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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 his pipe, and frame his stile. Tho to a hill his fainting flock he led, And thus him plainde, the while his sheepe there fed.
Yee gods of loue, that pittie louers paine,
(If any gods the paine of louers pittie :) Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, 15
And bow your eares vnto my dolefull dittie. 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 hafted
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 ftoures doe breed
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.
30 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 see your teares, that from your boughs doe raine, Whose drops in drerie ysicles remaine, 36
lustfull leafe is dry and feare, 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 yficles 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 fithes I curse that carefull houre,
Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see: 50 And eke ten thousand fithes I blesse the ftoure,
Wherein I saw so faire a fight as shee. Yet all for nought: such fight hath bred my bane : Ah God, that loue should breed both ioy and paine !
It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue he seeke with daily suit : His clownish gifts and curtefies I disdaine,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit. Ah, foolish Hobbinol, thy gifts been vaine : Colin them gives to Rosalinde againe.
I loue thilke lasse, (alas, why doe I loue?)
And am forlorne, (alas, why am I lorne ?) Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprooue,
And of my rurall mufick holdeth scorne. 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,
Yet for thou pleaseft not where most I would, And thou vnluckie Mufe, that woontft to ease
My musing minde, yet canst not, when thou should, Both pipe and Muse, shall sore the while abie : 71 So broke his oaten pipe, and downe did lie.
By that the welked Phoebus gan auaile
His wearie waine, and now the frostie Night Her mantle blacke through heauen gan overhaile ;
Which seene, the penfiue boy halfe in despight Arose, and homeward droue his sunned sheepe, Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to S O N N E T.
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 the, that dooft in vaine affay, 5
A mortal thing fo 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 duft, but you shall live 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 live, and later life res
E ČLOĠ U E.
BY MICHAEL DRAYTON, ESQ.*
What time the weary weather-beaten theep,
To get them fodder, hie them to the fold, And the poor herds that lately did them keep
Shudder'd with keenness of the winter's cold : The groves of their late summer pride forlorn, 5 In mossy mantles sadly seem'd to mourn.
That filent time, about the upper world,
Phoebus had forc'd his fiery-footed team, And down again the steep Olympus whirl'd
To wash his chariot in the Western stream, 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,
* Born 1563; dyed 1631.