In this first Æglogue Colin cloute, a shepheardes boy, complaineth him of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde : with which strong affection being very sore traveled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winterbeaten flocke. And lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground.

COLIN CLOUT.

SHEPEHEARDS boye,(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:
So faint they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now unnethes their feete could them uphold.

All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!)
May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke;
Well couth hee tune his pipe and frame his stile: 10
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke hee ledde,

And thus him playnde, the while his shepe there fedde.

"Yee Gods of love, that pitie lovers paine, (If any gods the paine of lovers pitie,) Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine, And bowe 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 barrein ground, whome winters wrath hath wasted,

Art made a myrrhour to behold my plight: Whilome thy fresh spring flowrd, and after hasted Thy sommer prowde, with Daffadillies dight;

And now is come thy wynters stormy state,
Thy mantle mard wherein thou mas-kedst late.
"Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart,
My life bloud friesing with unkindly cold;
Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smart,
As if my yeare were wast and woxen old;

And yet, alas! but now my spring begonne,
And yet, alas! yt is already donne.

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"You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre,
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,
In stede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre;
I see your teares that from your boughes doe raine,
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.

"All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted;
The blossome which my braunch of youth did beare
With breathed sighes is blowne away and blasted; 40
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,
Mayst witnesse well, by thy ill governement,
Thy maysters 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 hower Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see, And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee:

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Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane. Ah, God! that love should breede both joy and payne! "It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine,

Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit;
His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine,
His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gyfts bene vayne;
Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.

"I love thilke lasse, (alas! why doe I love?)
And am forlorne, (alas! why am I lorne ?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove,
And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.

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Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake,
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, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease
My musing mynd, yet canst not when thou should; 70
Both руре and Muse shall sore the while abye."--
So broke his oaten pype, and down dyd lye.

By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe
His wearie waine; and nowe the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heaven gan overhaile :
Which seene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight,
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case
to weepe.

FEBRUARIE.

EGLOGA SECUNDA.

ARGUMENT.

THIS Æglogue is rather morall and generall, then bent to anie secrete or particular purpose. It speciallie conteyneth a discourse of old age, in the persone of Thenot, an olde Shepheard, who for his crookednesse and unlustinesse is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy Heardmans boye. The matter very well accordeth with the season of the moneth, the yeare now drouping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of yeare, so then in our bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the crudled blood, and frieseth the wetherbeaten flesh with stormes of Fortune, and hoare frosts of Care. To which purpose the olde man telleth a tale of the Oake and the Bryer, so lively, and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some Picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appeare.

CUDDIE. THENOT.

Cuddie.

H for pittie! will rancke Winters rage
These bitter blasts never ginne t'asswage?
The kene cold blowes through my beaten
hyde,

All as I were through the body gryde:
My ragged rontes all shiver and shake,
As doen high Towers in an earthquake:

They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tayles,
Perke as a Peacock; but nowe it avales.

The. Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde,
Of Winters wracke for making thee sadde.
Must not the worlde wend in his commun course,
From good to badd, and from badde to worse,
From worse unto that is worst of all,

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yeares,

And then returne to his former fall?
Who will not suffer the stormy time,
Where will he live tyll the lusty prime?
Selfe have I worne out thrise threttie
Some in much joy, many in many teares,
Yet never complained of cold nor heate,
Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat,
Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,
But gently tooke that ungently came;
And ever my flocke was my chiefe care,
Winter or Sommer they mought well fare.
Cud. No marveile, Thenot, if thou can beare
Cherefully the Winters wrathfull cheare;
For Age and Winter accord full nie,
This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wrye;
And as the lowring Wether lookes downe,
So semest thou like good fryday to frowne:

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But my flowring youth is foe to frost,

My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost.

The. The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine, That, once sea-beate, will to sea againe : So loytring live you little heardgroomes, Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes; And, when the shining sunne laugheth once, You deemen the Spring is come attonce; Tho gynne you, fond flies! the cold to scorne, And, crowing in pypes made of greene corne, You thinken to be Lords of the yeare; But eft, when ye count you freed from feare, Comes the breme Winter with chamfred browes, Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes,

Drerily shooting his stormy darte,

Which cruddles the bloud and pricks the harte:
Then is your carelesse corage accoied,

Your carefull heards with cold bene annoied:
Then paye you the price of your surquedrie,
With weeping, and wayling, and misery.

Cud. Ah, foolish old man! I scorne thy skill,

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