But if fad winter's wrath, and feafon chill,
Accord not with thy Mufe's merriment,
To fadder times thou maist attune thy quill,
And fing of forrow and death's dreriment;
For dead is Dido, dead alas! and drent;
Dido! the great fhepherd his daughter sheen;
The fairest May he was that ever went,
Her like fhe has not left behind, I ween:
And if thou wilt bewail my woeful teen,
I fhall thee give yond coffet for thy pain;
And if thy rimes as round and rueful been
As thofe that did thy Rofalind complain,
Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain
Than kid or coffet, which I thee benempt:
Then up, I fay, thou jolly thepherd swain,
Let not my fmall demand be fo contempt.
COL. Thenot, to that I chofe thou doft me tempt,
But ah too well I wote my humble vein,
And how my rimes been rugged and unkempt;
Yet as I con my cunning I will ftrain.
"Up, then, Melpomene! the mournfull Mufe of Nine,
Such cause of mourning never hadft afore;
Up, grifly Ghofts! and up my ruful rime!
Matter of mirth now fhalt thou have no more,
For dead fhe is that mirth thee made of yore ;
Dido, my dear, alas! is dead,
Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead.
O heavy herfe!
Let ftreaming tears be poured out in store;
O careful verfe!
Shepherds, that by your flocks on Kentish downs abide,
Wail ye this woeful wafte of Nature's wark;
Wail we the wight whose presence was our
pride;
Wail we the wight whofe abfence is our cark;
The fun of all the world is dim and dark;
The earth now wants her wonted light,
And all we dwell in deadly night.
O heavy herfe!
Break we our pipes, that fhrill'd as loud as lark;
O careful verfe!
Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we fo long?)
Whofe better days death hath fhut up in woe?
The fairest flower our girlond all among
Is faded quite, and into duft ygo.
Sing now, ye shepherd's daughters, fing no mo
The fongs that Colin made you in her praise,
But into weeping turn your wanton lays.
O heavy herfe!
Now is time to die; nay, time was long ygo;
O careful verfe!
Whence is that the flowret of the field doth fade,
And lieth buried long in Winter's bale?
Yet foon as Spring his mantle is difplayde,
It flowreth fresh, as it fhould never fail :
But thing on earth that is of most avail,
As vertue's branch and beautie's bud,
Reliven not for any good.
The branch once dead, the bud eke need. mu
O careful verfe!
[fain)
She, while the was, that (was a woful word to
For beauty's praife and pleafance had no peer;
So well the couth the fhepherds entertain
With cakes and cracknels, and such country cheer:
Ne would the fcorn the fimple shepherd's (wain ;
For fhe would call him often heam,.
And give him curds and clouted cream.
O heavy herfe!
Als Colin Clout fhe would not once difdain;
O careful verse!
But now fike happy cheer is turn'd to heavy
chaunce,
Such pleasance now mifplac'd by dolor's dint; All mufick fleeps, where death doth lead the daunce,
And fhepherds' wonted folace is extinct.
The blue in black, the green in gray, is tinc;
The gaudy girlonds deck her grave,
The faded flowers her corfe embrave,
O heavy herse!
Mourn now, my Mufe, now mourn with tears le fprint;
Yet faw I on the beere when it was brought;
O careful verfe!
But maugre Death, and dreaded Sifters' deadly fpight,
And gates of hell, and fiery furies force,
She hath the bonds broke of eternal night,
Her foul unbodied of the burdenous corfe?
Why then weeps Lobbin, then fo without remorfe?
O Lobb! thy lofs no longer lament;
Dido nis dead, but into heaven hent.
O happy herfe!
Cease now, my Mufe, now ceafe thy forrow's fourse,
Might I once come to thee, (O) that I might !) O joyful verfe!
Unwife and wretched men to weet what's good or ill,
We deem of death as doom of ill defert;
But knew we, Fools, what it us brings until,
Die would we daily, once it to expert;
No danger there the fhepherd can affert;
Fair fields and pleasant lays there been;
The fields aye fresh, the grafs aye green.
O happy herfe!
