December / Edmund Spenser (2)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

December  [. . . continued from part 1]

‘Then as the springe gives place to elder time,
And bringeth forth the fruite of sommers pryde,
Also my age, now passed youngthly pryme,
To thinges of ryper reason selfe applyed,
And learnd of lighter timber cotes to frame,
Such as might save my sheepe and me fro shame.

‘To make fine cages for the nightingale,
And baskets of bulrushes, was my wont:
Who to entrappe the fish in winding sale
Was better seene, or hurtful beastes to hont?
I learned als the signes of heaven to ken,
How Phœbe fayles, where Venus sittes and when.

‘And tryed time yet taught me greater thinges:
The sodain rysing of the raging seas,
The soothe of byrds by beating of their wings,
The power of herbs, both which can hurt and ease,
And which be wont tenrage the restlesse sheepe,
And which be wont to worke eternall sleepe.

‘But ah, unwise and witlesse Colin Cloute!
That kydst the hidden kinds of many a wede,
Yet kydst not ene to cure thy sore hart roote,
Whose ranckling wound as yet does rifelye bleede!
Why livest thou stil, and yet hast thy deathes wound?
Why dyest thou stil, and yet alive art founde?

‘Thus is my sommer worne away and wasted,
Thus is my harvest hastened all to rathe:
The eare that budded faire is burnt and blasted,
And all my hoped gaine is turnd to scathe.
Of all the seede that in my youth was sowne,
Was nought but brakes and brambles to be mowne.

‘My boughes with bloosmes that crowned were at firste,
And promised of timely fruite such store,
Are left both bare and barrein now at erst:
The flattring fruite is fallen to grownd before,
And rotted ere they were halfe mellow ripe:
My harvest, wast, my hope away dyd wipe.

‘The fragrant flowres that in my garden grewe

Bene withered, as they had bene gathered long:
Theyr rootes bene dryed up for lacke of dewe,
Yet dewed with teares they han be ever among.
Ah! who has wrought my Rosalind this spight,
To spil the flowres that should her girlond dight?

‘And I, that whilome wont to frame my pype
Unto the shifting of the shepheards foote,
Sike follies nowe have gathered as too ripe,
And cast hem out as rotten and unsoote.
The loser lasse I cast to please nomore:
One if I please, enough is me therefore.

‘And thus of all my harvest hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care:
Which, when I thought have thresht in swelling sheave,
Cockel for corne, and chaffe for barley, bare.
Soone as the chaffe should in the fan be fynd,
All was blowne away of the wavering wynd.

‘So now my yeare drawes to his latter terme,
My spring is spent, my sommer burnt up quite,
My harveste hasts to stirre up Winter sterne,
And bids him clayme with rigorous rage hys right:
So nowe he stormes with many a sturdy stoure,
So now his blustring blast eche coste doth scoure.

‘The carefull cold hath nypt my rugged rynde,
And in my face deepe furrowes eld hath pight:
My head besprent with hoary frost I fynd,
And by myne eie the crow his clawe dooth wright.
Delight is layd abedde, and pleasure past;
No sonne now shines, cloudes han all overcast.

‘Now leave, ye shepheards boyes, your merry glee;
My Muse is hoarse and weary of thys stounde:
Here will I hang my pype upon this tree;
Was never pype of reede did better sounde.
Winter is come, that blowes the bitter blaste,
And after winter dreerie death does hast.

‘Gather ye together, my little flocke,
My little flock, that was to me so liefe:
Let me, ah! lette me in your folds ye lock,
Ere the breme winter breede you greater griefe.
Winter is come, that blowes the balefull breath,
And after winter commeth timely death.

‘Adieu, delightes, that lulled me asleepe;
Adieu, my deare, whose love I bought so deare;
Adieu, my little lambes and loved sheepe;
Adieu, ye woodes, that oft my witnesse were;
Adieu, good Hobbinol, that was so true:
Tell Rosalind her Colin bids her adieu.’

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Edmund Spenser biography

November / Edmund Spenser (1)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

November.  Ægloga Undecima

ARGUMENT. In this xi. Æglogue he bewayleth the death of some mayden of greate bloud, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secrete, and to me altogether unknowne, albe of him selfe I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loys the Frenche Queene: but farre passing his reache, and in myne opinion all other the Eglogues of this booke. 

THENOT.      COLIN. 

The. Colin, my deare, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou were wont, songs of some jouisaunce?
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing,
Lulled a sleepe through loves misgovernaunce:
Now somewhat sing whose endles sovenaunce
Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine,
Whether thee list thy loved lasse advaunce,
Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine.

    Col. Thenot, now nis the time of merimake,
Nor Pan to herye, nor with love to playe:
Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cocked haye.
But nowe sadde winter welked hath the day,
And Phæbus, weary of his yerely taske,
Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye,
And taken up his ynne in Fishes haske.
Thilke sollein season sadder plight doth aske,
And loatheth sike delightes as thou doest prayse:
The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne maske,
As shee was wont in youngth and sommer dayes.
But if thou algate lust light virelayes,
And looser songs of love, to underfong,
Who but thy selfe deserves sike Poetes prayse?
Relieve thy oaten pypes that sleepen long.

    The. The nightingale is sovereigne of song,
Before him sits the titmose silent bee:
And I, unfitte to thrust in skilfull thronge,
Should Colin make judge of my fooleree.
Nay, better learne of hem that learned bee.
And han be watered at the Muses well:
The kindlye dewe drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell.
But if sadde winters wrathe, and season chill,
Accorde not with thy Muses meriment,
To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreeriment:
For deade is Dido, dead, alas! and drent,
Dido, the greate shepehearde his daughter sheene:
The fayrest may she was that ever went,
Her like shee has not left behinde I weene.
And if thou wilt bewayle my wofull tene,
I shall thee give yond cosset for thy payne:
And if thy rymes as rownd and rufull bene
As those that did thy Rosalind complayne,
Much greater gyfts for guerdon thou shalt gayne
Then kidde or cosset, which I thee bynempt.
Then up, I say, thou jolly shepeheard swayne,
Let not my small demaund be so contempt.

[continued in part 2 . . .]

November / Edmund Spenser (2)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

November  [. . . continued from part 1]

    [Colin] Thenot, to that I choose thou doest me tempt:
But ah! to well I wote my humble vaine,
And howe my rymes bene rugged and unkempt:
Yet, as I conne, my conning I will strayne.

 
Up, then, Melpomene, thou mournefulst Muse of nyne!
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore:
Up, grieslie ghostes! and up my rufull ryme!
Matter of myrth now shalt thou have no more:
For dead shee is that myrth thee made of yore.
    Dido, my deare, alas! is dead,
    Dead, and lyeth wrapt in lead:
    O heavie herse!
Let streaming teares be poured out in store:
    O carefull verse!

Shepheards, that by your flocks on Kentish downes abyde,
Waile ye this wofull waste of Natures warke:
Waile we the wight whose presence was our pryde:
Waile we the wight whose absence is our carke.
The sonne of all the world is dimme and darke:
    The earth now lacks her wonted light,
    And all we dwell in deadly night:
    O heavie herse!
Breake we our pypes, that shrild as lowde as larke:
    O carefull verse!

Why doe we longer live, (ah, why live we so long?)
Whose better dayes death hath shut up in woe?
The fayrest floure our gyrlond all emong
Is faded quite, and into dust ygoe.
Sing now, ye shepheards daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made in her prayse,
But into weeping turne your wanton layes:
    O heavie herse!
Now is time to die. Nay, time was long ygoe:
    O carefull verse!

Whence is it that the flouret of the field doth fade,
And lyeth buryed long in winters bale:
Yet soone as spring his mantle doth displaye,
It floureth fresh, as it should never fayle?
But thing on earth that is of most availe,
    As vertues braunch and beauties budde,
    Reliven not for any good.
    O heavie herse!
The braunch once dead, the budde eke needes must quaile:
    O carefull verse!

