Tho, under colour of shepheards, somewhile
There crept in wolves, full of fraud and guile,
That often devoured their owne sheepe,
And often the shepheards that did hem keep:
This was the first sourse of shepheards sorow,
That now uill be quitt with baile nor borow.

[ous,

PAL. Three thinges to beare bene very burdenBut the fourth to forbeare is outragious: Wemen, that of loves longing once lust, Hardly forbearen, but have it they must: So when choler is inflamed with rage, Wanting revenge, is hard to asswage: And who can counsell a thirstie soule, With patience to forbeare the offred bowle? But of all burdens, that a man can beare, Most is, a fooles talke to beare and to heare. I weene the geaunt has not such a weight, That beares on his shoulders the Heavens height. Thou findest fault where nys to be found, And buildest strong warke upon a weake ground: Thou raylest on right withouten reason, And blamest hem much for small encheason. How shoulden shepheardes live, if not so? What? should they pynen in payne and woe? Nay, say I thereto, by my dear borow, If I may rest, I nill live in sorow.

Sorow ne neede be hastened on,

For he will come, without calling, anone.
While times enduren of tranquillitie,
Usen we freely our felicitie;

For, when approchen the stormie stowres,

"Thy father, had he lived this day,
To see the braunche of his body displaye,
How would he have ioyed at this sweete sight?
But ah! false Fortune such ioy did him spight,
And cut off his dayes with untimely woe,
Betraying him into the traynes of his foe.
Now I, a wailefull widowe behight,
Of my olde age have this one delight,
To see thee succeede in thy fathers steade,
And flourish in flowres of lustihead;
For even so thy father his head upheld,
And so his haughty hornes did he weld."
Tho marking him with melting eyes,

A thrilling throbe from her heart did arise,
And interrupted all her other speeche

With some olde sorow that made a new breache;
Seemed she saw in her younglings face

The old lineaments of his fathers grace.

At last her solein silence she broke, And gan his new-budded beard to stroke. "Kiddie," quoth she, "thou kenst the great

care

showres;

And, sooth to sayne, nought seemeth sike strife,
That shepheards so witen eche others life,
And layen her faults the worlds beforne,
The while their foes done cache of hem scorne.
Let none mislike of that may not be mended;
So conteck soone by concord mought be ended.

PIERS. Shepheard, I list no accordaunce make
With shepheard, that does the right way forsake;
And of the twaine, if choise were to me,
Had lever my foe then my friend he be;
For what concord han light and darke sam?
Or what peace has the lion with the lambe?
Such faitors, when theyr false hearts bene hidde,
Will doe as did the foxe by the kidde.

PAL. Now, Piers, of fellowship, tell us that saying; For the lad can keep both our flockes from straying. PIERS. Thilke same kidde (as I can well devise) Was too very foolish and unwise; For on a time, in sommer season, The gate her dame, that had good reason, Yode forth abroad unto the greene wood, To brouze, or play, or what she thought good: But, for she had a motherly care Of her young sonne, and wit to beware, She set her youngling before her knee, That was both fresh and lovely to see, And full of favour as kidde mought be. His vellet head began to shoote out, And his wreathed horns gan newly sprout; The blossomes of lust to bud did beginne, And spring forth ranckly under his chinne. "My sonne," (quoth she, and with that gan weepe; For carefull thoughtes in her heart did creepe;) "God blesse thee, poore orphane! as he mought me, And send thee ioy of thy iollitie.

Thy father," (that worde shee spake with payne, For a sigh bad nigh rent her heart in twaine,)

Open the dore at his request."

So schooled the gate her wanton sonne, That aunswer'd his mother, all should be done. Tho went the pensive damme out of dore, Aud chaunst to stumble at the threshold flore; Her stombling steppe somewhat her amazed, (For such, as signes of ill lucke, bene dispraised 5) Yet forth she yode, thereat half agast; And kiddie the dore sperred after her fast. It was not long, after she was gone, But the false foxe came to the dore anone; Not as a foxe, for then he had be kend, But all as a poore pedler he did wend, Bearing a trusse of trifles at his backe, As bells, and babes, and glasses, in his packe: A biggen he had got about his braine; For in his headpeace he felt a sore paine: His hinder heele was wrapt in a clout, For with great cold he had got the gout: There at the dore he cast me downe his pack, And layd him downe, and groned, "Alack! alack! Ah! dear Lord! and sweet Saint Charitee! That some good body would once pitie mee !" Well heard kiddie all this sore constraint, And lengd to know the cause of his complaint; Tho, creeping close behinde the wickets clink, Privily he peeped out through a chinck, Yet not so privily but the foxe him spyed; For deceitful meaning is double-eyed.

