Shepheardes Calender

Conteyning tvvelue Eglogues proportionable
to the twelue monethes.

Entitled

TO THE NOBLE AND VERTV-
ous Gentleman most worthy of all titles
both of learning and cheualrie M.
Philip Sidney.

AT LONDON.

Printed by Hugh Singleton, dwelling in

Creede Lane neere vnto Ludgate at the
Ugne of the gpioen Tunne,and

are there to be foldc.

3579.

This Eglogue is purposely intended to the honor and prayse of our most gracious sovereigne, Queene Elizabeth. The speakers herein be Hobbinoll and Thenott, two shepheardes: the which Hobbinoll being before mentioned, greatly to have loved Colin, is here set forth more largely, complayning him of that boyes great misadventure in Love, whereby his mynd was alienate and with drawen not onely from him, who moste loved him, but also from all former delightes and studies, as well in pleasaunt pyping, as conning ryming and singing, and other his laudable exercises. Whereby he taketh occasion, for proofe of his more excellencie and skill in poetrie, to recorde a songe, which the sayd Colin sometime made in honor of her Majestie, whom abruptely he termeth Elysa.

TELL me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?
Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?

Or bene thine eyes attempred to the yeare,
Quenching the gasping furrowes thirst with rayne?
Like April shoure, so stremes the trickling teares
Adowne thy cheeke, to quenche thy thristye payne.

HOBBINOLL.

Nor thys, nor that, so muche doeth make me mourne,
But for the ladde, whome long I lovd so deare,
Nowe loves a lasse, that all his love doth scorne:
He plongd in payne, his tressed locks dooth teare.

Shepheards delights he dooth them all forsweare,
Hys pleasaunt Pipe, whych made us meriment,
He wylfully hath broke, and doth forbeare
His wonted songs, wherein he all outwent.

THENOT.

What is he for a Ladde, you so lament?

Ys love such pinching payne to them, that prove?
And hath he skill to make so excellent,

Yet hath so little skill to brydle love?

HOBBINOLL.

Colin thou kenst, the Southerne shepheardes boye :
Him Love hath wounded with a deadly darte.
Whilome on him was all my care and joye,
Forcing with gyfts to winne his wanton heart.

But now from me hys madding mynd is starte,
And woes the Widdowes daughter of the glenne :
So nowe fayre Rosalind hath bredde hys smart,
So now his frend is chaunged for a frenne.

THENOT.

But if hys ditties bene so trimly dight,

I pray thee Hobbinoll, recorde some one:
The whiles our flockes doe graze about in sight,
And we close shrowded in thys shade alone.

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HOBBINOLL.

Contented I then will I singe his laye

Of fayre Eliza, Queene of shepheardes all:
Which once he made, as by a spring he laye,
And tuned it unto the Waters fall.

YE dayntye Nymphs, that in this blessed Brooke doe bathe your brest,

Forsake your watry bowres, and hether looke,

at my request :

And eke you Virgins, that on Parnasse dwell,
Whence floweth Helicon the learned well

Helpe me to blaze

Her worthy praise,

Which in her sexe doth all excell.

Of fayre Elisa be your silver song,
that blessed wight:

The flowre of Virgins, may shee florish long,
In princely plight.

For shee is Syrinx daughter without spotte,

Which Pan the shepheards God of her begot :

So sprong her grace

Of heavenly race,

No mortall blemishe may her blotte.

See, where she sits upon the grassie greene,

(O seemely sight)

Yclad in Scarlot like a mayden Queene,

And Ermines white.

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Upon her head a Cremosin coronet,

With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set

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Bayleaves betweene,

And Primroses greene

Embellish the sweete Violet.

Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face,

Like Phoebe fayre?

Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace

can you

well compare ?

The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere.

Her modest eye,

Her Majestie,

Where have you seene the like, but there?

I sawe Phœbus thrust out his golden hedde, upon her to gaze :

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But when he sawe, how broade her beames did spredde, it did him amaze.

He blusht to see another Sunne belowe,

Ne durst againe his fyrye face out showe:
Let him, if he dare,

His brightnesse compare

With hers, to have the overthrowe.

Shewe thy selfe Cynthia with thy silver rayes,
and be not abasht:

When shee the beames of her beauty displayes,
O how art thou dasht ?

But I will not match her with Latonaes seede,
Such follie great sorow to Niobe did breede.
Now she is a stone,

And makes dayly mone,

Warning all other to take heede.

Pan may be proud, that ever he begot

such a Bellibone,

And Syrinx rejoyse, that ever was her lot to beare such an one.

Soone as my younglings cryen for the dam,

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