She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayne!)
For beauties prayse and plesaunce had no pere:
So well she couth the shepherds entertayne
With cakes and cracknells and such country chere.
Ne would she scorne the simple shepheards swaine,
    For she would cal hem often heame,
    And give hem curds and clouted creame.
    O heavie herse!
Als Colin Cloute she would not once dis-dayne.
    O carefull verse!

But nowe sike happy cheere is turnd to heavie chaunce,
Such pleasaunce now displast by dolors dint:
All musick sleepes where Death doth leade the daunce,

And shepherds wonted solace is extinct.
The blew in black, the greene in gray, is tinct;
    The gaudie girlonds deck her grave,
    The faded flowres her corse embrave.
    O heavie herse!
Morne nowe, my Muse, now morne with teares besprint.
    O carefull verse!

O thou greate shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy griefe!
Where bene the nosegayes that she dight for thee?
The colourd chaplets, wrought with a chiefe,
The knotted rushringes, and gilte rosemaree?
For shee deemed nothing too deere for thee.
    Ah! they bene all yelad in clay,
    One bitter blast blewe all away.
    O heavie herse!
There of nought remaynes but the memoree.
    O carefull verse!

Ay me! that dreerie Death should strike so mortall stroke,
That can undoe Dame Natures kindly course:
The faded lockes fall from the loftie oke,
The flouds do gaspe, for dryed is theyr sourse,
And flouds of teares flowe in theyr stead perforse.
    The mantled medowes mourne,
    Theyr sondry colours tourne.
    O heavie herse!
The heavens doe melt in teares without remorse.
    O carefull verse!

The feeble flocks in field refuse their former foode,
And hang theyr heads, as they would learne to weepe:
The beastes in forest wayle as they were woode,
Except the wolves, that chase the wandring sheepe,
Now she is gon that safely did hem keepe.
    The turtle, on the bared braunch,
    Laments the wound that Death did launch.
    O heavie herse!
And Philomele her song with teares doth steepe.
    O carefull verse!

The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and daunce,
And for her girlond olive braunches beare,
Now balefull boughes of cypres doen advaunce:
The Muses, that were wont greene bayes to weare,
Now bringen bitter eldre braunches seare:
    The Fatall Sisters eke repent
    Her vitall threde so soone was spent.
    O heavie herse!
Morne now, my Muse, now morne with heavie cheare.
    O carefull verse!

O trustlesse state of earthly things, and slipper hope
Of mortal men, that swincke and sweate for nought,
And shooting wide, doe misse the marked scope:
Now have I learnd, (a lesson derely bought)
That nys on earth assuraunce to be sought:
    For what might be in earthlie mould,
    That did her buried body hould.
    O heavie herse!
Yet saw I on the beare when it was brought.
    O carefull verse!

But maugre Death, and dreaded sisters deadly spight,
And gates of Hel, and fyrie furies forse,
She hath the bonds broke of eternall night,
Her soule unbodied of the burdenous corpse.
Why then weepes Lobbin so without remorse?
    O Lobb! thy losse no longer lament;
    Dido nis dead, but into heaven hent.
    O happye herse!
Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrowes sourse:
    O joyfull verse!

Why wayle we then? why weary we the gods with playnts,
As if some evill were to her betight?
She raignes a goddesse now emong the saintes,
That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light:
And is enstalled nowe in heavens hight.
    I see thee, blessed soule, I see,
    Walke in Elisian fieldes so free.
    O happy herse!
Might I one come to thee! O that I might!
    O joyfull verse!

Unwise and wretched men, to weete whats good or ill,
Wee deeme of death as doome of ill desert:
But knewe we, fooles, what it us bringes until,
Dye would we dayly, once it to expert.
No daunger there the shepheard can astert:
    Fayre fieldes and pleasaunt layes there bene,
    The fieldes ay fresh, the grasse ay greene:
    O happy herse!
Make hast, ye shepheards, thether to revert:
    O joyfull verse!

Dido is gone afore (whose turne shall be the next?)
There lives shee with the blessed gods in blisse,
There drincks she nectar with ambrosia mixt,
And joyes enjoyes that mortall men doe misse.
The honor now of highest gods she is,
    That whilome was poore shepheards pryde,
    While here on earth she did abyde.
    O happy herse!
Ceasse now, my song, my woe now wasted is.
    O joyfull verse!

  
    [Thenot] Ay, francke shepheard, how bene thy verses meint
With doolful pleasaunce, so as I ne wotte
Whether rejoyce or weepe for great constrainte!
Thyne be the cossette, well hast thow it gotte.
Up, Colin, up, ynough thou morned hast:
Now gynnes to mizzle, hye we homeward fast.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[December]

Edmund Spenser biography

October / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

October. Ægloga Decima

ARGUMENT. In Cuddie is set out the perfecte paterne of a poete, whiche, finding no maintenaunce of his state and studies, complayneth of the contempte of Poetrie, and the causes thereof: specially having bene in all ages, and even amongst the most barbarous, alwayes of singular accounpt and honor, and being indede so worthy and commendable an arte: or rather no arte, but a divine gift and heavenly instinct, not to bee gotten by laboure and learning, but adorned with both, and poured into the witte by a certain [Greek] and celestiall inspiration; as the author hereof els where at large discourseth in his booke called The English Poete, which booke being lately come to my hands, I mynde also by Gods grace, upon further advisement, to publish.

PIERCE.    CUDDIE.

    Piers. Cuddie, for shame! hold up thy heavye head,
And let us cast with what delight to chace
And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade
In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base:
Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead.

    Cud. Piers, I have pyped erst so long with payne,
That all mine oten reedes bene rent and wore:
And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne.
Such pleasaunce makes the grashopper so poore,
And ligge so layd, when winter doth her straine.

The dapper ditties that I wont devise,
To feede youthes fancie and the flocking fry,
Delighten much: what I the bett forthy?
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise:
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?

    Piers. Cuddie, the prayse is better then the price,
The glory eke much greater then the gayne:
O what an honor is it, to restraine
The lust of lawlesse youth with good advice,
Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine,
Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice!

Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame,
O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleave!
Seemeth thou doest their soule of sense bereave,
All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame
From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leave:
His musicks might the hellish hound did tame.

    Cud. So praysen babes the peacoks spotted traine,
And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye;
But who rewards him ere the more forthy?
Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine?
Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye,
Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne.

    Piers. Abandon then the base and viler clowne:
Lyft up thy selfe out of the lowly dust,
And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts:
Turne thee to those that weld the awful crowne,
To doubted knights, whose woundlesse armour rusts,
And helmes unbruzed wexen dayly browne.

There may thy Muse display her fluttryng wing,
And stretch her selfe at large from east to west:
Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest,
Or if thee please in bigger notes to sing,
Advaunce the worthy whome shee loveth best,
That first the white beare to the stake did bring.

And when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds
Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string,
Of love and lustihead tho mayst thou sing,
And carrol lowde, and leade the myllers rownde,
All were Elisa one of thilke same ring.
So mought our Cuddies name to heaven sownde.

    Cud. Indeede the Romish Tityrus, I heare,
Through his Mecænas left his oaten reede,
Whereon he earst had taught his flocks to feede,
And laboured lands to yield the timely eare,
And eft did sing of warres and deadly drede,
So as the heavens did quake his verse to here.

But ah! Mecœnas is yclad in claye,
And great Augustus long ygoe is dead,
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade,
That matter made for poets on to play:
For, ever, who in derring doe were dreade,
The loftie verse of hem was loved aye.

But after vertue gan for age to stoupe,
And mighty manhode brought a bedde of ease,
The vaunting poets found nought worth a pease
To put in preace emong the learned troupe.
Tho gan the streames of flowing wittes to cease,
And sonnebright honour pend in shamefull coupe.

