THE SHEPHEARD'S CALENDER:

TWELVE AEGLOGUES PROPORTIONABLE TO THE TWELVE MONETHES

ENTITLED TO THE NOBLE AND VERTUOUS GENTLEMAN MOST WORTHY OF ALL TITLES BOTH OF LEARNING & CHIVALRY, MAISTER PHILIP SIDNEY.

BY EDMUND SPENSER:
NEWLY ADORNED
WITH TWELVE PICTURES AND OTHER DEVICES
BY
WALTER CRANE.

LONDON & NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS
MDCCCXCVIII

TO HIS BOOK.

Go, little Book! thyself present,

As child whose parent is unkent,

To him that is the President

Of Nobleness and Chivalry:

And if that Envy bark at thee,

As sure it will, for succour flee

Under the shadow of his wing.

And, asked who thee forth did bring,

A shepheard's swain, say, did thee sing,

All as his straying flock he fed:

And, when his Honour has thee read,

Crave pardon for thy hardyhed.

But, if that any ask thy name,

Say, thou wert base-begot with blame;

Forthy thereof thou takest shame.

And, when thou art past jeopardy,

Come tell me what was said of me,

And I will send more after thee.

IMMERITO.

TABLE OF CONTENTS.

TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED
BOTH ORATOR AND POET,
MAISTER GABRIEL HARVEY,

His very special and singular good friend E. K.
commendeth the good liking of this his good
labour, and the patronage of the new Poet.

Uncouth, unkiss'd, said the old famous poet Chaucer: whom for his excellency and wonderful skill in making, his scholar Lidgate, a worthy scholar of so excellent a maister, calleth the loadstar of our language: and whom our Colin Clout in his Æglogue, calleth Tityrus the god of shepheards, comparing him to the worthiness of the Roman Tityrus, Virgil. Which proverb, mine own good friend M. Harvey, as in that good old poet it served well Pandar's purpose for the bolstering of his bawdy brocage, so very well taketh place in this our new Poet, who for that he is uncouth (as said Chaucer) is unkiss'd, and unknown to most men, is regarded but of a few. But I doubt not, so soon as his name shall come into the knowledge of men, and his worthiness be sounded in the trump of Fame, but that he shall be not only kiss'd, but also beloved of all, embraced of the most, and wonder'd at of the best. No less, I think, deserveth his wittiness in devising, his pithiness in uttering, his complaints of love so lovely, his discourses of pleasure so pleasantly, his pastoral rudeness, his moral wiseness, his due observing of decorum every where, in personages, in seasons, in matter, in speech; and generally, in all seemly simplicity of handling his matters, and framing his words: the which of many things which in him be strange, I know will seem the strangest, and words themselves being so ancient, the knitting of them so short and intricate, and the whole period and compass of speech so delightsome for the roundness, and so grave for the strangeness. And first of the words to speak, I grant they be something hard, and of most men unused, yet both English, and also used of most excellent authors, and most famous poets. In whom, when as this our Poet hath been much travailed and throughly read, how could it be, (as that worthy orator said) but that walking in the sun, although for other cause he walked, yet needs he must be sunburnt; and, having the sound of those ancient poets still ringing in his ears, he must needs, in singing, hit out some of their tunes. But whether he useth them by such casualty and custom, or of set purpose and choice, as thinking them fittest for such rustical rudeness of shepheards, either for that their rough sound would make his rhymes more ragged and rustical; or else because such old and obsolete words are most used of country folk, sure I think, and think I think not amiss, that they bring great grace, and, as one would say, authority to the verse. For albe, amongst many other faults, it specially be objected of Valla against Livy, and of other against Sallust, that with over much study they affect antiquity, as covering thereby credence and honour of elder years; yet I am of opinion, and eke the best learned are of the like, that those ancient solemn words are a great ornament, both in the one, and in the other: the one labouring to set forth in his work an eternal image of antiquity, and the other carefully discoursing matters of gravity and importance. For, if my memory fail not, Tully in that book, wherein he endeavoureth to set forth the pattern of a perfect orator, saith that ofttimes an ancient word maketh the style seem grave, and as it were reverend, no otherwise than we honour and reverence gray hairs for a certain religious regard, which we have of old age. Yet neither every where must old words be stuffed in, nor the common dialect and manner of speaking so corrupted thereby, that, as in old buildings, it seem disorderly and ruinous. But all as in most exquisite pictures they us?e to blaze and pourtray not only the dainty lineaments of beauty, but also round about it to shadow the rude thickets and craggy clifts, that, by the baseness of such parts, more excellency may accrue to the principal: for oftentimes we find ourselves, I know not how, singularly delighted with the shew of such natural rudeness, and take great pleasure in that disorderly order. Even so do those rough and harsh terms enlumine, and make more clearly to appear, the brightness of brave and glorious words. So oftentimes a discord in music maketh a comely concordance: so great delight took the worthy poet Alceus to behold a blemish in the joint of a well-shaped body. But, if any will rashly blame such his purpose in choice of old and unwonted words, him may I more justly blame and condemn, or of witless headiness in judging, or of heedless hardiness in condemning: for, not marking the compass of his bent, he will judge of the length of his cast: for in my opinion it is one especial praise of many, which are due to this Poet, that he hath laboured to restore, as to their rightful heritage, such good and natural English words, as have been long time out of use, and almost clean disherited. Which is the only cause, that our mother tongue, which truly of itself is both full enough for prose, and stately enough for verse, hath long time been counted most bare and barren of both. Which default when as some endeavoured to salve and recure, they patched up the holes with pieces and rags of other languages, borrowing here of the French, there of the Italian, every where of the Latin; not weighing how ill those tongues accord with themselves, but much worse with ours: So now they have made our English tongue a gallimaufrey, or hodgepodge of all other speeches. Other some not so well seen in the English tongue, as perhaps in other languages, if they happen to hear an old word, albeit very natural and significant, cry out straightway, that we speak no English, but gibberish, or rather such as in old time Evander's mother spake: whose first shame is, that they are not ashamed, in their own mother tongue, to be counted strangers and aliens. The second shame no less than the first, that what so they understand not, they straightway deem to be senseless, and not at all to be understood. Much like to the mole in Æsop's fable, that, being blind herself, would in no wise be persuaded that any beast could see. The last, more shameful than both, that of their own country and natural speech, which together with their nurse's milk they sucked, they have so base regard and bastard judgment, that they will not only themselves not labour to garnish and beautify it, but also repine, that of other it should be embellished. Like to the dog in the manger, that himself can eat no hay, and yet barketh at the hungry bullock, that so fain would feed: whose currish kind, though it cannot be kept from barking, yet I conne them thank that they refrain from biting.