Ceafe now my fong, my woe now wasted is ;
O joyful verfe!
Dido is gone afore (whose turn fhall be the next?
Their lives fhe with the bleffed gods in blifs,
There drinks the nectar with ambrofia mixt,
And joys enjoys that mortal men dʊ mifs.
The honour now of highest god fhe is,
That whylom was poor fhepherds' pride,
While here on earth fhe did abide.
O happy herse!
Ceafe now, my song, my woe now wasted is;
O joyful verfe!"
THE. Aye, frank fhepherd, how been thy verfes
With doleful pleafance, fo as I ne wot,
Whether rejoyce or weep for great constraint?
Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with Thine be the coffet, well haft thou it got.
As if fome evil were to her betight?
She reigns a goddefs now emong the faints,
That whylom was the faint of fhepherds light, And is inftalled now in heaven's hight.
I fee the bleffed foul, I fee
Walk in Elyfian fields fo free.
Up, Colin up, ynough thou mourned haft ; Now 'gins to mizzle, hie we homeward faft.
This laft glogue, like the first, is a foliloquy of Colin, reflecting on the pleasures and levitics of his youth, the progress of his riper years, and complaining that his life is now blasted, and brough to its winter feason, through his long and hopeless paffion for Rosalind.
THE gentle fhepherd fate befides a fpring,
All in the fhadow of a bushy brere,
That Colin hight, which well could pipe and fing,
For he of Tityrus his fongs did lere:
There as he fate in fecret fhade alone,
Thus 'gan he make of love his piteous moan.
"O fovereign Pan! thou god of fhepherds all,
Which of our tender lambkins takest keep,
And when our flocks into mifchance mought fall,
Do'ft fave from mischief the unwary sheep,
Als of their maifters haft no lefs regard
I thee befeech (fo be thou deign to hear
Rude ditties, tun'd to thepherd's oaten reed,
Or if I ever fonnet fung so clear,
As it with pleafaunce mought thy fancy feed)
Hearken awhile from thy green cabinet,
The lawrel fong of careful Colinet.
Whilom in youth, when flowr'd my youthfi
Spring,
Like fwallow fwift I wandred here and there, For heat of heedlefs luft me fo did fting, That I oft doubted danger had no fear:
Than of the flocks, which thou doft watch and I went the waftful woods and forreft wide,
Withouten dread of wolves to been efpide.
I wont to range amid the mazy thicket,
And gather nuts to make my Christmas-game,
And joyed oft to chace the trembling pricket,
Or hunt the heartless hare till fhe were tame.
What wrecked I of wintry ages waft?
Tho deemed I my spring would ever last.
How often have I feal'd the craggy oak,
All to diflodge the raven of her nest?
How have I wearied, with many a stroke,
The ftately walnut-tree, the while the rest
Under the tree fell all for nuts at ftrife?
For like to me was liberty and life.
And for I was in thilk fame loofer yeers
(Whether the Mufe fo wrought me from my
birth,
Or I too much believ'd my fhepherd peers)
Somedele ybent to fong and mufick's mirth,
A good old fhepherd, Wrenock was his name,
Made me by art more cunning in the fame.
From thence I durft in derring to compare
With fhepherd's fwain whatever fed in field;
And if that Hobbinol right judgment bare,
To Pan his own felf pipe I need not yeeld:
For if the flocking nymphs did follow Pan,
The wifer Mules after Colin ran.
But, ah! fuch pride at length was ill repaid;
The fhepherds' god (perdy god was he none)
My hurtlefs pleafance did me ill upbraid,
My freedom lorn, my lite he left to mone.
Love they him called that gave me checkmate,
But better mought they have behote him Hate,
Tho' gan my lovely spring bid me farewel,
And fommer feafon fped him to display
(For Love then in the Lion's houfe did dwell)
The raging fire that kindled at his ray
A comet fir'd up that unkindly heat,
That reigned (as men faid) in Venus' feat.
Forth was I led, not as I wont afore,
When choice I had to chuse my wandring way,
But whether Luck and Love's unbridled lore
Would lead me forth on fancies bit to play:
The bush my bed, the bramble was my bow'r,
The woods can witness many a woeful ftow'r.