And if that any buddes of poesie
Yet of the old stocke gan to shoote agayne,
Or it mens follies mote be forst to fayne,
And rolle with rest in rymes of rybaudrye,
Or, as it sprong, it wither must agayne:
Tom Piper makes us better melodie.

    Piers. O pierlesse Poesye, where is then thy place?
If nor in princes pallace thou doe sitt,
(And yet is princes pallace the most fitt)
Ne brest of baser birth doth thee embrace.
Then make thee winges of thine aspyring wit,
And, whence thou camst, flye backe to heaven apace.

    Cud. Ah, Percy! it is all to weake and wanne,
So high to sore, and make so large a flight;
Her peeced pyneons bene not so in plight:
For Colin fittes such famous flight to scanne:
He, were he not with love so ill bedight,
Would mount as high and sing as soote as swanne.

    Piers. Ah, fon! for love does teach him climbe so hie,
And lyftes him up out of the loathsome myre:

Such immortall mirrhor as he doth admire
Would rayse ones mynd above the starry skie,
And cause a caytive corage to aspire;
For lofty love doth loath a lowly eye.

   Cud. All otherwise the state of poet stands:
For lordly Love is such a tyranne fell,
That, where he rules, all power he doth expell.
The vaunted verse a vacant head demaundes,
Ne wont with crabbed Care the Muses dwell:
Unwisely weaves, that takes two webbes in hand.

Who ever casts to compasse weightye prise,
And thinks to throwe out thondring words of threate,
Let powre in lavish cups and thriftie bitts of meate;
For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phæbus wise,
And when with wine the braine begins to sweate,
The nombers flowe as fast as spring doth ryse.

Thou kenst not, Percie, howe the ryme should rage.
O if my temples were distaind with wine,
And girt in girlonds of wild yvie twine,
How I could reare the Muse on stately stage,
And teache her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With queint Bellona in her equipage!

But ah! my corage cooles ere it be warme;
Forthy content us in thys humble shade,
Where no such troublous tydes han us assayde.
Here we our slender pipes may safely charme.
    Piers. And when my gates shall han their bellies layd,
Cuddie shall have a kidde to store his farme.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[November]

Edmund Spenser biography

September / Edmund Spenser (1)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

September.  Ægloga Nona

ARGUMENT. Herein Diggon Davie is devised to be a shepheard that, in hope of more gayne, drove his sheepe into a farre countrye. The abuses whereof, and loose living of popish prelates, by occasion of Hobbinols demaund, he discourseth at large.

HOBBINOL. DIGGON DAVIE.

    Hob. Diggon Davie, I bidde her god day:
Or Diggon her is, or I missaye.

    Dig. Her was her while it was daye light,
But now her is a most wretched wight.
For day, that was, is wightly past,
And now at earst the dirke night doth hast.

    Hob. Diggon, areede, who has thee so dight?
Never I wist thee in so poore a plight.
Where is the fayre flocke thou was wont to leade?
Or bene they chaffred? or at mischiefe dead?

    Dig. Ah! for love of that is to thee moste leefe,
Hobbinol, I pray thee gall not my old griefe:
Sike question ripeth up cause of newe woe,
For one opened mote unfolde many moe.

 
    Hob. Nay, but sorrow close shrouded in hart,
I know, to kepe is a burdenous smart.
Eche thing imparted is more eath to beare:
When the rayne is faln, the cloudes wexen cleare.
And nowe, sithence I sawe thy head last,
Thrise three moones bene fully spent and past:
Since when thou hast measured much grownd,
And wandred, I wene, about the world rounde,
So as thou can many thinges relate:
But tell me first of thy flocks astate.

    Dig. My sheepe bene wasted, (wae is me therefore!)
The jolly shepheard that was of yore
Is nowe nor jollye, nor shepehearde more.
In forrein costes, men sayd, was plentye:
And so there is, but all of miserye.
I dempt there much to have eeked my store,
But such eeking hath made my hart sore.
In tho countryes whereas I have bene,
No being for those that truely mene,
But for such as of guile maken gayne,
No such countrye as there to remaine.
They setten to sale their shops of shame,
And maken a mart of theyr good name.
The shepheards there robben one another,
And layen baytes to beguile her brother.
Or they will buy his sheepe out of the cote,
Or they will carven the shepheards throte.
The shepheards swayne you cannot wel ken,
But it be by his pryde, from other men:
They looken bigge as bulls that bene bate,
And bearen the cragge so stiffe and so state
As cocke on his dunghill crowing cranck.

    Hob. Diggon, I am so stiffe and so stanck,
That uneth may I stand any more:
And nowe the westerne wind bloweth sore,
That nowe is in his chiefe sovereigntee,
Beating the withered leafe from the tree.
Sitte we downe here under the hill:
Tho may we talke and tellen our fill,
And make a mocke at the blustring blast.
Now say on, Diggon, what ever thou hast.

    Dig. Hobbin, ah, Hobbin! I curse the stounde
That ever I cast to have lorne this grounde.
Wel-away the while I was so fonde
To leave the good that I had in hande,
In hope of better, that was uncouth:
So lost the dogge the flesh in his mouth.
My seely sheepe (ah, seely sheepe!)
That here by there I whilome usd to keepe,
All were they lustye, as thou didst see,
Bene all sterved with pyne and penuree.
Hardly my selfe escaped thilke payne,
Driven for neede to come home agayne.

    Hob. Ah, fon! now by thy losse art taught
That seeldome chaunge the better brought.
Content who lives with tryed state
Neede feare no chaunge of frowning fate;
But who will seeke for unknowne gayne,
Oft lives by losse, and leaves with payne.

    Dig. I wote ne, Hobbin, how I was bewitcht
With vayne desyre and hope to be enricht;
But, sicker, so it is as the bright starre
Seemeth ay greater when it is farre.
I thought the soyle would have made me rich;
But nowe I wote it is nothing sich.
For eyther the shepeheards bene ydle and still,
And ledde of theyr sheepe what way they wyll,
Or they bene false, and full of covetise,
And casten to compasse many wrong emprise.
But the more bene fraight with fraud and spight,
Ne in good nor goodnes taken delight,
But kindle coales of conteck and yre,
Wherewith they sette all the world on fire:
Which when they thinken agayne to quench,
With holy water they doen hem all drench.
They saye they con to heaven the high way,
But, by my soule, I dare undersaye
They never sette foote in that same troade,
But balk the right way and strayen abroad.
They boast they han the devill at commaund,
But aske hem therefore what they han paund:
Marrie! that great Pan bought with deare borrow,
To quite it from the blacke bowre of sorrowe.
But they han sold thilk same long agoe:
Forthy woulden drawe with hem many moe.
But let hem gange alone a Gods name;
100 As they han brewed, so let hem beare blame.

    Hob. Diggon, I praye thee speake not so dirke.
Such myster saying me seemeth to mirke.

    Dig. Then, playnely to speake of shepheards most what,
Badde is the best (this English is flatt.)
Their ill haviour garres men missay
Both of their doctrine, and of their faye.
They sayne the world is much war then it wont,
All for her shepheards bene beastly and blont:
Other sayne, but how truely I note,
All for they holden shame of theyr cote.
Some sticke not to say, (whote cole on her tongue!)
That sike mischiefe graseth hem emong,
All for they casten too much of worlds care,
To deck her dame, and enrich her heyre:
For such encheason, if you goe nye,
Fewe chymneis reeking you shall espye:
The fatte oxe, that wont ligge in the stal,
Is nowe fast stalled in her crumenall.
Thus chatten the people in theyr steads,
Ylike as a monster of many heads:
But they that shooten neerest the pricke
Sayne, other the fat from their beards doen lick:
For bigge bulles of Basan brace hem about,
That with theyr hornes butten the more stoute;
But the leane soules treaden under foote.
And to seeke redresse mought little boote;
For liker bene they to pluck away more,
Then ought of the gotten good to restore:
For they bene like foule wagmoires over-grast,
That if thy galage once sticketh fast,
The more to wind it out thou doest swinck,
Thou mought ay deeper and deeper sinck.
Yet better leave of with a little losse,
Then by much wrestling to leese the grosse.