Now, for the knitting of sentences, which they call the joints and members thereof, and for all the compass of the speech, it is round without roughness, and learned without hardness, such indeed as may be perceived of the least, understood of the most, but judged only of the learned. For what in most English writers useth to be loose, and as it were unright, in this Author is well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up together. In regard whereof, I scorn and spue out the rakehelly rout of our ragged rhymers (for so themselves use to hunt the letter) which without learning boast, without judgment jangle, without reason rage and foam, as if some instinct of poetical spirit had newly ravished them above the meanness of common capacity. And being, in the midst of all their bravery, suddenly, either for want of matter, or rhyme; or having forgotten their former conceit; they seem to be so pained and travailed in their remembrance, as it were a woman in childbirth, or as that same Pythia, when the trance came upon her. "Os rabidum fera corda domans," etc.

Nathless, let them a God's name feed on their own folly, so they seek not to darken the beams of others' glory. As for Colin, under whose person the Author's self is shadowed, how far he is from such vaunted titles and glorious shews, both himself sheweth, where he saith:

"Of Muses, Hobbin, I conne no skill."

And,

"Enough is me to paint out my unrest," etc.

And also appeareth by the baseness of the name, wherein it seemeth he chose rather to unfold great matter of argument covertly than, professing it, not suffice thereto accordingly. Which moved him rather in Æglogues than otherwise to write, doubting perhaps his ability, which he little needed, or minding to furnish our tongue with this kind, wherein it faulteth; or following the example of the best and most ancient poets, which devised this kind of writing, being both so base for the matter, and homely for the manner, at the first to try their abilities; and as young birds, that be newly crept out of the nest, by little first prove their tender wings, before they make a greater flight. So flew Theocritus, as you may perceive he was already full fledged. So flew Virgil, as not yet well feeling his wings. So flew Mantuane, as not being full somm'd. So Petrarch. So Boccace. So Marot, Sanazarius, and also divers other excellent both Italian and French poets, whose footing this author every where followeth: yet so as few, but they be well scented, can trace him out. So finally flieth this our new Poet as a bird whose principals be scarce grown out, but yet as one that in time shall be able to keep wing with the best. Now, as touching the general drift and purpose of his Æglogues, I mind not to say much, himself labouring to conceal it. Only this appeareth, that his unstayed youth had long wander'd in the common labyrinth of love, in which time to mitigate and allay the heat of his passion, or else to warn (as he saith) the young shepheards, his equals and companions, of his unfortunate folly, he compiled these twelve Æglogues, which, for that they be proportioned to the state of the twelve monethes, he termeth it the Shepheard's Calender, applying an old name to a new work. Hereunto have I added a certain gloss, or scholion, for the exposition of old words and harder phrases; which manner of glossing and commenting, well I wot, will seem strange and rare in our tongue: yet, for so much as I knew many excellent and proper devices, both in words and matter, would pass in the speedy course of reading either as unknown, or as not marked; and that in this kind, as in other, we might be equal to the learned of other nations; I thought good to take the pains upon me, the rather for that by means of some familiar acquaintance I was made privy to his counsel and secret meaning in them, as also in sundry other works of his. Which albeit I know he nothing so much hateth, as to promulgate, yet thus much have I adventured upon his friendship, himself being for long time far estranged; hoping that this will the rather occasion him to put forth divers other excellent works of his, which sleep in silence; as his Dreams, his Legends, his Court of Cupid, and sundry others, whose commendation to set out were very vain, the things though worthy of many, yet being known to few. These my present pains, if to any they be pleasurable or profitable, be you judge, mine own Maister Harvey, to whom I have both in respect of your worthiness generally, and otherwise upon some particular and special considerations, vowed this my labour, and the maidenhead of this our common friend's poetry; himself having already in the beginning dedicated it to the noble and worthy gentleman, the right worshipful Maister Philip Sidney, a special favourer and maintainer of all kind of learning. Whose cause, I pray you, sir, if envy shall stir up any wrongful accusation, defend with your mighty rhetoric and other your rathe gifts of learning, as you can, and shield with your good will, as you ought, against the malice and outrage of so many enemies, as I know will be set on fire with the sparks of his kindled glory. And thus recommending the Author unto you, as unto his most special good friend, and myself unto you both, as one making singular account of two so very good and so choice friends, I bid you both most heartily farewell, and commit you and your commendable studies to the tuition of the Greatest.

Your own assuredly to be commanded,

E. K.[1]

P.S.—Now I trust, M. Harvey, that upon sight of your special friend's and fellow poet's doings, or else for envy of so many unworthy Quidams, which catch at the garland which to you alone is due, you will be persuaded to pluck out of the hateful darkness those so many excellent English poems of yours which lie hid, and bring them forth to eternal light. Trust me, you do both them great wrong, in depriving them of the desired sun; and also yourself, in smothering your deserved praises; and all men generally, in withholding from them so divine pleasures, which they might conceive of your gallant English verses, as they have already done of your Latin poems, which, in my opinion, both for invention and elocution are very delicate and super-excellent. And thus again I take my leave of my good M. Harvey. From my lodging at London this tenth of April 1579.

THE GENERAL ARGUMENT OF THE WHOLE BOOK.

Little, I hope, needeth me at large to discourse the first original of Æglogues, having already touched the same. But, for the word Æglogues I know is unknown to most, and also mistaken of some of the best learned, (as they think,) I will say somewhat thereof, being not at all impertinent to my present purpose.

They were first of the Greeks, the inventors of them, called Aeglogai, as it were Aegon, or Aeginomon logi, that is, Goatherds' tales. For although in Virgil and others the speakers be more shepheards than goatherds, yet Theocritus, in whom is more ground of authority than in Virgil, this specially from that deriving, as from the first head and wellspring, the whole invention of these Æglogues maketh goatherds the persons and authors of his tales. This being, who seeth not the grossness of such as by colour of learning would make us believe, that they are more rightly termed Eclogai, as they would say, extraordinary discourses of unnecessary matter: which definition albe in substance and meaning it agree with the nature of the thing, yet no whit answereth with the analysis and interpretation of the word. For they be not termed Eclogues, but Æglogues; which sentence this Author very well observing, upon good judgment, though indeed few goatherds have to do herein, nevertheless doubteth not to call them by the used and best known name. Other curious discourses hereof I reserve to greater occasion.

