  december DECEMBER. ÆGLOGA DUODECIMA This Æglogue (even as the first began) is ended with a complaint of Colin to god Pan; wherein, as weary of his former ways, he proportioned his life to the four seasons of the year; comparing his youth to the spring time, when he was fresh and free from love's folly. His manhood to the summer, which, he saith, was consumed with great heat and excessive drouth, caused through a comet or blazing star, by which he meaneth love; which passion is commonly compared to such flames and immoderate heat. His ripest years he resembleth to an unseasonable harvest, wherein the fruits fall ere they be ripe. His latter age to winter's chill and frosty season, now drawing near to his last end. The gentle shepheard sat beside a spring, All in the shadow of a bushy brere, That Colin hight, which well could pipe and sing, For he of Tityrus his song did lere: There, as he sat in secret shade alone, Thus gan he make of love his piteous moan. "O sovereign Pan! thou god of shepheards all, Which of our tender lambkins takest keep, And, when our flocks into mischance might fall, Dost save from mischief the unwary sheep, Als of their masters hast no less regard Than of the flocks, which thou dost watch and ward; "I thee beseech (so be thou deign to hear Rude ditties, tun'd to shepheard's oaten reed, Or if I ever sonnet sung so clear, As it with pleasance might thy fancy feed,) Hearken a while, from thy green cabinet, The rural song of careful Colinet. "Whilome in youth, when flower'd my joyful spring, Like swallow swift I wander'd here and there; For heat of heedless lust me so did sting, That I of doubted danger had no fear: I went the wasteful woods and forest wide, Withouten dread of wolves to be espied. "I wont to range amid the mazy thicket, And gather nuts to make my Christmas-game, And joyed oft to chase the trembling pricket, Or hunt the heartless hare till she were tame. What recked I of wintry age's waste?— Then deemed I my spring would ever last. "How often have I scaled the craggy oak, All to dislodge the raven of her nest? How have I wearied, with many a stroke, The stately walnut-tree, the while the rest Under the tree fell all for nuts at strife? For like to me was liberty and life. "And for I was in thilk same looser years, (Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth, Or I too much believ'd my shepheard peers,) Somedele ybent to song and music's mirth, A good old shepheard, Wrenock was his name, Made me by art more cunning in the same. "Fro thence I durst in derring to compare With shepheard's swain whatever fed in field; And, if that Hobbinol right judgment bare, To Pan his own self pipe I need not yield: For, if the flocking nymphs did follow Pan, The wiser Muses after Colin ran. "But, ah! such pride at length was ill repaid; The shepheard's god (perdie, god was he none) My hurtless pleasance did me ill upbraid, My freedom lorn, my life he left to moan. Love they him called that gave me check-mate, But better might they have behote him Hate. "Then gan my lovely spring bid me farewell, And summer season sped him to display (For Love then in the Lion's house did dwell,) The raging fire that kindled at his ray. A comet stirr'd up that unkindly heat, That reigned (as men said) in Venus' seat. "Forth was I led, not as I wont afore, When choice I had to choose my wand'ring way, But whether luck and love's unbridled lore Would lead me forth on Fancy's bit to play: The bush my bed, the bramble was my bower, The woods can witness many a woful stowre. "Where I was wont to seek the honey bee, Working her formal rooms in waxen frame, The grisly toadstool grown there might I see, And loathed paddocks lording on the same: And, where the chanting birds lull'd me asleep, The ghastly owl her grievous inn doth keep. "Then as the spring gives place to elder Time, And bringeth forth the fruit of summer's pride; All so my age, now passed youthly prime, To things of riper season self applied, And learn'd of lighter timber cotes to frame, Such as might save my sheep and me fro shame. "To make fine cages for the nightingale, And baskets of bulrushes, was my wont: Who to entrap the fish in winding sale Was better seen, or hurtful beasts to hont? I learned als the signs of heaven to ken, How Phoebus fails, where Venus sets, and when. "And tried time yet taught me greater things; The sudden rising of the raging seas, The sooth of birds by beating of their