[continued in part 2 . . .]

September / Edmund Spenser (2)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

September  [. . . continued from part 1]

[HOBBINOL.    DIGGON DAVIE.]

    Hob. Nowe, Diggon, I see thou speakest to plaine:
Better it were a little to feyne,
And cleanly cover that cannot be cured:
Such il as is forced mought nedes be endured.
But of sike pastoures howe done the flocks creepe?

    Dig. Sike as the shepheards, sike bene her sheepe:
For they nill listen to the shepheards voyce,
But if he call hem at theyr good choyce:
They wander at wil and stray at pleasure,
And to theyr foldes yeed at their owne leasure.
But they had be better come at their cal;
For many han into mischiefe fall,
And bene of ravenous wolves yrent,
All for they nould be buxome and bent.

    Hob. Fye on thee, Diggon, and all thy foule leasing!  

Well is knowne that sith the Saxon king,
Never was woolfe seene, many nor some,
Nor in all Kent, nor in Christendome:
But the fewer woolves (the soth to sayne,)
The more bene the foxes that here remaine.

    Dig. Yes, but they gang in more secrete wise,
And with sheepes clothing doen hem disguise:
They walke not widely as they were wont,
For feare of raungers and the great hunt,
But prively prolling to and froe,
Enaunter they mought be inly knowe.

    Hob. Or prive or pert yf any bene,
We han great bandogs will teare their skinne.

    Dig. Indeede, thy Ball is a bold bigge curre,
And could make a jolly hole in theyr furre.
But not good dogges hem needeth to chace,
But heedy shepheards to discerne their face:
For all their craft is in their countenaunce,
They bene so grave and full of mayntenaunce.
But shall I tell thee what my selfe knowe
Chaunced to Roffynn not long ygoe?

    Hob. Say it out, Diggon, what ever it hight,
For not but well mought him betight:
He is so meeke, wise, and merciable,
And with his word his worke is convenable.
Colin Clout, I wene, be his selfe boye,
(Ah for Colin, he whilome my joye!)
Shepheards sich, God mought us many send,
That doen so carefully theyr flocks tend.

    

    Dig. Thilk same shepheard mought I well marke:

He has a dogge to byte or to barke;
Never had shepheard so kene a kurre,
That waketh and if but a leafe sturre.
Whilome there wonned a wicked wolfe,
That with many a lambe had glutted his gulfe.
And ever at night wont to repayre
Unto the flocke, when the welkin shone faire,
Ycladde in clothing of seely sheepe,
When the good old man used to sleepe.
Tho at midnight he would barke and ball,
(For he had eft learned a curres call,)
As if a woolfe were emong the sheepe.
With that the shepheard would breake his sleepe,
And send out Lowder (for so his dog hote)
To raunge the fields with wide open throte.
Tho, when as Lowder was farre awaye,
This wolvish sheepe would catchen his pray,
A lambe, or a kidde, or a weanell wast:
With that to the wood would he speede him fast.
Long time he used this slippery pranck,
Ere Roffy could for his laboure him thanck.
At end, the shepheard his practise spyed,
(For Roffy is wise, and as Argus eyed)
And when at even he came to the flocke,
Fast in theyr folds he did them locke,
And tooke out the woolfe in his counterfect cote,
And let out the sheepes bloud at his throte.

    Hob. Marry, Diggon, what should him affraye
To take his owne where ever it laye?
For had his wesand bene a little widder,
He would have devoured both hidder and shidder.

    Dig. Mischiefe light on him, and Gods great curse!
Too good for him had bene a great deale worse:
For it was a perilous beast above all,
And eke had he cond the shepherds call,
And oft in the night came to the shepecote,
And called Lowder, with a hollow throte,
As if it the old man selfe had bene.
The dog his maisters voice did it weene,
Yet halfe in doubt he opened the dore,
And ranne out, as he was wont of yore.
No sooner was out, but, swifter then thought,
Fast by the hyde the wolfe Lowder caught:
And had not Roffy renne to the steven,
Lowder had be slaine thilke same even.

    Hob. God shield, man, he should so ill have thrive,
All for he did his devoyre belive.
If sike bene wolves as thou hast told,
How mought we, Diggon, hem behold?

    Dig. How, but with heede and watchfulnesse
Forstallen hem of their wilinesse?
Forthy with shepheard sittes not playe,
Or sleepe, as some doen, all the long day:
But ever liggen in watch and ward,
From soddein force theyr flocks for to gard.

    Hob. Ah, Diggon! thilke same rule were too straight,
All the cold season to wach and waite:
We bene of fleshe, men as other bee:
Why should we be bound to such miseree?
What ever thing lacketh chaungeable rest,
Mought needes decay, when it is at best.

    Dig. Ah! but Hobbinol, all this long tale
Nought easeth the care that doth me forhaile.
What shall I doe? what way shall I wend,
My piteous plight and losse to amend?
Ah, good Hobbinol! mought I thee praye
Of ayde or counsell in my decaye.

    Hob. Now by my soule, Diggon, I lament
The haplesse mischief that has thee hent.
Nethelesse thou seest my lowly saile,
That froward fortune doth ever availe.
But were Hobbinoll as God mought please,
Diggon should soone find favour and ease.
But if to my cotage thou wilt resort,
So as I can I wil thee comfort:
There mayst thou ligge in a vetchy bed,
Till fayrer fortune shewe forth her head.

    Dig. Ah, Hobbinol, God mought it thee requite!
Diggon on fewe such freendes did ever lite.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[October]

Edmund Spenser biography

August / Edmund Spenser (1)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

August.  Ægloga Octave.

 
ARGUMENT. In this Æglogue is set forth a delectable controversie, made in imitation of that in Theocritus: whereto also Virgile fashioned his third and seventh Æglogue. They choose for umpere of their strife, Cuddie, a neatheards boye, who, having ended their cause, reciteth also himselfe a proper song, whereof Colin, he sayth, was authour.

WILLYE. PERIGOT. CUDDIE.

Wil. Tell me, Perigot, what shalbe the game,
Wherefore with myne thou dare thy musick matche?
Or bene thy bagpypes renne farre out of frame?
Or hath the crampe thy joynts benomd with ache?
Per. Ah! Willye, when the hart is ill assayde,
How can bagpipe or joynts be well apayd?

Wil. What the foule evill hath thee so bestadde?
Whilom thou was peregall to the best,
And wont to make the jolly shepeheards gladde
With pyping and dauncing, didst passe the rest.
Per. Ah! Willye, now I have learnd a newe daunce:
My old musick mard by a newe mischaunce.

Wil. Mischiefe mought to that newe mischaunce befall,
That so hath raft us of our meriment!
But reede me, what payne doth thee so appall?
Or lovest thou, or bene thy younglings miswent?
Per. Love hath misled both my younglings and mee:
I pyne for payne, and they my payne to see.

Wil. Perdie and wellawaye! ill may they thrive:
Never knewe I lovers sheepe in good plight.
But and if in rymes with me thou dare strive,
Such fond fantsies shall soone be put to flight.
Per. That shall I doe, though mochell worse I fared:
Never shall be sayde that Perigot was dared.

Wil. Then loe, Perigot, the pledge which I plight!
A mazer ywrought of the maple warre:
Wherein is enchased many a fayre sight
Of beres and tygres, that maken fiers warre;
And over them spred a goodly wild vine,
Entrailed with a wanton yvie-twine.

Thereby is a lambe in the wolves jawes:
But see, how fast renneth the shepheard swayne,
To save the innocent from the beastes pawes;
And here with his shepehooke hath him slayne.
Tell me, such a cup hast thou ever sene?
Well mought it beseme any harvest queene.

