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It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue he seeke with daily suit : His clownish gifts and curtesies I disdaine,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit. Ah, foolish Hobbinol, thy gifts been vaine : Colin them gives to Rofalinde 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 musick holdeth scorne. Shepheards deuife 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 woontst to ease
My musing minde, yet canft not, when thou should, Both pipe and Muse, shall fore 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 cafe 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 Thall like to this decay,
And eke my name be wiped out likewise. Not so, quoth I, let bafer things deuise
To die in duft, 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.
What time the weary weather-beaten sheep, 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, S In mosfy mantles fadly seem'd to mourn.
That silent 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, 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'ít creature view, You, whose aspects have wrought me this despight,
And me with hate yet ceaselessly pursue,
* Born 1563; dyed 1631.
Yearly my vows, O heavens, have I not paid,
Of the best fruits, and firstlings of my flock? 20 And oftentimes have bitterly inveigh'd 'Gainst them that you prophanely dar'd to
mock? O, who shall ever give what is your due, If mortal man be uprighter than you ?
If the deep fighs of an afflicted breast,
O’erwhelm'd with sorrow, or th’erected eyes Of a poor wretch with miseries opprest,
For whose complaints tears never could suffice, Have not the power your deities to move, Who shall e'er look for succour from above? 30
night, how still obsequious have I been,
To thy slow silence whispering in thine ear, That thy pale sovereign often hath been seen
Stay to behold me fadly from her sphere, Whilst the flow minutes duly I have told, With watchful eyes attending on my fold !
How oft by thee the folitary fwain,
Breathing his passion to the early spring, Hath left to hear the nightingale complain,
Pleasing his thoughts alone to hear me fing! 40 The nymphs forfook their places of abode, To hear the sounds that from my musick flow'd.
To purge their springs, and fanctify their grounds,
The fimple shepherds learned I the mean, And fov'reign fimples to their use I found,
45 Their teeming ewes to help when they did yean;
; Which when again in summer time they share, Their wealthy fleece my cunning did declare.
In their warm cotes, whilst they have foundly
flept, And pass’d the night in many a pleasant bower, On the bleak mountains I their flocks have kept,
And bid the brunt of many a cruel shower ; Warring with beasts, in safety mine to keep, So true was I, and careful of my sheep.
Fortune and time, why tempted you me forth, 55
With those your flattering promises of grace, Fickle, fo falsely to abuse my worth,
And now to fly me, whom I did embrace?
Or nature, did'st thou prodigally waste
Thy gifts on me unfortunatest swain, Only thereby to have thyself disgrac'd ? · Virtue, in me why wert thou plac'd in vain? If to the world predestined a prey,
65 Thou wert too good to have been cast away.