These twelve Æglogues, every where answering to the seasons of the twelve monethes, may be well divided into three forms or ranks. For either they be plaintive, as the first, the sixth, the eleventh, and the twelfth; or recreative, such as all those be, which contain matter of love, or commendation of special personages; or moral, which for the most part be mixed with some satyrical bitterness; namely, the second, of reverence due to old age; the fifth, of coloured deceit; the seventh and ninth, of dissolute shepheards and pastors; the tenth, of contempt of Poetry and pleasant Wits. And to this division may every thing herein be reasonably applied; a few only except, whose special purpose and meaning I am not privy to. And thus much generally of these twelve Æglogues. Now will we speak particularly of all, and first of the first, which he calleth by the first moneth's name, Januarie: wherein to some he may seem foully to have faulted, in that he erroneously beginneth with that moneth, which beginneth not the year. For it is well known, and stoutly maintained with strong reasons of the learned, that the year beginneth in March; for then the sun reneweth his finished course, and the seasonable spring refresheth the earth, and the pleasance thereof, being buried in the sadness of the dead winter now worn away, reliveth.

This opinion maintain the old Astrologers and Philosophers, namely, the reverend Andalo, and Macrobius in his Holy Days of Saturn; which account also was generally observed both of Grecians and Romans. But, saving the leave of such learned heads, we maintain a custom of counting the seasons from the moneth Januarie, upon a more special cause than the heathen Philosophers ever could conceive, that is, for the Incarnation of our mighty Saviour, and Eternal Redeemer the Lord Christ, who as then renewing the state of the decayed world, and returning the compass of expired years to their former date and first commencement, left to us his heirs a memorial of his birth in the end of the last year and beginning of the next. Which reckoning, beside that eternal monument of our salvation, leaneth also upon good proof of special judgment.

For albeit that in elder times, when as yet the count of the year was not perfected, as afterward it was by Julius Cæsar, they began to tell the monethes from March's beginning, and according to the same, God (as is said in Scripture) commanded the people of the Jews, to count the moneth Abib, that which we call March, for the first moneth, in remembrance that in that moneth he brought them out of the land of Egypt: yet, according to tradition of latter times it hath been otherwise observed, both in government of the Church and rule of mightiest realms. For from Julius Cæsar who first observed the leap year, which he called Bissextilem Annum, and brought into a more certain course the odd wand'ring days which of the Greeks were called Hyperbainontes, of the Romans Intercalares, (for in such matter of learning I am forced to use the terms of the learned,) the monethes have been numbered twelve, which in the first ordinance of Romulus were but ten, counting but 304 days in every year, and beginning with March. But Numa Pompilius, who was the father of all the Roman ceremonies and religion, seeing that reckoning to agree neither with the course of the sun nor the moon, thereunto added two monethes, Januarie and Februarie; wherein it seemeth, that wise king minded upon good reason to begin the year at Januarie, of him therefore so called tanquam janua anni, the gate and entrance of the year; or of the name of the god Janus, to which god for that the old Paynims attributed the birth and beginning of all creatures new coming into the world, it seemeth that he therefore to him assigned the beginning and first entrance of the year. Which account for the most part hath hitherto continued: notwithstanding that the Egyptians begin their year at September; for that, according to the opinion of the best Rabbins and very purpose of the Scripture itself, God made the world in that moneth, that is called of them Tisri. And therefore he commanded them to keep the feast of Pavilions in the end of the year, in the xv. day of the seventh moneth, which before that time was the first.

But our author, respecting neither the subtilty of the one part, nor the antiquity of the other, thinketh it fittest, according to the simplicity of common understanding, to begin with Januarie; weening it perhaps no decorum that shepheards should be seen in matter of so deep insight, or canvass a case of so doubtful judgment. So therefore beginneth he, and so continueth he throughout.

JANUARIE · AEGLOGA PRIMA

JANUARIE. ÆGLOGA PRIMA. ARGUMENT.

In this first Æglogue Colin Clout, a shepheard's boy, complaineth himself of his unfortunate love, being but newly (as seemeth) enamoured of a country lass called Rosalind: with which strong affection being very sore travailed, he compareth his careful case to the sad season of the year, to the frosty ground, to the frozen trees, and to his own winter-beaten flock. And lastly, finding himself robbed of all former pleasance and delight, he breaketh his pipe in pieces, and casteth himself to the ground.

COLIN CLOUT.

A shepheard's boy, (no better do him call,)

When winter's wasteful spite was almost spent,

All in a sunshine day, as did befall,

Led forth his flock, that had been long ypent:

So faint they wox, and feeble in the fold,

That now unnethes their feet could them uphold.

All as the sheep, such was the shepheard's look,

For pale and wan he was, (alas the while!)

May seem he lov'd, or else some care he took;

Well couth he tune his pipe and frame his style:

Then to a hill his fainting flock he led,

And thus him plain'd, the while his sheep there fed:

"Ye gods of love! that pity lovers' pain,

(If any gods the pain of lovers pity,)

Look from above, where you in joys remain,

And bow your ears unto my doleful ditty.

And, Pan! thou shepheards' god, that once didst love,

Pity the pains that thou thyself didst prove.

"Thou barren ground, whom winter's wrath hath wasted,

Art made a mirror to behold my plight:

Whilome thy fresh spring flower'd, and after hasted

Thy summer proud, with daffodillies dight;

And now is come thy winter's stormy state,

Thy mantle marr'd wherein thou maskedst late.

"Such rage as winter's reigneth in my heart,

My life-blood freezing with unkindly cold;

Such stormy stoures do breed my baleful smart,

As if my year were waste and waxen old;

And yet, alas! but now my spring begun,

And yet, alas! it is already done.

"You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,

Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,

And now are cloth'd with moss and hoary frost,

Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;

I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,

Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.

"All so my lustful leaf is dry and sere,

My timely buds with wailing all are wasted;

The blossom which my branch of youth did bear,

With breathed sighs is blown away and blasted;

And from mine eyes the drizzling tears descend,

As on your boughs the icicles depend.

"Thou feeble flock! whose fleece is rough and rent,

Whose knees are weak through fast and evil fare,

Mayst witness well, by thy ill government,

Thy master's mind is overcome with care:

Thou weak, I wan; thou lean, I quite forlorn:

With mourning pine I; you with pining mourn.

"A thousand siths I curse that careful hour

Wherein I long'd the neighbour town to see,

And eke ten thousand siths I bless the stoure

Wherein I saw so fair a sight as she:

Yet all for naught: such sight hath bred my bane.

Ah, God! that love should breed both joy and pain!

"It is not Hobbinol[2] wherefore I plain,

Albe my love he seek with daily suit;

His clownish gifts and court'sies I disdain,

His kids, his cracknels, and his early fruit.

Ah, foolish Hobbinol! thy gifts be vain;

Colin them gives to Rosalind again.

"I love thilk lass, (alas! why do I love?)

And am forlorn, (alas! why am I lorn?)

She deigns not my good will, but doth reprove,

And of my rural music holdeth scorn.