"Ah! good young maister," then gan he crye, "Jesus blesse that sweete face I espye, And keep your corpse from the carefull stounds That in my carrion carcas abounds."

The kidd, pittying his heavinesse, Asked the cause of his great distressse, And also who, and whence that he were.

Tho he, that had well ycond his lere, Thus medled his talke with many a teare:

"Sicke, sicke, alas! and little lacke of dead,
But I be relieved by your beastlyhead.

I am a poore sheepe, albe my colour donne,
For with long travaile I am brent in the sonne;
And if that, my grandsire me sayd, be true,
Sicker, I am very sybbe to you;
So be your goodlihead do not disdaine
The base kinred of so simple swaine.
Of mercy and favour then I you pray,
With your ayde to forestall my nere decay.”
Tho out of his packe a glasse he tooke,
Wherein while kiddie unwares did looke,
He was so enamored with the newell,
That nought he deemed deare for the jewell:
Tho opened he the dore, and in came
The false foxe, as he were starke lame:
His tayle he clapt betwixt his legs twayne,
Lest he should be descried by his trayne.

Being within, the kidd made him good glee,
All for the love of the glasse he did see.
After his chere, the pedler can chat,
And tell many leasinges of this and that,
And how he could shew many a fine knack;
Tho shewed his ware and opened his packe,
All save a bell, which he left behinde
In the basket for the kidd to finde;
Which when the kidd stouped downe to catch,
He popt him in, and his basket did latch;
Ne stayed he once the dore to make fast,
But ranne away with him in all hast.

Home when the doubtfull damme had her hide,
She mought see the dore stand open wide;
All agast, lowdly she gan to call
Her kidd; but he nould auns were at all:
Tho on the flore she saw the merchaundise
Of which her sonne had sette too deere a prise.
What help! her kidd she knew well was gone:
She weeped, and wayled, and made great mone.
Such end had the kidd, for he nould warned be
Of craft, coloured with simplicitie;
And such end, perdie, does all hem remayne,
That of such faisers friendship bene fayne.

PAL. Truely, Piers, thou art beside thy wit,
Furthest fro the marke, weening it to hit.
Now, I pray thee, let me thy tale borow,
For our sir John, to say to morow
At the kerke when it is holiday;
For well he meanes, but little can say.
But, and if foxes bene so craftie as so,
Much needeth all shepheards hem to know.

PIERS. Of their falshode more could I recount,
But now the bright Sunne gymeth to dismount;
And, for the deawie night now doth nye,
I hold it best for us home to hye.

PALINODES EMBLEME.

Pas men apistos apistei,

PIERS HIS EMBLEME.

Tis d'ara pistis apisto;

THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER.

JUNE

AEGLOGA SEXTA.

ARGUMENT.

is aforesaid) enamored of a country lasse Rosalind, and having (as seemeth) found place in her heart, hee lamenteth to his deare friend Hobbinoll, that he is now forsaken unfaithfully, and in his steade Menalcas, another shepheard, received disloyally. And this is the whole argument of this aeglogue.

HOBBINOLL. COLIN CLOUT.

HOBBINOLL.

Lo! Colin, here the place whose plesaunt syte
From other shades hath weand my wandring minde,
Tell mee, what wants mee here to worke delyte?
The simple ayre, the gentle warbling winde,
So calme, so coole, as no where else I finde;
The grassie grounde with daintie daysies dight,
The bramble bush, where byrdes of every kinde
To the waters fall their tunes attemper right.

COL. O, happie Hobbinoll, I blesse thy state, That Paradise hast founde which Adam lost: Here wander may thy flocke early or late, Withouten dread of wolves to bene ytost; Thy lovely layes here maist thou freely boste: But I, unhappie man! whom cruell fate And angrie gods pursue from coste to coste, Can no where finde to shroude my lucklesse pate.

HOB. Then, if by mee thou list advised bee,
Forsake the soyle that so doth thee bewitch;
Leave mee those hilles where harbrough nis to see,
Nor holy-bush, nor brere, nor winding ditch;
And to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch,
And fruitful flocks, bene every where to see:
Here no night-ravens lodge, more black then pitch,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor gastly owles doe flee;

But friendly faeries, met with many graces,
And lightfoote nymphes, can chace the lingring night
With heydeguyes, and trimly trodden traces,
Whilst Sisters nine, which dwell on Parnasse hight,
Doe make them musick for their more delight;
And Pan himselfe to kisse their christall faces
Will pype and daunce, when Phoebe shineth bright:
Such pierlesse pleasures have wee in these places.

