Loe! I have made a Calendar for every yeere, That steele in strength, and time in durance, shall out-weare; And if I marked well the starres revolution, It shall continue till the World's dissolution---- Goe, little Calendar! thou hast a free passport; Goe, but a lovely gate amongst the meaner sort------ SHEP. CAL. DEC. LONDON: PRINTED FOR J. BELL, BOOKSELLER TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES 1788. CONTAINING TWELVE ÆGLOGUES, PROPORTIONABLE TO THE TWELVE MONTHS. Entituled to the noble and vertuous Gentleman, most worthy of all titles both of learning and chivalry, MASTER PHILIP SIDNEY. TO HIS BOOK. Goe, little Booke! thy self present, JANUARY. GLOGA PRIMA. The Argument. IMMERITO. THIS Aeglogue is a soliloque of Colin Clout, by which name the Poet means himself; complaining of his unprosperous love of Rosalind; and comparing his condition to that of his wretched weather-beaten flock, and to the rigorous season of the year. COLIN CLOUT. A SHEPHERD's boy (no better do him call), When winter's wastefull spight was almost spent, All in a sunshine-day, as did befall, Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent: That now uneathes their feet could them uphold. All as the sheep, such was the shepherd's look, And thus he plain'd, the while his sheep there fed : 5 10 15 "Ye Gods of love! that pity lovers pain (If any gods the pain of lovers pity), Look from above, where you in joys remain, And bow your ears unto my dolefull ditty. And, Pan! thou shepherd's god, that once did love, Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove. Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted, Art made a mirror to behold my plight; 20 Whylom thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hasted Such rage as winter reigneth in my heart, 25 And yet, alas! but now my spring begun, 30 You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost, Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower, And now are cloath'd with moss and hoary frost, Instead of blosms, wherewith your buds did flower, I see your tears that from your boughs do rain, 35 Whose drops in drery isicles remain. Also my lustfull leafe is dry and sear, My timely buds with wailing all are wasted ; 45 Thou feeble Flock! whose fleece is rough and rent, A thousand sithes I curse that careful hour 50 Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane. Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain! |