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It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
Albee my loue he seeke with daily fuit:
His clownish gifts and curtefies 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 laffe, (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 mufick holdeth fcorne.
Shepheards deuife she hateth as the fnake, 65
And laughes the fongs that Colin Clout does make.

Wherefore my pipe, albee rude Pan thou please, Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would, And thou vnluckie Mufe, that woontst to ease

My mufing 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 feene, the penfiue boy halfe in despight Arofe, and homeward droue his funned sheepe, Whose hanging heads did feem his careful cafe to weepe.



INE day I wrote her name vpon the ftrand,
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 she, that doost in vaine affay, 5 A mortal thing so to immortalize,

For I myselfe shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wiped out likewise. Not fo, quoth I, let bafer things deuife

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 fhall all the world subdew, Our loue fhall liue, and later life renew.

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HAT time the weary weather-beaten sheep, Το 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 fummer pride forlorn, In moffy mantles fadly feem'd to mourn.

That filent 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, In night's black shade, when Rowland, all alone, Thus him complains, his fellow fhepherds gone.

You flames, quoth he, wherewith thou heaven art dight,

That me (alive) the woful'ft creature view, You, whose aspects have wrought me this defpight, And me with hate yet ceaselessly pursue, 16 For whom too long I tarried for relief, Now afk but death, that only ends my grief.

Born 1563; dyed 1631.

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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

'Gainft 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 forrow, or th' erected eyes Of a poor wretch with miseries oppreft,

For whofe complaints tears never could fuffice, Have not the power your deities to move, Who fhall e'er look for fuccour from above?

O night, how ftill obfequious have I been,
To thy flow filence whispering in thine ear,
That thy pale fovereign often hath been seen

Stay to behold me fadly from her sphere,
Whilft the flow minutes duly I have told,
With watchful eyes attending on my fold!



How oft by thee the folitary fwain,

Breathing his paffion to the early spring, Hath left to hear the nightingale complain, Pleafing his thoughts alone to hear me fing! 40 The nymphs forfook their places of abode, To hear the founds that from my mufick 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 fummer time they share, Their wealthy fleece my cunning did declare.

In their warm cotes, whilft 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 falfely to abufe my worth,

And now to fly me, whom I did embrace?
Both that at firft encourag'd my defire,
Laftly against me lewdly do confpire.


Or nature, did'st thou prodigally waste

Thy gifts on me unfortunatest swain, Only thereby to have thyfelf difgrac'd?

Virtue, in me why wert thou plac'd in vain? If to the world predeftined a prey, Thou wert too good to have been caft away.


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