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 he tune his pipe and frame his stile:
Tho to a hill his faynting flocke he ledde,
And thus him playnd, the while his shepe there fedde.
"Ye gods of love, that pitie lovers payne
(If any gods the paine of lovers pitie),
Looke from above, where you in joyes remaine,
And bow your eares unto my dolefull dittie;
And Pan, thou shepheard's 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 myrrhow 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.
"Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart,
My life-bloud friesing with unkindly cold;
Such stormy stoures do breede my bale full smart
As if my yeare were waste and woxen old:
And yet, alas, but now my spring begonne,
And yet, alas, yt is already donne!
"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,
Instede 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;
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:
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.
Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake,
And laughes the songes 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;
Both pype and Muse shall sore the while abye."
So broke his oaten pype, and downe did lye.
By that, the welkèd Phoebus gan availe
His weary 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 sonnèd sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull case to weepe.
AN HYMNE IN HONOUR OF BEAUTIE
What time this worlds great Workmaister did cast
To make al things such as we now behold,
It seems that He before His eyes had plast
A goodly paterne, to whose perfect mould
He fashiond them as comely as He could,
That now so faire and seemely they appeare
As nought may be amended any wheare.
That wondrous paterne, wheresoere it bee,
Whether in earth layd up in secret store,
Or else in heaven, that no man may it see
With sinful eyes, for feare it to deflore,
Is perfect Beautie, which all men adore;
Whose face and feature doth so much excell
All mortall sence, that none the same may tell.
Thereof as every earthly thing partakes
Or more or lesse by influence divine,
So it more faire accordingly it makes,
And the grosse matter of this earthly myne
Which clotheth it, thereafter doth refyne,
Doing away the drosse which dims the light
Of that faire beame which therein is empight.
For through infusion of celestiall powre
The duller earth it quickneth with delight,
And life-full spirits privily doth powre
Through all the parts, that to the lookers sight
They seeme to please. That is thy soveraine might,
O Cyprian Queene, which, flowing from the beame
Of thy bright starre, thou into them doest streame.
That is the thing which giveth pleasant grace
To all things faire, that kindleth lively fyre,
Light of thy lampe, which, shyning in the face,
Thence to the soule darts amorous desyre,
And robs the harts of those which it admyre;
Therewith thou pointest thy sons poysned arrow,
That wounds the life and wastes the inmost marrow.
How vainely then doe ydle wits invent
That Beautie is nought else but mixture made
Of colours faire, and goodly temp'rament
Of pure complexions, that shall quickly fade
And passe away, like to a sommers shade;
Or that it is but comely composition
Of parts well measurd, with meet disposition!
Hath white and red in it such wondrous powre
That it can pierce through th' eyes unto the hart,
And therein stirre such rage and restlesse stowre
As nought but death can stint his dolours smart?
Or can proportion of the outward part
Move such affection in the inward mynd,
That it can rob both sense, and reason blynd?
Why doe not then the blossomes of the field,
Which are arrayd with much more orient hew,
And to the sense most daintie odours yield,
Worke like impression in the lookers vew?
Or why doe not faire pictures like powre shew,
In which oftimes we Nature see of Art
Exceld in perfect limming every part?
But, ah, beleeve me there is more then so
That workes such wonders in the minds of men;
I, that have often proved, too well it know,
And whoso list the like assayes to ken
Shall find by tryall and confesse it then,
That Beautie is not, as fond men misdeeme,
An outward shew of things that onely seeme.
For that same goodly hew of white and red,
With which the cheekes are sprinckled, shal decay,
And those sweete rosy leaves, so fairely spred
Upon the lips, shall fade and fall away
To that they were, even to corrupted clay;
That golden wyre, those sparckling stars so bright,
Shall turne to dust, and loose their goodly light.
But that faire lampe, from whose celestiall ray
That light proceedes which kindleth lovers fire,
Shall never be extinguisht nor decay,
But when the vitall spirits doe expyre,
Unto her native planet shall retyre;
For it is heavenly borne and can not die,
Being a parcell of the purest skie.
For when the soule, the which derived was,
At first, out of that great immortall Spright
By Whom all live to love, whilome did pas
Downe from the top of purest heavens hight
To be embodied here, it then tooke light
And lively spirits from that fayrest starre
Which lights the world forth from his firie carre.
Which powre retayning still or more or lesse,
When she in fleshly seede is eft enraced,
Through every part she doth the same impresse,
According as the heavens have her graced,
And frames her house in which she will be placed,
Fit for her selfe, adorning it with spoyle
Of th' heavenly riches which she robd erewhyle.
Thereof it comes that these faire soules, which have
The most resemblance of that heavenly light,
Frame to themselves most beautifull and brave
Their fleshly bowre, most fit for their delight,
And the grosse matter by a soveraine might
Tempers so trim that it may well be seene
A pallace fit for such a virgin queene.
So every spirit, as it is most pure
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer bodie doth procure
To habit in, and it more fairely dight
With chearefull grace and amiable sight:
For of the soule the bodie forme doth take;
For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
About 1579?
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