Complete Works of Edmund Spenser

IN this fyrst Æglogue Colin Cloute, a shepheardes boy, complaineth him of his unfortunate lore, being but newly (as semeth) enamoured of a countrie lasse called Rosalinde: with which strong affection being very sore traveled, he compareth his carefull case to the sadde season of the yeare, to the frostie ground, to the frosen trees, and to his owne winter-beaten flocke. And, lastlye, fynding himselfe robbed of all former pleasaunce and delights, hee breaketh his Pipe in peeces, and casteth him selfe to the ground.

COLIN CLOUTE.

A SHEPEHEARDS boye, (no better doe him call,) Such rage as winters reigneth in my heart,
When Winters wastful spight was almost My life-bloud friesing with unkindly cold;
All in a sunneshine day, as did befall, [spent, Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull
Led forth his flock, that had bene long ypent:| smart,
So faynt they woxe, and feeble in the folde,
That now unnethes their feete could them
uphold.

As if my yeare were wast and woxen old;
And yet, alas! but now my spring begonne,
And yet, alas! yt is already donne.

You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their
bowre,
[frost,

And now are clothd with mosse and hoary
Instede of bloosmes, wherewith your buds did
flowre;
[raine,

I see your teares that from your boughes doe
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.

All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted;
The blossome which my braunch of youth did
beare
[blasted;
With breathed sighes is blowne away and
And from mine eyes the drizling teares de-
scend,

As on your boughes the ysicles depend.

Thou feeble flocke, whose fleece is rough and rent, [fare, Whose knees are weake through fast and evill Mayst witnesse well, by thy ill governement, Thy maysters mind is overcome with care:

Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite

forlorne:

With mourning pyne I; you with pyning

mourne.

A thousand sithes I curse that carefull hower! Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to see. And eke tenne thousand sithes I blesse the stoure

Wherein I sawe so fayre a sight as shee:

Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane. [and payne! Ah, God! that love should breede both joy It is not Hobbinol wherefore I plaine, Albee my love he seeke with dayly suit; His clownish gifts and curtsies I disdaine, His kiddes, his cracknelles, and his early fruit. Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gyfts bene vayne; Colin them gives to Rosalind againe.

'I love thilke lasse. (alas! why doe I love?) And am forlorne, (alas! why am I lorne?) Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprove,

And of my rurall musicke holdeth scorne.

Shepheards devise she hateth as the snake, And laughes the songs that Colin Clout doth make.

'Wherefore, my pype, albee rude Pan thou
please,

Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would:
My musing mynd, yet canst not when thou
And thou, unlucky Muse, that wontst to ease

should;

Both pype and Muse shall sore the while
abye.'

So broke his oaten pype, and downe dyd lyc.
By that, the welked Phoebus gan availe
His weary waine; and nowe the frosty Night
Her mantle black through heaven gan overhaile:
Which seene, the pensife boy, halfe in despight,
Arose, and homeward drove his sonned sheepe,
Whose hanging heads did seeme his carefull
case to weepe.

COLINS EMBLEME.

Anchora speme.

GLOSSE.

ing. For who that hath red Plato his dialogue called Alcybiades, Xenophon, and Maximus Tyrius, of Socrates opinions, may easily perceive, that such love is muche to be alowed and liked of, specially so meant, as Socrates used it: who sayth, that indeede he loved Alcybiades extremely, yet not Alcybiades person, but hys soule, which is Alcybiades owne selfe. And so is pæderastice much to be præferred before gynerastice, that is, the love whiche enflameth men with lust toward womankind. But yet et no man thinke, that herein I stand with Lucian, or his develish disciple Unico Aretino, in defence of execrable and horrible sinnes of forbidden and unlawful fleshlinesse. Whose abominable errour is fully confuted of Perionius, and others.

I iore, a prety Epanorthosis in these two verses; and withall a Paronomasia or playing with the word, where he sayth I love thilke lasse alas, &c.