Per. Thereto will I pawne yonder spotted lambe;
Of all my flocke there nis sike another;
For I brought him up without the dambe.
But Colin Clout rafte me of his brother,
That he purchast of me in the playne field:
Sore against my will was I forst to yield.

Wil. Sicker, make like account of his brother.
But who shall judge the wager wonne or lost?
Per. That shall yonder heardgrome, and none other,
Which over the pousse hetherward doth post.
Wil. But, for the sunnebeame so sore doth us beate,
Were not better to shunne the scortching heate?

Per. Well agreed, Willy: then sitte thee downe, swayne:
Sike a song never heardest thou but Colin sing.
Cud. Gynne when ye lyst, ye jolly shep-heards twayne:
Sike a judge as Cuddie were for a king.

 

Per. It fell upon a holly eve,

Wil. Hey ho, hollidaye!
Per. When holly fathers wont to shrieve:
Wil. Now gynneth this roundelay.
Per. Sitting upon a hill so hye,
Wil. Hey ho, the high hyll!
Per. The while my flocke did feede thereby,
Wil. The while the shepheard selfe did spill;
Per. I saw the bouncing Bellibone,
Wil. Hey ho, bonibell!
Per. Tripping over the dale alone;
Wil. She can trippe it very well:
Per. Well decked in a frocke of gray,
Wil. Hey ho, gray is greete!
Per. And in a kirtle of greene saye;
Wil. The greene is for maydens meete.
Per. A chapelet on her head she wore,
Wil. Hey ho, chapelet!
Per. Of sweete violets therein was store,
Wil. She sweeter then the violet.
Per. My sheepe did leave theyr wonted foode,
Wil. Hey ho, seely sheepe!
Per. And gazd on her, as they were wood,
Wil. Woode as he that did them keepe.
Per. As the bonilasse passed bye,
Wil. Hey ho, bonilasse!
Per. She rovde at me with glauncing eye,
Wil. As cleare as the christall glasse:
Per. All as the sunnye beame so bright,
Wil. Hey ho, the sunne beame!
Per. Glaunceth from Phoebus face forth-right,
Wil. So love into thy hart did streame:
Per. Or as the thonder cleaves the cloudes,
Wil. Hey ho, the thonder!
Per. Wherein the lightsome levin shroudes,
Wil. So cleaves thy soule a sonder:
Per. Or as Dame Cynthias silver raye,
Wil. Hey ho, the moonelight!
Per. Upon the glyttering wave doth playe:
Wil. Such play is a pitteous plight.
Per. The glaunce into my heart did glide,
Wil. Hey ho, the glyder!
Per. Therewith my soule was sharply gryde:
Wil. Such woundes soone wexen wider.
Per. Hasting to raunch the arrow out,
Wil. Hey ho, Perigot!
Per. I left the head in my hart roote:
Wil. It was a desperate shot.
Per. There it ranckleth ay more and more,
Wil. Hey ho, the arrowe!
Per. Ne can I find salve for my sore:
Wil. Love is a curelesse sorrowe.
Per. And though my bale with death I bought,
Wil. Hey ho, heavie cheere!
Per. Yet should thilk lasse not from my thought:
Wil. So you may buye gold to deare.
Per. But whether in paynefull love I pyne,
Wil. Hey ho, pinching payne!
Per. Or thrive in welth, she shalbe mine:
Wil. But if thou can her obteine.
Per. And if for gracelesse greefe I dye,
Wil. Hey ho, gracelesse griefe!
Per. Witnesse, shee slewe me with her eye:
Wil. Let thy follye be the priefe.
Per. And you, that sawe it, simple shepe,
Wil. Hey ho, the fayre flocke!
Per. For priefe thereof, my death shall weepe,
Wil. And mone with many a mocke. 1
Per. So learnd I love on a hollye eve,
Wil. Hey ho, holidaye!
Per. That ever since my hart did greve.
Wil. Now endeth our roundelay.


Cud. Sicker, sike a roundle never heard I none.
Little lacketh Perigot of the best,
And Willye is not greatly overgone,
So weren his undersongs well addrest.
Wil. Herdgrome, I fear me thou have a squint eye:
Areede uprightly, who has the victorye?

Cud. Fayth of my soule, I deeme ech have gayned.
Forthy let the lambe be Willye his owne;
And for Perigot so well hath hym payned,
To him be the wroughten mazer alone.
Per. Perigot is well pleased with the doome,
Ne can Willye wite the witelesse herdgroome.

Wil. Never dempt more right of beautye, I weene,
The shepheard of Ida that judged beauties queene.

[continued in part 2 . . .]

Ye wastefull woodes / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

August  [. . . continued from part 1]

[WILLYE.    PERIGOT.    CUDDIE.]

Cud. But tell me, shepherds, should it not yshend
Your roundels fresh to heare a doolefull verse
Of Rosalend, (who knowes not Rosalend?)
That Colin made, ylke can I you rehearse.
Per. Now say it, Cuddie, as thou art a ladde:
With mery thing its good to medle sadde.

Wil. Fayth of my soule, thou shalt ycrouned be
In Colins stede, if thou this song areede:
For never thing on earth so pleaseth me
As him to heare, or matter of his deede.
Cud. Then listneth ech unto my heavy laye,
And tune your pypes as ruthful as ye may.

‘Ye wastefull woodes beare witnesse of my woe,
Wherein my plaints did oftentimes resound:
Ye carelesse byrds are privie to my cryes,
Which in your songs were wont to make a part:
Thou pleasaunt spring hast luld me oft a sleepe,
Whose streames my tricklinge teares did ofte augment.

‘Resort of people doth my greefs augment,
The walled townes do worke my greater woe:
The forest wide is fitter to resound
The hollow echo of my carefull cryes:
I hate the house, since thence my love did part,
Whose waylefull want debarres myne eyes from sleepe.

‘Let stremes of teares supply the place of sleepe:
Let all, that sweete is, voyd: and all that may augment
My doole drawe neare. More meete to wayle my woe
Bene the wild woddes, my sorrowes to resound,
Then bedde, or bowre, both which I fill with cryes,
When I them see so waist, and fynd no part

‘Of pleasure past. Here will I dwell apart
In gastfull grove therefore, till my last sleepe
Doe close mine eyes: so shall I not augment,
With sight of such a chaunge, my restlesse woe.
Helpe me, ye banefull byrds, whose shrieking sound
Ys signe of dreery death, my deadly cryes

‘Most ruthfully to tune. And as my cryes
(Which of my woe cannot bewray least part)
You heare all night, when nature craveth sleepe,
Increase, so let your yrksome yells augment.
Thus all the night in plaints, the daye in woe
I vowed have to wayst, till safe and sound

‘She home returne, whose voyces silver sound
To cheerefull songs can chaunge my cherelesse cryes.
Hence with the nightingale will I take part,
That blessed byrd, that spends her time of sleepe
In songs and plaintive pleas, the more taugment
The memory of hys misdeede, that bred her woe.

‘And you that feele no woe, / when as the sound
Of these my nightly cryes / ye heare apart,
Let breake your sounder sleepe / and pitie augment.’


Per. O Colin, Colin, the shepheards joye,
How I admire ech turning of thy verse!
And Cuddie, fresh Cuddie, the liefest boye,
How dolefully his doole thou didst re-hearse!
Cud. Then blowe your pypes, shepheards, til you be at home:
The night nigheth fast, yts time to be gone.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[September]

Edmund Spenser biography

Julye / Edmund Spenser (1)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

Julye.  Æglogia Septima. 

ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is made in the honour and commendation of good shepeheardes, and to the shame and disprayse of proude and ambitious pastours: such as Morrell is here imagined to bee.

THOMALIN. MORRELL.

Thom. 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 jollye shepheards swayne,
    Come up the hyll to me:
Better is then the lowly playne,
    Als for thy flocke and thee.