Shepheard's device she hateth as the snake,

And laughs the songs that Colin Clout doth make.

"Wherefore, my pipe, albe rude Pan thou please,

Yet for thou pleasest not where most I would;

And thou, unlucky Muse, that wont'st to ease

My musing mind, yet canst not when thou should;

Both Pipe and Muse shall sore the while abye."

So broke his oaten pipe, and down did lie.

By that, the welked Phœbus gan availe

His weary wain; and now the frosty Night

Her mantle black through heaven gan overhale:

Which seen, the pensive boy, half in despite,

Arose, and homeward drove his sunned sheep,

Whose hanging heads did seem his careful case to weep.

COLIN'S EMBLEME.
Anchora speme.
(Hope is my anchor.)

FEBRUARIE · AEGLOGA SECUNDA

FEBRUARIE. ÆGLOGA SECUNDA. ARGUMENT.

This Æglogue is rather moral and general than bent to any secret or particular purpose. It specially containeth a discourse of old age, in the person of Thenot, an old shepheard, who, for his crookedness and unlustiness, is scorned of Cuddie, an unhappy herdman's boy. The matter very well accordeth with the season of the moneth, the year now drooping, and as it were drawing to his last age. For as in this time of year, so then in our bodies, there is a dry and withering cold, which congealeth the curdled blood, and freezeth the weather-beaten flesh, with storms of Fortune and hoar-frosts of Care. To which purpose the old man telleth a tale of the Oak and the Brier, so lively, and so feelingly, as, if the thing were set forth in some picture before our eyes, more plainly could not appear.

CUDDIE. THENOT.

CUDDIE.

Ah for pity! will rank winter's rage

These bitter blasts never gin t'assuage?

The keen cold blows through my beaten hide,

All as I were through the body gride:

My ragged ronts all shiver and shake,

As doen high towers in an earthquake:

They wont in the wind wag their wriggle tails

Perk as a peacock; but now it availes.

THE. Lewdly complainest, thou lazy lad,

Of winter's wrack for making thee sad.

Must not the world wend in his common course,

From good to bad, and from bad to worse,

From worse unto that is worst of all,

And then return to his former fall?

Who will not suffer the stormy time,

Where will he live till the lusty prime?

Self have I worn out thrice thirty years,

Some in much joy, many in many tears,

Yet never complained of cold nor heat,

Of summer's flame, nor of winter's threat,

Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,

But gently took that ungently came;

And ever my flock was my chief care;

Winter or summer they might well fare.

CUD. No marvel, Thenot, if thou can bear

Cheerfully the winter's wrathful cheer;

For age and winter accord full nigh,

This chill, that cold; this crooked, that wry;

And as the louring weather looks down,

So seemest thou like Good Friday[3] to frown:

But my flow'ring youth is foe to frost,

My ship unwont in storms to be tost.

THE. The sovereign of seas he blames in vain,

That, once sea-beat, will to sea again:

So loit'ring live you little herdgrooms,

Keeping your beasts in the budded brooms;

And, when the shining sun laugheth once,

You deemen, the spring is come at once;

Then gin you, fond flies! the cold to scorn,

And, crowing in pipes made of green corn,

You thinken to be lords of the year;

But eft, when ye count you freed from fear,

Comes the breme Winter with chamfred brows,

Full of wrinkles and frosty furrows,

Drearily shooting his stormy dart,

Which curdles the blood and pricks the heart:

Then is your careless courage accoyed,

Your careful herds with cold be annoyed:

Then pay you the price of your surquedry,

With weeping, and wailing, and misery.

CUD. Ah! foolish old man! I scorn thy skill,

That wouldst me my springing youth to spill:

I deem thy brain emperished be

Through rusty eld, that hath rotted thee;

Or sicker thy head very totty is,

So on thy corb shoulder it leans amiss.

Now thyself hath lost both lop and top,

Als my budding branch thou wouldest crop;

But were thy years green, as now be mine,

To other delights they would incline:

Then wouldest thou learn to carol of love,

And hery with hymns thy lass's glove;

Then wouldest thou pipe of Phillis' praise;

But Phillis is mine for many days;

I won her with a girdle of gelt,

Embost with bugle about the belt:

Such an one shepheards would make full fain;

Such an one would make thee young again.

THE. Thou art a fon, of thy love to boast;

All that is lent to love will be lost.

CUD. Seest how brag yond bullock bears,

So smirk, so smooth, his pricked ears?

His horns be as broad as rainbow bent,

His dewlap as lithe as lass of Kent:

See how he venteth into the wind;

Weenest of love is not his mind?

Seemeth thy flock thy counsel can,

So lustless be they, so weak, so wan;

Clothed with cold, and hoary with frost,

Thy flock's father his courage hath lost.

Thy ewes, that wont to have blowen bags,

Like wailful widows hangen their crags;

The rather lambs be starved with cold,

All for their master is lustless and old.

THE. Cuddie, I wot thou kenst little good,

So vainly to advance thy heedlesshood;

For youth is a bubble blown up with breath,

Whose wit is weakness, whose wage is death,

Whose way is wilderness, whose inn penance,

And stoop-gallant Age, the host of Grievance.

But shall I tell thee a tale of truth,

Which I cond of Tityrus in my youth,

Keeping his sheep on the hills of Kent?

CUD. To nought more, Thenot, my mind is bent

Than to hear novels of his devise;

They be so well thewed, and so wise,

Whatever that good old man bespake.

THE. Many meet tales of youth did he make,

And some of love, and some of chivalry;

But none fitter than this to apply.

Now listen a while and hearken the end.

"There grew an aged tree on the green,

A goodly Oak sometime had it been,

With arms full strong and largely display'd,

But of their leaves they were disarray'd:

The body big, and mightily pight,

Throughly rooted, and of wondrous height;

Whilome had been the king of the field,

And mochell mast to the husband did yield,

And with his nuts larded many swine:

But now the gray moss marred his rine;

His bared boughs were beaten with storms,

His top was bald, and wasted with worms,

His honour decayed, his branches sere.

"Hard by his side grew a bragging Brere,

Which proudly thrust into th' element,

And seemed to threat the firmament:

It was embellish'd with blossoms fair,

And thereto aye wonted to repair

The shepheards' daughters to gather flowers,

To paint their garlands with his colours;

And in his small bushes used to shroud

The sweet nightingale singing so loud;

Which made this foolish Brere wax so bold,

That on a time he cast him to scold

And snebbe the good Oak, for he was old.

"'Why standst there (quoth he) thou brutish block?

Nor for fruit nor for shadow serves thy stock;

Seest how fresh my flowers be spread,

Dyed in lily white and crimson red,

With leaves engrained in lusty green;

Colours meet to clothe a maiden queen?

