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All as the sheepe, such was the shepheards looke, For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while !)
May seem he lov'd, or else some care he tooke: Well couth he tune hispipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his fainting flock he led, 11
And thus him plainde, the while his sheepe there fed.
Vee gods of loue, that pittie louers paine,
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, 15
And Pan, thou shepheards god, that once did loue,
Pittie the paines that thou thyselfe didst proue.
Thou barren ground whom Winters wrath hath wasted,
Art made a mirrour, to behold my plight: 20 Whilom thy fresh Spring flowr'd, and after hasted
Thy Sommer proude, with daffadillies dight; And now is come thy Winters stormie state, Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedst late.
Such rage as Winters raigneth in my heart, 25 - My life-blood freezing, with vnkindly cold: Such stormie stoures doe breed my balefull smart,
As if my yeeres were waste, and woxen old. And yet, alas, but now my spring begonne, And yet, alas, it is already donne. 3<*
You naked trees, whose shadie leaues are lost, Wherein the birds were wont to build their bowre,
And now are cloath'd with mosse and hoarie frost. In stead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flowre,
I fee your teares, that from your boughs doe raine,
Whose drops in drerie ysicles remaine. 36
Also my lustfull lease is dry and scare,
My timely buds with wailing all are wasted:
The blossom which my branch of youth did beare, With breathed sighs is blowne away, and blasted.
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, 41
As on your boughs the ysicles depend.
Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, Whose knees are weake, through fast, and euill fare,
Maist witnesse well by thy ill gouernment, 45
Thy maisters mind is ouercome with care.
Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite forlorne;
With mourning pine I, you with pining mourne.
A thousand sithes I curse that carefull houre,
And eke ten thousand sithes I blesse the stoure.
Yet all for nought: such sight hath bred my bane:
Ah God, that loue should breed both ioy and paine!
It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine, 55
Albee my loue he seeke with daily suit:
His clownish gifts and curtesies I disdaine,
Ah, foolish Hobbinol, thy gifts been vaine:
Colin them gives to Rosalinde againe. 60
I loue thilke lasse, (alas, why doe I loue ?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprooue,
Shepheards deuise she hateth as the snake, 65
And laughes the songs that Colin Clout does make.
Wherefore my pipe, albee rude Pan thou please,
And thou vnluckie Muse, that woontst to ease
Both pipe and Muse, shall sore the while abie: 71
So broke his oaten pipe, and downe did lie.
By that the welked Phœbus gan auaile
His wearie waine, and now the frostie Night
Her mantle blacke through heauen gan overhaile; Which seene, the pensiue boy halfe in despight
Arose, and homeward droue his sunned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weepe.
BY THE SAME.
One day I wrote her name vpon the strand.
But came the waues and washed it away: Againe, I wrote it with a second hand,
But came the tyde, and made my paines his pray. Vaine man, said she, that doost in vaine assay, J
A mortal thing so to immortalize, For I myselfe shall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise. Not so, quoth I, let baser things deuise
To die in dust, but you shall liue by fame: 10 My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,
And in the heauens write your glorious name. Where, when as death shall all the world subdew, Our loue shall liue, and later life renew.
BY MICHAEL DRAYT0N, ESQ^*
W Hat time the weary weather-beaten sheep,
And the poor herds that lately did them keep
The groves of their late summer pride forlorn, 5
In mossy mantles sadly seem'd to mourn.
That silent time, about the upper world,
tAnd down again the steep Olympus whirFd
To wash his chariot in the Western stream, 10
In night's black shade, when Rowland, all alone,
Thus him complains, his fellow shepherds gone.
You flames, quoth he, wherewith thou heaven art dight,
That me (alive) the woful'st creature view, You, whose aspects have wrought me this despight,
And me with hate yet ceaselessly pursue, 16 For whom too long I tarried for relief, Now ask but death, that only ends my grief.
* Morn 1563; dyed 1631.