Thom. Ah, God shield, man, that I should clime,
    And learne to looke alofte;
This reede is ryfe, that oftentime
    Great clymbers fall unsoft.
In humble dales is footing fast,
    The trode is not so tickle,
And though one fall through heedlesse hast,
    Yet is his misse not mickle.
And now the Sonne hath reared up
    His fyriefooted teme,
Making his way betweene the Cuppe
    And golden Diademe:
The rampant Lyon hunts he fast,
    With Dogge of noysome breath,
Whose balefull barking bringes in hast
    Pyne, plagues, and dreery death.
Agaynst his cruell scortching heate
    Where hast thou coverture?
The wastefull hylls unto his threate
    Is a playne overture.
But if thee lust to holden chat
    With seely shepherds swayne,
Come downe, and learne the little what
    That Thomalin can sayne.

Mor. Syker, thous but a laesie loord,
    And rekes much of thy swinck,
That with fond termes, and weetlesse words,
    To blere myne eyes doest thinke.
In evill houre thou hentest in hond
    Thus holy hylles to blame,
For sacred unto saints they stond,
    And of them han theyr name.
St. Michels Mount who does not know,
    That wardes the westerne coste?
And of St. Brigets Bowre, I trow,
    All Kent can rightly boaste:
And they that con of Muses skill
    Sayne most-what, that they dwell
(As goteheards wont) upon a hill,
    Beside a learned well.
And wonned not the great god Pan
    Upon Mount Olivet,
Feeding the blessed flocke of Dan,
    Which dyd himselfe beget?

Thom. O blessed sheepe! O shepheard great,
    That bought his flocke so deare,
And them did save with bloudy sweat
    From wolves, that would them teare!

Mor. Besyde, as holy fathers sayne,
    There is a hyllye place,
Where Titan ryseth from the mayne,
    To renne hys dayly race:
Upon whose toppe the starres bene stayed,
    And all the skie doth leane;
There is the cave where Phebe layed
    The shepheard long to dreame.
Whilome there used shepheards all
    To feede theyr flocks at will,
Till by his foly one did fall,
    That all the rest did spill.
And sithens shepheardes bene foresayd
    From places of delight:
Forthy I weene thou be affrayd
    To clime this hilles height.
Of Synah can I tell thee more,
    And of Our Ladyes Bowre:
But little needes to strow my store,
    Suffice this hill 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 stremis
    Adowne the dales of Kent,
Till with his elder brother Themis
    His brackish waves be meynt.
Here growes melampode every where,
    And teribinth, good for gotes:
The one, my madding kiddes to smere,
    The next, to heale theyr throtes.
Hereto, the hills bene nigher heven,
    And thence the passage ethe:
As well can prove the piercing levin,
    That seeldome falls bynethe.

Thom. Syker, thou speakes lyke a lewde lorrell,
    Of heaven to demen so:
How be I am but rude and borrell,
    Yet nearer wayes I knowe.
To kerke the narre, from God more farre,
    Has bene an old sayd sawe,
And he that strives to touch the starres
    Oft stombles at a strawe.
Alsoone may shepheard clymbe to skye,
    That leades in lowly dales,
As goteherd prowd, that, sitting hye,
    Upon the mountaine sayles.
My seely sheepe like well belowe,
    They neede not melampode:
For they bene hale enough, I trowe,
    And liken theyr abode.
But, if they with thy gotes should yede,
    They soone myght be corrupted,
Or like not of the frowie fede,
    Or with the weedes be glutted.
The hylls where dwelled holy saints
    I reverence and adore:
Not for themselfe, but for the sayncts
    Which han be dead of yore.
And nowe they bene to heaven forewent,
    Theyr good is with them goe,
Theyr sample onely to us lent,
    That als we mought doe soe.

[continued in part 2 . . .]

Julye / Edmund Spenser (2)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

Julye  [. . . continued from part 1]

[THOMALIN.    MORRELL.]

Thom. Shepheards they weren of the best,

    And lived in lowlye leas:
And sith theyr soules bene now at rest,
    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:
As 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 hys keepe
    A sacrifice to bring,
Nowe with a kidde, now with a sheepe
    The altars hallowing.
So lowted he unto hys Lord,
    Such favour couth he fynd,
That sithens never was abhord
    The simple shepheards kynd.
And such, I weene, the brethren were
    That came from Canaan,
The brethren twelve, that kept yfere
    The flockes of mighty Pan.
But nothing such thilk shephearde was
    Whom Ida hyll dyd beare,
That left hys flocke to fetch a lasse,
    Whose love he bought to deare.
For he was proude, that ill was payd,
    (No such mought shepheards bee)
And with lewde lust was overlayd:
    Tway things doen ill agree.
But shepheard mought be meeke and mylde,
    Well eyed as Argus was,
With fleshly follyes undefyled,
    And stoute as steede of brasse.
Sike one (sayd Algrin) Moses was,
    That sawe hys Makers face,
His face, more cleare then christall glasse,
    And spake to him in place.
This had a brother, (his name I knewe)
    The first of all his cote,
A shepheard trewe, yet not so true
    As he that earst I hote.
Whilome all these were lowe and lief,
    And loved their flocks to feede,
They never stroven to be chiefe,
    And simple was theyr weede.
But now (thanked be God therefore)
    The world is well amend,
Their 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:
Ygyrt with belts of glitter and gold,
    (Mought they good sheepeheards bene)
Theyr Pan theyr sheepe to them has sold;
    I saye as some have seene.
For Palinode (if thou him ken)
    Yode late on pilgrimage
To Rome, (if such be Rome) and then
    He sawe thilke misusage.
For shepeheards, sayd he, there doen leade,
    As lordes done other where;
Theyr sheepe han crustes, and they the bread;
    The chippes, and they the chere:
They han the fleece, and eke the flesh;
    (O seely sheepe the while!)
The corne is theyrs, let other thresh,
    Their hands they may not file.
They han great stores and thriftye stockes,
    Great freendes and feeble foes:
What neede hem caren for their flocks?
    Theyr boyes can looke to those.
These wisards weltre in welths waves,
    Pampred in pleasures deepe;
They han fatte kernes, and leany knaves,
    Their fasting flockes to keepe.
Sike mister men bene all misgone,
    They heapen hylles of wrath:
Sike syrlye shepheards han we none,
    They keepen all the path.

Mor. Here is a great deale of good matter
    Lost for lacke of telling.
Now sicker I see, thou doest but clatter:
    Harme may come of melling.
Thou medlest more then shall have thanke,
    To wyten shepheards welth:
When folke bene fat, and riches rancke,
    It is a signe of helth.
But say me, what is Algrin, he
    That is so oft bynempt?

Thom. He is a shepheard great in gree,
    But hath bene long ypent.
One daye he sat upon a hyll,
    As now thou wouldest me:
But I am taught, by Algrins ill,
    To love the lowe degree.
For sitting so with bared scalpe,
    An eagle sored hye,
That, weening hys whyte head was chalke,
    A shell fish downe let flye:
She weend the shell fishe to have broake,
    But therewith bruzd his brayne;
So now, astonied with the stroke,
    He lyes in lingring payne.

Mor. Ah, good Algrin! his hap was ill,
    But shall be bett in time.
Now farwell, shepheard, sith thys hyll
    Thou hast such doubt to climbe.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[August]

Edmund Spenser biography

June / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579: 

June.  Ægloga Sexta.

ARGUMENT. This Æglogue is wholly vowed to the complayning of Colins ill successe in his love. For being (as is aforesaid) enamoured of a country lasse, Rosalind, and having (as seemeth) founde place in her heart, he lamenteth to his deare frend Hobbinoll, that he is nowe forsaken unfaithfully, and in his steede Menalcas, another shepheard, received disloyally. And this is the whole argument of this Æglogue.

HOBBINOL.  COLIN CLOUTE.

