And if that any buds of Poesy,
Yet of the old stock, gan to shoot again,

Or it men's follies must to-force1 to feign,
And roll with rest in rhymes of ribaudry;2
Or, as it sprung, it wither must again;
Tom Piper makes us better melody.

73

PIERS. O peerless Po'sy! where is then thy place? If nor in princes' palace thou dost sit,

(And yet is princes' palace the most fit,)

Ne breast of baser birth doth thee embrace,

Then make thee wings of thine aspiring wit,

80

And, whence thou cam'st, fly back to heaven apace.

CUD. Ah! Percy, it is all-to3 weak and wan,
So high to soar and make so large a flight;
Her pieced pinions be not so in plight:
For Colin fits such famous flight to scan;
He, were he not with love so ill bedight,5
Would mount as high and sing as sweet as swan. 90

1 Perforce.

2 Ribaldry.

3 Entirely.

4 Imperfect.

5 Affected.

PIERS. Ah! fon; for Love does teach him climb Fool. so high,

And lifts him up out of the loathsome mire;

Such immortal mirror, as he doth admire,
Would raise one's mind above the starry sky,
And cause a caitiff courage to aspire;
For lofty love doth loathe a lowly eye.

CUD. All otherwise the state of Poet stands;
For lordly Love is such a tyrant fell,
That, where he rules, all power he doth expel;
The vaunted verse a vacant head demands,
Ne wont with crabbed Care the Muses dwell:
Unwisely weaves, that takes two webs in hand.

100

7 Mind.

103

Who ever casts to compass weighty prize,
And thinks to throw out thund'ring words of threat,
Let pour in lavish cups and thrifty bits of meat,
For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise;
And, when with wine the brain begins to sweat,
The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.

110

1 Knowest. Thou kenst1 not, Percie, how the rhyme should rage;
O if my temples were distain'd with wine,
And girt in garlands of wild ivy twine,
How I could rear the Muse on stately stage,
And teach her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With quaint2 Bellona in her equipage!

2

Strange.

3 Therefore.

But ah! my courage cools ere it be warm: Forthy content us in this humble shade, Where no such troublous tides have us assay'd; Temper, Here we our slender pipes may safely charm.4 PIERS. And, when my goats shall have their

tune.

bellies laid,

Cuddie shall have a kid to store his farm.

CUDDIE'S EMBLEM.*

Agitante calescimus illo, &c.

120

* This emblem is portion of a Latin verse, expressing the thought of the pastoral, that poetry is a fervid glow of inspiration which animates and kindles.

NOVEMBER.

EGLOGA UNDECIMA.

ARGUMENT.

In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book.

COLIN, my dear, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance?1
Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing,
Lulléd asleep through Love's misgovernance.
Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance2
Among the shepherds' swains may aye remain,
Whether thee list thy loved lass advance,
Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein.

COL. Thenot, now n'is3 the time of merrimake,
Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play;
Such mirth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cockéd hay.
But now sad winter welked5 hath the day,
And Phoebus, weary of his yearly task,
Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay,
And taken up his inn in Fishes'* hask:7
Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask,
And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise:
The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask,
As she was wont in youth and summer-days;
But if thou algate lust 10 light virelays,"
And looser songs of love to underfong,12

* Fishes: the sun enters the constellation Pisces in November.

1 It be

comes.

• Bright.

+ Maid.

Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise?
Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long.

THE. The nightingale is sovéreign of song,
Before him sits1 the titmouse silent be;
And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng,
Should Colin make judge of my foolery.
Nay, better learn of them that learned be,
And have been water'd at the Muses' well;
The kindly dew drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell:
But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill,
Accord not with thy Muse's merriment,

To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment;
2Drowned, For dead is Dido,* dead, alas! and drent,2
perished. Dido! the great shepherd his daughter sheen :3
The fairest may she was that ever went,
Her like she has not left behind, I ween:
Sorrow. And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen,5
Yonder. I shall thee give yond cosset7 for thy pain;
And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been
As those that did thy Rosalind complain,
Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain,
• Mention- Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt:
Then up, I say, thou jolly shepherd swain,
Let not my small demand be so contempt.9

7 Lamb.

ed.

" Contemned.

10 Unpolished.

11 Exert my

skill, or talent.

23

30

40

50

COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt;
But ah! too well I wot my humble vein,
And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt;10
Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain."

Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine,
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore;

*Dido' and 'great shepherd' both refer to real persons unknown.

Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme!
Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more;
For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore.
Dido, my dear, alas! is dead,

Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead.

O heavy herse!1

Let streaming tears be poured out in store;
O careful verse!

'Shepherds, that by your flocks of Kentish downs
abide,

Wail ye this woful waste of Nature's wark;

Wail we the wight, whose presence was our pride;
Wail we the wight, whose absence is our cark;
The sun of all the world is dim and dark;

The earth now lacks her wonted light,
And all we dwell in deadly night.

O heavy herse!

Break we our pipes, that shrill'd as loud as lark;
O careful verse!

55

601 Rehear

70

'Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we so long?)
Whose better days Death hath shut up in woe?
The fairest flower our garland all among
Is faded quite, and into dust ygo.3

Sing now, ye shepherds' daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made you in her praise;
But into weeping turn your wanton lays.

O heavy herse!

Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago:

O careful verse!

80

'Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade, And lieth buried long in Winter's bale;1

Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd,

sal, tale.

2 Sorrow.

• Gone.

• Grief.