NOVEMBER.

EGLOGA UNDECIMA.

ARGUMENT.

In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Eglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book.

COLIN, my dear, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance?1
Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing,
Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance.
Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance2
Among the shepherds' swains may aye remain,
Whether thee list thy loved lass advance,
Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein.

COL. Thenot, now n'is3 the time of merrimake,
Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play;
Such mirth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cockéd hay.
But now sad winter welked5 hath the day,
And Phoebus, weary of his yearly task,
Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay,
And taken up his inn in Fishes'* hask :7
Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask,
And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise:
The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask,
As she was wont in youth and summer-days;
But if thou algate lust 10 light virelays,"
And looser songs of love to underfong,12

Fishes:' the sun enters the constellation Pisces in November.

It becomes.

Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise?
Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long.

THE. The nightingale is sovéreign of song,
Before him sits1 the titmouse silent be;
And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng,
Should Colin make judge of my foolery.
Nay, better learn of them that learned be,
And have been water'd at the Muses' well;
The kindly dew drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell:
But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill,
Accord not with thy Muse's merriment,

To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill, And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment; 2Drowned, For dead is Dido,* dead, alas! and drent,2 perished. Dido! the great shepherd his daughter sheen :3 The fairest may she was that ever went,

Bright.

4 Maid.

Ď Sorrow.

7 Lamb.

Her like she has not left behind, I ween:
And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen,5
6 Yonder. I shall thee give yond" cosset for thy pain;
And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been
As those that did thy Rosalind complain,
Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain,
Mention. Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt: 8
Then up, I say, thou jolly shepherd swain,
Let not my small demand be so contempt.9

ed.

9 Contemned.

10 Un

polished. 1 Exert my

skill, or talent.

23

30

40

50

COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt;
But ah! too well I wot my humble vein,
And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt;'
Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain."

10

Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine,
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore;

*Dido' and 'great shepherd' both refer to real persons unknown.

Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme!
Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more;
For dead she is, that mirth thee made of
Dido, my dear, alas! is dead,

Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead.
O heavy herse!1

yore.

Let streaming tears be poured out in store;
O careful verse!

Shepherds, that by your flocks of Kentish downs
abide,

Wail ye this woful waste of Nature's wark;

Wail we the wight, whose presence was our pride;
Wail we the wight, whose absence is our cark;2
The sun of all the world is dim and dark;

The earth now lacks her wonted light,
And all we dwell in deadly night.

O heavy herse!

Break we our pipes, that shrill'd as loud as lark;
O careful verse!

55

60 1 Rehear

sal, tale.

70

'Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we so long?)
Whose better days Death hath shut up in woe?
The fairest flower our garland all among
Is faded quite, and into dust ygo.3

Sing now, ye shepherds' daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made you in her praise;
But into weeping turn your wanton lays.

O heavy herse!

Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago:

O careful verse!

80

Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade, And lieth buried long in Winter's bale;+

Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd,

2 Sorrow.

3 Gone.

• Grief.

1 Live again.

• Knew how.

8 Home.

Pang of grief.

It flow'reth fresh, as it should never fail?
But thing on earth that is of most avail,
As virtue's branch and beauty's bud,
Reliven1 not for any good.

O heavy herse!

The branch once dead, the bud eke needs must quail:
O careful verse!

'She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayn')
For beauty's praise and pleasance had no peer;
So well she couth2 the shepherds entertain
With cakes and cracknels, and such country cheer:
Ne would she scorn the simple shepherd's swain;
For she would call him often heme,3

And give him curds and clouted cream.

O heavy herse!

Als Colin Clout she would not once disdain;

O careful verse!

100

'But now such happy cheer is turn'd to heavy chance, Such pleasance now displac'd by dolor's dint; 4 All music sleeps, where Death doth lead the dance, And shepherds' wonted solace is extinct. Coloured. The blue in black, the green in gray, is tinct;5 The gaudy garlands deck her grave, The faded flowers her corse embrave."

6 Adorn.

7 Beprinkled.

O heavy herse!

Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with tears

O careful verse!

110

[besprint;

"O thou great shepherd, Lobbin, how great is thy

grief!

Prepared. Where be the nosegays that she dights for thee? The coloured chaplets wrought with a chief,*

*Wrought with a chief:' wrought into a head, like a nosegay.

The knotted rush-rings, and gilt rosemary?
For she deemed nothing too dear for thee
Ah! they be all yclad in clay;

One bitter blast blew all away.
O heavy herse!

Thereof naught remains but the memory;
O careful verse!

116

120

Ah me! that dreary Death should strike so mortal stroke,

That can undo Dame Nature's kindly course;

The faded locks fall from the lofty oak,

The floods do gasp, for driéd is their source,

And floods of tears flow in their stead perforce:
The mantled meadows mourn,

Their sundry colours turn.

O heavy herse!

The heavens do melt in tears without remorse;

O careful verse!

180

The feeble flocks in field refuse their former food, And hang their heads as they would learn to weep; The beasts in forest wail as they were wood,1 Except the wolves, that chase the wand'ring sheep, Now she is gone that safely did them keep:

The turtle on the baréd branch

Laments the wound that Death did launch.

O heavy herse!

And Philomele her song with tears doth steep;

O careful verse!

140

The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and
And for her garland olive branches bear, [dance,
Now baleful boughs of cypress do advance;

The Muses, that were wont green bays to wear,
Now bringen bitter elder branches sere;

J

1 Mad.