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N this fyrst Eglogue Colin cloute a shepIN heardes boy complaineth him of his vnfortunate loue, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traueled, 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.


All as the Sheepe, such was the shepeheards looke,

May seeme he lovd, or els some care he tooke: For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while,) Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile. Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde, II And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there


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A Shepherds boye (no better doe him call) Thou barrein ground, whome winters wrath

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 faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now vnnethes their feete could them

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 maskedst late.

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

Ah God, that loue should breede both ioy and


It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue 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 giues to Rosalind againe. to

I loue thilke lasse, (alas why doe I loue ?)
And am forlorne, (alas why am I lorne ?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth

And of my rurall musick holdeth scorne.
Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake,
And laughes the songes, that Colin Clout doth

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to weepe.

Colins Embleme. Anchora speme.

singular good freend, M. Gabriel Haruey: as also of some other his most graue and excellent wrytings. Sythe) time. Neighbour towne) the next towne : expressing the Latine Vicina. Stoure) a fitt. Sere) withered. His clownish gyfts) imitateth Virgils verse, Rusticus es Corydon, nec munera curat Alexis. Hobbinol) is a faíned country name, whereby, it being so commune and vsuall, seemeth to be hidden the person of some his very speciall and most familiar freend, whom he entirely and extraordinarily beloued, as peraduenture shall be more largely declared hereafter. In thys place seemeth to be some sauour of disorderly loue, which the learned call pæderastice: but it is

gathered beside his meaning. For who that hath red Plato his dialogue called Alcybiades, Xenophon and Maximus Tyrius of Socrates opinions, may easily perceiue, that such loue is muche to be alowed and liked of, specially so meant, as Socrates vsed it: who sayth, that in deede he loued Alcybiades extremely, yet not Alcybiades person, but hys soule, which is Alcybiades owne selfe. And so is pæderastice much to be præferred before gynerastice, that is the loue whiche enflameth men with lust toward woman kind. But yet let no man thinke, that herein I stand with Lucian or hys deuelish disciple Vnico Aretino, in defence of execrable and horrible sinnes of forbidden and vnlawful fleshlinesse. Whose abominable errour is fully confuted of Perionius, and others.

I loue) a prety Epanorthosis in these two verses, and withall a Paronomasia or playing with the word, where he sayth (1 loue thilke lasse (alas &c. Rosalinde) is also a feigned name, which being wel ordered, wil bewray the very name of hys

loue and mistresse, whom by that name he coloureth. So as Ouide shadoweth hys loue vnder the name of Corynna, which of some is supposed to be Iulia, themperor Augustus his daughter, and wyfe to Agryppa. So doth Aruntius Stella euery where call his Lady Asteris and Ianthis, albe it is wel knowen that her right name was Violantilla: as witnesseth Statius in his Epithalamium. And so the famous Paragone of Italy, Madonna Coelia in her letters eñuelopeth her selfe vnder the name of Zima: and Petrona vnder the name of Bellochia. And this generally hath bene a common_custome of counterfeicting the names of secret Personages. Auail) bring downe.

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H for pittie, wil rancke Winters rage, These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? 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 tailes, Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales. THENOT.

Lewdly complainest thou laesie ladde, Of Winters wracke, for making thee sadde. 10 Must not the world wend in his commun course From good to badd, and from badde to worse, From worse vnto that is worst of all, And then returne to his former fall? Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he liue tyll the lusty prime? Selfe haue I worne out thrise threttie yeares, Some in much ioy, many in many teares : Yet neuer complained of cold nor heate, Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat: 20 Ne euer was to Fortune foeman, But gently tooke, that vngently came. And euer my flocke was my chiefe care, Winter or Sommer they mought well fare. CVDDIE.

No marueile 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. 30 But my flowring youth is foe to frost, My shippe vnwont in stormes to be tost. THENOT.


The soueraigne of seas he blames in vaine, That once seabeate, will to sea againe. So loytring liue 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 flyes, 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 blood, 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.



Ah foolish old man, I scorne thy skill, That wouldest me, my springing youngth to spil. I deeme, thy braine emperished bee Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee: Or sicker thy head veray tottie is,


So on thy corbe shoulder it leanes amisse.
Now thy selfe hast lost both lopp and topp,
Als my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp:
But were thy yeares greene, as now bene myne,
To other delights they would encline.
Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of Loue,
And hery with hymnes thy lasses gloue.
Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse:
But Phyllis is myne for many dayes:
I wonne her with a gyrdle of gelt,
Embost with buegle about the belt.
Such an one shepeheards woulde make fullfaine:
Such an one would make thee younge againe.