Where I was wont to seek the hony bee,
Working her formal rowms in wexen frame,
The griefly todeftool grown there mought I fee,
And loathed paddocks lording on the fame :
And where the chaunting birds lull'd me afleep,
'The ghaftly owl her grievous inn doth keep.
Then as the fpring gives place to elder Time,
And bringeth forth the fruit of fommer's pride,
All fo my age, now paffed youthly prime,
To things of riper season felf apply'd,
And learn'd of lighter timber cotes to frame,
Such as might fave my fheep and me from
fhame.
To make fine cages for the nightingale,
And baskets of bulrushes, was my wont :
Who to entrap the fifh in winding fale
Was better feen, or hurtful beasts to hunt ?
I learned als the figns of heaven to ken,
How Phoebus fails, where Venus fits, and when.
And tried time yet taught me greater things,
The fuddain rifing of the raging feas,
The footh of birds, by beating of their wings,
The pow'r of herbs, both which can hurt and ease,
And which be wont t'enrage the restless sheep,
And which be wont to work eternal fleep.
But, ah! unwife and witlefs Colin Clout,
That kydft the hidden kinds of many a weed,
Yet kydit not ene to cure thy fore heart-root,
Whofe rankling wound as yet does rifely bleed.
Why liv'ft thou ftill, and yet haft thy death's
wound?
Why diest thou ftill, and yet alive art found?
Thus is my fommer worn away and wasted,
Thus is my harvest haften'd all too rathe;
The ear that budded fair is burnt and blasted,
And all my hoped gain is turn'd to feathe.
Of all the feed that in youth was fown,
Was none but brakes and brambles to be mown.
My boughs and bloofmes, that crowned were at
And promifed of timely fruit fuch store,
Are left both bare and barren now at earft;
The flattering fruit is fallen to ground before,
And rotted e'er they were half mellow ripe;
My harvest waste, my hope away did wipe.
The fragrant flowers that in my garden grew
Been wither'd, as they had been gather'd long;
Their roots been dried up for lack of dew,
Yet dew'd with tears they han been e'er among,
Ah! who has wrought my Rofalind this fpight,
To spill the flowers that should her girlond dight?
And I, that whilom wont to frame my pipe
Unto the shifting of the fhepherd's foot,
Sike follies now have gather'd as too ripe,
And caft hem out as rotten and unfoot.
The loofer lafs I caft to please no more,
One if I please enough is me therefore.
And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedy crop of care,
Which when I thought have thresh'd in fwelling
fheave,
Cockle for corn, and chaff for barly, bare:
Soon as the chaff should in the fan be fin'd,
All blown away was of the wavering wind.
So now my year draws to my latter term,
My fpring is spent, my fonimer burnt up quite;
My harvest haftes to ftir up Winter ftern,
And bids him claim with rigorous rage his right:
So now he storms with many a sturdy ftour;
So now his bluftring blaft each coaft doth fcour.
The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind,
And in my face deep furrows eld hath plight;
My head befprent with hoary frost I find,
And by mine eye the crow his claw doth wright:
Delight is laid abed, and pleature, paft;
No fun now fhines, clouds han all over-caft.
Now leave, you Shepherds' Boys, your merry glee,
My Mufe is hoarfe and weary of this ftound;
Here will I hang my pipe upon this tree,
Was never pipe of reed did better found:
Winter is come that blows the bitter blaft,
And after winter drery death does haste.
Gather together ye my little flock,
My little flock, that was to me most lief;
Let me, ah! let me in your folds ye lock,
E'er the breme winter breed your greater grief.
Winter is come, that blows the baleful breath,
And after winter cometh timely death.
Adieu, Delights, that lulled me afleep;
Adieu, my Dear, whose love I bought fo dear;
Adieu, my little Lambs and loved Sheep;
Adieu, ye Woods, that oft my witness were:
Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true,
Tell Rofalind Colin bids her adieu.
Fivitur ingenio, cætera mortis erunt.
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