wings, The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease, And which be wont t' enrage the restless sheep, And which be wont to work eternal sleep. "But, ah! unwise and witless Colin Clout, That kydst the hidden kinds of many a weed, Yet kydst not one to cure thy sore heart-root, Whose rankling wound as yet does rifely bleed. Why livest thou still, and yet hast thy death's wound? Why diest thou still, and yet alive art found? "Thus is my summer worn away and wasted, Thus is my harvest hastened all-to rathe; The ear that budded fair is burnt and blasted, And all my hoped gain is turn'd to scathe. Of all the seed, that in my youth was sown, Was none but brakes and brambles to be mown. "My boughs with blooms that crowned were at first, And promised of timely fruit such store, Are left both bare and barren now at erst; The flattering fruit is fallen to ground before, And rotted ere they were half mellow ripe; My harvest, waste, my hope away did wipe. "The fragrant flowers, that in my garden grew, Be withered, as they had been gathered long: Their roots be dried up for lack of dew, Yet dewed with tears they have been ever among. Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spite, To spoil the flowers that should her garland dight? "And I, that whilome wont to frame my pipe Unto the shifting of the shepheard's foot, Such follies now have gathered as too ripe, And cast them out as rotten and unsoote. The looser lass I cast to please no more; One if I please, enough is me therefore. "And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedy crop of care; Which, when I thought have thresh'd in swelling sheave, Cockle for corn, and chaff for barley, bare: Soon as the chaff should in the fan be fin'd, All was blown away of the wavering wind. "So now my year draws to his latter term, My spring is spent, my summer burnt up quite; My harvest hastes to stir up Winter stern, And bids him claim with rigorous rage his right: So now he storms with many a sturdy stour; So now his blust'ring blast each coast doth scour. "The careful cold hath nipt my rugged rind, And in my face deep furrows eld hath pight: My head besprent with hoary frost I find, And by mine eye the crow his claw doth write: Delight is laid abed; and pleasure past; No sun now shines; clouds have all overcast. "Now leave, ye shepheards' boys, your merry glee; My Muse is hoarse and weary of this stound: Here will I hang my pipe upon this tree, Was never pipe of reed did better sound: Winter is come that blows the bitter blast, And after winter dreary death does hast. "Gather together, ye my little flock, My little flock, that was to me so lief; Let me, ah! let me in your folds ye lock, Ere the breme winter breed you greater grief. Winter is come, that blows the baleful breath, And after winter cometh timely death. "Adieu, delights, that lulled me asleep; Adieu, my dear, whose love I bought so dear; Adieu, my little lambs and loved sheep; Adieu, ye woods, that oft my witness were: Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true, Tell Rosalind, her Colin bids her adieu." COLIN'S EMBLEME. Vivitur ingenio: cÆtera mortis erunt. (The creations of genius live; other things shall be the prey of death.) colin's emblem Lo! I have made a Calender for every year, That steel in strength, and time in durance, shall outwear; And, if I marked well the stars' revolution, It shall continue till the world's dissolution, To teach the ruder shepheard how to feed his sheep, And from the falser's fraud his folded flock to keep. Go, little Calender! thou hast a free passport; Go but a lowly gate amongst the meaner sort: Dare not to match thy pipe with Tityrus his style, Nor with the Pilgrim But follow them far off, and their high steps adore; The better please, the worse despise; I ask no more. MERCE NON MERCEDE. (For recompense, but not for hire.) NOTES Accloyeth, encumbereth. Babes, dolls. Can, knows. Dapper ditties, pretty songs. Eath, easy. Faitours, villains, vagabonds. Galage, wooden shoe. Harbrough, habitation. If, unless. Jovisance, joyousness. Keep, care, charge. Laid, faint. Maintenance, behaviour. Narre, nearer. Overcrawed, overcrowed. Paddocks, toads. Quaint, strange. Rathe, early. Sale, wicker net. Tabrere, taborer. Uncouth, unknown. Venteth, snuffeth. War, worse. Yblent, blinded. chiswick_logo Transcriber's Notes: Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error: Emblem images have been moved to end of chapters. |
|
