  november NOVEMBER. ÆGLOGA UNDECIMA. ARGUMENT. In this xi. Æglogue he bewaileth the death of some maiden of great blood, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secret, and to me altogether unknown, albeit of himself I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loyes the French Queen; but far passing his reach, and in mine opinion all other the Æglogues of this Book. THENOT. COLIN. THENOT. Colin, my dear, when shall it please thee sing, As thou wert wont, songs of some jovisance? Thy Muse too long slumb'reth in sorrowing, Lulled asleep through Love's misgovernance. Now somewhat sing, whose endless sovenance Among the shepheards' swains may aye remain, Whether thee list thy loved lass advance, Or honour Pan with hymns of higher vein. COL. Thenot, now n'is the time of merrimake, Nor Pan to herie, nor with Love to play; Such mirth in May is meetest for to make, Or summer shade, under the cocked hay. But now sad winter welked hath the day, And Phoebus, weary of his yearly task, Ystabled hath his steeds in lowly lay, And taken up his inn in Fishes' Thilk sullen season sadder plight doth ask, And loatheth such delights as thou dost praise: The mournful Muse in mirth now list ne mask, As she was wont in youth and summer-days; But if thou algate lust light virelays, And looser songs of love to underfong, Who but thyself deserves such poets' praise? Relieve thy oaten pipes that sleepen long. THE. The nightingale is sovereign of song, Before him sits the titmouse silent be; And I, unfit to thrust in skilful throng, Should Colin make judge of my foolery. Nay, better learn of them that learned be, And have been watered at the Muses' well; The kindly dew drops from the higher tree, And wets the little plants that lowly dwell: But if sad winter's wrath, and season chill, Accord not with thy Muse's merriment, To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill, And sing of sorrow and death's dreariment; For dead is Dido, Dido! the great shepheard his daughter sheen: The fairest may she was that ever went, Her like she has not left behind, I ween: And, if thou wilt bewail my woful teen, I shall thee give yond cosset for thy pain; And, if thy rhymes as round and rueful been As those that did thy Rosalind complain, Much greater gifts for guerdon thou shalt gain. Than kid or cosset, which I thee benempt: Then up, I say, thou jolly shepheard swain, Let not my small demand be so contempt. COL. Thenot, to that I chose thou dost me tempt; But ah! too well I wot my humble vein, And how my rhymes be rugged and unkempt; Yet, as I con, my conning I will strain. "Up, then, Melpomene! the mournful'st Muse of Nine, Such cause of mourning never hadst afore; Up, grisly ghosts! and up my rueful rhyme! Matter of mirth now shalt thou have no more; For dead she is, that mirth thee made of yore. Dido, my dear, alas! is dead, Dead, and lieth wrapt in lead. O heavy herse! Let streaming tears be poured out in store; O careful verse! "Shepheards, that by your flocks of Kentish downs abide, Wail ye this woful waste of Nature's wark; Wail we the wight, whose presence was our pride; Wail we the wight, whose absence is our cark; The sun of all the world is dim and dark; The earth now lacks her wonted light, And all we dwell in deadly night. O heavy herse! Break we our pipes, that shrill'd as loud as lark; O careful verse! "Why do we longer live, (ah! why live we so long?) Whose better days Death hath shut up in woe? The fairest flower our garland all among Is faded quite, and into dust ygo. Sing now, ye shepheards' daughters, sing no moe The songs that Colin made you in her praise, But into weeping turn your wanton lays. O heavy herse! Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago: O careful verse! "Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade, And lieth buried long in Winter's bale; Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd, It flow'reth fresh, as it should never fail? But thing on earth that is of most avail, As virtue's branch and beauty's bud, Reliven not for any good. O heavy herse! The branch once dead, the bud eke needs must quail; O careful verse! "She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayn!) For beauty's praise and pleasance had no peer; So well she couth the shepheards entertain With cakes and cracknels, and such country cheer: Ne would she scorn the simple shepheard's swain; For she would call him often heme, And give him curds and clouted cream. O heavy herse! Als Colin Clout she would not once disdain; O careful verse! "But now such happy cheer is turn'd to heavy chance, Such pleasance now displac'd by dolor's dint; All music sleeps, where Death doth lead the dance, And shepheards' wonted solace is extinct. The blue in black, the green in gray, is tinct; The gaudy garlands deck her grave, The faded flowers her corse embrave. O heavy herse! Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with tears besprint; O careful verse! "O thou great shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy grief? Where be the nosegays that she dight for thee? The coloured chaplets wrought with a chief, The knotted rush-rings, and gilt rosemary? For she deemed nothing too dear for thee. Ah! they be all yclad in clay; One bitter blast blew all away. O heavy herse! Thereof nought remains but the memory; O careful verse! "Ah me! that dreary death should strike so mortal stroke, That can undo Dame Nature's kindly course; The faded locks fall from the lofty oak, The floods do gasp, for dried is their source, And floods of tears flow in their stead perforce: The mantled meadows mourn, Their sundry colours turn. O heavy herse! The heavens do melt in tears without remorse; O careful verse! "The feeble flocks in field refuse their former food, And hang their heads as they would learn to weep; The beasts in forest wail as they were wood, Except the wolves, that chase the wand'ring sheep, Now she is gone that safely did them keep: The turtle on the bared branch Laments the wound that Death did launch. O heavy herse! And Philomele her song with tears doth steep; O careful verse! "The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and dance, And for her garland olive branches bear, Now baleful boughs of cypress do advance; The Muses, that were wont green bays to wear, Now bringen bitter elder branches sere; The Fatal Sisters eke repent Her vital thread so soon was spent. O heavy herse! Mourn now, my Muse, now mourn with heavy cheer; O careful verse! "O trustless state of earthly things, and slipper hope Of mortal men, that swink and sweat for nought, And, shooting wide, doth miss the marked scope; Now have I learn'd (a lesson dearly bought) That n'is on earth assurance to be sought; For what might be in earthly mould, That did her buried body hold? O heavy herse! Yet saw I on the bier when it was brought; O careful verse! "But maugre Death, and dreaded Sisters' deadly spite, And gates of hell, and fiery Furies' force, She hath the bonds broke of eternal night, Her soul unbodied of the burdenous corse. Why then weeps Lobbin so without remorse? O Lobb! thy loss no longer lament; Dido is dead, but into heaven hent. O happy herse! Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source, O joyful verse! "Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with plaints, As if some evil were to her betight? She reigns a goddess now among the saints, That whilome was the saint of shepheards light, And is installed now in heavens' height, I see thee, blessed soul! I see Walk in Elysian fields so free. O happy herse! Might I once come to thee, (O that I might!) O joyful verse! "Unwise and wretched men, to weet what's good or ill, We deem of death as doom of ill desert; But knew we, fools, what it us brings until, Die would we daily, once it to expert! No danger there the shepheard can assert; air fields and pleasant lays there bene; The fields aye fresh, the grass aye green. O happy herse! Make haste, ye shepheards, thither to revert. O joyful verse! "Dido is gone afore; (whose turn shall be the next?) There lives she with the blessed gods in bliss, There drinks she nectar with ambrosia mixt, And joys enjoys that mortal men do miss. The honour now of highest gods she is, That whilome was poor shepheards' pride, While here on earth she did abide. O happy herse! Cease now, my song, my woe now wasted is; O joyful verse!" THE. Ay, frank shepheard, how be thy verses meint With doleful pleasance, so as I ne wot Whether rejoice or weep for great constraint! Thine be the cosset, well hast thou it got. Up, Colin, up, enough thou mourned hast; Now 'gins to mizzle, his we homeward fast. COLIN'S EMBLEME. La mort ny mord. (Death has lost its sting.) colin's emblem |
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