)
And am forlorne, (alas! why am I lorne?)
She deignes not my good will, but doth reprove,
And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.
And laughes the songs that Colin Clout doth make.
“Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou please,
Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;
And thou, unluckie muse, that wontst to ease
Both pype and muse shall sore the while abye.”—
So broke his oaten pype, and down did lye.
By that, the welked Phœbus gan availe
His wearie waine; and now the frostie night
Which seene, the pensive boy, halfe in despight,
Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheepe,
COLINS EMBLEME.
Anchora speme.
