December. Ægloga Duodecima.
ARGUMENT. This Æglogue (even as the first beganne) is ended with a complaynte of Colin to God Pan: wherein, as weary of his former wayes, he proportioneth his life to the foure seasons of the yeare, comparing hys youthe to the spring time, when he was fresh and free from loves follye; his manhoode to the sommer, which, he sayth, was consumed with greate heate and excessive drouth, caused throughe a comet or blasinge starre, by which hee meaneth love, which passion is comenly compared to such flames and immoderate heate; his riper yeares hee resembleth to an unseasonable harveste, wherein the fruites fall ere they be rype; his latter age to winters chyll and frostie season, now drawing neare to his last ende.
The gentle shepheard satte beside a springe,
All in the shadowe of a bushye brere,
That Colin hight, which wel could pype and singe,
For he of Tityrus his songs did lere.
There as he satte in secreate shade alone,
Thus gan he make of love his piteous mone.
‘O soveraigne Pan, thou god of shepheards all,
Which of our tender lambkins takest keepe,
And when our flocks into mischaunce mought fall,
Doest save from mischiefe the unwary sheepe,
Als of their maisters hast no lesse regard
Then of the flocks, which thou doest watch and ward:
‘I thee beseche (so be thou deigne to heare
Rude ditties, tund to shepheards oaten reede,
Or if I ever sonet song so cleare
As it with pleasaunce mought thy fancie feede)
Hearken awhile, from thy greene cabinet,
The rurall song of carefull Colinet.
‘Whilome in youth, when flowrd my joyfull spring,
Like swallow swift I wandred here and there:
For heate of heedlesse lust me so did sting,
That I of doubted daunger had no feare.
I went the wastefull woodes and forest wyde,
Withouten dreade of wolves to bene espyed.
‘I wont to raunge amydde the mazie thickette,
And gather nuttes to make me Christmas game;
And joyed oft to chace the trembling pricket,
Or hunt the hartlesse hare til shee were tame.
What recked I of wintrye ages waste?
Tho deemed I, my spring would ever laste.
‘How often have I scaled the craggie oke,
All to dislodge the raven of her nest!
Howe have I wearied, with many a stroke,
The stately walnut tree, the while the rest
Under the tree fell all for nuts at strife!
For ylike to me was libertee and lyfe.
‘And for I was in thilke same looser yeares,
(Whether the Muse so wrought me from my birth,
Or I to much beleeved my shepherd peres,)
Somedele ybent to song and musicks mirth,
A good olde shephearde, Wrenock was his name,
Made me by arte more cunning in the same.
‘Fro thence I durst in derring doe compare
With shepheards swayne what ever fedde in field:
And if that Hobbinol right judgement bare,
To Pan his owne selfe pype I neede not yield:
For if the flocking nymphes did folow Pan,
The wiser Muses after Colin ranne.
‘But ah! such pryde at length was ill repayde:
The shepheards god (perdie, god was he none)
My hurtlesse pleasaunce did me ill upbraide;
My freedome lorne, my life he lefte to mone.
Love they him called that gave me checkmate,
But better mought they have behote him Hate.
‘Tho gan my lovely spring bid me farewel,
And sommer season sped him to display
(For Love then in the Lyons house did dwell)
The raging fyre that kindled at his ray.
A comett stird up that unkindly heate,
That reigned (as men sayd) in Venus seate.
‘Forth was I ledde, not as I wont afore,
When choise I had to choose my wandring waye,
But whether Luck and Loves unbridled lore
Would leade me forth on Fancies bitte to playe.
The bush my bedde, the bramble was my bowre,
The woodes can witnesse many a wofull stowre.
‘Where I was wont to seeke the honey bee,
Working her formall rowmes in wexen frame,
The grieslie todestoole growne there mought I se,
And loathed paddocks lording on the same:
And where the chaunting birds luld me a sleepe,
The ghastlie owle her grievous ynne doth keepe.
[continued in part 2 . . .]
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