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All as the fheepe, fuch was the fhepheards looke, For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!) May seem he lov'd, or else some 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 fsheepe 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 fhepheards god, that once did loue, Pittie the paines that thou thyfelfe didst proue.

Thou barren ground whom Winters wrath hath wafted,

Art made a mirrour, to behold my plight: 20 Whilom thy fresh Spring flowr'd, and after hafted Thy Sommer proude, with daffadillies dight; And now is come thy Winters ftormie state, Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedft 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 spring 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 froft, In stead of bloffoms, wherewith your buds did flowre,

I fee your teares, that from your boughs doe raine,
Whose drops in drerie yficles remaine.


Alfo my luftfull leafe is dry and feare,

My timely buds with wailing all are wafted: 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, whose fleece is rough and rent, Whose knees are weake, through fast, and euill fare,

Maift 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 curfe 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 fhee.
Yet all for nought: fuch fight hath bred my
Ah God, that loue fhould breed both ioy and paine!


It is not Hobbinol, wherefore I plaine,
my loue he seeke with daily fuit :
His clownish gifts and curtefies I disdaine,
His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.
Ah, foolish Hobbinol, thy gifts been vaine:
Colin them gives to Rosalinde againe.



I loue thilke laffe, (alas, why doe I loue?)
And am forlorne, (alas, why am I lorne ?)
Shee deignes not my good will, but doth reprooue,
And of my rurall mufick holdeth fcorne.
Shepheards deuife fhe hateth as the fnake, 65
And laughes the fongs that Colin Clout does make.

Wherefore my pipe, albee rude Pan thou please, Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would, And thou vnluckie Mufe, that woontft to ease

My mufing minde, yet canft not, when thou should, Both pipe and Muse, shall fore the while abie: 71 So broke his oaten pipe, and downe did lie.

By that the welked Phoebus gan auaile

His wearie waine, and now the froftie Night Her mantle blacke through heauen gan overhaile; Which feene, the penfiue boy halfe in despight Arofe, and homeward droue his funned sheepe, Whose hanging heads did feem his careful cafe to




ONE day I wrote her name vpon the strand,
But came the waues and washed it away :
Againe, I wrote it with a second hand,

But came the tyde, and made my paines his pray. Vaine man, faid fhe, that dooft in vaine affay, 5 A mortal thing fo to immortalize,

For I myselfe shall like to this decay,

And eke my name be wiped out likewise. Not fo, quoth I, let bafer things deuise

To die in duft, but you fhall liue by fame: 10 My verse your virtues rare shall eternize,

And in the heauens write your glorious name. Where, when as death fhall all the world fubdew, Our loue fhall liue, and later life renew.

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WHAT time the weary weather-beaten sheep,

To get them fodder, hie them to the fold, And the poor herds that lately did them keep

Shudder'd with keenness of the winter's cold: The groves of their late fummer pride forlorn, 5 In moffy mantles fadly feem'd to mourn.

That filent time, about the upper world,

Phoebus had forc'd his fiery-footed team, And down again the steep Olympus whirl'd


To wash his chariot in the Western stream, In night's black fhade, when Rowland, all alone, Thus him complains, his fellow fhepherds gone.

You flames, quoth he, wherewith thou heaven art dight,

That me (alive) the woful'ft creature view, You, whose aspects have wrought me this defpight, And me with hate yet ceaselessly pursue, For whom too long I tarried for relief, Now ask but death, that only ends my grief.


* Born 1563; dyed 1631.

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