  june JUNE. ÆGLOGA SEXTA. ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is wholly vowed to the complaining of Colin's ill success in his love. For being (as is aforesaid) enamoured of a country lass Rosalind, and having (as seemeth) found place in her heart, he lamenteth to his dear friend Hobbinol, that he is now forsaken unfaithfully, and in his stead Menalcas, another shepheard, received disloyally. And this is the whole Argument of this Æglogue. HOBBINOL. COLIN CLOUT. HOBBINOL. Lo! Colin, here the place whose pleasant site From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind, Tell me, what wants me here to work delight? The simple air, the gentle warbling wind, So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find; The grassy ground with dainty daisies dight, The bramble bush, where birds of every kind To the waters' fall their tunes attemper right. COL. O happy Hobbinol, I bless thy state, That Paradise hast found which Adam lost: Here wander may thy flock early or late, Withouten dread of wolves to be ytost; Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel Fate And angry gods pursue from coast to coast, Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate. HOB. Then, if by me thou list advised be, Forsake the soil that so doth thee bewitch; Leave me those hills were harbrough n'is to see, Nor holly-bush, nor briar, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepheards rich, And fruitful flocks, be every where to see: Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee; But friendly Faeries, met with many Graces, And lightfoot Nymphs, can chase the ling'ring Night With heydeguys, and trimly trodden traces, Whilst Sisters Nine, which dwell on Parnass height, Do make them music for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces Will pipe and dance, when Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places. COL. And I, whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love, In such delights did joy amongst my peers; But riper age such pleasures doth reprove: My fancy eke from former follies move To stayed steps; for time in passing wears, (As garments do, which waxen old above,) And draweth new delights with hoary hairs. Then couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made; Then would I seek for queen-apples unripe; To give my Rosalind, and in summer shade Dight gaudy garlands was my common trade, To crown her golden locks; but years more ripe, And loss of her, whose love as life I weigh'd, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe. HOB. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelays, Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing, I more delight than lark in summer days, Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, And taught the birds, which in the lower spring Did shroud in shady leaves from sunny rays, Frame to thy song their cheerful chirruping, Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays. I saw Calliope with Muses moe, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tambourins forgo, And from the fountain, where they sat around, Run after hastily thy silver sound; But, when they came where thou thy skill didst shew, They drew aback, as half with shame confound Shepheard to see, them in their art outgo. COL. Of Muses, Hobbinol, I con no skill, For they be daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorn of homely shepheard's quill; For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove, Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never list presume to Parnass hill, But, piping low in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, all be it ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest: With shepheard sits not follow flying Fame, But feed his flock in fields where falls them best. I wot my rhymes be rough, and rudely drest; The fitter they my careful case to frame: Enough is me to paint out my unrest, And pour my piteous plaints out in the same. The god of shepheards, Tityrus, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make: He, whilst he lived, was the sovereign head Of shepheards all that be with love ytake; Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly slake The flames which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed. Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should Death on him such outrage shew!) And all his passing skill with him is fled, The fame whereof doth daily greater grow. But, if on me some little drops would flow Of that the spring was in his learned head, I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then should my plaints, caus'd of discourtesy, As messengers of this my painful plight, Fly to my love where ever that she be, And pierce her heart with point of worthy wite, As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spite. And thou, Menalcas! that by treachery Didst underfong my lass to wax so light, Shouldst well be known for such thy villany. But since I am not as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepheards! which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills, or dales, or other where, Bear witness all of this so wicked deed; And tell the lass, whose flower is wox a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless fear, That she the truest shepheard's heart made bleed That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. HOB. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case; Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That art the root of all this ruthful woe! But now is time, I guess, homeward to go: Then rise, ye blessed flocks! and home apace, Lest night with stealing steps do you foreslow, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace. COLIN'S EMBLEME. Gia speme spenta. (Already hope is lost.) colin's emblem |
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