Thy waste bigness but cumbers the ground,

And dirks the beauty of my blossoms round:

The mouldy moss, which thee accloyeth,

My cinnamon smell too much annoyeth:

Wherefore soon I rede thee hence remove,

Lest thou the price of my displeasure prove.'

So spake this bold Brere with great disdain:

Little him answered the Oak again,

But yielded, with shame and grief adawed,

That of a weed he was overcrawed.

"It chanced after upon a day,

The husbandman self to come that way,

Of custom for to surview his ground,

And his trees of state in compass round:

Him when the spiteful Brere had espied,

Causeless complained, and loudly cried

Unto his lord, stirring up stern strife:

"'O my liege lord! the god of my life,

Pleaseth you ponder your suppliant's plaint,

Caused of wrong and cruel constraint,

Which I your poor vassal daily endure;

And, but your goodness the same recure,

Am like for desperate dool to die,

Through felonous force of mine enemy.'

"Greatly aghast with this piteous plea,

Him rested the goodman on the lea,

And bade the Brere in his plaint proceed.

With painted words then gan this proud weed

(As most usen ambitious folk)

His coloured crime with craft to cloak.

"'Ah, my sovereign! lord of creatures all,

Thou placer of plants both humble and tall,

Was not I planted of thine own hand,

To be the primrose of all thy land;

With flow'ring blossoms to furnish the prime,

And scarlet berries in summer time?

How falls it then that this faded Oak,

Whose body is sere, whose branches broke,

Whose naked arms stretch unto the fire,

Unto such tyranny doth aspire;

Hindering with his shade my lovely light,

And robbing me of the sweet sun's sight?

So beat his old boughs my tender side,

That oft the blood springeth from woundës wide;

Untimely my flowers forced to fall,

That be the honour of your coronal:

And oft he lets his canker-worms light

Upon my branches, to work me more spite;

And oft his hoary locks down doth cast,

Wherewith my fresh flow'rets be defast:

For this, and many more such outrage,

Craving your goodlyhead to assuage

The rancorous rigour of his might;

Nought ask I, but only to hold my right;

Submitting me to your good sufferance,

And praying to be guarded from grievance.'

"To this this Oak cast him to reply

Well as he couth; but his enemy

Had kindled such coals of displeasure,

That the goodman nould stay his leisure,

But home him hasted with furious heat,

Increasing his wrath with many a threat:

His harmful hatchet he hent in hand,

(Alas! that it so ready should stand!)

And to the field alone he speedeth,

(Aye little help to harm there needeth!)

Anger nould let him speak to the tree,

Enaunter his rage might cooled be;

But to the root bent his sturdy stroke,

And made many wounds in the waste Oak.

The axe's edge did oft turn again,

As half unwilling to cut the grain;

Seemed, the senseless iron did fear,

Or to wrong holy eld did forbear;

For it had been an ancient tree,

Sacred with many a mystery,

And often cross'd with the priests' crew,

And often hallowed with holy-water dew:

But sike fancies weren foolery,

And broughten this Oak to this misery;

For nought might they quitten him from decay,

For fiercely the goodman at him did lay.

The block oft groaned under the blow,

And sighed to see his near overthrow.

In fine, the steel had pierced his pith,

Then down to the earth he fell forthwith.

His wondrous weight made the ground to quake,

Th' earth shrunk under him, and seemed to shake:—

There lieth the Oak, pitied of none!

"Now stands the Brere like a lord alone,

Puffed up with pride and vain pleasance;

But all this glee had no continuance:

For eftsoons winter gan to approach;

The blust'ring Boreas did encroach,

And beat upon the solitary Brere;

For now no succour was seen him near.

Now gan he repent his pride too late;

For, naked left and disconsolate,

The biting frost nipt his stalk dead,

The watry wet weighed down his head,

And heaped snow burden'd him so sore,

That now upright he can stand no more;

And, being down, is trod in the durt

Of cattle, and broused, and sorely hurt.

Such was th' end of this ambitious Brere,

For scorning eld—"

CUD. Now I pray thee, shepheard, tell it not forth:

Here is a long tale, and little worth.

So long have I listened to thy speech,

That graffed to the ground is my breech;

My heartblood is well nigh frorne I feel,

And my galage grown fast to my heel;

But little ease of thy lewd tale I tasted:

Hie thee home, shepheard, the day is nigh wasted.

THENOT'S EMBLEME.[4]
Iddio, perche É vecchio,
Fa suoi al suo essempio.

CUDDIE'S EMBLEME.[4]
Niuno vecchio
Spaventa Iddio.

MARCH · AEGLOGA TERTIA

MARCH. ÆGLOGA TERTIA. ARGUMENT.

In this Æglogue two Shepheards' Boys, taking occasion of the season, begin to make purpose of love, and other pleasance which to springtime is most agreeable. The special meaning hereof is, to give certain marks and tokens, to know Cupid the poets' god of Love. But more particularly, I think, in the person of Thomalin, is meant some secret friend, who scorned Love and his knights so long, till at length himself was entangled, and unwares wounded with the dart of some beautiful regard, which is Cupid's arrow.

WILLY. THOMALIN.

WILLY.

Thomalin, why sitten we so,

As weren overwent with woe,

Upon so fair a morrow?

The joyous time now nigheth fast,

That shall alegge this bitter blast,

And slake the winter sorrow.

THO. Sicker, Willy, thou warnest well;

For winter's wrath begins to quell,

And pleasant spring appeareth:

The grass now gins to be refresht,

The swallow peeps out of her nest,

And cloudy welkin cleareth.

WIL. Seest not thilk same hawthorn stud,

How bragly it begins to bud,

And utter his tender head?

Flora now calleth forth each flower,

And bids make ready Maia's bower

That new is uprist from bed:

Then shall we sporten in delight,

And learn with Lettice to wax light,

That scornfully looks askance;

Then will we little Love awake,

That now sleepeth in Lethe lake,

And pray him leaden our dance.

THO. Willy, I ween thou be assot;

For lusty Love still sleepeth not,

But is abroad at his game.

WIL. How kenst thou that he is awoke?

Or hast thyself his slumber broke?

Or made privy to the same?

THO. No; but happily I him spied,

Where in a bush he did him hide,

With wings of purple and blue;

And, were not that my sheep would stray,

The privy marks I would bewray,

Whereby by chance I him knew.

WIL. Thomalin, have no care forthy;

Myself will have a double eye,

Alike to my flock and thine;

For, alas! at home I have a sire,

A stepdame eke, as hot as fire,

That duly adays counts mine.

