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With filver droppes the meade yet spreade for ruthe,
In active games of nimblenefs and strength,
Where we did strayne, trayned wyth swarmes of

Our tender limmes, that yet fhot up in lengthe;
The secrete groves which ofte we made refounde,
Of pleasant playnte, and of our ladies prayfe, 26
Recordyng oft what grace eche one had founde,
What hope of fpede, what dreade of long delayes;
The wylde forrefte, the clothed holtes' with grene,
With raynes availed, and swiftly breathed horse; 30
Wyth cry of houndes and merry blastes betwene,
Where we did chase the feareful hart of force;
The wyde vales eke, that harborde us eche nyghte:
Wherewyth (alas) reviveth in my brefte,
The fwete accorde, fuch flepes as yet delyght; 35
The pleasant dreames, the quyet bed of reste;
The fecret thoughtes imparted with such trust;
The wanton talke, the dyvers chaunge of playe;
The friendship fworne, eche promise kept fo faft;
Wherewith we past the winter nyghte away. 40
And wyth thys thoughte, the bloud forfakes the face,
The teares berayne my chekes of deadly hewe,
The whyche as foone as fobbyng fighes (alas!)
Upfupped have, thus I my playnt renewe:
O place of bliffe! renewer of my woes!
Give me accompt where is my noble fere,

Whom in thy walles thou doeft eche nyghte enclofe,

To other leefe,' but unto me moft deere :'

V. 29. holes.

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V. 48. lufe. cleere.


Eccho (alas!) that doth my forrow rewe,
Returns thereto a hollowe founde of playnt;
Thus I alone, where all my freedome grewe,
In pryfon pyne, wythe bondage and restraynt:
And with remembrance of the greater griefe
To banishe the leffe I fynd my chief reliefe.






ROM Tufcane came my ladies worthy race,
Faire Florence was fometyme her auncient seate;
The Western yle whose pleasant shore doth face
Wild Cambers clifs, did geve her lyuely heate;
Fostered she was with milke of Irishe breft;
Her fire, an erle, her dame, of princes blood;
From tender yeres in Britaine fhe doth reft,
With Kinges childe, where she tasteth coftly foode.
Honsdon did first present her to myne yien :
Bright is her hewe, and Geraldine fhe hight; 10
Hampton me taught to wishe her firft for mine,
And Windfor, alas, doth chase me from her fight.
Her beauty of kinde, her vertue from above;
Happy is he that can obtain her love!




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,
For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!)
May seem he lov'd, or else fome care he tooke:

Well couth he tune his pipe, and frame his stile.
Tho to a hill his fainting flock he led,
And thus him plainde, the while his sheepe there fed.


Yee gods of loue, that pittie louers paine,

(If any gods the paine of louers pittie :)
Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, 15
And bow your eares vnto my dolefull dittie.
And Pan, thou shepheards god, that once did loue,
Pittie the paines that thou thyfelfe didst proue.

Thou barren ground whom Winters wrath hath

Art made a mirrour, to behold my plight: 20
Whilom thy fresh Spring flowr'd, and after hasted
Thy Sommer proude, with daffadillies dight;
And now is come thy Winters ftormie ftate,
Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedst late.

Such rage as Winters raigneth in my heart,


My life-blood freezing, with vnkindly cold:
Such ftormie ftoures doe breed my balefull smart,
As if my yeeres were waste, and woxen old.
And yet, alas, but now my fpring begonne,
And yet, alas, it is already donne.


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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!

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