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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 lowely gate amongst the meaner sort------
The better please, the worse displease; I aske no more.
SHEP. CAL. DEC.
PRINTED FOR J. BELL, BOOKSELLER TO HIS
THE PRINCE OF WALES
CONTAINING TWELVE ÆGLOGUES, PROPORTIONABLE-TO THE TWELYE MONTHS. Butituled 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,
As child whose parent is unkent,
To him that is the President
Of Noblenesse and Chivalrie:
And if that Envy bark at thee,
As sure it will, for succour flee
Under the shadow of his wing.
And, asked who thee forth did bring!
A shepeheard's swain say did thee sing,
All as his straying flocke he fedde:
And when liis Honor hath thee redde,
Crave pardon for thy hardy-head.
But if that any ask thy name,
Say thou wert base begot with blame,
Forthy there of thou takest shame.
And when thou art past jeopardie,
Come tell me what was said of mee,
And I will send more after thee.
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.
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 :
So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold, 5
That now uneathes their feet could them uphold.
All as the sheep, such was the shepherd's look,
For pale and wan he was, (alas the while !)
May seem he lov’d, or else some care he took;
Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his stile : 10
Tho to a hill his fainting flock he led,
And thus he plain’d, the while his sheep there fed :
“ Ye Gods of love ! that pity lovers pain (If any gods the pain of lovers pity), Look from above, where you in joys remain, 15 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 provę.
Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath
wasted, Art made a mirror to behold my plight; Whylom thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hasted Thy summer proud, with daffadillies dight, And now is come thy winter's stormy state, Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late,
Such rage as winter reigneth in my heart, 25
My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;
Such stormy stours do breed my balefull smart,
As if my years were waste and woxen old ;
And yet, alas ! but now my spring begun,
And yet, alas ! it is already done.
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 ;
The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,
With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted ; 40
And from mine eyes the drizling tears descend,
As on your boughs the isicles depend.
Thou feeble Flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,
Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,
Maist witness well, by thy ill government,
Thy master's mind is overcome with care :
Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn :
With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.
A thousand sithes I curse that careful hour
Wherein I long the neighbour town to see, 50
And eke ten thousand sithes I bless the stour
Wherein I saw so fair a sight as she :
Yet all for naught : such sight hath bred my bane.
Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain !