And gates of hell, and fyrie furies force, She hath the bonds broke of eternall night, Why then weepes Lobbin so without remorse? Dido is dead, but into heaven hent. O happie herse! Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrowes sourse, O joyful verse! 66 165 Why waile we then? why wearie we the gods with As if some evill were to her betight? She raignes a goddesse now emong the Saintes, That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light, I see thee, blessed soule! I see Walk in Elisian fieldes so free. O happie herse! Might I once come to thee, (O that I might !) [plaintes, "Unwise and wretched men, to weete what's good or ill, Wee deeme of Death as doome of ill desert; But knewe wee, Fooles, what it us bringes untill, No daunger there the shepheard can assert; Make haste, yee shepheards, thether to revert. "Dido is gone afore; (whose turne shall be the next?) That whilome was poore shepheards pride, O happie herse! Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is; O joyfull verse!" 201 THE. Ay, franck shepheard, how bene thy verses meint With dolefull pleasaunce, so as I ne wotte Whether rejoyce or weepe for great constraint! COLINS EMBLEME. La mort ny mord. DECEMBER. AEGLOGA DUODECIMA. ARGUMENT. THIS Aeglogue (even as the first began) is ended with a complaint of Colin to God Pan; wherein, as wearie of his former waies, hee proportioneth his life to the foure seasons of the yeare; comparing his youth to the Spring time, when hee was fresh and free from loves follie. His manhood to the Sommer, which, he saith, was consumed with great heate and excessive drouth, caused through a Comet or blazing Starre, by which hee meaneth love; which passion is commonly compared to such flames and immoderate heate. His ripest yeares he resembleth to an unseasonable harvest, wherein the fruits fall ere they be ripe. His latter age to Winters chill and frostie season, now drawing neere to his last ende. THE gentle shepheard sat beside a springe, That Colin hight, which well coulde pype and singe, There, as he satte in secret shade alone, Thus gan hee make of love his piteous mone. "O soveraigne Pan! thou God of shepheardes all, And, when our flockes into mischaunce mought fall, Als of their maisters hast no lesse regard Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward; "I thee beseeche (so be thou deigne to hear Rude ditties, tunde to shepheardes Oaten reede, Or if I ever Sonet song so cleare, As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feede,) Hearken a while, from thy greene Cabinet, "Whilome in youth, when flowrd my joyfull spring, "I wont to raunge amid the mazie thicket, "And for I was in thilke same looser yeeres, "Fro thence I durst in derring to compare "But, ah! such pride at length was ill repayde, 17 My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill upbraide, Love they him called that gave me check-mate, "Tho gan my lovely spring bid me farewell, "Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore, "Where I was wont to seeke the honie Bee, And, where the chaunting birds luld me asleepe, "Then as the spring gives place to elder Time, And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame, "To make fine cages for the Nightingale, 51 |