Rosalinde, is also a feigned name, which, being wel ordered, wil bewray the very name of hys love and mistresse, whom by that name he colouretb. So as Ovide shadoweth hys love under the name of Corynna, which of some is supposed to be Julia, themperor Augustus his daughter, and wyfe to Agryppa. So doth Aruntius Stella every where call his Lady Asteris and Ianthis, albe it is wel knowen that her right name was Violantilla: as witnesseth Statius in his Epithalamium. And so the famous Paragone of Italy, Madonna Colin, in her letters envelopeth her selfe under the name of Zima and Petrona under the name of Bellochia. And this generally hath bene a common custome of counterfeicting the names of secret Personages. Arail, bring downe.

Overhaile, drawe over.

EMBLEME.

His embleme or Poesye is here under added in lucklesse love, yet, leaning on hope, he is some Italian, Anchora speme: the meaning wherof is, what recomforted. that notwithstandeing his extreme passion and

THIS Eglogue is rather morall and generall, then bent to any secrete or particular purpose. It specially conteyneth a discourse of old age, in the persone of Thenot, an olde Shepheard, who for his crookednesse and unlustinesse is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy Heardmans boye. The matter very well accordeth with the season of the moneth, the yeare now dromping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of yeare, so then in our bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the crudled blood, and frieseth the wetherbeaten flesh with stormes of Fortune, and hoare frosts of Care. To which purpose the olde man telleth a tale of the Oake and the Bryer, so lively, and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some Picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appeare.

Cuddie.

CUDDIE.

AH for pittie! wil rancke Winters rage These bitter blasts never ginne tasswage? The kene cold blowes through my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde: My ragged rontes all shiver and shake, As doen high Towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tayles,

Perke as a Peacock; but now it avales.

Thenot.

Lewdly complainest thou, laesie ladde, Of Winters wracke for making thee sadde. Must not the world wend in his commun course, From good to badd, and from badde to worse, From worse unto that is worst of all, And then returne to his former fall? Who will not suffer the stormy time, Where will he live tyll the lusty prime? Selfe have I worne out thrise threttie yeares, Some in much joy, many in many teares, Yet never complained of cold nor heate. Of Sommers flame, nor of Winters threat, Ne ever was to Fortune foeman, But gently tooke that ungently came; And ever my flocke was my chiefe care, Winter or Sommer they mought well fare.

Cuddie.

No marveile, Thenot, if thou can beare Cherefully the Winters wrathful cheare; For Age and Winter accord full nie, This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wrye; And as the lowring Wether lookes downe, So semest thou like Good Fryday to frowne: But my flowring youth is foe to frost, My shippe unwont in stormes to be tost.

THENOT.

Thenot.

The soveraigne of seas he blames in vaine, That, once sea-beate, will to sea againe: So loytring live you little heardgroomes, Keeping your beastes in the budded broomes: And, when the shining sunne laugheth once, You deemen the Spring is come attonce; the cold to Tho gynne you, fond flyes!

scorne,

And, crowing in pypes made of greene corne,
You thinken to be Lords of the yeare:
But eft, when ye count you freed from feare,
Comes the breme Winter with chamfred browes,
Full of wrinckles and frostie furrowes,
Drerily shooting his stormy darte,
Which cruddles the blood and pricks the harte:
Then is your carelesse corage accoied,
Your carefull heards with cold bene annoied:
Then paye you the price of your surquedrie,
With weeping, and wayling, and misery.

Cuddie.

Ah, foolish old man! I scorne thy skill, That wouldest me my springing youngth to I deeme thy braine emperished bee [spil: Through rusty elde, that hath rotted thee: Or sicker thy head veray tottie is, So on thy corbe shoulder it leanes amisse. Now thy selfe hast lost both lopp and topp, Als my budding braunch thou wouldest cropp; But were thy yeares greene, as now bene myne, To other delights they would encline: Tho wouldest thou learne to caroll of Love, And hery with hymnes thy lasses glove; Tho wouldest thou pype of Phyllis prayse; But Phyllis is myne for many dayes. I wonne her with a gyrdle of gelt, Embost with buegle about the belt:

Such an one shepeheards would make full faine;
Such an one would make thee younge againe.
Thenot.