Thou art a fon, of thy loue to boste,
All that is lent to loue, wyll be lost.




Seest, howe brag yond Bullocke beares, So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares His hornes bene as broade, as Rainebowe bent, His dewelap as lythe, as lasse of Kent. See howe he venteth into the wynd. Weenest of loue is not his mynd? Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can, So lustlesse bene they, so weake so wan, Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost. Thy flocks father his corage hath lost: Thy Ewes, that wont to haue blowen bags, Like wailefull widdowes hangen their crags: The rather Lambes bene starued with cold, All for their Maister is lustlesse and old.



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Many meete tales of youth did he make, And some of loue, and some of cheualrie: But none fitter then this to applie. Now listen a while, and hearken the end.

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Here grewe an aged Tree on the greene, A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, With armes full strong and largely displayd, But of their leaues they were disarayde: The bodie bigge, and mightely pight, Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight: Whilome had bene the King of the field, And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine. But now the gray mosse marred his rine, His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honor decayed, his braunches sere.


Hard by his side grewe a bragging brere,
Which proudly thrust into Thelement,
And seemed to threat the Firmament.
Yt was embellisht with blossomes fayre,
And thereto aye wonned to repayre
The shepheards daughters, to gather flowres,
To peinct their girlonds with his colowres. 121

And in his small bushes vsed to shrowde
The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde:
Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold,
That on a time he cast him to scold,
And snebbe the good Oake, for he was old.
Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish


Nor for fruict, nor for shadowe serues thy stocke:
Seest, how fresh my flowers bene spredde,
Dyed in Lilly white, and Cremsin redde,
With Leaues engrained in lusty greene,
Colours meete to clothe a mayden Queene.
Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd,
And dirks the beauty of my blossomes rownd.
The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth,
My Sinamon smell too much annoieth.
Wherefore soone I rede thee, hence remoue,
Least thou the price of my displeasure proue.
So spake this bold brere with great disdaine :
Little him answered the Oake againe,
But yielded, with shame and greefe adawed,
That of a weede he was ouercrawed.

Yt chaunced after vpon a day,
The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way,
Of custome for to seruewe his grownd,
And his trees of state in compasse rownd.
Him when the spitefull brere had espyed,
Causlesse complained, and lowdly cryed
Vnto his Lord, stirring vp sterne strife:
O my liege Lord, the God of my life,



Pleaseth you ponder your Suppliants plaint,
Caused of wrong, and cruell constraint,
Which I your poore Vassall dayly endure:
And but your goodnes the same recure,
Am like for desperate doole to dye,
Through felonous force of mine enemie.

Greatly aghast with this piteous plea, Him rested the goodman on the lea, And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede. With painted words tho gan this proude weede, (As most vsen Ambitious folke :) 161

His colowred crime with craft to cloke.

Ah my soueraigne, Lord of creatures all,
Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,
Was not I planted of thine owne hand,
To be the primrose of all thy land,
With flowring blossomes, to furnish the prime,
And scarlot berries in Sommer time?
How falls it then, that this faded Oake,
Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke,
Whose naked Armes stretch vnto the fyre, 171
Vnto such tyrannie doth aspire:

Hindering with his shade my louely light,
And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight?
So beate his old boughes my tender side,
That oft the bloud springeth from woundes wyde:
Vntimely my flowres forced to fall,
That bene the honor of your Coronall.
And oft he let his cancker wormes light
Vpon my braunches, to worke me more spight:
And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast, 181
Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast.
For this, and many more such outrage,
Crauing your goodlihead to aswage
The ranckorous rigour of his might,
Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right:
Submitting me to your good sufferance,
And praying to be garded from greeuance.
To this the Oake cast him to replie
Well as he couth: but his enemie
Had kindled such coles of displeasure,
That the good man noulde stay his leasure,
But home him hasted with furious heate,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threate.
His harmefull Hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas, that it so ready should star.d)
And to the field alone he speedeth.
(Ay little helpe to harme there needeth)
Anger nould let him speake to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee:
But to the roote bent his sturdy stroke,
And made many wounds in the wast Oake
The Axes edge did oft turne againe,
As halfe vnwilling to cutte the graine:
Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare.



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