COL. And I, whylst youth, and course of carelesse
Did let mee walke withouten lincks of love, [yeeres,
In such delights did ioy amongst my peeres;
But ryper age such pleasures doth reproove:
My fansie eke from former follies moove
To stayed steps; for time in passing weares,
(As garments doen, which wexen olde above,)
And draweth newe delights with hoarie haires.

Tho couth I sing of love, and tune my pype
Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made;
Tho would I seeke for queene-apples unrype;
To give my Rosalind, and in sommer shade
Dight gaudie girlonds was my common trade,
To crowne her golden locks; but yeeres more rype,
And losse of her, whose love as lyfe I wayde,
Those weary wanton toyes away did wype.

HOB. Colin, to heare thy rymes and roundelayes, Which thou wert wont on wastefull hilles to sing,

And taught the byrdes, which in the lower spring
Did shroude in shady leaves from sunny rayes,
Frame to thy souge their cheerefull cheriping,
Or holde their peace, for shame of thy sweete layes.

I sawe Calliope with Muses moe,
Soone as thy oaten pype began to sounde,
Their yvory lutes and tamburins forgoe,
And from the fountaine, where they sat around,
Renne after hastely thy silver sound;

But, when they came where thou thy skill didst showe,

They drewe abacke, as halfe with shame confound Shepheard to see, them in their arte outgoe.

COL. Of Muses, Hobbinoll, I conne no skill,
For they bene daughters of the highest love,
And holden scorne of homely shepheards quill;
For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove,
Which him to much rebuke and daunger drove,
I never list presume to Parnasse hill,
But, pyping low in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please myselfe, all be it ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame,
Ne strive to winne renowne, or passe the rest:
With shepheard fittes not followe flying Fame,
But feede his flocke in fieldes where falls hem
best.

I wote my rymes bene rough, and rudely drest;
The fitter they my carefull case to frame:
Enough is mee to paint out my unrest,
And poure my piteous plaintes out in the same.

The god of shepheards, Tityrus, is dead,
Who taught mee homely, as I can, to make:
Hee, whilst hee lived, was the soveraigne head
Of shepheards all that bene with love ytake:
Well couth hee waile his woes, and lightly slake
The flames which love within his heart had bredde,
And tell us merry tales to keepe us wake,
The while our sheepe about us safely fedde.

Nowe dead hee is, and lyeth wrapt in lead,

(O why should Death on him such outrage showe!)
And all his passing skill with him is fledde,
The fame whereof doth daylie greater growe.
But, if on mee some little drops would flowe
Of that he spring was in his learned hedde,
I soone would learne these woods to waile my woe,
And teache the trees their trickling teares to shedde.

Then should my plaintes, causde of discurtesee,
As messengers of this my plainfull plight,
Fiye to my love where ever that shee bee,
And pierce her heart with poynt of worthy wight,
As shee deserves, that wrought so deadly spight.
And thou, Menalcas! that by trecheree
Didst underfonge my lasse to wexe so light,
Shouldst well be knowne for such thy villanee.

But since I am not as I wishe I were,
Yee gentle shepheards! which your flocks doe

feede,

Whether on hylles, or dales, or other where,
Beare witnesse all of this so wicked deede;
And tell the lasse, whose flowre is woxe a weede,
And faultlesse faith is turn'd to faithlesse fere,
That shee the truest shepheards heart made bleede
That lyves on Earth, and loved her most dere.

HOB. O carefull Colin, I lament thy case; Thy teares would make the hardest flint to flowe! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and voyde of grace, That art the roote of all this ruthfull woe! But now is time, I gesse, homeward to goe: Then rise, yee blessed flocks! and home apace, Lest night with stealing steppes do you foresloe, And wett your tender lambs that by you trace.

COLINS EMBLEME. Gia speme spenta.

THE SHEPHEARDS CALENDER.

IULY.

AEGLOGA SEPTIMA.

ARGUMENT.

This aeglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepheards, and to the shame and dispraise of proud and ambitious pastours: such as Morrell is here imagined to be.

THOMALIN, MORRELL.

THOMALIN.

Is not thilke same a goteheard prowde,
That sittes on yonder bancke,

Whose straying heard them selfe doth shrowde
Emong the bushes rancke?

MOR. What, ho, thou iolly shepheardes swaine,
Come up the hill to me;

Better is then the lowly plaine,

Als for thy flocke and thee.

