PRISONER IN WINDSOR, HE RECOUNTETH HIS PLEASURE THERE PASSED. BY HENRY HOWARD, EARL OF SURREY. So cruell prifon howe could betyde, alas! * As proude Windfor; where I, in luft and joy, Have myft the ball, and gote fighte of our dame, 15 * Born 15..; beheaded 1546. V. 6. trove. With filver droppes the meade yet spreade for ruthe, Our tender limmes, that yet fhot up in lengthe; 45 Whom in thy walles thou doeft eche nyghte enclose, To other leefe,' but unto me moft deere :' V. 48. lufe. cleere, V. 29. holes. Eccho (alas!) that doth my forrow rewe, 50 DESCRIPTION AND PRAISE OF HIS LOVE GERALDINE. BY THE SAME. FROM Tufcane came my ladies worthy race, 5 Faire Florence was fometyme her auncient seate; And Windsor, alas, doth chase me from her fight. ECLOGUE. BY EDMUND SPENSER. * ARGUMENT. IN this Aeglogue, Colin Clout, a Shepheards boy, complaineth bimfelfe of his unfortunate loue, beeing but newly (as it feemeth) enamoured of a countrey laffe called Rofalind : with which ftrong affection being verie fore trauelled, hee compareth his carefull cafe to the fad feafon of the yeere, to the froftie ground, to the frozen trees, and to his owne winter-beaten flocke. And lastly, finding himselfe robbed of all former pleasance and delight, he breaketh his pipe in peeces, and cafteth himselfe to the ground. A COLIN CLOUT. SHEPHEARDS boy (no better doe him call), When Winters waftefull spight was almost spent, All in a sunshine day, as did befall, Led forth his flocke, that had been long ypent. So faint they woxe, and feeble in the fold, That now vnnethes their feet could them vphold. Born 1553; dyed 1598. 5 All as the sheepe, fuch was the fhepheards looke, For pale and wanne he was, (alas the while!) May seem he lov'd, or else fome 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 sheepe there fed. Yee gods of loue, that pittie louers paine, (If any gods the paine of louers pittie :) II Looke from aboue, where you in ioyes remaine, 15 And bow your eares vnto my dolefull dittie. And Pan, thou shepheards god, that once did loue, Pittie the paines that thou thyfelfe didft 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 hasted Thy Sommer proude, with daffadillies dight; And now is come thy Winters ftormie state, Thy mantle mard, wherein thou maskedst late. Such rage as Winters raigneth in my heart, 25 My life-blood freezing, with vnkindly cold: Such ftormie ftoures doe breed my balefull fmart, As if my yeeres were wafte, and woxen old. And yet, alas, but now my fpring begonne, And yet, alas, it is already donne. 39 |