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With filver droppes the meade yet spreade for ruthe,
Our tender limmes, that yet fhot up in lengthe;
Whom in thy walles thou doeft eche nyghte enclofe,
To other leefe,' but unto me moft deere :'
V. 29. holes.
V. 48. lufe. cleere.
Eccho (alas!) that doth my forrow rewe,
DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE
BY THE SAME.
BY EDMUND SPENSER. *
IN this Aeglogue, Colin Clout, a Shepheards boy, complaineth bimfelfe of his unfortunate loue, beeing but newly (as it seemeth) enamoured of a countrey lasse called Rofalind : with which ftrong affection being verie fore trauelled, hee compareth his carefull cafe to the fad feafon of the yeere, to the froftie ground, to the frozen trees, and to his owne winter-beaten flocke. And lastly, finding himselfe robbed of all former pleasance and delight, he breaketh his pipe in peeces, and cafteth himselfe to the ground.
SHEPHEARDS boy (no better doe him call), When Winters waftefull spight was almost spent, All in a funshine day, as did befall,
Led forth his flocke, that had been long ypent. So faint they woxe, and feeble in the fold, That now vnnethes their feet could them vphold.
*Born 1553; dyed 1598.
All as the sheepe, fuch was the fhepheards looke,
Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Yee gods of loue, that pittie louers paine,
(If any gods the paine of louers pittie :)
Thou barren ground whom Winters wrath hath
Art made a mirrour, to behold my plight: 20
Such rage as Winters raigneth in my heart,
My life-blood freezing, with vnkindly cold:
You naked trees, whofe fhadie leaues are loft,
Wherein the birds were wont to build their bowre, And now are cloath'd with moffe and hoarie frost, In ftead of bloffoms, wherewith your buds did flowre,
I see your teares, that from your boughs doe raine, Whofe drops in drerie yficles remaine. 36
Also my luftfull leafe is dry and feare,
My timely buds with wailing all are wasted: The bloffom which my branch of youth did beare,
With breathed fighs is blowne away, and blasted. And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend, 41 As on your boughs the yficles depend.
Thou feeble flocke, whofe fleece is rough and rent, Whose knees are weake, through fast, and euill fare,
Maist witneffe well by thy ill gouernment,
Thy maisters mind is ouercome with care. Thou weake, I wanne; thou leane, I quite forlorne; With mourning pine I, you with pining mourne.
A thousand fithes I curse that carefull houre, Wherein I longd the neighbour towne to fee: 50 And eke ten thousand fithes I bleffe the ftoure, Wherein I saw so faire a fight as shee.
Yet all for nought: fuch fight hath bred my bane: Ah God, that loue should breed both ioy and paine!