THO. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve,

My sheep for that may chance to swerve,

And fall into some mischief:

For sithens is but the third morrow

That I chanc'd to fall asleep with sorrow,

And waked again with grief;

The while thilk same unhappy ewe,

Whose clouted leg her hurt doth shew,

Fell headlong into a dell,

And there unjointed both her bones:

Might her neck been jointed attones,

She should have need no more spell;

Th' elf was so wanton and so wood,

(But now I trow can better good,)

She might ne gang on the green.

WIL. Let be, as may be, that is past;

That is to come, let be forecast:

Now tell us what thou hast seen.

THO. It was upon a holiday,

When shepheards' grooms have leave to play,

I cast to go a shooting;

Long wand'ring up and down the land,

With bow and bolts in either hand,

For birds in bushes tooting,

At length within the ivy tod,

(There shrouded was the little god,)

I heard a busy bustling;

I bent my bolt against the bush,

List'ning if any thing did rush,

But then heard no more rustling.

Then, peeping close into the thick,

Might see the moving of some quick,

Whose shape appeared not;

But were it faery, fiend, or snake,

My courage yearn'd it to awake,

And manfully thereat shot:

With that sprang forth a naked swain;

With spotted wings like peacock's train,

And laughing lope to a tree;

His gilden quiver at his back,

And silver bow, which was but slack,

Which lightly he bent at me:

That seeing, I levell'd again,

And shot at him with might and main,

As thick as it had hailed.

So long I shot, that all was spent;

Then pumie stones I hast'ly hent,

And threw; but nought availed:

He was so wimble and so wight,

From bough to bough he leaped light,

And oft the pumies latched:

Therewith afraid I ran away;

But he, that erst seem'd but to play,

A shaft in earnest snatched,

And hit me running in the heel:

For then I little smart did feel,

But soon it sore increased;

And now it rankleth more and more,

And inwardly it fest'reth sore,

Ne wote I how to cease it.

WIL. Thomalin, I pity thy plight,

Perdie with Love thou didest fight;

I know him by a token:

For once I heard my father say,

How he him caught upon a day,

(Whereof he will be wroken,)

Entangled in a fowling net,

Which he for carrion crows had set

That in our pear-tree haunted:

Then said, he was a winged lad,

But bow and shafts as then none had,

Else had he sore been daunted.

But see, the welkin thicks apace,

And stooping Phœbus steeps his face;

It's time to haste us homeward.

WILLY'S EMBLEME.
To be wise and eke to love,
Is granted scarce to gods above.

THOMALIN'S EMBLEME.
Of honey and of gall in love there is store;
The honey is much, but the gall is more.

APRIL · AEGLOGA QUARTA

APRIL. ÆGLOGA QUARTA. ARGUMENT.

This Æglogue is purposely intended to the honour and praise of our most gracious sovereign, Queen Elizabeth. The speakers hereof be Hobbinol and Thenot, two shepheards: the which Hobbinol, being beforementioned greatly to have loved Colin, is here set forth more largely, complaining him of that boy's great misadventure in love; whereby his mind was alienated and withdrawn not only from him, who most loved him, but also from all former delights and studies, as well in pleasant piping, as cunning rhyming and singing, and other his laudable exercises. Whereby he taketh occasion, for proof of his more excellency and skill in poetry, to record a song, which the said Colin sometime made in honour of her Majesty, whom abruptly he termeth Elisa.

THENOT. HOBBINOL.

THENOT.

Tell me, good Hobbinol, what gars thee greet?

What! hath some wolf thy tender lambs ytorn?

Or is thy bagpipe broke, that sounds so sweet?

Or art thou of thy loved lass forlorn?

Or be thine eyes attemper'd to the year,

Quenching the gasping furrows' thirst with rain?

Like April shower, so stream the trickling tears

Adown thy cheek, to quench thy thirsty pain.

HOB. Nor this, nor that, so much doth make me mourn,

But for the lad, whom long I lov'd so dear,

Now loves a lass that all his love doth scorn:

He, plunged in pain, his tressed locks doth tear;

Shepheard's delights he doth them all forswear;

His pleasant pipe, which made us merriment,

He wilfully hath broke, and doth forbear

His wonted songs wherein he all outwent.

THE. What is he for a lad you so lament?

Is love such pinching pain to them that prove?

And hath he skill to make so excellent,

Yet hath so little skill to bridle love?

HOB. Colin thou kenst, the southern shepheard's boy;

Him Love hath wounded with a deadly dart:

Whilome on him was all my care and joy,

Forcing with gifts to win his wanton heart.

But now from me his madding mind is start,

And wooes the widow's daughter of the glen;

So now fair Rosalind hath bred his smart;

So now his friend is changed for a frenne.

THE. But if his ditties be so trimly dight,

I pray thee, Hobbinol, record some one,

The whiles our flocks do graze about in sight,

And we close shrouded in this shade alone.

HOB. Contented I: then will I sing his lay

Of fair Elisa, queen of shepheards all,

Which once he made as by a spring he lay,

And tuned it unto the waters' fall.

"Ye dainty Nymphs, that in this blessed brook

Do bathe your breast,

Forsake your watry bowers, and hither look,

At my request.

And eke you virgins, that on Parnass dwell,

Whence floweth Helicon, the learned well,

Help me to blaze

Her worthy praise,

Which in her sex doth all excel.

"Of fair Elisa be your silver song,

That blessed wight,

The flower of virgins; may she flourish long

In princely plight!

For she is Syrinx' daughter without spot,

Which Pan, the shepheards' god, of her begot:

So sprung her grace

Of heavenly race,

No mortal blemish may her blot.

"See, where she sits upon the grassy green,

(O seemly sight!)

Yclad in scarlet, like a maiden queen,

And ermines white:

Upon her head a crimson coronet,

With damask roses and daffadillies set;

Bay leaves between,

And primroses green,

Embellish the sweet violet.

"Tell me, have ye seen her angelic face,

Like Phœbe fair?

Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,

Can you well compare?

The red rose medled with the white yfere,

In either cheek depeincten lively cheer:

Her modest eye,

Her majesty,

Where have you seen the like but there?

"I saw Phœbus; thrust out his golden head,

Upon her to gaze;

But, when he saw how broad her beams did spread,

It did him amaze.

He blush'd to see another sun below,

Ne durst again his fiery face out show.

Let him, if he dare,

His brightness compare

With hers, to have the overthrow.

"Shew thyself, Cynthia, with thy silver rays,

And be not abash'd:

When she the beams of her beauty displays,

O how art thou dash'd!

But I will not match her with Latona's seed;

Such folly great sorrow to Niobe did breed.

And she is a stone,

And makes daily moan,

Warning all other to take heed.

"Pan may be proud that ever he begot

Such a bellibone;

And Syrinx rejoice, that ever was her lot

To bear such an one.