    Hob. Lo, Collin, here the place whose pleasaunt syte
From other shades hath weand my wandring mynde.
Tell me, what wants me here to worke delyte?
The simple ayre, the gentle warbling wynde,
So calme, so coole, as no where else I fynde,
The grassye ground with daintye daysies dight,
The bramble bush, where byrds of every kynde
To the waters fall their tunes attemper right.

    Col. O happy Hobbinoll! I blesse thy state,
That Paradise hast found, whych Adam lost.
Here wander may thy flock, early or late,
Withouten dreade of wolves to bene ytost:
Thy lovely layes here mayst thou freely boste.
But I, unhappy man, whom cruell Fate
And angry gods pursue from coste to coste,
Can nowhere fynd to shroude my lucklesse pate.

    Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be,
Forsake the soyle that so doth the bewitch;
Leave me those hilles, where harbrough nis to see,
Nor holybush, nor brere, nor winding witche,
And to the dales resort, where shepheards ritch,
And fruictfull flocks, bene every where to see.
Here no night ravens lodge, more black then pitche,
Nor elvish ghosts, nor gastly owles doe flee.

But frendly Faeries, met with many Graces,
And lightfote Nymphes, can chace the lingring night
With heydeguyes and trimly trodden traces,
Whilst systers nyne, 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 Phœbe shineth bright:
Such pierlesse pleasures have we in these places.

    Col. And I, whylst youth and course of carelesse yeeres
Did let me walke withouten lincks of love,
In such delights did joy amongst my peeres:
But ryper age such pleasures doth reprove;
My fancye eke from former follies move
To stayed steps: for time in passing weares,
(As garments doen, which wexen old above)
And draweth newe delightes with hoary heares.

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 gaudy girlonds was my comen trade,
To crowne her golden locks; but yeeres more rype,
And losse of her, whose love as lyfe I wayd,
Those weary wanton toyes away dyd wype.

    Hob. Colin, to heare thy rymes and roundelayes,
Which thou were wont on wastfull hylls to singe,
I more delight then larke in sommer dayes:
Whose echo made the neyghbour groves to ring,
And taught the byrds, which in the lower spring
Did shroude in shady leaves from sonny rayes,
Frame to thy songe their chereful cheriping,
Or hold theyr peace, for shame of thy swete layes.

I sawe Calliope wyth Muses moe,
Soone as thy oaten pype began to sound,
Theyr yvory luyts 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 theyr art outgoe.

    Col. Of Muses, Hobbinol, I conne no skill:
For they bene daughters of the hyghest Jove,
And holden scorne of homely shepheards quill.
For sith I heard that Pan with Phœbus strove,
Which him to much rebuke and daunger drove,
I never lyst presume to Parnasse hyll,
But, pyping lowe in shade of lowly grove,
I play to please my selfe, all be it ill.

Nought weigh I, who my song doth prayse or blame,
Ne strive to winne renowne, or passe the rest:
With shepheard sittes not followe flying fame,
But feede his flocke in fields where falls hem best.
I wote my rymes bene rough, and rudely drest:
The fytter they my carefull case to frame:
Enough is me to paint out my unrest,
And poore my piteous plaints out in the same.

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

Nowe dead he is, and lyeth wrapt in lead,
(O why should Death on hym such outrage showe?)
And all hys passing skil with him is fledde,
The fame whereof doth dayly greater growe.
But if on me some little drops would flowe
Of that the spring was in his learned hedde,
I soone would learne these woods to wayle my woe,
And teache the trees their trickling teares to shedde.

Then should my plaints, causd of discurtesee,
As messengers of all my painfull plight,
Flye to my love, where ever that she 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 underfong my lasse to wexe so light,
Shouldest well be knowne for such thy villanee.

But since I am not as I wish I were,
Ye gentle shepheards, which your flocks do feede,
Whether on hylls, or dales, or other where,
Beare witnesse all of thys so wicked deede;
And tell the lasse, whose flowre is woxe a weede,
And faultlesse fayth is turned to faithlesse fere,
That she the truest shepheards hart 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, faithlesse Rosalind, and voide of grace,
That art the roote of all this ruthfull woe!
But now is time, I gesse, homeward to goe:
Then ryse, ye blessed flocks, and home apace,
Least night with stealing steppes doe you forsloe,
And wett your tender lambes that by you trace.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[Julye]

Edmund Spenser biography

Maye / Edmund Spenser

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579: 

Maye.  Ægloga Quinta.

ARGUMENT IN this fift Æglogue, under the persons of two shepheards, Piers and Palinodie, be represented two formes of pastoures or ministers, or the Protestant and the Catholique: whose chiefe talke standeth in reasoning whether the life of the one must be like the other. With whom having shewed that it is daungerous to mainteine any felowship, or give too much credit to their colourable and feyned goodwill, he telleth him a tale of the Foxe, that by such a counterpoynt of craftines deceived and devoured the credulous Kidde.

PALINODE. PIERS.

    Pal. Is not thilke the mery moneth of May,
When love lads masken in fresh aray?
How falles it then, we no merrier bene,
Ylike as others, girt in gawdy greene?
Our bloncket liveryes bene all to sadde
For thilke same season, when all is yeladd
With pleasaunce: the grownd with grasse, the wods
With greene leaves, the bushes with bloosming buds.
Yougthes folke now flocken in every where,
To gather may buskets and smelling brere:
And home they hasten the postes to dight,
And all the kirke pillours eare day light,
With hawthorne buds, and swete eglantine,
And girlonds of roses and sopps in wine.
Such merimake holy saints doth queme,
But we here sytten as drownd in a dreme.

    Piers. For younkers, Palinode, such follies fitte,
But we tway bene men of elder witt.

    Pal. Sicker, this morrowe, ne lenger agoe,
I sawe a shole of shepeheardes outgoe
With singing, and shouting, and jolly chere:
Before them yode a lusty tabrere,
That to the many a horne pype playd,
Whereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd.
To see those folkes make such jouysaunce,
Made my heart after the pype to daunce.
Tho to the greene wood they speeden hem all,
To fetchen home May with their musicall:
And home they bringen in a royall throne,
Crowned as king; and his queene attone
Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend
A fayre flocke of faeries, and a fresh bend
Of lovely nymphs. O that I were there,
To helpen the ladyes their maybush beare!
Ah, Piers! bene not thy teeth on edge, to thinke
How great sport they gaynen with little swinck?

Piers. Perdie, so farre am I from envie,
That their fondnesse inly I pitie.
Those faytours little regarden their charge,
While they, letting their sheepe runne at large,
Passen their time, that should be sparely spent,
In lustihede and wanton meryment.
Thilke same bene shepeheardes for the Devils stedde,
That playen while their flockes be unfedde.
Well is it seene, theyr sheepe bene not their owne,
That letten them runne at randon alone.
But they bene hyred for little pay
Of other, that caren as little as they
What fallen the flocke, so they han the fleece,
And get all the gayne, paying but a peece,
I muse what account both these will make,
The one for the hire which he doth take,
And thother for leaving his lords taske,
When great Pan account of shepeherdes shall aske.