Thou art a fon of thy love to boste;
All that is lent to love wyll be lost.

Cuddie.

Seest howe brag yond Bullocke beares,
So smirke, so smoothe, his pricked eares?
His hornes ben: as broade as Rainebowe bent,
His dewelap as lythe as lasse of Kent:
See howe he venteth into the wynd;
Weenest of love is not his mynd?
Seemeth thy flocke thy counsell can,

So lustlesse bene they, so weake, so wan;
Clothed with cold, and hoary wyth frost,
Thy flocks father his corage hath lost.
Thy Ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,
Like wailefull widdowes hangen their crags;
The rather Lambes bene starved with cold,
All for their Maister is lustlesse and old.

Thenot.

Cuddie, I wote thou kenst little good,
So vainely tadvaunce thy headlesse hood;
For youngth is a bubble blown up with breath,
Whose witt is weakenesse, whose wage is death,
Whose way is wildernesse, whose ynne Pe-

naunce,

[raunce.

And stoope-gallaunt Age, the hoste of Gree-
But shall I tel thee a tale of truth,
Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth.
Keeping his sheepe on the hils of Kent?

Cuddie.

To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent
Then to heare novells of his devise:
They bene so well-thewed, and so wise,
What ever that good old man bespake.

Thenot.

Many meete tales of youth did he make,
And some of love, and some of chevalrie;
But none fitter then this to applie.

Now listen a while and hearken the end.
There grewe an aged Tree on the greene,
A goodly Oake sometime had it bene,
With armes full strong and largely displayd,
But of their leaves they were disarayde:
The bodie bigge, and mightely pight,
Throughly rooted, and of wonderous hight;
Whilome had bene the King of the field,
And mochell mast to the husband did yielde,
And with his nuts larded man swine:
But now the gray mosse marred his rine;

blocke?

449

His bared boughes were beaten with stormes,
His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes,
His honor decayed, his braunches sere.
Hard by his side grewe a bragging Brere,
Which proudly thrust into Thelement,
And seemed to threat the Firmament.
It was embellisht with blossomes fayre,
And thereto aye wonned to repayre
The shepheards daughters to gather flowres,
To peinct their girlonds with his colowres;
The sweete Nightingale singing so lowde;
And in his small bushes used to shrowde
Which made this foolish Brere wexe so bold,
That on a time he cast him to scold
And snebbe the good Oake, for he was old.
'Why standst there (quoth he) thou_brutish
[stocke;
Nor for fruict nor for shadowe serves thy
Seest how fresh my flowers bene spredde,
With Leaves engrained in lusty greene;
Dyed in Lilly white and Cremsin redde,
Colours meéte to clothe a mayden Queene?
Thy wast bignes but combers the grownd,
And dirks the beauty of my blossomes rownd:
The mouldie mosse, which thee accloieth,
My Sinamon smell too much annoieth:
Wherefore soone I rede thee hence remove,
Least thou the price of my displeasure prove.'
So spake this bold brere with great disdaine:
Little him aunswered the Oake againe,
But yeelded, with shame and greefe adawed,
That of a weede he was overcrawed.
Yt chaunced after upon a day,
The Hus-bandman selfe to come that way,
Of custome for to survewe his grownd,
And his trees of state in compasse rownd:
Him when the spitefull brere had espyed,
Causelesse complained, and lowdly cryed
Unto his lord, stirring up sterne strife.

O, my liege Lord! the God of my life!
Pleaseth you ponder your Suppliants plaint,
Caused of wrong and cruell constraint,
Which I your poore Vassall dayly endure;
And, but your goodnes the same recure,
Am like for desperate doole to dye,
Through felonous force of mine enemie.'
Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,
Him rested the goodman on the lea,
And badde the Brere in his plaint proceede.
(As most usen Ambitious folke:)
With painted words tho gan this proude weede

His colowred crime with craft to cloke.