Soon as my younglings crying for the dam,

To her will I offer a milkwhite lamb;

She is my goddess plain,

And I her shepheard's swain,

Albe forswonk and forswat I am.

"I see Calliope speed her to the place,

Where my goddess shines;

And after her the other Muses trace,

With their violins.

Be they not bay-branches which they do bear,

All for Elisa in her hand to wear?

So sweetly they play,

And sing all the way,

That it a heaven is to hear.

"Lo, how finely the Graces can it foot

To the instrument:

They dancen deftly, and singen soote,

In their merriment.

Wants not a fourth Grace, to make the dance even?

Let that room to my Lady be yeven

She shall be a Grace,

To fill the fourth place,

And reign with the rest in heaven.

"And whither runs this bevy of ladies bright,

Ranged in a row?

They be all Ladies of the Lake behight,

That unto her go.

Chloris, that is the chiefest nymph of all,

Of olive branches bears a coronal:

Olives be for peace

When wars do surcease:

Such for a princess be principal.

"Ye shepheards' daughters, that dwell on the green,

Hie you there apace:

Let none come there but that virgins bene,

To adorn her grace:

And, when you come whereas she is in place,

See that your rudeness do not you disgrace:

Bind your fillets fast,

And gird in your waist,

For more fineness, with a tawdry[5] lace.

"Bring hither the pink and purple columbine,

With gelliflowers;

Bring coronations, and sops-in-wine,

Worn of paramours:

Strow me the ground with daffadowndillies,

And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies:

The pretty paunce,

And the chevisance,

Shall match with the fair flower delice.

"Now rise up, Elisa, decked as thou art

In royal array;

And now ye dainty damsels may depart

Each one her way.

I fear I have troubled your troops too long;

Let Dame Elisa thank you for her song:

And, if you come hither

When damsines I gather,

I will part them all you among."

THE. And was thilk same song of Colin's own making?

Ah! foolish boy! that is with love yblent;

Great pity is, he be in such taking,

For naught caren that be so lewdly bent.

HOB. Sicker I hold him for a greater fon,

That loves the thing he cannot purchase.

But let us homeward, for night draweth on,

And twinkling stars the daylight hence chase.

THENOT'S EMBLEME.[6]
O quam et memorem virgo!

HOBBINOL'S EMBLEME.
O Dea certe!

MAY · AEGLOGA QUINTA

MAY. ÆGLOGA QUINTA. ARGUMENT.

In this fifth Æglogue, under the person of two shepheards, Piers and Palinode, be represented two forms of Pastors or Ministers, or the Protestant and the Catholic; whose chief talk standeth in reasoning, whether the life of the one must be like the other; with whom having shewed, that it is dangerous to maintain any fellowship, or give too much credit to their colourable and feigned good-will, he telleth him a tale of the Fox, that, by such a counterpoint of craftiness, deceived and devoured the credulous Kid.

PALINODE. PIERS.

PALINODE.

Is not thilk the merry month of May,

When love-lads masken in fresh array?

How falls it, then, we no merrier bene,

Alike as others, girt in gaudy green?

Our bloncket liveries be all too sad

For thilk same season, when all is yclad

With pleasance; the ground with grass, the woods

With green leaves, the bushes with blooming buds.

Youth's folk now flocken in every where,

To gather May-buskets and smelling brere;

And home they hasten the posts to dight,

And all the kirk-pillars ere day-light,

With hawthorn buds, and sweet eglantine,

And garlands of roses, and sops-in-wine.

Such merrimake holy saints doth queme,

But we here sitten as drown'd in dream.

PIERS. For younkers, Palinode, such follies fit,

But we tway be men of elder wit.

PAL. Sicker this morrow, no longer ago,

I saw a shoal of shepheards outgo

With singing, and shouting, and jolly cheer:

Before them yode a lusty tabrere,

That to the many a horn-pipe play'd,

Whereto they dancen each one with his maid.

To see those folks make such jovisance,

Made my heart after the pipe to dance:

Then to the green wood they speeden them all,

To fetchen home May with their musical;

And home they bringen in a royal throne,

Crowned as king; and his queen attone

Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend

A fair flock of faeries, and a fresh bend

Of lovely nymphs. (O that I were there,

To helpen the ladies their Maybush bear!)

Ah! Piers, be not thy teeth on edge, to think

How great sport they gainen with little swink?

PIERS. Perdie, so far am I from envy,

That their fondness inly I pity:

Those faitours little regarden their charge,

While they, letting their sheep run at large,

Passen their time, that should be sparely spent,

In lustihed and wanton merriment.

Thilk same be shepheards for the devil's stead,

That playen while their flocks be unfed:

Well it is seen their sheep be not their own,

That letten them run at random alone:

But they be hired for little pay

Of other, that caren as little as they,

What fallen the flock, so they have the fleece,

And get all the gain, paying but a piece.

I muse, what account both these will make;

The one for the hire, which he doth take,

And th' other for leaving his Lord's task,

When great Pan account of shepheards shall ask.

PAL. Sicker, now I see thou speakest of spite,

All for thou lackest somdele their delight.

I (as I am) had rather be envied,

All were it of my foe, than fonly pitied;

And yet, if need were, pitied would be,

Rather than other should scorn at me;

For pitied is mishap that n'as remedy,

But scorned be deeds of fond foolery.

What shoulden shepheards other things tend,

Than, sith their God his good does them send,

Reapen the fruit thereof, that is pleasure,

The while they here liven at ease and leisure?

For, when they be dead, their good is ygoe,

They sleepen in rest, well as other moe:

Then with them wends what they spent in cost,

But what they left behind them is lost.

Good is no good, but if it be spend;

God giveth good for none other end.

PIERS. Ah! Palinode, thou art a world's child:

Who touches pitch, must needs be defil'd;

But shepheards (as Algrind[7] used to say)

Must not live alike as men of the lay.

With them it sits to care for their heir,

Enaunter their heritage do impair:

They must provide for means of maintenance,

And to continue their wont countenance:

But shepheard must walk another way,

Sike worldly sovenance he must for-say.

The son of his loins why should he regard

To leave enriched with that he hath spar'd?

Should not thilk God, that gave him that good,

Eke cherish his child, if in his ways he stood?

For if he mislive in lewdness and lust,

Little boots all the wealth, and the trust,

That his father left by inheritance;

All will be soon wasted with misgovernance:

But through this, and other their miscreance,

They maken many a wrong chevisance,

Heaping up waves of wealth and woe,

The floods whereof shall them overflow.

Sike men's folly I cannot compare

Better than to the ape's foolish care,

That is so enamoured of her young one,

(And yet, God wot, such cause had she none,)

That with her hard hold, and strait embracing,

She stoppeth the breath of her youngling.