    Pal. Sicker; now I see thou speakest of spight,
All for thou lackest somedele their delight.
I (as I am) had rather be envied,
All were it of my foe, then fonly pitied:
And yet, if neede were, pitied would be,
Rather then other should scorne at me:
For pittied is mishappe that nas remedie,
But scorned bene dedes of fond foolerie.
What shoulden shepheards other things tend,
Then, sith their God his good does them send,
Reapen the fruite thereof, that is pleasure,
The while they here liven, at ease and leasure?
For when they bene dead, their good is ygoe,
They sleepen in rest, well as other moe.
Tho 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, Palinodie! thou art a worldes child:
Who touches pitch mought needes be defilde.
But shepheards (as Algrind used to say)
Mought not live ylike as men of the laye:
With them it sits to care for their heire,
Enaunter their heritage doe impaire:
They must provide for meanes of maintenaunce,
And to continue their wont countenaunce.
But shepheard must walke another way,
Sike worldly sovenance he must foresay.
The sonne of his loines why should he regard
To leave enriched with that he hath spard?
Should not thilke God that gave him that good
Eke cherish his child, if in his wayes he stood?
For if he mislive in leudnes and lust,
Little bootes all the welth and the trust
That his father left by inheritaunce:
All will be soone wasted with misgovernaunce.
But through this, and other their miscreaunce,
They maken many a wrong chevisaunce,
Heaping up waves of welth and woe,
The floddes whereof shall them overflowe.
Sike mens follie I cannot compare
Better then to the apes folish care,
That is so enamoured of her young one,
(And yet, God wote, such cause hath she none)
That with her hard hold, and straight embracing,
She stoppeth the breath of her youngling.
So often times, when as good is meant,
Evil ensueth of wrong entent.

 

   The time was once, and may againe retorne,
(For ought may happen, that hath bene beforne)
When shepeheards had none inheritaunce,
Ne of land, nor fee in sufferaunce,
But what might arise of the bare sheepe,
(Were it more or lesse) which they did keepe.
Well ywis was it with shepheards thoe:
Nought having, nought feared they to forgoe.
For Pan himselfe was their inheritaunce,
And little them served for their mayntenaunce.
The shepheards God so wel them guided,
That of nought they were unprovided,
Butter enough, honye, milke, and whay,
And their flockes fleeces, them to araye.
But tract of time, and long prosperitie,
(That nource of vice, this of insolencie,)
Lulled the shepheards in such securitie,
That not content with loyall obeysaunce,
Some gan to gape for greedie governaunce,
And match them selfe with mighty potentates,
Lovers of lordship and troublers of states.
Tho gan shepheards swaines to looke a loft,
And leave to live hard, and learne to ligge soft:
Tho, under colour of shepeheards, somewhile
There crept in wolves, ful of fraude and guile,
That often devoured their owne sheepe,
And often the shepheards that did hem keepe.
This was the first sourse of shepheards sorowe,
That now nill be quitt with baile nor borrowe.

 
    Pal. Three thinges to beare bene very burdenous,
But 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 thristie soule,
With patience to forbeare the offred bowle?
But of all burdens that a man can beare,
Moste is, a fooles talke to beare and to heare.
I wene the geaunt has not such a weight,
That beares on his shoulders the heavens height.
Thou findest faulte 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 saye I thereto, by my deare borrowe,
If I may rest, I nill live in sorrowe.

 
    Sorrowe 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,
We mought with our shoulders beare of the sharpe showres.
And sooth to sayne, nought seemeth sike strife,
That shepheardes so witen ech others life,
And layen her faults the world beforne,
The while their foes done eache of hem scorne.
Let none mislike of that may not be mended:
So conteck soone by concord mought be ended.

 
    Piers. Shepheard, I list none accordaunce make
With shepheard that does the right way forsake.
And of the twaine, if choice were to me,
Had lever my foe then my freend he be.
For what concord han light and darke sam?
Or what peace has the lion with the lambe?
Such faitors, when their false harts bene hidde,
Will doe as did the Foxe by the Kidde.

 
    Pal. Now Piers, of felowship, tell us that saying:
For the ladde can keepe both our flocks from straying.

 
    Piers. Thilke same Kidde (as I can well devise)
Was too very foolish and unwise.
For on a tyme in sommer season,
The Gate her dame, that had good reason,
Yode forth abroade unto the greene wood,
To brouze, or play, or what shee thought good.
But, for she had a motherly care
Of her young sonne, and wit to beware,
Shee 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 thoughts in her heart did creepe)
‘God blesse thee, poore orphane, as he mought me,
And send thee joy of thy jollitee.
Thy father,’ (that word she spake with payne;
For a sigh had nigh rent her heart in twaine)
‘Thy father, had he lived this day,
To see the braunche of his body displaie,
How would he have joyed at this sweete sight!
But ah! false Fortune such joy did him spight,
And cutte of hys dayes with untimely woe,
Betraying him into the traines of hys foe.
Now I, a waylfull widdowe behight,
Of my old age have this one delight,
To see thee succeede in thy fathers steade,
And florish in flowres of lustyhead:
For even so thy father his head upheld,
And so his hauty hornes did he weld.’

 
    Tho marking him with melting eyes,
A thrilling throbbe from her hart did aryse,
And interrupted all her other speache
With some old sorowe that made a newe breache:
Seemed shee sawe in the younglings face
The old lineaments of his fathers grace.
At last her solein silence she broke,
And gan his newe budded beard to stroke.
‘Kiddie,’ quoth shee, ‘thou kenst the great care
I have of thy health and thy welfare,
Which many wyld beastes liggen in waite
For to entrap in thy tender state:
But most the Foxe, maister of collusion;
For he has voued thy last confusion.
Forthy, my Kiddie, be ruld by mee,
And never give trust to his trecheree.
And if he chaunce come when I am abroade,
Sperre the yate fast, for feare of fraude;
Ne for all his worst, nor for his best,
Open the dore at his request.’

 
    So schooled the Gate her wanton sonne,
That answerd his mother, all should be done.
Tho went the pensife damme out of dore,
And chaunst to stomble at the threshold flore:
Her stombling steppe some what her amazed,
(For such as signes of ill luck bene dispraised)
Yet forth shee yode, thereat halfe aghast:
And kiddie the dore sperred after her fast.
It was not long after shee 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 tryfles at hys backe,
As bells, and babes, and glasses, in hys packe.
A biggen he had got about his brayne,
For in his headpeace he felt a sore payne:
His hinder heele was wrapt in a clout,
For with great cold he had gotte the gout.
There at the dore he cast me downe hys pack,
And layd him downe, and groned, ‘Alack! alack!
Ah, deare Lord! and sweete Saint Charitee!
That some good body woulde once pitie mee!’

 
    Well heard Kiddie al this sore constraint,
And lengd to know the cause of his complaint:
Tho, creeping close behind the wickets clinck,
Prevelie he peeped out through a chinck:
Yet not so previlie but the Foxe him spyed:
For deceitfull meaning is double eyed.

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

The Kidd, pittying hys heavinesse,
Asked the cause of his great distresse,
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 lack of dead,
But I be relieved by your beastlyhead.
I am a poore sheepe, albe my coloure donne:
For with long traveile 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 doe not disdayne
The base kinred of so simple swaine.
Of mercye and favour then I you pray,
With your ayd to forstall my neere 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 Kidde made him good glee,
All for the love of the glasse he did see.
After his chere, the pedler can chat,
And tell many lesings of this and that,
And how he could shewe many a fine knack.
Tho shewed his ware and opened his packe,
All save a bell, which he left behind
In the basket for the Kidde to fynd.
Which when the Kidde stooped downe to catch,
He popt him in, and his basket did latch;
Ne stayed he once, the dore to make fast,
But ranne awaye with him in all hast.

 
    Home when the doubtfull damme had her hyde,
She mought see the dore stand open wyde.
All agast, lowdly she gan to call
Her Kidde; but he nould answere at all.
Tho on the flore she sawe the merchandise
Of which her sonne had sette to dere a prise.
What helpe? her Kidde shee knewe well was gone:
Shee weeped, and wayled, and made great mone.
Such end had the Kidde, for he nould warned be
Of craft coloured with simplicitie:
And such end, perdie, does all hem remayne
That of such falsers freendship bene fayne.

 
    Pal. Truly, Piers, thou art beside thy wit,
Furthest fro the marke, weening it to hit.
Now I pray thee, lette me thy tale borrowe
For our Sir John to say to morrowe
At the kerke, when it is holliday:
For well he meanes, but little can say.
But and if foxes bene so crafty as so,
Much needeth all shepheards hem to knowe.

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

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

[June]

Edmund Spenser biography