Ah, my soveraigne! Lord of creatures all,
Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,
Was not I planted of thine owne hand,
To be the primrose of all thy land;
With flowring blossomes to furnish the prime,
And scarlot berries in Sommer time?
G G

How falls it then that this faded Oake,
Whose bodie is sere, whose braunches broke,
Whose naked Armes stretch unto the fyre,
Unto such tyrannie doth aspire;
Hindering with his shade my lovely light,
And robbing me of the swete sonnes sight?
So beate his old boughes my tender side,
That oft the bloud springeth from woundes
Untimely my flowres forced to fall, [wyde;
That bene the honor of your Coronall:
And oft he lets his cancker-wormes light
Upon my braunches, to worke me more spight;
And oft his hoarie locks downe doth cast,
Where with my fresh flowretts bene defast:
For this, and many more such outrage,
Craving your goodlihead to as wage
The ranckorous rigour of his might,
Nought aske I, but onely to hold my right;
Submitting me to your good sufferance,
And praying to be garded from greevance.'
To this the Oake cast him to replie
Well as he couth; but his enemie
Had kindled such coles of displeasure,
That the good man noulde stay his leasure,
But home him hasted with furious heate,
Encreasing his wrath with many a threate:
His harmefull Hatchet he hent in hand,
(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)
And to the field alone he speedeth,
(Ay little helpe to harme there needeth !)
Anger nould let him speake to the tree,
Enaunter his rage mought cooled bee;
But to the roote bent his sturdy stroake,
And made many wounds in the wast Oake.
The Axes edge did oft turne againe,
As halfe unwilling to cutte the graine ;
Semed, the sencelesse yron dyd feare,
Or to wrong holy eld did forbeare;
For it had bene an auncient tree,
Sacred with many a mysteree,
And often crost with the priestes crewe,
And often halowed with holy-water dewe:

Kene, sharpe.

But sike fancies weren foolerie,
And broughten this Oake to this miserye ;
For nought mought they quitten him from
decay,

For fiercely the good man at him did laye.
The blocke oft groned under the blow,
And sighed to see his neare overthrow.
In fine, the steele had pierced his pitth,
Tho downe to the earth he fell forthwith.
His wonderous weight made the ground to
quake,

Thearth shronke under him, and seemed to shake:

There lyeth the Oake, pitied of none!

Now stands the Brere like a lord alone, Puffed up with pryde and vaine pleasaunce; But all this glee had no continuaunce: For eftsones Winter gan to approche; The blustering Boreas did encroche, And beate upon the solitarie Brere; For nowe no succoure was seene him nere. Now gan he repent his pryde to late; For, naked left and disconsolate, The byting frost nipt his stalke dead, The watrie wette weighed downe his head, And heaped snowe burdned him so sore, That nowe upright he can stand no more; And, being downe, is trodde in the durt Of cattell, and brouzed, and sorely hurt. Such was thend of this Ambitious brere, For scorning Eld—

Cuddie.

Now I pray thee, shepheard, tel it not forth : Here is a long tale, and little worth. So longe have I listened to thy speche, That graffed to the ground is my breche: My hart-blood is wel nigh frorne, I feele, And my galage growne fast to my heele: But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted : Hye thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.

THENOTS EMBLEME.

Iddio, perche è vecchio,
Fa suoi al suo essempio.

CUDDIES EMBLEME.
Niuno vecchio
Spaventa Iddio.

GLOSSE.

shipwracke: and not wreake, that is vengeance or Foeman, a foe.

Gride, perced: an olde word much used of Lid-wrath. gate, but not found (that I know of) in Chaucer. Ronts, young bullockes.

Wracke, ruine or Violence, whence commeth

Thenot, the name of a shepheard in Marot his Eglogues.

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