So oftentimes, whenas good is meant,

Evil ensueth of wrong intent.

The time was once, and may again retorn,

(For ought may happen, that hath been beforn,)

When shepheards had none inheritance,

Ne of land nor fee in sufferance,

But what might arise of the bare sheep,

(Were it more or less) which they did keep.

Well ywis was it with shepheards then:

Nought having, nought feared they to forego;

For Pan himself was their inheritance,

And little them served for their maintenance.

The shepheards' God so well them guided,

That of nought they were unprovided;

Butter enough, honey, milk, and whey,

And their flocks' fleeces them to array:

But tract of time, and long prosperity,

(That nurse of vice, this of insolency,)

Lulled the shepheards in such security,

That, not content with loyal obeisance,

Some gan to gape for greedy governance,

And match them self with mighty potentates,

Lovers of lordship, and troublers of states:

Then gan shepheards' swains to look aloft,

And leave to live hard, and learn to ligg soft:

Then, under colour of shepheards, somewhile

There crept in wolves, full of fraud and guile,

That often devoured their own sheep,

And often the shepheards that did them keep:

This was the first source of shepheards' sorrow,

That now nill be quit with bail nor borrow.

PAL. Three things to bear be very burdenous,

But the fourth to forbear is outrageous:

Women, that of love's longing once lust,

Hardly forbearen, but have it they must:

So when choler is inflamed with rage,

Wanting revenge, is hard to assuage:

And who can counsel a thirsty soul,

With patience to forbear the offer'd bowl?

But of all burdens, that a man can bear,

Most is, a fool's talk to bear and to hear.

I ween the giant has not such a weight,

That bears on his shoulders the heaven's height.

Thou findest fault where n'is to be found,

And buildest strong work upon a weak ground:

Thou railest on right withouten reason,

And blamest them much for small encheason.

How shoulden shepheards live, if not so?

What? should they pinen in pain and woe?

Nay, say I thereto, by my dear borrow,

If I may rest, I nill live in sorrow.

Sorrow ne need be hastened on,

For he will come, without calling, anon,

While times enduren of tranquillity,

Usen we freely our felicity;

For, when approachen the stormy stowres,

We must with our shoulders bear off the sharp showers;

And, sooth to sayn, nought seemeth sike strife,

That shepheards so witen each other's life,

And layen their faults the worlds beforn,

The while their foes do each of them scorn.

Let none mislike of that may not be mended;

So contest soon by concord might be ended.

PIERS. Shepheard, I list no accordance make

With shepheard, that does the right way forsake;

And of the twain, if choice were to me,

Had lever my foe than my friend he be;

For what concord have light and dark sam?

Or what peace has the lion with the lamb?

Such faitours, when their false hearts be hid,

Will do as did the Fox by the Kid.[8]

PAL. Now, Piers, of fellowship, tell us that saying;

For the lad can keep both our flocks from straying.

PIERS. Thilk same Kid (as I can well devise)

Was too very foolish and unwise;

For on a time, in summer season,

The Goat her dam, that had good reason,

Yode forth abroad unto the green wood,

To brouze, or play, or what she thought good:

But, for she had a motherly care

Of her young son, and wit to beware,

She set her youngling before her knee,

That was both fresh and lovely to see,

And full of favour as kid might be.

His velvet head began to shoot out,

And his wreathed horns gan newly sprout;

The blossoms of lust to bud did begin,

And spring forth rankly under his chin.

"My son," (quoth she, and with that gan weep;

For careful thoughts in her heart did creep;)

"God bless thee, poor orphan! as he might me,

And send thee joy of thy jollity.

Thy father," (that word she spake with pain,

For a sigh had nigh rent her heart in twain,)

"Thy father, had he lived this day,

To see the branch of his body display,

How would he have joyed at this sweet sight?

But ah! false Fortune such joy did him spite,

And cut off his days with untimely woe,

Betraying him into the trains of his foe.

Now I, a wailful widow behight,

Of my old age have this one delight,

To see thee succeed in thy father's stead,

And flourish in flowers of lustihead;

For even so thy father his head upheld,

And so his haughty horns did he weld."

Then marking him with melting eyes,

A thrilling throb from her heart did arise,

And interrupted all her other speech

With some old sorrow that made a new breach;

Seemed she saw in her youngling's face

The old lineaments of his father's grace.

At last her sullen silence she broke,

And gan his new-budded beard to stroke.

"Kiddie," (quoth she,) "thou kenst the great care

I have of thy health and thy welfare,

Which many wild beasts liggen in wait

For to entrap in thy tender state:

But most the Fox, master of collusion;

For he has vowed thy last confusion.

Forthy, my Kiddie, be rul'd by me,

And never give trust to his treachery;

And, if he chance come when I am abroad,

Sperr the gate fast, for fear of fraud;

Ne for all his worst, nor for his best,

Open the door at his request."

So schooled the Goat her wanton son,

That answer'd his mother, all should be done.

Then went the pensive dam out of door,

And chanc'd to stumble at the threshold floor;

Her stumbling step somewhat her amazed,

(For such, as signs of ill luck, be dispraised;)

Yet forth she yode, thereat half aghast;

And Kiddie the door sperred after her fast.

It was not long, after she was gone,

But the false Fox came to the door anone;

Not as a fox, for then he had be kend,

But all as a poor pedlar he did wend,

Bearing a truss of trifles at his back,

As bells, and babes, and glasses, in his pack:

A biggen he had got about his brain,

For in his headpiece he felt a sore pain:

His hinder heel was wrapt in a clout,

For with great cold he had got the gout:

There at the door he cast me down his pack,

And laid him down, and groaned, "Alack! alack!

Ah! dear Lord! and sweet Saint Charity!

That some good body would once pity me!"

Well heard Kiddie all this sore constraint,

And long'd to know the cause of his complaint;

Then, creeping close behind the wicket's clink,

Privily he peeped out through a chink,

Yet not so privily but the Fox him spied;

For deceitful meaning is double-eyed.

"Ah! good young master," (then gan he cry,)

"Jesus bless that sweet face I espy,

And keep your corpse from the careful stounds

That in my carrion carcase abounds."

The Kid, pitying his heaviness,

Asked the cause of his great distress,

And also who, and whence that he were.

Then he, that had well yconn'd his lere,

Thus medled his talk with many a tear:

"Sick, sick, alas! and little lack of dead,

But I be relieved by your beastlyhead.

I am a poor sheep, albe my colour dun,

For with long travel I am brent in the sun;

And if that, my grandsire me said, be true,

Sicker, I am very sib to you;

So be your goodlihead do not disdain

The base kindred of so simple swain.

Of mercy and favour then I you pray,