THOм. Ah! God shield, man, that I should clime, And learne to looke alofte;

This rede is rife, that oftentime

Great clymbers fall unsoft. In humble dales is footing fast,

The trode is not so tickle,

And though one fall through heedless hast,
Yet is his misse not mickle.

And now the Sunne hath reared upp
His fierie-footed teme,
Making his way between the cupp
And golden diademe;

The rampant lyon hunts he fast,

With dogges of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast
Pyne, plagues, and dreerie death.
Against his cruell scortching heate,
Where thou hast coverture,
The wastefull hilles unto his threate
a plaine overture:

But, if thee lust to holden chat

With seely shepheardes swayne,
Come downe, and learne the little what,
That Thomalin can sayne.

MOR. Syker thous but a leasie loord,
And rekes much of thy swinek,
That with fond termes, and witlesse wordes,
To blere mine eyes doest thinke.

Which did himselfe beget?

For they bene hale enough, I trowe,

And lyken their abode;

But, if they with thy gotes should yede, They soone might be corrupted,

Or like not of the frowie fede,

Or with the weedes be glutted.

The hilles, where dwelled holy saints,
I reverence and adore,

Not for themselfe, but for the saincts
Which ban bene dead of yore.

And now they bene to Heaven forewent,
Their good is with them goe;

Their sample onely to us lent,

That als we mought doe soe.

Shepheards they weren of the best,
And lived in lowly leas:

That bought his flocke so deare,
And them did save with bloudy sweat
From wolves that would them teare.

MOR. Beside, as holy Fathers sayne, There is a holy place

Where Titan riseth from the mayne
To renne his dayly race,

Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed,
And all the skie doth leane;
There is the cave where Phoebe layed
The shepheard long to dreame.
Whilome there used shepheardes all
To feede theyr flockes at will,
Till by his folly one did fall,
That all the rest did spill.

And, sithens shepheards bene foresayd
From places of delight,
For-thy I weene thou be afrayd
To clime this hillës height.
Of Synah can I tell thee more,

And of our Ladyes Bowre;

But little needes to strow my store,
Suffice this bill of our.
Here han the holy Faunes recourse,
And Sylvanes haunten rathe;
Here has the salt Medway his sourse,
Wherein the Nymphes doe bathe;
The salt Medway, that trickling stremes
Adowne the dales of Kent,
Till with his elder brother Themes
His brackish waves be meynt.
Here growes melampode every where,
And teribinth, good for gotes;
The one my madding kidds to smere,
The next to heale their throates.
Hereto, the hilles bene nigher Heaven,
And thence the passage ethe;
As well can proove the piercing levin,
That seldome falles beneath.

Why done we them disease? Such one he was (as I have heard

Old Algrind often sayne)

That whilome was the first shepheard,
And lived with little gayne:

And meeke he was, as meeke mought be,
Simple as simple sheepe;
Humble, and like in eche degree

The flocke which he did keepe.
Often he used of his keepe

A sacrifice to bring,

Now with a kidd, now with a sheepe,
The altars hallowing.

So lowted he unto his lord,

Such favour couth he finde,
That never sithens was abhord

The simple shepheards kinde.
And such, I weene, the brethren were
That came from Canaän,

The brethren twelve, that kept yfere
The flockes of mightie Pan.

But nothing such thilke shepheard was
Whom Ida hill did beare,

That left his flocke to fetche a lasse,

Whose love he bought too deare. For he was proud, that ill was payd, (No such mought shepheards be!) And with lewd lust was overlaid;

Tway things doen ill agree.

But shepheard mought be meek and mild, Well-eyed, as Argus was,

With fleshly follies undefiled,

And stoute as steede of brasse. Sike one (sayd Algrind) Moses was, That sawe his Makers face,

His face, more cleare then cristall glasse,
And spake to him in place.

This had a brother (his name I knewe)
The first of all his cote,

Of Heaven to demen so;

How be I am but rude and borrell,

Yet nearer waies I know.

To kerke the narre, from God more farre,
Has bene an olde-said sawe;

And he, that strives to touche a starre,
Oft stombles at a strawe.
Alsoone may shepheard climbe to skie
That leades in lowly dales,
As goteherd prowd, that, sitting hie,
Upon the mountayne sayles.
My seely sheepe like well belowe,
They neede not melampode,

As he that earst I hote.

Whilome all these were low and liefe, And loved theyr flockes to feede; They never stroven to be chiefe,

And simple was theyr weede: But now (thanked be God therefore!) The world is well amend, Theyr weedes bene not so nighly wore;

Such simplesse mought them shend! They bene yclad in purple and pall, So hath theyr God them blist; They reigne and rulen over all, And lord it as they list;